As I prepared to go to the mall yesterday, Greg and I started talking about the marriage class we took long, long ago. During the class, we answered the sort of sticky questions that can cause problems once you’re married. One of the questions we had to answer (without knowing our partner’s response, of course) was how much money we would spend without consulting the other person. Bear in mind that I was in grad school at the time and making a whopping $560 per month. I responded $200. Greg said $1,000. He was in grad school, too, so I don’t know where he thought he was going to get that kind of money, but I guess he dreams big.

Well, fast-forward a couple years, and I’m making a little more than $560 a month. As we chatted yesterday, I asked Greg if my limit should still be $200.

“Well, that’s what you told me it was,” Greg said.

“If you can spend $1,000 though, shouldn’t I be able to do the same?” I asked.

“Nope,” Greg said. “You agreed to $200. You can’t just change the rules in the middle of the marriage.”

So apparently I’m committed to this $200 limit for life. Given inflation, I envision a future where I have to call Greg to let him know that I’m buying a sweater or some T-bone steaks. Imagine!

And Greg, if you’re reading this and thinking about going out and spending $1,000 without telling me, you better be buying a fantastic piece of jewelry.

Winston visited the vet this morning for his annual exam. He cried throughout the ride to the office. Once we walked in, his pleas became even louder. I think he realized that if he wailed loud enough the other humans might help him. Maybe they would rescue him from his evil mother.

“Meeeowww. Meeeeeewwwwww,” his voice emanated from inside his carrier. The sound became lower and deeper as Winston became more perturbed.

Then, a 173-pound English mastiff pulled its owner through the front door. Silence from the carrier. Winston and I sat in the waiting area, and the mastiff sat across from us. He had a brindled coat, giving him the appearance of a tiger. More silence from Winston. I peered into his cage. His giant eyes stared back at me, pleading, please, please, I swear I’ll never make another peep if you just get that THING out of here.

Like most dogs, OK … who am I kidding? Like all dogs, Abe loves almost any food humans eat. Tonight, I made my renowned mashed potatoes to accompany our meal. They’re a conglomeration of potatoes with the skins still on, butter, garlic, cayenne pepper, chives, and whatever else I throw in at the last second. Well, Abe was standing around praying for some of the spuds to drop. I didn’t drop any, so Greg sneakily dropped a dollop into Abe’s food dish. Except it wasn’t Abe’s food dish, but rather, his water dish. Oops! (Sometime in the last day or two, the position of Abe’s dishes had gotten reversed, and Greg wasn’t yet up to speed.)

Abe didn’t mind. He started lapping at his dish of water. And lapping. And lapping. Lapping some more, his tummy becoming distended, water dribbling down his beard.

A minute later, Greg stole the dish from under Abe’s nose lest he drink the remainder and explode like a water balloon. And shortly after that Abe started whimpering at me. I’ve never seen that dog bolt out the door, down the stairs and onto the grass so quickly. I think I heard him sigh as his paws hit the sod.