We Could All Use a Little Extra Warmth

Finally, fall is in the air. Just look at the politicians turning colors. Just listen to the answering machine.

Answering machine: Hi, Dad. It is 7:51, and I’m calling before my first class. There’s these holes in my jeans that are making me really cold right now, and I was just wondering if you could maybe bring me some more jeans.

I don’t know how my older daughter left the house in jeans with holes in them, except that maybe the clothing inspector wasn’t paying attention. The clothing inspector also makes breakfast. Now and then, the entire system collapses.

There are two pairs on the floor in my room, some Old Navy jeans and some cargo jeans. Bring the cargo ones. The ones on the floor. You should be able to find them pretty easy.

So I take the jeans to school, in a plastic grocery bag on which I write my older daughter’s name, and I leave them in the office, with the forgotten lunches and the forgotten homework projects. Every 30 seconds, a parent enters the office with an item a child forgot. So far, I am the only parent bringing pants.

As I leave, I spot a student eating noodles out of a cup on the front lawn. It’s 9:15, which I guess isn’t too early for soup. Not in high school. Not in the fall.

Another thing I notice is that many of the students are dressed like airport cocktail waitresses, one in heels so high she could be watching a Lakers game from the cheap seats, that’s how high her shoes are. If she were, in fact, at Staples Center in these shoes, her head would have to pop out of that silly roof.

“They sure wear some interesting shoes out there,” I later tell my wife, who is an expert on shoes. (Before we were married, we once shopped together for her shoes. Three days, two nights. $247.)

“Huh?” she says.

“At the high school,” I say. “They wear some strange shoes.”

“We need milk,” she says.

A Back-to-School Parental Conference

Obviously, she doesn’t want to talk about shoes with me, because we have had disagreements in the past over shoes, largely over the fact that she has 170 pairs and I have three pairs, only two of which I ever wear.

“They look like cocktail waitresses,” I tell her, moving the subject off shoes and onto cocktails, something I know more about. (Before we were married, we once went shopping together for cocktails. Seven days. Six nights. $1,995, including tips.)

“Who?” she asks.

“Some of the kids at her school,” I say.

“What about them?” she asks.

“The clothing, it doesn’t always seem appropriate,” I tell her.

“The dog needs to go out,” she says.

She doesn’t think I’m qualified to talk about fashion, which is entirely wrong. For years, I’ve been studying Claudia Schiffer.

So I steer the conversation toward the fact that our daughter escaped to school that morning with holes in her jeans, then called to complain of discomfort and possibly even frostbite.

As you know, Southern California schools have open-air hallways, so between classes, many of the students are exposed to the harsh autumn weather.

“Did you know she had holes in her jeans?” I ask.

“Yes,” my wife says.

“You think that’s OK . . . for her to have holes in her jeans?” I ask.

“Probably not,” she says.

We sit there a moment, having reached a rare consensus on our children’s clothing. In the world of fashion, it’s rare to reach a consensus.

“Wanna sit on the couch?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says.

And we head for the couch, seeking a few moments together before the kids get home. She picks some lint off my shirt. I tie her tennis shoe. Little intimacies that sometimes lead to bigger intimacies.

“Why do you keep tying my shoe?” she asks.

“You’ll see,” I say.

As always this time of year, her kisses taste like Halloween candy, which isn’t a bad quality in a kiss. My hugs smell like bratwurst, but her kisses are pure candy. Snickers. Milky Way. Maybe a Reese’s Cup.

“What are you two doing?” my lovely and patient older daughter asks when she gets home from school.

“Having some candy,” I tell her.

“Yuck,” says my older daughter.

“Yuck,” says the little girl.

“Watch this,” I say, and wrap my arms around my wife and give her a big movie star kiss. Splat. It sounds like a wet washcloth hitting bath tile. Splat.

“Yuck,” says the boy.

“You guys are so gross,” my older daughter says.

Teaching by Example

The children have rarely seen kisses like these. It is the kind of kiss leading men gave back when there were still leading men. Today, there are leading women but no leading men. Which has hurt kissing tremendously.

“I’m calling Grandma,” the little girl warns.

“Tell her hi for me,” I say.

This kissing, of course, thoroughly disgusts our children, who would rather see a vampire eviscerated than to watch us kiss. In fact, they consider affection between parents to be perverse and kinky. On TV, it doesn’t bother them. In the home, they go berserk.

“Other parents never do this,” the boy says.

“Yes, they do,” my older daughter says.

“They do?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “I’ve seen it.”

“Yuck,” says the boy.

“Disgusting,” says the little girl.

Thing is, we probably don’t show affection enough, my wife and I. There is little time. And almost no privacy.

But fall is in the air, and we need the extra warmth. Me, I’ve got holes in my jeans. My wife, she wears these funny shoes.

Splat.

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.