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There comes a time in every relationship where you begin to re-evaluate just what the two of you are getting out of the whole deal. If the good times are still outweighing the bad times. If that spark you once had is still burning.

For me and my baby, that time is now.

To be honest, I never thought it would come to this. We’ve been through so much together. I had heard of other people who had gone through some of the same problems and ended up splitting up, but I always thought “Oh no, not us.” But now, I just don’t know if there are enough bacon-flavored treats in the world to fix this.

Naturally, of course, I’m talking about my dog (although you’d be surprised how many problems I’ve fixed with my husband by offering him bacon-flavored treats).

In the span of just a couple of months, Buffy and I have gone from best friends to a bickering old married couple. And yes, I realize that every relationship goes through its ups and downs and that this is probably just a rough patch for Buffy and me. But still, there is that small nagging voice in my head that wonders if we can still make this work.

It all started to go downhill when I switched from having a regular 9-to-5 job to writing from home. It was great at first. There was time for long walks in the park and cuddling on the couch. But eventually all that quality time together began to wear on us both.

My dog has always been quirky and a bit on the neurotic side (that’s what we call an understatement, kids). But now that I’m home most of the time, he has really let his freak flag fly.

And when he’s not doing things like licking the couch and cowering in the corner trying to hide from a common house fly, he’s bugging me every five minutes. It’s gotten so bad that I can now recognize his barks.

Soft double bark: The waterbowl is empty, yo.

Slightly louder triple bark: I’m not completely out of food but I can see the bottom of my dish on one side and felt I should alert you that the contents of said dish are now below 30 percent.

Quiet Rrrrr followed by snort: Yes, I need to poop. Again.

BARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARKBARK!!!: Someone somewhere is doing something outside within a three mile radius that I can hear!

Bark followed by supersonic yip: No one is paying any attention to me so I strew my toys all over the house in that manner in which you so hate. Are you paying attention now? Oh good.

Low growl: Well, now that’s just plain sassing me.

It’s not all his fault, however. I mean, I get minimal human contact every day. As a result, I find myself treating Buffy more like a person and saying things like:

“I don’t care if the cat next door gave you a funny look. We don’t bark like that. Ever. Unless I’m being chopped up into little pieces by a serial killer. Or the TV got stuck on the Disney Channel during a ‘Hannah Montana ‘ marathon. THEN we bark like that, OK?”

And:

“No, that collar doesn’t make you look fat.”

And on our daily walk in the park, I actually got into a public argument with him:

“Seriously? Do you really have to pee on everything some other dog peed on? You ran out of urine like two miles ago.”

“Bark.”

“Hey, I’m just saying. Some other dog is just going to come along and pee exactly where you just did. The whole thing seems kind of fruitless to me.”

“Bark Bark!”

“How dare you. And where did you get such a potty-mouth? No more HBO for you, mister.”

In an effort to give us both back our sanity and repair our relationship, I even tried to teach him some tricks so at least all this quality time wouldn’t be completely moot. I started out simply at first, you know, with “shake” and “go get me a beer.”

But then I watched an educational documentary on how smart dogs are, especially border collies. Considering my dog is a mutt who could pass for a border collie if you squint your eyes really, really hard, I decided to go a bit more advanced. So, just like the guy in the film who taught his dog to fetch more than 100 dog toys by their individual name, I named all of Buffy’s toys and then taught those names to Buffy by shoving the toy in his face and shouting the name ad nauseum. Surprisingly, he caught on right away.

“Go get Christmas Tiger!”

And lo and behold, he did. Thrilled, I then said, “Go get Hambone!”

And lo and behold, he brought me Christmas Tiger!

“Go get Ugly Chicken!”

And he brought me…Christmas Tiger!

Rocky as our relationship is right now, however, we’re both determined to make this work. For better or for worse, we chose each other for a reason. And I have a feeling we will get through this stronger than ever, mainly because we have two very important factors on our side:

1. We love each other deeply.

2. Buffy is pretty much 100 percent dependent on me for food and shelter.

You never think it could happen to you.

Oh sure, you know it happens to other people. You’ve heard the stories. It may have even happened to some of your closest friends. And yeah, you feel bad for them.

But you?

Impossible.

That is, until the day you wake up and realize that you, too, are on the cusp of your 30th birthday.

Yes, dear readers, I am about to turn 30. I have officially been alive for three decades.

Three decades.

Three decades?

Three decades!

If I were clothes, I’d be considered vintage. If I were a boy band, I would already be staging my pathetic and ultimately doomed comeback. If I were Scotch … well, I’d already be drunk by me in order to help me cope with turning 30.

Oh, how I want to be one of those women who approach 30 and aging in general with grace and confidence. But no. No, I am one of those women who approach it kicking and screaming and clutching my anti-wrinkle cream to my chest as I rock back and forth in the fetal position (and then burst into tears because I just did the math of how long it has been since I actually was a fetus).

Oh sure, I know that people say 30 is the new 20. And deep down I realize that 30 is still incredibly young in the grand scheme of things. But certain ages are considered milestones in our society and 30 is by far the most notorious. It is the unofficial age when youth ends and “serious” adulthood begins.

Like, “401k and watching Charlie Rose” adulthood.

Granted, there is some good news. With age comes experience, and experience translates into wisdom (although that equation isn’t completely universal judging by the number of times I’ve given myself orange hair highlights). As much as I’ve tried to fight it, my three decades have given me some valuable insights.

For example, my first decade was spent as a child of the ’80s, in blissful ignorance of just how bad I looked in neon, mismatched socks and permed poodle hair.

But in between amassing permanent scars from Slap Bracelets and reading Judy Blume, I took away some very important life lessons.

Lessons learned:

Tomatoes are icky (but Elmer’s Glue is delicious).

Becoming Maria from “Sesame Street” is not a viable career option.

Your face actually won’t stay like that.

Cursing in front of your grandmother is NOT advisable.

Getting sent to go stand in the corner on your first day of kindergarten is highly traumatic and something you will still be bringing up 25 years later.

My second decade was spent as a teenager of the ’90s, in blissful ignorance of just how jaded I really wasn’t, despite what my uniform of purple lipstick and facial piercings projected.

Lessons learned:

Parents just don’t, like, get it.

The really deep thoughts you have that no one else does (and no one else understands, man) need to be written down in really lame poetry form in a notebook covered in Nirvana stickers surrounded by scribbles of Fiona Apple lyrics.

Being a poser is totally the worse crime you can commit.

Sometimes people are just so … ugh.

Boyfriends come and go, but the Ramones T-shirt you stole from them lasts forever.

And my third decade dawned at the age of the Internet takeover and blonde, gyrating, interchangeable pop stars.

But despite the inexplicable rise in popularity of former Mouseketeers (and hobbits), I slowly became an adult, learning some of the most important lessons of all.

Lessons learned:

Tomatoes are still icky (but now, so is Elmer’s Glue).

Your face may not stay like that, but evidence will be left behind in the form of wrinkles.

Any lame poetry you kept in a notebook as a teenager should be burned, else your husband discover it one day while spring cleaning and then continue to quote it back to you for the next six months (“There’s a calm over the rage/In the burning hollow of my bloodshot eyes/Eternal blue haze forever in the way”).

Speaking of husbands, (hopefully) they don’t come and go, but regardless, at least they are legally required to share at least 50 percent of their Arctic Monkeys T-shirt with you.

Turning 30 means you now officially have 10 years to prepare for turning 40

It’s official. I’m syndicated. I am now writing for two…count ’em…TWO publications.

Granted, I’m barely getting paid for either, but then again, you pay what you get for (or something like that).

So now, just in case this random blog that I sporadically update with posts that have absolutely nothing in common, and my bi-weekly Victoria Advocate columns (that also have absolutely nothing in common), aren’t enough for you, you can catch my new weekly column, The Trolley Trollop, at DigBoston.com (which is all about my fun adventures in Boston…or, at least the ones I can somewhat coherently remember).

And to think my high school Spanish teacher told me I’d be barefoot and pregnant and not worth a thing (even though it was much more evident I’d be a boozy unemployed writer).

You can read my first column, “New In Town” here.

So, I’ve been spending the past two weeks hanging out in my Ohio hometown, visiting family and friends, and well, drinking with family and friends. Alas, this busy beer schedule of mine has left little time to write (at least coherently).

The good news though is that this trip has given me enough material to last me until June…possibly October (just a to give you a preview, titles will include “Aprill Gets Called a Hobo,” “Potential Reasons Why My Mom Calls Bud Light ‘Buddy Light'” and “How Not to React When An Infant Sneezes In Your Mouth”).

But until then, if you’re just desperate to kill time (or enjoy references to Bugle witch hands), you can check out my latest column “Will Write for Food” here.