The tradewinds are dead, dead, dead this morning and the vog, like Old Man River, just keeps on rollin' alo-o-o-ong. Our zucchini leaves will be fried before noon. Cilantro? Fugettaboutit! It's history. Lettuce? No chance. On Saturday night, Ron was watching something on the History channel while I was, as always, parked on the couch, legs crossed Indian style as we used to say (though I'm sure that's no longer PC) with my laptop, believe it or not, on my lap. The announcer made a reference to Casanova. Ron rose from his spot and headed to the kitchen to get himself a beer. This was an anomaly, since that's typically my job. He stopped en route, right in front of me, and stuck his gut out as far as he could, swaying his back just a bit for added effect. I looked up.
"What do you think? Could I be a Casanova?" he asked, a goofy grin plastered just below the mustache.
"Maybe a casserole," I said. Yeah, it was hilarious. You know you've fired off a good one when the person you've just insulted doubles over with laughter, choking on his words while responding, "Hey, you should talk. That's not very nice."
Sunday morning we were back on the same couch reading the paper when he flicked on a football game.
"Check out number 67," I said. "Oh, and number 79."
"What about 'em?" he asked.
"Not exactly svelte," I said. His eyes lifted from the paper.
"Yeah, now those are some casseroles," he said.
"Good one," I said.
It's all about timing.
Gotta go indoors. It's a beautiful sunny day outside, but the air is toxic. No more blogging on the lanai today. (hack, cough, wheeze, gag) Ah paradise!
A hui hou. Aloha!
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