I'm thinking of becoming Tim Gunn's stalker
No doubt there will be a line, seeing how he's the most adorable person ever born (or created in a lab or dropped directly from heaven or whatever). It's OK though; I can be patient when the payoff warrants. I am confident that when Tim meets me he will realize that glorious BFF-dom is our destiny.
In other television-related news, I saw the best dance routine ever on So You Think You Can Dance. (What is with that unwieldy title, by the way? Isn't that poor marketing?) Before you get the impression that I am wholeheartedly endorsing this show, let me state that SYTYCD is the reason Prometheus risked all to give us DVR technology. I would NOT recommend attempting to view this show live and, thus, without fast forward. Your brains would ooze from your ears within the first half hour. This show contains more filler than a cheap hotdog, more even than American Idol. Seriously. Don't even go there.
But if you can watch with FF at hand, sometimes you'll be rewarded with some astonishing dancing, and last night cousins Benji and Heidi threw down a tango that I replayed three times. Even my husband, who normally would rather have a tooth drilled than view SYTYCD, let me talk him into watching it and had to admit, yeah, that was pretty damn cool. There's just something about watching people excel, especially at skills I could never master, that is so inspiring.
Other than that, the only interesting thing I've done this week is take my cats to the vet. If you've ever taken a cat to the vet you just snickered; you're remembering your own experiences in the field, the wounds from which you may still be recovering. Taking my dog to the vet? Cakewalk. She doesn't like it, but what can she do?
In the past I have dragged both cats in at once, but this time I could only find one carrier so we had to tag team it. I took Baby Kitty, the smaller one (now 6 years old but still called "Baby" by the whole family), first for no reason other than that he happened to be sleeping in the carrier when it came time to leave. (Cleverly, I had dug it out of the closet several hours before the appointment, knowing they would not be able to resist a new place to sleep. They don't seem to remember how much they hate the carrier after a whole vet-less year has gone by.) Baby Kitty hates the car. He cries, loudly, through any car ride. When we made our three hour move from Texas three years ago, Baby Kitty rode with me, and as much as I treasure him I swear I nearly left him by the side of I-35. He NEVER STOPPED CRYING.
Anyway, Baby Kitty is a crier not a fighter, so once you hand him off to the vet he's so terrified he doesn't put up much of a fight. Mission accomplished.
So I brought his crying, traumatized ass back home and prepared to throw the other cat in and take him for his own torture. Naughty Kitty is significantly larger than his foster-brother, and while he's usually very cuddly and friendly (where Baby hates to be picked up and doesn't much care for anyone except me) when he gets pissed it's a vastly more dangerous situation. Where his brother cries, he fights.
This is the phenomenon I've been leading to with this boring dissertation on my boring pets: Naughty Kitty freaked right out when I came back in and let BK out of the carrier. He hissed at BK and slapped him across the face--like he hadn't been through enough!--then hissed at me, hissed at the carrier, hissed at the dog (which he NEVER does), circled the carrier and hissed once more for good measure, to make sure it knew its place, I guess, and then crawled under the bed--hissing. SIGH.
I can only assume that the carrier and BK stank of the vet's office and alcohol and cat terror?
I know you're on the edge of your seat wondering, "DID SHE GET THE CAT TO THE VET OMG!" Yes, I managed to wheedle him out--he really is a very sweet cat most of the time--and finally crammed his fat ass into the bag. He hissed at the doctor's assistant but the people at the vet are so un-fazed by pet hostility. That's the difference between a professional and, well, me.