This article was pretty frown-making. Yes, I thought the framing of the topic was a little weird; yes, I thought that the term canoodling was an odd choice and overly sexualized. But mostly it struck me that the sudden cut-off of all physical affection--this abrupt changing of the status quo almost seemed like a cry for attention rather than a genuine attempt to shift the pattern of things. It sounded, frankly, like a needy spouse witholding sex to get attention. No, I wouldn't want my kid sucking on my arm, but having gone that route with her kids, why the instant and rather cruel downshift to "no touching?" Why not just a gradual "weaning" or, as many others have suggested, wait til the kids stop wanting to drape themselves constantly all over their mother?

I have a ten-year-old girl and of course I delight in hugging her, kissing her, sometimes just adoring her nose or her (suddenly enormous) feet. And she in turn is a very sweet, affectionate kid who is generous with long hugs, goodbye kisses, and even the occasional back rub! I know that the days when she will happily link arms with me as we walk along the sidewalk may be short-lived, but I can't imagine cutting this off all of a sudden in an attempt to cushion my own pain or to hold onto my kid's attention or affection.

to see this movie. I read the book as a wide-eyed twelve-year old and then a year or two later watched what I think of as the original BBC version, with a screenplay loyally adapted by Fay Weldon. Visually it's drier than the lush A&E version, done mostly on those old Masterpiece Theatre-style stage sets, but the casting and acting are brilliant, and all of the wit and emotion of the story comes through beautifully. For me, this is still the definitive version, even in the post-Colin era (David Rintoul who played Darcy in this version is wonderfully forbidding, stiff and handsome and Elizabeth is perfect, lovely-eyed, intelligent and mischievous). It's still available and well worth watching.

So, I'm having a terrible time gearing up to see Keira et al caper through this beloved story. To toy with perfect and comprehensible dialogue, to alter or removed entire scenes or characters (is there really not scene towards the end with Lady Catherine?) just seems foolish and unnecessary--not sure I get why this director felt compelled to make this film. But I may yield this week.

btw--I completely second the poster who recommended Persuasion--by far my favorite of the Austen films. Wonderful casting, especially Anne Root, Sophie Thompson and Ciaran Hinds, a good screenplay, and the best production values I've ever seen in a film--you get an eerie sense of 19th century life, down to the muddy hems, candlelit rooms and the crumbs on the breakfast table.

As a food writer and former reviewer, I sympathize with Bauer's disillusionment with restaurant-going. Turning anything that you love into a professional gig can be disappointing and you don't get a lot of sympathy from people who don't understand why you might rather be home eating chips and salsa for dinner on the couch instead of downing another organic pork chop with polenta and grilled fennel. What I don't quite understand is how she ended up with the job. She admits that she's not a foodie (oh, loathsome word!) so why the food reviewing? There are a lot of people, myself included, who just love to yammer about food, who enjoy discussing a slice of cheesecake or a pastrami sandwich the way Bill Simmons enjoys describing a double-play. For better or worse, we care terribly about what we eat, and I'm sure there are food writers out there who are as thin as a stick and those the size of a house, but they are all, in their way, obsessed. We all love to have dinner with interesting people or with friends and family, but if you want to write about the quality of the company and not the quality of the cheese plate, you should be doing interviews or writing a novel. There are too many people out there who love to write about what's on the plate in front of them to waste the opportunity on someone who's just doing it for the paycheck.

I'm assuming that a lot of the folk who ate up James Frey's story are the same ones who devoured "A Child Called It" and other dubious suffering-porn pseudo memoirs. Having read the Smoking Gun account, I can't quite believe that anyone would fall for this poorly-written, unbelievable crap. Oh, I got out of jail and she had JUST hung herself. Oh, I was covered with puke and blood and pee and I sat on the plane and no one minded (or could find me a shower or a Wet One) If this guy is the Hemingway of our time, we are in serious trouble, but the fact is he never was. As fiction, this manuscript would've kept bouncing from slushpile to slushpile--as non-fiction, presented by a smooth-talking, handsome, marketable guy, I can see how it slithered onto the best-seller list. Blame Frey for pulling a real number on a gullible public. But blame the book-buying public for their insatiable hunger for this kind of sketchy confession-lit and their inability to recognize a tall tale when they hear one.