I'm getting ready for bed last night (carefully checking the sheets for vengeful kitty wet spots) when Harry calls to check in from the Lonestar state.
"Hello?" I say.
"Hiiiiiiii!" He's happy. "I'm at an 'All-you-can-eat' meat buffet!" Well. That explains it.
"Well - you have fun. Make sure to eat at least a peice of lettuce for ruffage," I caution him.
"Naw! That'll take up room! Oh - gotta go - they're putting out MORE MEAT!" He hung up and rushed off to eat another herd of cattle.
I go about the rest of my routine, changing clothes, brushing teeth, washing off the liquid eye-liner that sticks to my eye lids like an "underage" stamp at a local bar when my phone rings again.
"I ate some lettuce for you," Harry says. He's proud. I hate to burst his bubble. Wait - no I don't. I live for it.
"One peice doesn't count," I remind him.
"I ate two!"
"And some taters."
I found out that he got back to his room, bloated and happy around 12:30 AM. I guess time flies when you are up to your eyeballs in cow innards.