I'm talking to my buddy Irv about women -- of which I know precious little -- and I confess upfront that I refuse to chase her anymore.
"You can't give up so easily," Irv says.
"Thirty years," yells Irv. "That's nothing!"
Uncle Irv has come over to cook, which means of course that the kitchen is filling with smoke and there are a couple of cold bottles of happy juice on the counter. We've thrown open all the windows and the doors, because if the smoke detectors start going off they'll drown out the pleasant chatter of children, particularly the warm cooing sounds of teenagers as they pass in and out of the front door.
"Yo," a teenager says.
"Hi," I say.
"Where's the princess?"
"In her princess room."
"Thanks," the teenager chirps and heads to the girl's bedroom
There's a lot going on here. Let me just try to capture the essence: Irv is over cooking, which is a mega-event by itself. There is also an important football game on TV, which we have cranked to a high volume. The oven fan is going full blast, and I've switched on the vent behind the stove to remove more of the smoke before it can turn to soot and I have to repaint. Because every time we baste the wings, a minor warm front of smoke blows out of the oven and across the kitchen, up the Pacific Coast, then eastward across Utah.
It's a bit of an ominous scene. Dusky, with the green tint of impending doom. In fact, I keep waiting for Helen Hunt to come running in, screaming, "IT'S A TWISTER! IT'S A TWISTER! EVERYBODY IN THE DITCH." But that hasn't happened. Not yet.
"Where's Mom?" the girl asks.
"Mission work," I say.
"Oh," says the girl.
"Mission work" is code for the many philanthropic organizations that Posh is involved with. Last week, for example, she devoted an evening to her bunco group, which, as far as I can tell, raises money to buy lots and lots of Chardonnay, which the bunco members drink in their PJs, presumably because when they come home, they just pass out. At least that's been our experience.
Tonight she is off to another meeting, the Society of Sugar Plum Fairies, or some other such. All I know is that she was trailing pixie dust as she left. Which is what makes her so difficult to catch.
"Got any cilantro, dude?" Irv asks.
"What's it look like?"
MAN OF THE HOUSE
A burning desire for turkey wings
We've upgraded our reader commenting system. Learn more about the new features.
Los Angeles Times welcomes civil dialogue about our stories; you must register with the site to participate. We filter comments for language and adherence to our Terms of Service, but not for factual accuracy. By commenting, you agree to these legal terms. Please flag inappropriate comments.
Having technical problems? Check here for guidance.