And in a seamless segue, I relate the following late-night exchange between my loving husband and me. The setup: He had asked me, at a ridiculously late hour (both of us are having some trouble sleeping of late), to prepare, for him, a snack. One which involved actual cooking. With the actual oven, not the microwave. After staring at him in disbelief for a minute or two, I actually went and did it. (Hey, I haven't been good for much else lately, and I certainly wasn't sleeping, so why not?) But I went with a fair share of grumbling. Time lapsed, and I returned to the bedroom with Alex's midnight repast. After (note that--the AFTER part) I'd served him and gotten myself fully tucked back into the bed, he turns to me with an expectant look on his face.
Alex: "Milk?" (I'm not sure where he thought I was hiding it, or if he was really so deluded as to think that it was reasonable to ask me to get back up and fetch it for him.)
Me: (No words, just the highbeam "I feel a bad time a-comin' " look directed at the milk-requester.)
Alex: "Um...'Milk'...is my new pet name for you. Have I told you you today how much I love you, Milk?"
Me: (Unable to not laugh) "Milk? How is MILK a term of endearment?"
Alex: "Because it is sweet, wholesome, and pure, and gives life-sustaining nutrition and goodness, the way you nourish me with love..."
Me: (cringing) "OK, stop, stop. Decent save."
He's quick, that one.