Monterey has been lovely--I've done a lot of instagramming/twittering/FBing about it, so basically I'm all over social media about my family vacation.
So I'll leave you all with this moment.
We stopped for clam chowder after our second day at the aquarium, and then walked to Pinkberry. The store was full so we carried our fro-yo up to "bus circle" of the aquarium. That way Mate could finish his fro-yo before going to fetch us the car.
We were talking about Chicken watching the house--and how she was freaking out being alone at night.
"Yeah," Mate said. "Good call on getting her to room with her brother. Lots of independence, lots of not being alone at night." He shrugged sheepishly. "I've never lived alone."
Well, no. This is true-- we moved in together after living with parents and grandparents, at the ripe old age of twenty.
But I am feeling old at this moment.
Iron is low, arthritis, fasciitis, and sciatica are high.
"You'll have a chance between sixty and eighty," I say, laughing.
He looks stricken. "Sixty? That's ten years."
"Okay-- sixty-five. Maybe seventy. All I'm saying is make sure you pick the next dog."
"Sure," he says sullenly. "I'll have Squish pick it out. She'll get it."
"No," I say. "The dog is for YOU."
"You're not getting it," he repeats, looking stubborn. "Squish will get it."
"But it's your dog, because I won't be there for it."
"And Squish will get it."
I stare at him, trying to do math.
"So, you mean, she'll inherit the dog."
Oh. "Okay. So maybe we'll never live alone. Either of us."
"That's my plan."
"Seventy," I say. "Maybe eighty."
"That works for me."