I'm in the car with Himself on the way to a marathon. (Himself is running it; I'm just the pit crew.) Himself is, as per usual, driving like the Northeasterner that he is.
Me (after a particularly loud and profanity-laced outburst): "You're getting cranky in your old age."
Him: "I prefer to call it cratchity. Oh wait, I mean crotchety. Isn't Cratchit Tiny Tim's last name in A Christmas Carol? I suppose cratchity would mean I love Christmas...guess I'm both cratchity and crotchety."