I am standing at the kitchen sink washing dishes when I hear Ron get up from his nap.
"What do you want for dinner tonight?" He asks. This is the first and most important question we address most days.
"I don't know. Anything," I say. This is my customary answer. (It's our version of, What do you want to do? I don't know. What do you want to do?)
"We can have that masala sauce we bought the other day with some chicken and stir-fry vegetables," he says.
"We have stir fry vegetables?" I confirm.
"Yep. I bought some," he says.
"Sounds good to me," I say. "Are you getting up?" I ask, dishes rumbling in the sink.
"No. I just had to pee," he says. (Are you riveted yet? I swear to Pele, this is how boring we really are.)
"OK. Have a nice nappy," I say. That's what we call it. A nappy. I resume with the dishes. Left to my own, inner mental devices, it's not long before I've conjured up a song, inspired by carrots and snow peas and shitake mushrooms. "Stir fry, don't bother me, stir fry, don't bother me...." Of course, I think it's hilarious and genius. I am well entertained by myself. (Only-child syndrome persists well into the AARP years.) I croon away, the same refrain, over and over, chorus only, because I don't remember the verses to Shoe Fly - that's the model for this ditty - so I can't make up alternative words for those parts.
The next thing I know, Ron is standing at the end of the hallway, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, staring at me.
"Are you listening to yourself?" He says.
"Why would I do that?" I say. He turns to head for bed and I realize my singing might be too loud for him to sleep (it's a small house). I take it down a notch, almost whispering, "Stir fry, don't bother me..." Then I hear him chuckle. He can't stop. Within moments, it becomes one of those run away laughs, the kind that leave you gasping for breath afterward.
Later that afternoon, as he putters around the kitchen to make himself some lunch, I hear singing. "Stir fry, don't bother me..." It's catchy.
A hui hou. Aloha.
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