Football, Lion dogs, and my "Top Chef" addiction

I apologize for my rambling.  My mind is like a grasshopper today.  These are some of the thoughts that have crossed my cranium in the last few hours.

On college football:

 I am not sure if this is actually Morgan Freeman or not, but if it is, this is officially the baddest FSU promo EVER.

Morgan Freeman FSU promo

If you have been reading this blog, you already know that I am a college football aficionado. Okay, to be fair, "fanatic" might be more accurate.  It has been a rough ride for FSU fans the past few decades.  Florida State spent the 90s kicking serious ass, the first decade of 2000 basically sucking, and the last decade being fairly ordinary.  To have Morgan Freeman's awesomeness gracing an FSU promo is nothing short of a sign from a benevolent deity that FSU football is indeed back in a big way. (And please, O fickle sprites of football, do NOT use the previous statement as a means to jinx my beloved Seminoles.)

Lion dogs:

I am not making this up.  Apparently a Chinese zoo tried to pass off a Tibetan mastiff as an African lion.  Granted, Tibetan mastiffs are the size of freaking direwolves.  It was also a lovable, extra-cuddly Tibetan mastiff. But seriously--big-ass dog doesn't equal big-ass cat.  You can read about it here.

Top Chef:  

  

I am an unabashed Top Chef lover.  Bravo has put forth a quality reality competition series with a minimum of drama.  There are moments of snark, of course.  Michael Voltaggio grousing about Kevin Gillespie was fairly bitchy.  Marcel Vigneron was an arrogant, wormy, catty (albeit talented) Jack-Russell sized annoyance.  Anthony Bourdain, who often served as a judge on the show, was an unrepentant and brutal critic, often reducing these young gastronomes to quivering children. (I love him--gravelly-voiced, lanky, master of sarcasm that he is.)

That being said, Top Chef has been one of the most powerful vehicles for launching new culinary talent in the last decade.  The charming and engaging Tom Colicchio delivers a sense of versimilitude weekly to a show that could easily plummet into the ridiculous abyss of other competition shows. 

There are plenty of cheftestants each season whose talent is mediocre, at best.  They seem to be workhorses with little natural talent; often they manage to plod through episode after episode simply by managing to stay off the judges' radar.  We have also all witnessed brilliant young talents that have gone home far too soon. 

The power of Top Chef lies simply in its ability to engage the viewer with the natural drama that watching untapped talent brings forth.  We never know if the truly talented folks will succeed or if the pedestrian chefs will manage to muddle through.  I was heartbroken when Kevin Gillespie, that humble and gifted son of Atlanta, lost in the sixth season finale. Yet I couldn't help but agree with the judges' choice as that epicurean virtuoso, Michael Voltaggio, created a transcendent menu. The genius of Top Chef is simply this--it creates a bridge, however tenuous, between the ordinary world of the customer and that of the chef.  And that bridge is lined with truly incredible food.

  
And finally, crap that made me laugh today.

Dating in the Star Wars universe is a bitch.

Reason #6,782 why gay men are awesome.

I think my cat is bulimic.

I currently am the parent to three pets--two cats that tolerate actively plan each other’s demise each other and an enthusiastic food whore of a dog.  

One cat, Cordelia, actively enjoys vomiting.  She particularly likes to spew (a)during the wee hours of the morning; (b)on clean laundry; and (c)in spots where I won't find it.  She actually has mad skills when it comes to barfing.  If there were an Olympic event for targeted puking, she would win the gold, hands down. I have found vomit behind our 6.5 megaton computer desk.  I have found it under the bathroom rug. (Which means that this damn cat is intelligent and duplicitous enough to attempt to hide her kitty purging.) I have found it in a pair of my sneakers.  (Blech.  That was a fairly disgusting wake-up call.) Apparently carpeting makes cats nauseated.  My tile will remain pristine for weeks.  (Okay, that’s a lie.  I only mop when the dog hair starts to pile up in the corners of my kitchen.)   I swear she knows when I have just vacuumed; within seconds a fresh bout of feline heaving begins.  I have become resigned to the stains in my carpet and to the fact that my cat seems to be bulimic.

She also has an obsession with closed doors.  If any door in the house is closed it immediately becomes like an exclusive kitty nightclub.  She MUST get inside.  If the door is not amenable (i.e., I don’t jump up and open it for her) the scratching begins.  *scritchscritchscritchscritch* (Cat waits several seconds.) *scritchscritchSCRITCHscritchSCRITCHSCRITCHSCRITCH* If there is still no response from her lackey owner, the cat then goes into full-on psycho kitty mode.  Her little paws move so quickly that they are little more than tortoiseshell blurs.  This is even more exciting at 2:30 a.m. during the work week; but then she also adds the ding-dong-ditch element to this little game.  I am a light sleeper.  After trying to ignore the scrabbling for several minutes, I stomp to the door ready to kick some kitty a&@.   Ostensibly the cat has planned for this—as soon as I open the door the cat bolts down the hall.  I swear that she is also snickering at me as she does this, but Kevin says I have an overactive imagination. Hmph.

The other cat, Bally, has a Buddhaesque physique and a charming personality.  He begins to purr the second you pick him up which makes it very difficult to scold him.  Bally spent most of his kittenhood attacking Cordelia--who is about a year older.   It was fairly amusing at the time despite Cordelia's obvious discomfiture.  The pet gods apparently decided that Bally needed his comeuppance.  (Either that, or Cordelia sacrificed a bird/squirrel/mole to the kitty voodoo gods.)

We adopted a rescue dog, Zack, last year.  He has decided that the cats need to be his best friends.  The cats were not too keen on this idea; therefore, Zack spends a great deal of his day chasing down the cats in a fruitless attempt to make them play with him.  Cordelia, clever little minion of Beelzebub that she is, shut down this behavior within 2 days of Zack’s arrival with a badass, ninja-like presentation of her claw skills.  Bally, on the other hand, is far too tubby to move so quickly and thus has to endure Zack’s ministrations.  Kevin and I call this karma.  Cordelia sits loftily atop of her perch on the sofa and witnesses laughs her ass off at Bally’s plight.  Zack, of course, is oblivious to the cat’s obvious reticence.  He bounds merrily after Bally day after day despite Bally’s constant attempts to rebuff him.

My animals are all kinds of insane.  And frankly, I wouldn’t have them any other way.

Random crap I thought about today.

On my phone's navigation system:

 I really love the idea of a GPS.  I love that my phone has navigation; mostly because I can get lost in my own damn neighborhood.  (No, it's true--I have the sense of direction of a drunken toddler.)  I would like to know, however, who picked the voice for my phone's navigation system.  Not only is the bitch impatient as all get-out, but what is with the TONE she gets?!

Navigation chick:  "In 300 feet, turn left onto State Road 575."

At this point I am dutifully in the turn lane with blinker on.  LESS THAN FIVE SECONDS LATER: "Turn left onto State Road 575."  And again.  Apparently the concept of the red light has escaped the makers of my phone's navigation system.  

At this point I am shouting obscenities at the phone. "Shut up shut up shut up, you inanimate tramp!"

Speaking of which, they switched the navigation app on my phone to Google maps.  I have nothing against Google maps, but they have made it about 6.2 billion times more difficult to get directions.  It takes longer to pull the damn thing up than to  actually drive there.  Sorry--I'm rambling.

Back to the bitchy GPS lady.  If you decide that you would like to take another route, God forbid.  She gets this snarky, self-important, passive-aggressive attitude.

 "Make a U-turn where possible." You keep driving, of course. 

 "Make a U-turn where possible."  

After about the third repeat of the SAME DAMN set of instructions, she finally sighs and says in this resigned tone, "Recalculating." (Okay, she doesn't actually sigh, but the implication is there.)  Honestly, Android programmers--there are enough bitchy, passive-aggressive women out there.  Did you have to make the voice on my phone's navigation system just like them?!

On the royal baby:

Honestly, I could give a tiny rat's ass about most babies.  I just was not born with the gooey motherhood gene.  I will admire my friends' babies for as long as social obligations expect one to admire a baby.   I will even go to their showers/birthday parties and bring an appropriate gift.  I will even lie my ass off and tell you your baby is cute even if the child looks like a weeny, peach-colored Komodo dragon.  But I do reserve the right to smack you if you name the child something stupid.

Thank you, Kate Middleton, for giving your child a normal name. You did not name him after a fruit, a geographical location, or a direction.  (Thank you also for not giving us any footage of the actual birth.  I'm sorry, but ain't nobody got time--or the stomach--for that.)  Seriously.  NEVER make your friends watch your birthing video.  I love my girlfriends but I have no desire to watch their uterus explode as their spawn exits screaming out of it.

And in an entirely unrelated note, the new Pope is awesome!

 

And to wrap up--

Crap that made me laugh today:

So friggin' true. 

I would so buy this car. 

This should not have made me giggle as much as it did. Don't judge me.