The Illusion of Perfection
Each day I fluff pillows, tuck bedding, re-position artwork, stash toiletries, and return balls and bones to their basket. I’m sure friends and family think I’m on a quest for the perfect home. The truth, it’s a morbid obsession where I think If I’m hit by a run-a-way TTC streetcar, and I’ll be shamed by whoever enters my abode to pick up the pieces. In my head I hear my mother’s voice, ‘Oh Al, look, he never made his bed.‘ Crazy, I know.
I’m nothing close to being a perfectionist. When it comes to my personal and home life I’m a ‘Good-Enoughist’ if such a thing exists. I’ve often pondered if a perfectionist can be a dog owner. No matter what the breed, size or age every dog owner will be plagued with dog hair, vomit, mud, sand, lick marks and nose smudges at one time or another. Which makes for keeping your home, attire, and vehicle in perfect condition challenging.
Thoughts on Perfection Smashed
It wasn’t the perfect autumn day, but it was damn close. It was one of the last days where your toes we’rent cold, only nipped by the chill in the air wearing sandals and the smell of pumpkin spice lattes wafted out of Starbucks.
Johnny had found a mouth-watering stick. I’ve learned not all sticks are created equal, I suppose wine to humans is in some way sticks to dogs. Not all are created equal. A few feet away he sprawled out with one eye on his stick and the other surveying the dog park for stick stealers.
Johnny was entertained -my turn-. I opened one of my two-inch biographies, this one, an in-depth look at photographer Diane Arbus (she’s fascinating). Four pages in and I was interrupted by a high-pitched ‘hiiiii there.’ I looked up to see what I thought couldn’t exist, the perfect dog owner.
My eye first fixed onto the long stemmed glass of white wine clasped with think fingers sporting flawlessly vibrant pink nail polish. Bringing my focus back out I took in the entire package:
- Quilted white cotton jacket with a glinting gold zipper, zipped to the neck
- White capris with a slender robin’s egg blue stripe
- Michael Kors white trainers with a thick gold metallic bar and white laces dotted with pink (not a scuff on them)
- Chalk white Coach mini backpack slung casually over the left shoulder
- A cascade of blonde hair falling around the shoulders and washing down across the back, not one split end to be found
- A healthy spread of makeup, enough to highlight her round cheekbones, plump lips and full lashes
In a nutshell, this is a woman who spends weekends at the outlet mall and evenings on Groupon snagging salon, esthetic, and spa deals. But somehow, she made it all work.
She introduced herself as Meghan and her dog as Misty. Misty is a Bichon Frise, nothing against the breed, but I find them lacking in the personality department. Although, what they lack in character they make up in adorable.
Meghan’s dog Misty is never interested in playing with other dogs. She spends her dog park visits trolling the perimeter of the park in a deep sniff. This works well for Meghan, it allows her to focus on her wine and indulge in…wait for it…yes…picking up single men.
Do you Come Here Often?
In the world of gay sexuality, there is the original recipe, extra crispy and gluten free types of gay men. I like to think that I fall into the original recipe. I often sit with my legs crossed, wear tailored clothing, and have a playlist dedicated to Cher, all signs pointing to ‘not on the heterosexual menu’. However, there is a small possibility I could be labeled as metrosexual. Small, extremely small, like…microscopic.
We were almost thirty minutes into our conversation, I started to feel odd. Something wasn’t right. Why did she continue to touch my shoulder and kneecap? Why was she making continual eye contact? Why did she lean into me with her breasts so close? Why did I catch her checking out my ass when I got up to tend to Johnny? Damn, she was into me. Is she blind?
As her wine sloshed back and forth and her tits rose and fell with her laugh, I became more and more uncomfortable. It was time to put Megan back on the tracks to Hedro Town. Looking back, there was the opportunity to take a delicate approach. Abruptly announcing ‘my gay boyfriend is waiting for me at home,’ went over like Prime Rib served at a vegan wedding.
Meghan’s face contorted into an ugly snarl as she mouthed the words, boyfriend. As I fetched Johnny, she immediately started to scout the dog park for another possible suitor.
This Chardonnay is a bit Buttery
Johnny and I continue to see Meghan at the dog park. I lovingly refer to her as Miss Chardonnay, she’s never without her wine. As for Misty, sadly she has a whine, she whines to get home. Misty has no interest in ever being at the dog park, or ever socializing with another dog. Her owner, on the other hand, has decided the dog park is where she’ll harvest a husband.
It makes you think. Is perfect what others are looking for in us? Is perfect attractive at all?
Until next time my friends. MUAH!