Happy New Year!

Hey everyone! We just wanted to wish you a Happy New Year - have fun tonight & be safe. We're headed out on the town in sub-zero weather, so our biggest concern is frost-bite, but we're taking our chances anyway so that we can dress up and hold signs and/or wear tacky hats saying "HAPPY NEW YEAR". Somebody's gotta do it.

We promise that real posts will resume after the New Year. For real. Have a good one!

Merry Christmas!

Staycation Report, Part I: When Jack Sold Jill Out

This past week Jack and I were on vacation. More accurately, we were on STAYcation. That's what you do when the economy is so bad you're not sure if you'll have a job next month, your student loans feel suffocating, and all you care about is being together anyway so why bother traveling? (Cue "awwww"s and vomiting). Instead of going somewhere sunny where we could sit on the beach and drink martinis all day long, we opted to stay in the frozen tundra we call home, where we were treated to several days in a row of below zero temperatures (you can see how happy we were with that to the right). Spot was also less than thrilled with the weather, but pleased as pie (can pie be pleased?) to have so much attention all week.

Anyway, Jack and I have a number of stories to share about our staycation, but one I'd like to discuss first is a trip we took to a local comedy club. Somehow when I bought my tickets I must have specified FRONT ROW because that's exactly where we ended up. This made me nervous immediately because comics sometimes like to mock the people in the front. I don't like to be mocked, you see, which I know is quite a unique characteristic.

About 30 minutes in to the main act, the comedian hadn't made fun of anyone yet, so I started to feel a little more comfortable. Well, it was that and the wine, which will always put a girl at ease (and make a girl easy - ba-dup-dup-dup - I'm here all week folks! Hahaha!).

HOWEVER. At one point, the comic - a lady - said something to the effect of "you men know how we women can be a little crazy at times...". Suddenly I feel Jack's hand leave my shoulder. In horror, I watch as he raises it above my head, almost in slow motion, and POINTS down at me, while sporting a huge grin. Did I mention we were in the front row? EVERYONE stared at me, and the comic even pointed out Jack's "hilarious" move - "look, this guy up here even pointed at his girlfriend!", she said. I think she did that just in case anyone in the entire room missed the fact that my boyfriend totally sold me out! I turned 16 shades of red.

Jack, of course, thought he was just about the funniest human being in the world. I elbowed him in the ribs and reminded him it's never a good idea to mess with crazy people. Muhahaha!

Jack's Two Cents

I must not have heard the comedian correctly. I thought she said, "you men know how women can be a little sexy at times." Sexy, not crazy. Sorry for the misunderstanding.

Jack Asks Jill About Women's Clothing

Jack Asks: At what age do women decide to stop shopping in the "Juniors" section and start shopping in the Women's section? And why are so many of the clothes in the Women's section unflattering, dull, and sometimes downright hideous?

Jill Answers: This is a hard question. Are we supposed to ask each other hard questions? I thought this was just for fun? I have a headache.

Okay, okay, let's get on with it. I've actually often wondered this same thing. I mean, upon someday birthing a child, will I suddenly acquire a fondness for heavily patterned holiday sweaters and pleated pants? Will menopause bring with it a penchant for muu-muus and bad haircuts? Do older men suddenly become attracted to this type of attire and that's why women wear it? Will I have to wear gigantic white cotton underwear too?

Okay, I know that last one has you hyperventilating since you almost lost it when I said I might purchase some Spanx. Calm down for a minute.

Anyway, here's what I've come up with as an answer to your question -- I used to try get my mom (who is pretty young for a mother of a 32 year old) to wear hip, cute clothes. She'd put them on and I'd ooh and aah over how awesome she looked. Then she'd scrunch up her face in the mirror, tug on the "tight" shirt, and say she felt fat or that she looked like she was "trying too hard to look young". You see, there are a couple of things to know about my mom: 1) she used to be a size 4; 2) she used to be quite the snazzy dresser in her day. She's not a large woman now, but she's certainly no size 4, 32 years and 4 kids later, you know? I think in her mind she feels like she can't dress trendy anymore because she doesn't look how she used to look. This, to me, seems absurd. Is she a tiny 20 year old size 4? No, but that doesn't mean she can't look cute & trendy. I mean, I'm not encouraging her to wear mini skirts and tube tops here, just to wear shirts that, oh, I don't know, FIT. Instead, a lot of the time she masks her no longer size 4 body in XXL sweat shirts. Ridiculous, I say!

So...what's my point? I am guessing that sometimes women feel like if they don't look like they did when they were 20, they should dress "more appropriately". The problem here is that their idea of "more appropriately" isn't really....appropriate. Flaunt what yer mama gave you, right? Just because you're 50+ years old and gravity has taken a toll doesn't mean that you can't be a hot mama! Right?

That's what I'm going with, because I plan to squeeze my ass into corset tops and stripper heels even when I'm 50. That seems like a good idea, right? Maybe that's not exactly what you meant....

Jack Follows-Up: For the record, older men DO NOT suddenly become attracted to heavily patterned holiday sweaters, pleated pants, or gigantic white underwear that could also be worn as bike shorts. Also, the idea that older women "don't want to dress too young" confuses me. Who said anything about trying to look young? Just try to look attractive, OK? And by "try to look attractive," I mean try to never, ever, ever wear mom jeans.

House Rules

I spend a decent amount of time over at Jack's place, so over the course of the past few months, I've gotten fairly comfortable there. He is nice enough to let me bring my dog, Spot, along anytime I come over, and he doesn't fuss about how the second we enter his place, Spot runs into the bedroom and makes himself at home right on Jack's pillow. Ok, he fusses a little bit, but not as much as he surely could.

Anyhoo, while I feel very welcome at Jack's, there are also a few things I've learned about him that were surprising at first. For starters, there are strict rules regarding the toilet paper:

1. Toilet paper must be positioned such that the user pulls sheets off from the top, sometimes referred to as "over", as opposed to "under". Should toilet paper be replaced in such a way that it does not comply to this standard, the replacer shall be promptly notified and must remedy the situation immediately.
   
2. Should a user need to replace a roll of toilet paper, there is a conveniently located roll near by in a place called "on deck". If the replacer uses the on deck roll to replace the original roll, that person is bound by law (under threat of severe punishment by Police Officer Jack) to additionally replace the "on deck" roll. Replacements for "on deck" rolls can be found in the hall linen closet.

And those are only the ones I've learned so far - there may very well be additional rules that have not yet been communicated to me. About TOILET PAPER.

Other rules I've picked up on include:

• If you make fun of the contents of Jack's fridge, you lose the privilege of consuming whatever might be in there.
  If Jack says he's going to cook for you HE DOES NOT WANT YOUR HELP AT ALL. Don't you dare try to help him chop vegetables or do anything even remotely helpful. Even if it takes what feels like an eternity, don't get any ideas - he will do it himself!
• Do not assume that just because Jack lives there, he wants to clean up after you.
• Do not get mascara stains on his bath towels. For some reason he did not like this the first 100 times I did it. I thought he'd get used to it, but he never did.
• Do not let Spot poop on the white carpet.
• Should Spot poop on the white carpet, don't say "meh, you have other stains anyway".

So I guess you could say he's pretty uptight. It's a good thing I'm so flexible and caring, because I've learned to accept these little quirks about him. He's had it easy by comparison - I hardly have any house rules. Spot has several, like "I get to go where ever I want when ever I want and feed me now and then take me out and then I want a biscuit and now let's take a nap and gimme some attention and rub my belly, and then TAKE ME ON ANOTHER WALK!" Easy, right?

Jack Asks Jill: Why is it OK for You to Wear My Clothes?

Jack Asks: Why is it more acceptable for a girl to wear something from her boyfriend’s closet than it is for a boy to wear something from his girlfriend’s closet?

Jill Answers: Um, have you seen how adorable I am in your sweatshirts? HAVE YOU? Well, I think that answers why it's acceptable for a girl to wear something from her boyfriend's closet. On the other hand, have you seen the size of my t-shirts? If you put one of those babies on (have you?? be honest, honey, I won't judge you), you'd look sort of like this:

Only probably worse since most of my shirts involve a deep V-neck cut so as to show off "the girls" [read: boobies!]. (In case you all are wondering, that shirt says "I [HEART] FASHION", which is what most of my t-shirts say, obviously.)

Anyway, the point is that I'm cute and you are too but maybe just not in my clothes. Or any girl's clothes. Come to think of it, you asking this question mere days after you tried to convince me (okay, succeeded in convincing me) that Victoria's Secret had opened up a store for men, selling lacey boxers and what not, I am starting to wonder if I should be concerned. Am I not reading the signs? Somebody send help.

Jack Follows-Up: Your response is far-from-satisfying, Jilly. And for the record: no where in my question did I state that I WANTED to wear girls clothes. I was just noting that there seems to be a double-standard that deserves to be called out. If a girl wears a guy’s shirt, why is it considered “cute” as opposed to “butch”? And to be honest, I just asked you this question in the hopes that you’ll return some of the hoodies, sweatpants, boxers, etc. that you’ve borrowed stolen from me.

Jill Asks Jack: What's Wrong with Briefs?

Jill Asks: Why do men prefer boxers over briefs? I happen to think that briefs are quite adorable and yet most men refuse to wear them. Flaunt what your mama gave you, I say! But seriously, why do men have such an negative/surprised reaction when I say, "I like briefs on a man"?

Jack Answers: Before we begin, let's make sure that we're all on the same page. When I reference "briefs," I'm talking about tighty-whiteys, OK? I'm not talking about boxer-briefs, as those are more like boxers than briefs (and boxer-briefs happen to be my underwear-of-choice, thankyouverymuch).

I also want to state up-front that there is a notable exception to the Boxers Over Briefs Rule: working out. Running, jumping, etc. while wearing boxers is about as fun as getting softly kicked in the junk over and over again, so every guy should own at least a few pairs of briefs for when he's physically active.

Now that the nomenclature is clear, let's get to the main point: there are only two types of dudes who should wear briefs on a regular basis: (1) dudes over 50, and (2) dudes who wear really, really, really tight pants. That's it. End of story.

Since I've been in my share of health club locker rooms over the years, I estimate that I've seen roughly 500 different men over the age of 50 in their underwear. And guess how many of them have been wearing briefs? Every. Single. One. Their commitment to briefs is impressive. So impressive that it's become a part of the uniform for the 50+ club. "Oh, look, he's wearing briefs; he must be one of us." Similarly to how I don't want to wear the same style of jeans that my dad wears, I don't want to wear the same style of undies, either.

The only other time it would make sense to wear briefs is if your pants were so tight that the excess boxer material bunched up and made it look like you were wearing a diaper. But since I don't wear TIGHTS to the office, this isn't really a concern of mine.

One other point worth noting: briefs look A LOT like girls' underwear (e.g., the "boy cut" panty at Victoria's Secret looks exactly like a pair of briefs). So maybe your obsession with briefs points to a bigger underlying issue that the two of us should discuss offline, perhaps?

In summary, if you're a fan of briefs, deep-down you're probably attracted to old men, really tight pants, and/or women.

Jill's Follow-Up:
Dear Jack,

There's something I've been wanting to tell you: I think maybe I'm attracted to old women in tight pants. I've thought a lot about your response to this question and I see no other possibility. I thought you should know.

Love, Jill.

Are briefs on men as awesome as Jill thinks they are?
	HECK YEAH!
	Only if you're over 50, like Jack said
	Um, NO. Not awesome at all.
Free polls from Pollhost.com

New Feature Coming on Jack & Jill!

Hi there. We'd like to get you all hot and bothered about something. We've decided to start a new feature here on J & J. Well, it's kind of two new features, but the concept for each is the same:

Jack Asks Jill

Jill Asks Jack

Basically we'll be posing questions to each other, which are to be answered by each party in such a way as to speak for that party's entire gender. Simple, right? Yep, Jack will ask Jill things about women and Jill will ask Jack about men and whatever we say is representative of all men and all women.

I think this will be a winner.

If anyone out there would like to suggest a question or topic, we are open to borrowing and/or outright stealing your questions, so feel free to put them forth!

If Jack Killed Spot...

Jack had a dog when he was growing up, but he's never had a pet as an adult. I've had a kitty of my own since I was 21, and have had my dog, Spot, for about 4 years now. He is one of the greatest joys in my life. He is like my baby, and I can't imagine my life without him.* I think the intensity of my feelings for Spot has at times been surprising to Jack (and basically everyone else), and perhaps difficult to understand, but Jack has been a great sport about letting Spot be a part of the time we spend together.

Recently, Jack even started taking the leash when we take Spot for a walk. On one of these occasions, he let Spot get a little too close to running out into traffic for my comfort level (my little baby isn't the brightest about cars - he thinks they look like big dogs and wants to go play with them, I think) (Spot, not Jack). Um, anyway, after I screamed something like "OHMYGOD he just got really close to running into traffic! You have to keep him closer to you!", Jack asked the following question:

Do you think you'd break up with me if I let your dog get hit by a car?

If you were responsible for the death of my beloved dog, yes, that would probably be a deal-breaker.

Even if it was a huge accident and I felt TERRIBLE?

Well, I'm just not sure I could get over that, and I think I'd harbor some resentment toward you even if I knew you felt bad. Just don't do it, and we'll be fine, okay?

I don't think he liked my answer. I also don't think he remembered my answer because a couple weeks later he asked if he could take Spot off the leash so that he could chase bunnies better. In downtown. On a patch of grass the size of my bedroom. IN DOWNTOWN. I said no, which is good because moments later Spot almost dragged Jack out into traffic chasing one of those bounding bunnies.

What do you think? Could you forgive your boyfriend/girlfriend if s/he let your dog** get smooshed like a bug?

Could you forgive your significant other?
	Yes
	Maybe--if s/he felt REALLY bad about it
	No way no how, hit the road, Jack!
Free polls from Pollhost.com

___________
* And no, I don't feel like a big loser for admitting that. Bite me.
** If you don't have a dog and/or don't like animals (i.e., you have no soul) (just kidding) (not really though), think of something else you love and use that for the example, please.

That Time Jill Got Sick

I think you learn a lot about your significant other the first time you get sick. Over the past couple days, I have had a cold, and I have learned that Jack is desperately afraid of getting said cold. In fact, you would think I have Ebola or the monkey pox or something.

Don't get me wrong, he has been fantastic in a lot of ways during this time. When I was home from work, he took time out of his very busy day to bring me lunch, tissues, and orange juice. When I had to leave town earlier this week unexpectedly, he took care of Spot for me, and even did my laundry. I appreciate these things - A LOT. But for me there is nothing that can take the place of actually spending time together.

I should probably blame my mother for this. When I'd get the stomach flu as a little girl, she would stay up all night with me, holding my hair back each and every time I threw up. If I had a fever or a cold, she'd bring me cool washcloths and hold them on my forehead. To this day, if I call her when I'm sick, she asks if I'd like her to make a 7+ hour drive to come take care of me. I'm not kidding.

Then there's Jack. I have met his parents and I can't imagine that they would have locked him in the cellar when he came down with something, letting him come out only when he could prove the illness had passed....and yet, that's basically how Jack has turned out. And I suppose I either have to get used to it or cry until I get my way. I think I'll go with the latter.

Jack's Two Cents: I'd like to comment more about this post, but I'm too nervous to touch Jill's germy keyboard. I don't want to get the bird flu or whatever it is that she has.

Hypothetically Speaking...

I need to tell you all something: Jack has a problem. It's a pretty serious problem and may someday result in a significant brain injury - because it's possible that eventually I'll kick him in the head.

You see, Jack LOVES throwing out impossible, ridiculous, and bizarre hypothetical situations to see what I'll answer. It seems this exercise can be prompted by any number of things, but usually is a result of me saying something absolute like "I will never eat meat ever again".

Enter Jack: "You'll never eat meat EVER again? What if the government imposed a law and you HAD to eat meat, and you could only choose 1 kind of commonly eaten animal to not eat. What would you pick?"

"That would never happen."

"But what if it did?"

"But why would the government make me eat something I don't want to eat? That doesn't even make sense. Why do they care what I eat??"

"Come on! You only get to pick one that you don't have to eat. You'd pick pigs, right?"

"I suppose, but it's never going to happen so I don't have to make a decision, now do I?"

Or sometimes I'll proclaim that I "hate" something - a real no-no in Jack's book - and I am berated with questions about hatred, even if I was just saying it willy-nilly. For example, if I say "I hate Paris Hilton and everything she stands for", Jack will create any number of scenarios in which perhaps I would NOT hate Paris Hilton.

"Would you hate her if the two of you were the only two people left on earth and you HAD to be friends?"

"Who would make us be friends if there's no one else left on earth?"

"Well, I mean if you really got to know her I bet you'd find she's a nice girl. You shouldn't say you hate her."

"But I do, is the thing. And we're not going to be the last two humans on the planet, so I don't have to worry about her changing my mind on that."

"Well, what if Spot were drowning and Paris Hilton risked her life and jumped into the ocean to save him? THEN would you hate her?"

I think it drives him nuts when I won't just answer, but as Kenneth on 30 Rock says: "I don't do hypothetical situations - that's like lying to your brain." Plus, it's kind of fun making him re-define the hypothetical again and again until he gets so frustrated he just stops. It's not a quick process, but eventually he gives up.

Jack's Two Cents: The people who now say "that would never happen" about mandated meat consumption are the same people who once said "that would never happen" when asked a hypothetical question involving a black president. Also, aren't you familiar with the importance of scenario planning, Jill? The first step in scenario planning is often to identify the worst or most unexpected scenario and then figure out how you'd respond in such a situation. When I ask you these hypothetical questions, you see, I'm really just helping prepare you to make the best decision when you actually find yourself stranded on an island with Paris Hilton. You will thank me one day.

Take Two: My Pantry Could Beat Up Your Pantry

Jill's Take

I happen to like the feeling I get when I open my fridge or my pantry and see lots and lots of food in there. I like knowing that if I want to make something tasty for dinner, I probably have the ingredients to do so. Want some black bean tacos? Guess who can make them RIGHT NOW - me! How about some tomato basil pasta? I'll whip that right up, thankyouverymuch. I do spend a lot of money when I hit up the grocery store, and I surely buy more than I need, but I always, always have a well-stocked pantry - and eventually I'll eat all those cans of beans and tomatoes and vegetables and so on, so what's the harm?

Jack, on the other hand, is a firm believer in never having "extra" food in the house. Sometimes I wonder what he would eat if he got snowed in for a week. You know what he'd eat? Some crackers, peanut butter, and 43 different kinds of beverages. I laugh every time I open up his fridge because it's all very neatly organized by beverage type. On the right side we have the juice - grape, orange, etc; on the left is the milk (and soy milk for me!) and some organic healthy soda things. Below that we have bottled water. It's all lined up very nicely and you always know with just one glance what your options are. But they're ALL LIQUID, so if you think you're going to satisfy any kind of hunger at all, think again.

Bottom line: should there be a snow storm or a natural disaster of sorts, everyone who hasn't stocked up on their food (JACK) is going to be awfully hungry. Hydrated, sure, but still hungry. Meanwhile, I'll be smugly lounging in my house, eating something fabulous with not a care in the world.

Jack's Take

I have to admit: I just read Jill's take and it sounded rather rational. But then I remembered that Jill is notorious for leaving out key details.

Details such as...

- Jill often buys items at the grocery store only to return home and find that she already has 13 or 14 of the very item she just purchased. "Oh, I guess I didn't need to buy this can of black beans after all. It turns out I already have enough cans of black beans to open up a legume retail outlet."

- Jill has absolutely positively no idea what items are in the back of her refrigerator. For fun, I put a dog toy and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action figure in the way back of her fridge a few months ago. Of course she never noticed.

- Jill and I recently got blood work done and the stats don't lie: my cholesterol, sodium, etc. were lower. Now whenever Jill makes fun of my empty pantry or fridge, I point out the fact that most foods that can be stored for a long period of time have preservatives and/or additives. My pantry and fridge may look a little lonely from time-to-time, but that's just because I prefer to eat the fresh stuff. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

To Kill a Mocking Word

I was at a party last month where I was approached by a married female coworker who had clearly been over-served (i.e., she was bombed). After noticing me in my tailored D&G suit, she came up to me and said the following: “I’ve seen you a few times around the office and you’re always dressed so great. Sometimes I wish my husband was gay. Or are you just a metrosexual?”

According to the Bible Wikipedia, a metrosexual is “a heterosexual man with a strong concern for his appearance, one whose lifestyle displays attributes stereotypically attributed to gay men.”

As a heterosexual man, this definition infuriates me beyond words. But I’ll try nonetheless.

What does my sexual preference have to do with my concern for my appearance? Nothing, I hope. I like to dress nicely. I’m comfortable wearing pastels. I have a 100+ pairs of shoes. And yet I love me some ladies.

Many of my straight friends often accuse me of being metrosexual. They say things like, “Nice lavender pocket square, dude. Did you borrow it from Clay Aiken?” These are my straight friends who wear pleated khakis, golf polos with the top button buttoned, and Oakley blades circa 1987. And these are the same straight friends who haven’t had a girlfriend since their sophomore year of college. So criticism from them doesn’t really bother me, since I know their (lack of) concern for their appearance just makes me look better to the other straight females out there.

Criticism from Jill, however, drives me insane.

I showed up at her house a few weeks ago wearing an uber-cool bright purple v-neck sweater and some matching purple high-top sneakers. I was ready for the runway. And yet I think the first comment out of her mouth was: “Wow, aren’t we looking very metrosexual today?” She also drops the m-word anytime I do any of the following things:

- Try on anything that's “slim fit”
- Get a facial or manicure*
- Comment that I like another guy’s outfit

To teach Jill a lesson, I’m tempted to show up at our next date wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts and a XXL Minnesota Vikings shirt. Or maybe I’ll just stop washing my face and clipping my fingernails. Perhaps then I’ll look more “manly.”

And while I’m on this rant, let me just state one more fact for the record: not all gay men are good dressers. Some gay men dress just bad as my aforementioned straight friends. And yet the stereotype persists. Which brings me back to the woman at the party who asked me if I was gay or simply metrosexual.

If I wasn’t such a gentleman, I would have slapped Ms. McDrunkyDrunk upside the head. (But of course I would have done so in such a way to ensure that I didn’t break one of my manicured* nails.)

* For the record, no, I don't get manicures. But I'm adamently opposed to the idea that someone who does get manicures is in any way, shape, or form less "manly."

So I'm Dating a Memory Murderer

Jill and I were cruising around in my ‘64 Chevy Impala ’06 Nissan Altima, listening to some smooth R&B, when Jazmine Sullivan’s new song "Bust Your Windows" came on. For those of you unfamiliar with said song, here’s a sampling of Ms. Sullivan’s lyrics:

I bust the windows out your car
You know I did it ‘cause I left my mark
Wrote my initials with the crowbar
And then I drove off into the dark

What happened next is what we in the business call a “red flag.” Jill started singing along with A LOT of passion in her voice. (Jill normally just hums along to the tune – typically because she doesn’t remember any of the words – so it seemed extremely alarming when she started channeling her inner-Jennifer Hudson to this particular song.)

The whole song is about the joys of damaging an ex’s property. And since Jill ended up singing the last two choruses at the top of her lungs (“I BUST THE WINDOWS OUT YOUR CAR”), I naturally had to ask her if she’d ever damaged an ex’s property.

I was thinking she might say something like “I stole his favorite CD” or “I rubbed his toothbrush in my armpit.” Clearly I underestimated her. What Jill admitted to doing can only be described by two words: pure evil. Here’s what she told me:

“I had an ex-boyfriend who went on a vacation with his new girlfriend. When he got back into town, we got together and he wanted to show me some of his photos. While I was acting like I was scanning through his pictures, I was actually deleting all of his photos from the memory card! He got pretty upset, but I just acted like it was an accident. And I have to admit I felt pretty good afterwards!”

Excuse me? Who does that? Someone who’s evil, that’s who.

What if he had a once-in-a-lifetime image stored on that memory card? What if it was a picture of him and his dying grandma? What is Jill going to do to me if we ever decide to go our separate ways? Wait a second…maybe her telling me this story is just her way of using a fear tactic to lock me down? Hmm…

Jill's Two Cents:

What Jack isn't mentioning is that this "new girlfriend" was procured prior to breaking up with the old girlfriend (i.e., ME). So, let's check the score:

This guy broke my heart into a million little pieces by cheating on me, then took pictures of them together and waved it in my face.
VERSUS
I deleted a few pictures of his [wildly unattractive] new girlfriend from his camera.

I'd say that made us STILL NOT EVEN CLOSE TO EVEN. But now I guess I probably shouldn't tell Jack all the follow up things I did to even the score. Sheesh! Ya tell a guy you destroyed a few memories and he gets all paranoid!

Also, I've decided not to leave my toothbrush unattended anymore. Are you pit-swabbing it?!?!?

Drop It Like It's Hot

The other night, Jack took Spot out for his evening walk-slash-potty trip. When he came back in he said "Of course when I take him out he does a HUGE number 2!" I laughed because, well, poop is funny.

The next day, we were walking Spot together when my little doggy finds a nice patch of grass, squats, and drops a big one.

As I went to pick it up Jack goes, "Ewww, that is just like mine from last night!"

Shocked, I replied, "Did you just tell me about your poop?!?!" I wondered if we had somehow reached a new level of intimacy without my consent. I thought you had to be served papers or something if this kind of talk was going to start happening.

"HIS POOP THAT I PICKED UP LAST NIGHT", Jack retorted. "Why would I be describing my poop to you??"

Oh.

Well, he really should be more specific, shouldn't he?

You can imagine he had a hay day with that little misunderstanding.

Intelligent Email Exchanges

Jack: [yadda yadda yadda unimportant stuff]. he - larry - us.

Jill: Who's Larry?

Jack: Sigh....sometimes you are so blond. Say "he – larry – us" as one word.

Jill: HAHAHAHA. Maybe I was joking. Did you ever think of that? (Sadly, I wasn't)

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

I’m a big fan of giving gifts for no reason. And an even bigger fan of receiving gifts for no reason. And I’m an even bigger fan when the gift is a bit unusual.

Over the past few months, Jill has given me some very sweet gifts for no reason. A CD. A box of organic cereal. Even a new yoga mat.

But yesterday she gave me quite possibly the best-slash-weirdest gift I’ve ever received.

She gave me a tub of Playtex Femcare Personal Cleansing Cloths.

At first I was really confused. (Especially after I read the following description on the box: “Playtex Personal Cleansing Cloths help keep you feeling fresh and clean, even during your period. These super soft disposable wipes are incredibly gentle on your delicate skin.”) But then I remembered the entry I wrote a while back about wanting a bidet and the gift made a lot more sense.

I’m still not sure how comfortable I am having a Playtex Femcare box sitting on top of my toilet, but I can assure you that I’m going to find a way to test these “wet wipes” out for a while. Regular toilet paper just seems so uncivilized now.

Best. Weirdest. Gift. Ever.

Jill's Two Cents: Honestly, I don't know what I was thinking in encouraging this kind of neuroses. I am starting to get a little concerned about Jack. I think he has a problem, and now I've gone and made myself an enabler! Is it time for an intervention? Then again, do I really want to discourage personal hygiene? Seems like that could be slippery slope... Plus, you really should have seen how his little face lit up once he realized what the purpose of the gift was--like a kid on Christmas morning. Priceless.

Cooking for Two...Hundred

Let me begin by stating the obvious: cooking for two is hard to do. I'm aware that most recipes are designed to feed four or more people. So when you're cooking for two, it's understandable if there are leftovers. But apparently my idea of "leftovers" is significantly different than Jill's idea.

My idea of leftovers: two pieces of lasagna to re-heat the next day

Jill's idea of leftovers: enough full pans of lasagna to feed a high-school football team.

For the record, I love it when Jill cooks for me. (As do my neighbors, their pets, and the homeless guys that live in the alley behind my condo.)

But these are the cold, hard facts:

- A couple of weeks ago I told Jill that I was in the mood for a meatball* sub. So we agreed to make them from scratch together. Based on the recipe she came up with in her head, we ended up rolling approximately sixty-two meatballs, give or take twelve.

- Last weekend Jill decided that she wanted to make vegan pancakes. To prove my theory that she tends to cook more food than any two reasonable adults could possibly eat in one setting, I made a point of trying to count each pancake that she made. I lost track at seventeen.

- Then came "pasta night." Jill's idea was to make a homemade pesto, which sounded great to me. When we went to the grocery store beforehand, however, I questioned Jill's insistence that we get THREE CUPS of basil. "Yep, I'm positive we'll need that much," she assured me. People, the next time you're at a grocery store, please make a point of noting how many leaves come in a one cup package of basil. And then please multiply that amount by three. And then remember that we were cooking a dish for TWO PEOPLE. I'm convinced I actually went into a "basil coma" that evening. I also had pesto breath for the next four days.

- Last night Jill innocently told me that she was going to "whip up something simple." When it was finally time to sit down, she served me a BBQ rib* sandwich, asparagus, corn on the cob, and enough sweet potato fries to feed a family of sixteen. After stuffing myself to the brim, I noticed that there were roughly eight ears of corn on the cob still available. Did I already mention it was just the two of us?

She's officially out of control.

If you or anyone you know has suffered from this serious condition known as "IsecretlywanttobeajuniorhighlunchladyandsoIcookmyproportionsaccordingly," please let me know of any possible treatments. Thanks.

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* Jill is vegan. So the meatballs were really veggieballs. And the ribs were really soy ribs.

This Conversation Really Happened

Jill: (excitedly) Victoria's Secret was having a sale and I got 9 pairs of really cute undies for $50!

Jack: That's awesome. See, that's one way that men really do get kind of screwed.

Jill: (confused) Because you can't wear women's underwear?

Jack: (in disbelief)

Jill: (still confused)

Jack: No, because men's underwear are so much more expensive.

Jill: Oh. Yeah, that.

Making a List, Checking it Twice

Remember that post I wrote about Free Passes? (If not, click here.) Well…based on suggestions from some of you, Jack (reluctantly) and I (more reluctantly) agreed to document our lists of celebrities we'll be able to hook up with guilt-free. And, of course, these lists wouldn't be complete without snarky commentary from each other, so here you go!

Jill's List (with observations by Jack):

1) Michael Vartan (photo)
Who? Is this guy even a celebrity? Or does he actually work at the falafel place by your house and you're just calling him a celebrity so you can have a free pass? I'm on to you, woman.

2) Christian Bale (photo)
Umm…search "Christian Bale The Machinist" and tell me if you still feel the same way. You can hook-up with any celebrity in the world and this guy made your Top 5? Seriously?

3) David Beckham (photo)
I hate to break it to you, but hooking up with Mr. Beckham would NOT automatically make you a member of the Spice Girls.

4) Matt Damon (photo)
I'm sure his WIFE AND TWO KIDS will be flattered by how much interest you have in their HUSBAND and DADDY. Home-wrecker.

5) Tom Welling (photo)
This dude is best-known for playing a character who wears head-to-toe spandex. Enough said.

Jack's List (with observations by Jill):

1) Norah Jones (photo)
If I say something bad about your precious Norah I have a feeling you'll toss me out like yesterday's trash....so I'll go ahead and leave this one alone.

2) Beyonce (photo)
Does it make you sad that instead of hooking up with you, she's married to someone who looks like this? I mean, that guy is UG-LY. Talented, but not much to look at. Anyway, it would make me sad, that's for sure. Although this probably increases your chances with her should you ever find yourself with an opportunity....crap.

3) Scarlett Johansson (photo)
Oh, honey, Scarlett? Really? This is very upsetting to me. This girl thinks that Barack Obama actually emailed back and forth with her. In all his free time. Right. And they're engaged too. I actually think all those blond jokes were written about her specifically. And if you try again to convince me that she's smart because Woody Allen says so, I'm going to remind you that he's super old and she has big boobies. The end.

4) Alicia Keys (photo)
Your list is starting to make me wonder if you realize you're dating the palest, blondest girl in America who can't sing or play any kind of musical instrument. You do know I don't have any musical talents, right?

5 - tie) Jessica Alba (photo)
YOU DON'T GET SIX. Let's just get rid of Scarlett and keep these two, huh? Wait a minute - she has a baby - who's the home wrecker now?!

5 - tie) Zooey Deschanel (photo)
YOU DON'T GET SIX. Cheater! If you meet Zooey you only get to hug her. Same with Jessica Alba - since they apparently are only half of a person each. HUGS ONLY. Your little plan just backfired!

Darth Vader Does Hot Yoga

I love yoga. I really do. Not only is it a good workout, but it has a calming effect on me - something I am in dire need of on a daily basis because I am, apparently, "high-strung". So the other night Jack (yes, I got him to go back!) and I went to what was supposed to be a nice, calming, relaxing hot yoga class at my yoga studio (did that just make me sound pretentious? It did, didn't it?).

But do you know what happened? Some heavy breathing jerkface decided to take the same class, and instead of relaxing, I spent the entire 60 minutes a) trying to figure out which a-hole it was making all the Darth Vaderesque noises, and b) imagining myself walking on over to him and kicking him in the head mid-downward-dog. Not exactly relaxing, although picturing that did make me giggle inside because REALLY, what do you think would happen if I did that?

But I digress.

I don't know why I let things like this bother me. OkYesIDo: I seriously have NEVER heard anyone breathe that loudly. Ever. And I used to work in a health-care facility where there were people with emphysema and oxygen tanks for crying out loud! No healthy human being should be breathing that loudly, I don't care what our yoga instructor recommends.

After yoga, I was a little concerned that Jack hadn't noticed Darth Vader in our class. He clearly wasn't as insanely upset about it as I was. Maybe he has hearing problems, I was starting to think! (That would actually explain quite a few things.) Once we were in the car I politely asked him, "DIDN'T THAT DARTH VADER A-HOLE ANNOY THE BEJEEBIES OUT OF YOU???"

"Yeah, who was that anyway?"

THANK GOD. I was starting to wonder if I was a crazy person - this puts that to rest! Right?

Got Bidet?

I’ve always considered myself to be a rather clean dude. I keep my fingernails dirt-free. I floss every day. I even change the sheets on my bed once a week. And yet after recently visiting my friend Kiro’s house, I now feel like I belong in a pigpen.

This “cleanliness inferiority” complex sprouted right after I used his bathroom. And saw this thingy:

Naturally I had no idea what it was or how it worked. So I just got on my knees, washed my hands and left.Upon exiting the bathroom, Kiro noticed the look on my face and said the following: “I should have given you a heads-up, man. You’ve probably never used a bidet, huh?”

“Umm…you mean that low sink with the really deep bowl?”

Kiro then channeled his inner Tim Allen and gave me a Tool Time presentation on bidets. I don’t want to get too technical, so I’ll just leave it at this: a bidet allows you to wash your pooper with water. Kiro – who is from Japan – went on to explain that nearly everyone in Japan uses a bidet after they go number two. He told me that it was “unsanitary” to just use toilet paper. “You need some water, man,” he said. “How are you going to clean down there without water?”

And you know what? I think he’s right.

The more I thought about it, the more I agreed: how are you going to clean down there without water?

I thought about other cleaning activities and – surprise, surprise – they all involved some good ol’ fashioned H20. Imagine that you’ve just gone for a ten mile run and now you’re really sweaty. Would you ever just consider wiping yourself clean with a towel? Of course not. And yet that’s essentially what we’re doing each time we wipe ourselves clean with some Charmin.

Perhaps a more vivid analogy involves a white dinner plate. Now spread some beef stroganoff across that plate. For artistic purposes, let’s even go ahead and sprinkle some corn on the plate as well.

Now when it comes time to clean said plate, are you going to simply wipe it clean with a paper towel? No way, Jose. You’re going to rinse that bad boy with about two gallons of water. Anything less would be flat out disgusting. Which is why I’m heading to The Home Depot tonight. I think it’s high time for this dirtball to clean up his act.

Editor’s note: After doing some additional research, I found two more nuggets (no pun intended). Toto is a Japanese company known for its upper-end bidets. On Toto’s website, consumers are encouraged to “experience unequaled cleanliness, comfort, and refreshment…the ultimate in modern hygiene.” Even better, Toto also sells handheld bidets (i.e., portable butt sprayers). Apparently when Japanese tourists travel overseas, they want to still be able to feel so fresh and so clean when they utilize less equipped toilets. Inspirational.

Time to Take Out the Trash

Jack keeps a little box in his hall closet where all my jewelry and hair pins go if I leave them unattended in his house for longer than 3 minutes. The first time I got a look at this little box I noticed that several - SEVERAL - of the items in it did not belong to me. Lip gloss, bobby pins, earrings....all not mine!

"Um...who does all this stuff belong to?"

"People...."

"Why are you keeping it if you don't know who owns it?"

"Well, because what if they come back for it?"

"How long has this stuff been in here?"

"I don't know. But you never know when someone might realize that they're missing an earring and call me up and ask for it."

"I think we should throw this stuff."

"What?!?! We can't do that! What if someone asks me for it?!"

(blank stare) "Yes, we should toss it. I think only my stuff should be in this box. If the other girls wanted their stuff, they would have called you by now, don't you think?"

We had to have this conversation several times before this stuff was actually thrown out, and even then it was only because I got pretty tipsy and picked all the non-Jill stuff out and threw it in the trash. It was fun, let me tell you. I flicked each and every hair pin into that trash bin (flick, flick, flick!) with pure glee and now I know that everything in there belongs to me, me, me! It is a lovely feeling.

Anyway, really, I know times are tough and all, but after 3 months what kind of girl is going to call him up and say "hey, I think I left a 1 cent bobby pin at your house, have you come across it?" An idiot kind of girl, that's who, and who wants to see that kind of girl again anyway?

Jack’s two cents: The problem is that I really can’t tell the difference between $4 earrings and precious jewels. Maybe that gold earring with the seven intertwined silver hoops and the “MADE IN CHINA” stamp was a family heirloom dating back to the Egyptian pyramids? Or maybe that blackberry lip gloss had some sentimental value? Maybe the girl’s grandmother used to bake her blackberry muffins and this $2.99 artifact provided her with priceless memories? What kind of cold, ruthless soul would simply toss those items out like a used Q-tip?

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PS. If you are a lady who might have left some really dark lip gloss at Jack's, sorry, but I tossed it. It's kind of like finder's keepers except in this case it was finder's throwers.

PPS. I would like to note that I gave Jack over a month to put the non-Jill items in a different box so that it didn't mix with my $4 earrings precious jewels, but he never did that, so....

Free Passes

Jack is obsessed with asking me if he can get a "free pass" should he ever find himself alone in a dimly lit room with a hot celebrity. Every time we go to a concert, he asks if I could find a ride home in case he makes it back stage and so-and-so wants to make out with him. These conversations always go the same:

Jack: So later tonight if [Duffy, Kelis, etc] is eyeing me during her set and she gives me the come hither look and then her bodyguard comes and says she wants me to come back stage and then I get back there and she comes on to me, can I make out with her and you won't get angry?

Me: Why would that happen? Isn't she married?

Jack: But what if it does happen? Can I have a free pass?

Me: Well, I don't think it's going to happen.

Jack: Are you saying that [Duffy, Kelis, etc] won't find me attractive? Is that what you're saying?

Me: No, of course she would, but I just think it's pretty unlikely that she's going to get her bodyguard to fetch you so that she can have a night of passion with you.

Jack: Well if you think it's so unlikely you should just say yes.

Me: But what if it does happen? I mean, if you're backstage making out with [Duffy, Kelis, etc] do I have permission to get a ride home from someone else at the concert? Like a hot dude?

Jack: You only get free passes with famous people.

Apparently there are a lot of rules about this "free pass" business.

Anyway, the other night I get a text message that he's been invited to a Neko Case concert. Earlier he had texted me that in addition to being a singer, Neko is also an animal rights activist, something he knows is near & dear to my heart. His follow up text read: "Do I have a pass with Neko? Her voice is smoother than blood orange sorbet."

"If she's into animals, sure."

What I meant by that is that any woman who's into protecting animals is okay by me....but I guess that didn't come across in my text, because this is what I got back: "Wait, did you just call me an animal?"

Woops.

Jack's Two Cents

What Jill fails to mention is that if she happened to find herself in a dimly lit room with Robert Downey Jr. or Chris Martin, she wouldn’t even have the decency to request a free pass. It’d be on like Donkey Kong, with no courtesy text messages preceding her rendezvous. Now that I think about it, the same would probably be true even if it was just Twitch from So You Think You Can Dance?

Take Two: When Bloggers Attack

Jill's Take

The other morning, Jack was like "hey, is your hand as long as your face? Put it up against your face to see."

Since I trust Jack (mistake #1), I did as he said, placing my palm square over my nose to see if my face was as long as my hand. Then he up and smacked my hand! Not nice, right?

Since I am not very original, I was like "Now YOU do it". I was going to smack him right back, you see. So he puts his hand up like I had just done, and I went to smack him....but before my hand got there, he moved his hand, and wouldn't you know it, I smacked gently tapped him directly on the face.

Well, that set him off. He went on and on about how violent I am, and how it hurt soooo bad, and he thinks I chipped one of his teeth.

"You could be arrested for that! That was domestic abuse!"

"Oh, stop!" I demanded, through my laughter.

"Stop? I can't stop! I'm in so much paaaaiiiin!"

"You are so dramatic."

"I think I should call the police. Or at least the paramedics!"

I maintain that I barely grazed his face, however. More of a "love-tap", if you will. He clearly was overreacting, as he is prone to do.

Jack’s Take

Have you ever told someone a joke and then had them immediately retell it back to you? Me neither. But that’s apparently how Jill’s brain works.

I played a joke on her. So then she tried to play it back on me immediately. How original, right?

The only difference in Jill’s approach was how she chose to deliver the “punch line” (no pun intended).

To recap: I patted her just hard enough to make the point “yo, genius, you shouldn’t be so gullible.”

When it came Jill’s time to pat me, however, she apparently had a flashback to that old arcade game where you would smash caterpillars with a mallet as soon as they popped up. Remember, it looked kinda like this:

In other words, Jill smashed my face like she was trying to buzz-in on the Family Feud and the question was: “Name a pet.”

I don’t want to get too dramatic, but I did have a swollen lip the next morning. And I also think I had a grey eye – not quite a black eye, but definitely something that was heading in that direction.

Jack Tries Hot Yoga

2:30 pm – I receive a message from Jill: “Any interest in some hot yoga tonight?”

2:32 pm – I Google “hot yoga” and browse through the search results. I conclude that Jill is either (a) inviting me to a Bikram yoga class where the room is heated to 105 degrees with 40% humidity or (b) really kinky.

2:33 pm – I reply back – “sure, sounds relaxing” – without really knowing what I’m agreeing to. By noting that I associate “yoga” with “relaxation,” I hope to come across as an Alpha Male who thinks that anything other that bench-pressing slabs of cement is a relaxation session, as opposed to a work out.

2:34 pm – Regret sets in.

6:14 pm – I show up at the studio and am greeted by a friendly receptionist. Actually, I’m greeted by a receptionist who looks friendly. While entering my registration information, any perceived friendliness melts away. The following dialogue takes place:

Receptionist: What level are you: beginner, intermediate, or advanced?
Me: Is there a category below beginner?
Receptionist: Do you at least know how to do downward dog?
Me: I’m sorry, what’d you call me?

6:18 pm – Jill and I find a “premium” space on the floor to lay our mats down: second row from the front, dead center. Jill justifies the “premium” adjective by telling me, “Now you’ll be able to look around the class and easily observe what you’re supposed to be doing.”

6:20 pm – I begin to sweat. Profusely. Further regret sets in.

6:22 pm – Our instructor enters the studio and says the following: “Tonight’s class is going to be full, so we need everyone to move their mats up and in. There only needs to be three inches between you and your neighbor.”

6:24 pm – I glance around the room and size up my competition. There’s about a four-to-one girl to guy ratio. I can do this, I think to myself, I am a MAN. I then notice the girl directly in front of me bend at the waist and rest her head on the back of her knees. Umm…all right, then. It’s settled. I’m officially about to get worked.

6:26 pm – My claustrophobic tendencies activate. I can’t stop thinking about the fact that when I lay down there will be eight people within a half-a-foot of me.

6:28 pm – I massage the back of my neck and am aware that it’s already covered with a sheen of sweat. I’m also aware that class hasn’t started yet.

6:30 pm – Our instructor re-enters the room and introduces herself as “Kitty.” Naturally I wonder if she’s also a stripper.

6:31 pm – Kitty informs us that our goal for today’s class is “to move oxygenated blood to every part of our body.” Internally I commit to a more modest goal: survival.

6:34 pm – I finish off my bottle of Ice Mountain water. I had hoped that my water supply would last me an hour. Turns out I came up short by fifty-six minutes. Oops.

6:35 pm – I’m pleasantly surprised by my ability to keep up with all of the intricate stretches and poses.

6:36 pm – Kitty – aka Queen Dream Crusher – slaps me back into reality. “Now that we’re loosened up, let’s begin class.”

6:38 pm – While performing my first downward dog, I glance up and notice that the girl in front of me’s badonkadonk is approximately eight inches from my face. Given the fact that I haven’t yet even offered to buy her a drink, this seems like a serious breach of her privacy. I quickly close my eyes.

6:39 pm – As soon as I open my eyes back up, I’m blinded by the salty sweat that had trickled down my eyelids while I was trying to be respectful. I vow not to close my eyes again – even if it means feeling like a Peeping Tom.

6:42 pm – I squint at myself in the mirror and notice that my cotton light-gray tank top has turned the color of wet charcoal. Upon further inspection, I also notice that my tank top has somehow also turned into a youth size medium sports bra.

6:46 pm – Kitty directs us into a pose that requires you to balance on your right foot while simultaneously extending your left foot towards the ceiling. I’m about halfway through the move when my right foot slips on the standing pool of sweat that has formed on my mat and sends me stumbling toward Ms. Badonkadonk’s crotch, which now looks like an open scissors standing on one of its blades. By the grace of Bikram Choudhury himself, I somehow manage to regain my balance before initiating a “reverse baby delivery.”

6:51 pm – I’m cognizant of the fact that I’m sweating more than I’ve ever sweat in my entire life. Imagine sitting in a sauna wearing thermal socks, snowpants, and a North Face parka. Under a spotlight. With a blow dryer in your face. Now times that by infinity.

6:59 pm – As we near the halfway point, Kitty blesses us with this pearl: “Relax your knees; let them drop through the floor.” It takes all of my willpower not to mutter back: “Hey Kit Kat, what should we do if we CAN’T FEEL OUR F’ING LEGS?”

7:02 pm – We’re in the middle of about eight consecutive “rotations” that all end in a downward dog, so every thirty seconds or so I find myself in a close enough proximity to compare notes with Ms. Badonkadonk’s gynecologist. It doesn’t help that she’s wearing what appears to be the lower half of a wet suit. At one point I think I actually catch a glimpse of one of her ovaries. Hmmm…is this why Jill described this as a “premium” spot?

7:04 pm – Kitty is relentless. She next instructs us to: “Place your palms and forearms flat on the mat, bend your elbows, and lift your torso and legs up into the air into a tripod position.” Why stop there? Why not also direct us to do a handstand using only our left pinky?

7:08 pm – If only I had enough energy left to speak, I would be able to offer the guy directly behind me $20 for the rest of his bottle of Evian.

7:11 pm – “All right, class, now it’s time for some ab work. Let’s begin with our extended bicycle kicks.” Trust me, Kitty Kitty Bang Bang, that if I could extend and kick anything right now, it’d be you.

7:13 pm – Lying on my back, I’ve just been encouraged to put my hands under my hips and extend my feet into the air. Miraculously, my body responds and my legs shoot up like a stalk of bamboo. My initial joy lasts for three or four seconds, which is when the sweat starts pouring down from my kneecaps and landing on my face. It takes me a while to decide if being showered by my own patella sweat is gross or refreshing. I ultimately settle on gross.

7:18 pm – In the history of poor casting decisions, the decision to name our instructor “Kitty” has to go down as the greatest misnomer of all time. Kitty!?!?! No, I don’t think so. Try Wolverine. Or Saddam.

7:25 pm – Oh, to have the strength to speak! I could then proclaim my willingness to give one of my neighbors $50 for a sip of water. For a bottle of Gatorade, you could take your pick of my internal organs.

7:26 pm – Darkness. Literally and figuratively. Kitty lowers the lights to “help with the unwinding process” and I pass out to help with my dehydration.

7:31 pm – I awake to the voice of Jill asking me what I thought of hot yoga. “Not bad,” I lie. “Not much of a work out, but it’s always good to get in some light stretching.”

We're Going for Gold!

Jack has a rooftop patio & pool at his condominium complex. A few times this summer, he has invited me to go on late night swims. I know what you're thinking, but please get your mind out of the gutter. Instead of any bow-chicka-bow-bow (you need to sing that - if you didn't please go back and re-read the italicized phrase in a sing-song manner, thanks) action going on, Jack had better ideas. For example, the other night when we went swimming, we decided to race across the pool - both running (hands out of the water to prevent cheating!), and actual swimming. I dominated of course (maybe). Anyway, after watching several weeks of Olympics, Jack then decided we ought to put together a synchronized swimming routine (no, we weren't drunk).

"Okay, I'll choreograph the first 8 beats, and then you do the second 8 beats. Ready?"

"Sure...", I reply, somewhat hesitantly.

But there he was, choreographing some moves and making sure I kept pace and had proper form (according to his expert opinion).

Then it was my turn, and might I say my 8 beats worth of movement were quite challenging (read: ugly). We practiced all 16 beats a few times over, proclaimed that we were ridiculously talented, and then decided we needed a finale, which we then choregraphed together. As Jack suggested ideas, he would say things like, "the judges will be impressed by that move!" and "sometimes simple moves are the most beautiful", and so on and so forth. And as we practiced he ordered me to reduce my splashing because "the judges don't like too much splashing!" When I burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter I was told in a very stern voice: "Look here, I have not been practicing and working my butt off for the last 4 years so that we can blow this!"

What can I say, he is a passionate man, and by golly, if we don't get a gold in 2012, I don't know who will.*
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* Perhaps someone with actual talent?