The epiphany, part two.

I changed my mind. I don’t want to be someone who only does exactly what she wants. Especially w/r/t sex. If we only pursue our own gratification . . . why even involve someone else? We can satisfactorily meet our own needs, women probably moreso than men.

But, not really . . . there is something undefinable about being with another human being, something not directly related to errogenous zones. It’s like skin is hungry. It’s touch. I can only really speak to a woman’s perception here, obviously, but surely men must find pleasure in touching, and I don’t mean just those places!

So I think what I’ve come up with, in an extremely roundabout way, is that I want to be a sexual dynamo; I want to be a giving partner; but it’s not a bad idea to examine my own motives. And someday, some lucky guy is going to hit the jackpot . . . imagine if I could cook?

∞

Funny story that might cost me a couple dog sitting jobs. We’ll see.

So, my dear neighbor asked if I could walk her dog, since she was going to be stuck at work for a while. This is no problem, of course, and instead of return her to her crate when we come home, I bring her over to my place to hang out.  Here’s Flo: 

She’s a great girl. She’s going to a new home today–my neighhbor is a volunteer/board member of New Leash on Life, a no-kill rescue here in Chicago (and in L.A.: nlol.org), and a family is adopting her. yeah! 

Once again, I distracted myself.

So, Flo comes over, and she’s a busy girl. Gotta completely scope out the new apartment, you know? Ruby’s got a couple of big toy baskets, so those needed to be evaluated, too. She finally found a bone she liked and got busy on that for a bit.

In her wanderings, she did a nice job of checking out my kitchen and cleaning up the edibles on the floor. She is like a kind of four-legged, easily distracted roomba vacuum. (This is invaluable, since, if you’ll recall from an earlier post, I have a dog who verily spews dog food.) What was precious is that she didn’t actually eat any of the kibble in the dish; just the stuff on the floor.

     

Some background before we proceed with the story: Chicagoland had a brief but fierce thunderstorm last week, and Ruby has terrible storm fear. As a last resort, the vet perscribed some tranquilizers, and now, unfortunately, I cannot do without them. The ethics of drugging an animal for my own comfort aside, they enable her to relax, so last week, I tried to pop a couple pills down the gullet. Took me two tries. I thought. Later, I see the remnants of a smashed pill in front of the fridge. She musta chewed one, I thought, and spit as much as she could on the floor. I cleaned it up, and carried on with the mundane details of my life. Unbeknownst to me, I missed another smashed pill.

Back to our story: Sarah comes home, comes to get her beast, we chat, she goes home, she calls me 10 minutes later. Could I come down? she asked. Something is maybe wrong with Flo? A second opinion, please?

Flo seems . . . kinda slow, kinda clumsy, her eyes are bleary . . . Sarah is studying Flo, who does seem a bit muted considering she’s just a year old and still prone to irrational fits of purest ecstasy. And I think to myself, dang, it’s like Ruby on a tranquilizer. Except, I didn’t have the pills out?

And then the memory of the smashed pill on the floor flickers across my vision, and I feel pretty certain that there musta been another place where Ruby spit out pill parts, and Flo found ‘em. Sarah was enormously relieved, of course. A doctor perscribed tranquilizer is far easier to deal with than a sudden onset neurological disorder that impacts vision and coordination. Whew!

So we’ll see if Sarah lets me near her animals again.

 ∞

I made some low-fat, low-cholesterol banana muffins last night that do not suck. I also put chocolate chips in them, but from what I can tell, the banana-bread-y parts genuinely aren’t bad.