Bitching

In her review of Elizabeth Gilbert's recent marriage memoir/ethnography, Committed, Ariel Levy quips that "one generally doesn’t indulge another person’s emotional processing at this length unless the jabbering is likely to conclude with sex."

Well put.

And, with a few minor alterations, it pretty much sums up my current feelings toward all conversations with pet owners. Specifically, except in the early phases of infatuation during which everything about you is adorable, I don't care about your pet. I don't. I totally believe that your animal is soulful, hilarious, endearing, and brilliant--I bet I'd even like him/her/it in person--but your furry anecdotes aren't making your case. Unless I am so smitten that I've twisted your boyhood love of your dog/cat/fish into evidence that you are capable of such depth of feeling for me, this conversation is boring.

I'm not sure why pets make such uniquely dull conversation, but they really do, and I wish Vogue's Jeffrey Steingarten would stop spending his glossy pages covering the antics of "Sky King," his Manhattanite Golden Retriever. A few months ago, Sky King was featured prominently in a column ostensibly about living on take out. In the April issue, we're treated to Sky King's encounter with stevia, an up-and-coming artificial sweetener. While I haven't read Steingarten's culinary self-portrait, It Must Have Been Something I Ate, the NYT review assures me that Sky King plays an important role here, too. It's boring, it's grating, and I wish he'd ditch the dog tales. His elementary school experience, his wife, his apartment--I have an endless appetite for the details of other people's personal lives. But not their pets.