Well, I wasn't gonna post tonight, but Mr. Z just sleep-walked out of his room and basically handed me a post. It's 11:57 p.m., mind you, and and I'm sitting here on our bed perusing the innernecks.
I watched him walk out of his room and sit at the top of the stairs. Then he called out, "Mom? What were your torties like?"
That's right, "torties."
The Old Lady was downstairs in her office and she yelled back, "What?!"
He repeated, with a mild variation, "What were your tortoes like?"
Without missing a beat, the Old Lady shouted back, "Fine."
At this point, I was helping him to his feet and guiding him back into his room. I couldn't help myself, so I asked, "Mr. Z, what were YOUR torties like?"
He said, "Pretty good."
So, in case you're wondering, over here at the Crabbyhouse, all of our torties and/or tortoes are just fine, thank you.