Pot, This is Kettle

If there is one thing that bugs me more than anything else, it is not the frequent but unsolicited advice from parental units, per se, but being given "advice" that is more of a masked criticism.

Let me start this post by admitting to the fact that I have been rather interested, nay, consumed, by the prospect of getting a puppy. This has expressed itself by my devoted research and discussion of the possibility of bringing a new dog into my life. Alex is not on-board, whatsoever, and I do believe it is my responsibility to ensure that the dog would be brought into a loving and supportive home. Contrary to pop ...

Excuse me, I just got distracted by the "adopt" sign in the coffee shop where I am sitting. I have since been perusing the Humane Society of Tahoe Truckee website. Several cute faces, may be worth a visit this afternoon. Mimi, a big lab mix, looks particularly sweet.

But back to the story at hand ..

Contrary to popular belief, I am not as impulsive as I may seem. Don't I get any credit for diligently researching all there is about dog breeds, their appropriateness for apartment living, for a young working couple, for their exercise needs? How about the fact that I went for a bike ride to purchase a dog owner's manual by the Dog Whisperer himself, Cesar Millan, and I've already begun reading it?!? I think I deserve a pat on the back, truly.

Flash back to yesterday evening. I was quietly perusing Portland-area shelter animals on www.petfinder.com. I commented on the sad fact that a majority of the available rescue dogs are pit bulls. Simple fact. No response necessary. Just sharing a piece of information with some people who haven't dog shopped in several years.

"Are you always this obsessed with things?"

This, from the man who reportedly woke up at 5 a.m. this morning consumed by thoughts of "it's a money pit," "boats are a wasted," "who would make such a stupid purchase?" This from the man who spends the majority of each day either looking at the same two dozen pictures of the sailboat in question. This from the man who demanded his wife spends hours creating an Excel spreadsheet comparing several 300 grand boats. This from the man who we humor by listening to the minutae of an otherwise big decision. Because that's the kind of person I am.

"Yeah, she is," my husband chimes in. Thanks, babe, for the support.

Obsessed. This word strikes a particular chord with me. It inspires images of windowless vans. Stacks of illicit photos and news articles stored in a trunk in the closet. Dexter's blood samples of his murder victims hidden in his heating vent. Jennifer Jason Leigh in "Single White Female."

... In other words, it connotes some level of psychosis.

For the record, according to the American Heritage Dictionary, the definition of obsession is as follows:
1. Compulsive preoccupation with a fixed idea or unwanted feeling or emotion, often accompanied by symptoms of anxiety.
2. A compulsive, often unreasonable idea or emotion.

Trust me, I know obsessed. And this dog thing? So not.

Obsession is food.
Exercise.
Weight.
Calories.
Points.
Size.
I've been there, I've done that. This desire to add a four-legged friend to my family? This is not obsession.

"Actually, I'm not obsessed," I say, rightfully defensive. "I'm just being a well-educated future dog owner. I believe it's my responsibility to acquire as much information about breeds, temperment, adoptions, training, etc as possible."

If I do thorough research and talk it through, I'm obsessed. If I don't, I'm impulsive and irresponsible. How about we focus on our own preoccupations rather than throwing stones from a glass house?