From the big Garfield, in response to me looking in the mirror (reluctantly) and commenting on how I look like death warmed over after vomiting for a week straight. His reply? "Na, just death heated to a gentle, rolling simmer, but not warmed over." Thanks a lot, dear.
From the little Garfield, who was my lucky companion as I braved a trip to Taco Cabana. Crispy tacos sounded like they may agree with me, but I knew I wouldn't make it all the way through the drive-thru without being sick. So I pulled over to an obscure part of the parking lot with a grassy area first, and told Buddy Boy that I'd be back in to get him a taco in a minute. I faced away from him, wondering how scarred he'd be by watching me be sick. But what did he say when I got back in the van? "Mommy, why were you looking for tacos in the grass?" Good---completely clueless!