When I returned home from grocery shopping Saturday afternoon, Greg helped me unpack everything. I had purchased a bottle of red wine vinegar — choosing the more expensive of the brands because it’s something I so rarely buy — and Greg had set the bottle on the edge of the counter. Instead of putting the bottle in the pantry immediately, he continued grabbing other items that were sitting behind the bottle. As he reached for some fruit, he knocked into the bottle and it started to wobble. I saw this and recognized what was about to happen, but then I thought, no, that won’t really happen. It did.

If there’s anything worse than breaking a bottle of vinegar all over your kitchen floor, it’s breaking a bottle of red wine vinegar, because it leaves pink stains on your clothing.

I had no intention of writing about this incident because I knew Greg felt like a goof already. So why am I writing about it? Because Sunday morning, as Greg set the table for breakfast, he dropped our pepper shaker on the floor. More breakage. I’m running out of scented candles here.

Now, Greg is only allowed to drink out of plastic sippy cups and eat from paper plates.

As Greg and I worked in our office yesterday, we heard Abe jump off the couch, race to the window, and bark maniacally. We looked out the window and saw a mom and her four children walking toward the park. The mom had her hands full, so her son, who looked like he was about 5, was holding the leash of their retriever. The dog outweighed the boy by at least 30 pounds. When the dog heard Abe bark, he raced toward the front of our house. We could see the boy’s muscles clench as he tried to pull the dog back toward the sidewalk. He looked as though he was trying to restrain a racehorse. Then, the boy lost his balance, and in a maneuver that looked as though it was happening in slow motion, he belly-flopped onto our lawn. The behemoth dog didn’t even notice. He continued his sprint, now dragging the child — face-first, mind you — toward our front door. After a few more seconds of skidding, his mom rescued him. But for Greg and I, the memory will remain forever.

A couple nights ago, Greg and I attended a Willie Nelson concert that we won tickets to. I mention that we won the tickets because we aren’t so enthusiastic about Willie that we would buy the tickets. But we won them, so there we were.

When we got home from the concert, our clothes stank. And this wasn’t the usual cigarette stink that our clothes have after a concert.

“Uh! My clothes smell yucky,” I said.

“I think it’s marijuana,” Greg said. “I don’t know for sure, but I think it is.”

“Is it?” I asked. “I know the smoke at the concert smelled weird. It didn’t smell like cigarette smoke, and it didn’t smell like cigar smoke. It smelled kind of herbal.”

“At a Willie Nelson concert, I think there would be some marijuana,” Greg said.

“You’re right,” I said. “I just don’t really know what marijuana smells like.”

“Me neither,” Greg said.

Yes, we might be the most naive 27-year-olds on the planets.