Realizations and untapped talents.

Two weeks ago, I went to New York City for a conference. This meant that I left My Guy to work on the house by himself and I got to hang out with My Gay Eighth Grade Boyfriend. Super yay!

So, I learned some stuff at the conference - if you need to talk web content strategy, I am your woman. But I also learned 2 far more interesting items of note:

1. I could have lived my whole life without seeing Cynthia Nixon nekkid.
2. I should program music for restaurants ... restaurants that struggle with branding and need a helping hand.

First up ... number 1? MGEGB's husband got us tickets to some random show. OK, cool. MGEGB couldn't remember the name, and I was pretty much like, "An NYC activity that I don't have to plan and to which I will be squired with minimal effort on my part? Yes, please."

Well, that show was Wit, starring Miranda from Sex and the City. MGEGB and I were both like, "Umkay, sure." And then, as we were running to the theatre, late, I saw the signs ... the signs with Cynthia Nixon's bald head.

Oh, fuck. It was a play about cancer.

We both stopped in the street. MGEGB's 10-year-old nephew recently died after a long, horrible illness. And what with the cancer funness that my mom has been through, I'm not too jazzed about, you know, cancer.

We made a deal that we'd leave at intermission if it was too terrible. But there was no intermission! And Cynthia Nixon dies. And you know she's going to die. And it's horrible.

Finally, I couldn't take it any more, and the tears came. And since we didn't know the play was sad, I had no tissues! No hanky! So, I pulled myself together by questioning whether it would be considered in bad taste to blow my nose on my scarf. I decided that active blowing would be bad, but a secretive little wipe? Well, no one would be the wiser, especially if I rearranged the scarf afterward.

Anyway, finally, at the end of the play, she dies. And she strips off her hospital gown and is nekkid, and then does this ascension thing.

Neh. Kid. If I wasn't prepared for a cancer show, I really wasn't prepared for Miranda Hobbs sans clothes. Nixon did a great job, and it's a powerful show. But ... I just wasn't prepared. And I guess I can cross "see Cynthia Nixon nekkid" off my bucket list, but it would be one of those things where you write an item on your to-do list just so you can have the satisfaction of crossing it off.

Which brings us to my community outreach as a music programmer for struggling restaurants.

One night, I was on my own for dinner. I walked along 46th Street, looking at menus and peering into restaurant windows. I had a hankering for gnocchi, so I stepped into a little Italian joint. As soon as I did, I sort of wished I hadn't. The place was empty except for two tables of tourists. The chairs were the black metal type that they have in every Chinese restaurant. And every single person working at the restaurant was Mexican.

Not to be racist, but an Italian restaurant with Chinese decor and an entirely Mexican staff does not immediately instill a lot of culinary confidence. Plus? The music playing was Babyface.

But I wanted gnocchi, so I ate gnocchi while listening to Spanish chatter and the sweet, sweet, baby-makin' sounds of late 90s soul.

Except! Then the music shifted ... to Dave Mathews Band. I figured they must just be playing some Sirius channel called Cha Cha's College Sounds. Except ... then the next song was The Pina Colada Song.

I started truly nursing my food and my wine. I started texting my husband, because ohmyOprah, I had to share this experience.

The next few songs:

• That Rusted Root song that's now used in a car rental commercial
• Benny and the Jets
• More Babyface
• Why do fools fall in love (seriously? that represents a 40-year span)
• You can call me Al

Finally, I realized that if I didn't force myself to leave, I'd sit there all night. I was so enthralled that I had to make a conscious effort to leave. But as I did, I realized that this little restaurant just needed my help. The gnocchi was good, and the people were kind. The ambiance just left a little something to be desired. And what creates ambiance better than music?

Sure, they could have just gone for the stereotypical Sinatra station on Sirius. Or, they could enjoy the musical stylings of yours truly. I'd mix up a little Sinatra to keep it classic, a little Diana Krall to keep a mellow vibe, and a little Amy Winehouse to maintain a touch of street cred. They could pay me in gnocchi.

A good book to start a new week.

Thanks for all of the book recommendations. I love them! In the spirit of reciprocity, I must say ... I have a book that you must run out and read right this second.

For real.

Pick up Unbroken by Laura Hillenbrand. It is ... amazing. Or, as my crazy hair stylist would say, "amazeballs." But I don't think I can quite pull that off.

Anyway, let me just say that I'm not particularly interested in military history or World War II. However ... I could not stop thinking about this story. I became a little bit obsessed. I would like to buy a copy of this book for everyone I know, just so we could have some sort of galactic book club. But since I'm not Oprah, I'll just write about it here.

Former juvenile delinquent Louis Zamperini became was an Olympic runner. Then, he ended up in the Army Air Force during WWII. His plane was shot down over the Pacific, leaving him and two others in a raft, in the middle of the ocean.

And then?

Well, you should just read the book. It's an incredibly well-written account of an incredible true story and an amazing human being.

So. Inspiring.

Don't call the ASPCA.

I have the goal of posting 10 times a month in 2012. Since I haven't written in something like 23 days, you can see how this is going.

So, this is me, getting back on the horse. Even though I hate horseback riding. So I need a new metaphor, one that better reflects who I am as a human being. So, this is me ... uh ... going back to bed, because I love to sleep and I'm really good at it.

I don't think that qualifies as a metaphor. Sigh.

Well, I can tell you this: The other night, I

Mothereffer! Foxie Doxie just lifted his leg in my kitchen. I should rename my blog "The Inconsistent Blog About Consistent Dog Pee."

What I was about to say ... is that I went to the grocery store the other night after work. It was hell on Earth, per usual. And I left without buying ice cream.

Horrible, I know.

But my marriage survived, and the next night, My Guy arrived home with ice cream - and that yummy hot fudge that you have to soften in the microwave. Mmm. Mix those together with a touch of peanut butter and a cascade of Rice Krispies, and you have yourself a feast!

The day after that, Lil' Frankfurter displayed some ear funk. When I first adopted him, he had no hair on his ears.

See? Bald ears.

The first few rounds of hair that did grow in on the edges of his ears fell out. Sort of like ear dandruff that took the hair with it. I thought this was the same thing.

But no!

It was only on one side, and it was dark. Dried blood?

Uh, no. Dried hot fudge. Someone had licked an ice cream bowl and gotten his ear all up in it.

As I was turning to my cure-all, the warm washcloth, I overheard my sweet husband patiently conversing with Lil' Frank.

You are a bad dog. I know, I know - it's true. Now, you have hot fudge ear. And so we're just going to have to put you in the microwave. Maybe it's a good thing you're so small.

Dachshund for sale. Free or best offer.

With all the remodeling, we have workers coming in and out of our house all the time. And, we're basically living in the basement, since we haven't yet painted our living room ceiling, so all of the furniture is all smooshed together in other rooms.

If you're a dachshund with an inferiority complex, all of this turmoil means you're freaking out extra.

And if you're a dachshund with an inferiority complex, freaking out extra means peeing evvvvverywhere. Because marking your territory is obviously the most effective way to tell humans and canines alike that you are large and in charge.

Foxie Doxie is driving us nuts. In addition to marking his favorite furniture and bedding, Foxie actually peed on one of his toys.

Help. Us. Please.

We've tried the No More Marking spray. We've tried cleaners made with essential oils. We've tried yelling. We've tried putting his nose in it. We've even tried telling him that he's our favorite and that all of the other dogs defer to him and he's really the alpha but he doesn't need to stress about it because it's widely accepted as the truth, so he can just be all Zen and Yoda-like.

None of this has worked.

And after I scrubbed the tile floor in the basement for an hour yesterday - on my hands and knees - and he promptly peed on my clean floor? I have had it.

Seriously. Help us. Any suggestions?

Amended to say: He has a kennel, where he stays whenever we're gone. This is more of a marking-when-I'm-out-of-the-room sort of situation. Help!

I hope Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand duet soon.

I'm watching the Grammys. A few thoughts:

• Is it a poor reflection on me as a person that I want to punch Taylor Swift in the mouth, like, every time I see her? Her constant look of wonderment looks like a giant put-on to me. Also? When she loses, she looks like a pissed off, spoiled child.


• Is it also a poor reflection on me as a person that while I'm sorry about Whitney Houston, I'm also disgusted by the "OMG, Whitney, nooooo!" hullabaloo? If so, I'm also guessing it's a poor reflection on me that I've been hollering, "Bobbaaaaaaaaaaye!" a la Maya Rudolph and laughing maniacally for the last 24 hours? I am so, so funny.


• I am super pumped that My Celebrity Boyfriend Dave Grohl and the Foo Fighters a) kicked ass in their performance (like we expected anything else) and b) won some Grammy love. However, my distaste for Ryan Seacrest is compounded due to the fact that the Grammy folk cut off Dave's acceptance speech to introduce Seacrest. Not Seacrest's fault, but it just seems like he was somehow responsible. Perhaps he and Taylor Swift have an evil partnership to destroy American culture.


• I am old. I don't know 80% of the music. However, based on this broadcast, I'm not missing much.


• I can't believe Chris Brown has a career. He has not beaten any women during the live performance ... yet. At least not on stage. Backstage? Probably, yes. Several.


• Bruce Springsteen and Dave Grohl make me both hopeful and sad. I'm pretty sure that neither of them would stand for some smarmy Corporate Behemoth VP telling them that they can't fix a problem on their team unless they "show some passion" for their work. If I were a touch more rock 'n' roll, maybe I would tell him to kiss my ass. I would also wear jeans and leather at all times. And maybe I wouldn't be overwhelmed with sadness on a Sunday night over the prospect of going back to work tomorrow morning.

In which I am an ignorant tween.

Let me just preface with this: I hate baseball.

I know, I know. It's America's pastime. A game of tradition and patriotism. Got it. Personally? I find it even less exciting than watching paint dry.

Case in point: we used to go on family vacations to Minneapolis, where we'd settle in to watch the Twins. My mom and brother we ecstatic. My dad and me? Not so much.

I distinctly remember one Twins game where my dad and I spent 3 hours watching the overweight family in front of us eat nonstop. And then there was the family behind us with the gaggle of small, grabby children. Grabby children who had been brushing our backs and touching our seats all night. At about the 7th inning, the grandma of the grabbies proclaimed to the mama, "Why, Jill! Just look at all that mucus! He's sick!"

And my dad and I spent the rest of the game hovering on the edge of our seats, attempting to avoid the fountain of bodily fluid seated behind us.

I'm sure my mom and brother could tell you all about that game and whatever magic Kirby Puckett worked that night, but what I remember is obesity and mucus.

So, all this to say ... I don't know much about baseball.

Also? I didn't date much as a teen. I know you find this shocking.

Which leads me to ask a question to which I've never gotten a straight answer. And yes, I realize that my compulsion to never end a sentence with a preposition probably contributed to that dearth of dating.

When it comes to making out, what are the bases?

Seriously. Is kissing first base? Or is that just a given? Are there different bases for above clothes or underneath clothes touching? Have the bases changed, now that girls dress like hoochies and, if you believe the news, give mouth hugs to anybody who asks?

I can figure out what a home run is. I mean, I was raised on cable TV. But the bases? A mystery.

I am a married woman, so I have managed to have a somewhat successful dating life despite my horrible lack of bases knowledge. However, in my relationship with My Guy, I'm pretty sure he sees the bases like this:
First base: Kissing
Second base: I let her hold the remote. Not a euphemism.
Third base: Gettin' it on
Home run: She made meatloaf! And that's not a euphemism!

It can't last forever, right?

I just downloaded photos of my camera for the first time since August.

Yes, that was 6 months ago.

I rediscovered some great stuff. Remember that time the labradoodles got into a bag of fiberfill, but I couldn't bring myself to clean it up because a) they were so happy; and b) it made our basement look like heaven?
Ah. Good times.

But most of the photos are a series of before and during photos that document our current renovations.

This would be the master bath "before."This is the bathroom where we found a half-eaten bowl of rice and beans in a drawer.
After the demo, our driveway looked like this.Sadly, I wasn't able to salvage the shower or toilet for use as planters. I guess the landscape design will have to wait.

Sure, this looks scary. But it's a sign of fresh tile.Bet your living room isn't this spacious. Bet it doesn't have a mattress in it, either.And I bet your dining room is a bit more spacious.
Think we need to touch up?
It's overwhelming. But ... at least the house still has all the original doorknobs.
So, I'm gonna focus on that.