"Ten years," Posh says.
"You should've seen what happened to me today at the carwash," I say, beginning another fascinating tale.
The other guests have interesting stories as well. James, an actor, has been a guest on " The Tonight Show." He is warm and funny and once did nine shows a week on Broadway. His wife, Priscilla, is equally delightful. Like us, the other couples have had long marriages. James and I commiserate over the joys of sipping from a spouse's coffee cup, when there's a little lipstick on the rim.
I weigh in with a story about T-ball. I explain how, at our opener earlier that day, one of the opposing players hit the ball, ran to first, rounded the base, then dashed straight out to deep center field, as if fleeing the police.
My team, I explain, had no contingency for such a situation.
"Our first baseman, who by now had somehow acquired the ball, looks at me and says "Coach, what the . . . ?"
It's almost 11 now and the party is winding down. We have covered a range of dinner party topics, including:
* The state of newspapers (evidently not very good).
* Twitter (which apparently will replace newspapers).
* Point Reyes oysters (really, really good and may one day replace Twitter).
By the end of the evening, the hostess is telling some story about her breasts. I pretend to be interested but am careful never to make actual eye contact with her breasts.
"We should probably go," my wife says.
Go? I'm not even done licking my plate.
OK, we'll go.
Hey, at least we're talking.