Add Grandma, and stir

WE’RE HAVING a good time during Grandma’s visit, we really are, though once in a while we find ourselves inventing excuses for getting out of the house. The other day I took the little guy to a movie we might otherwise have skipped, one of those carefully crafted family comedies based on flatulence and doo-doo jokes.

“Let’s go,” I tell the 4-year-old.

“Where?” he says.

“A movie,” I say.

“Carry me,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Carry me,” he says, holding out his filthy arms.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been about to leave the house, in those white dress shirts I tend to favor, and some little kid has gone, “Hug me, Daddy!” after which I discovered that he or she was smeared with either:

* Cocoa butter

* Ham glaze

* Egg yolk

* Ranch dressing

* Dog slobber

* Goldfish urine

* Grape jelly

* Nacho cheese

* McDonald’s sweet-and-sour sauce

* Water from a boiled hot dog

* Pickle juice

* Snot

“Carry me,” begs the little guy.

The first 100 times, I fell for this sticky ambush. But I’m no idiot. Since then, when little kids say, “Carry me,” I look them over, spin them around and hold them under running water for a good five minutes.

When they are dry, I finally hold them.

“I love you,” I say.

“I love you too,” they usually respond, at which time you discover that there’s a small patch of pudding/asphalt in their hair that you somehow missed. It’s that small patch of pudding/asphalt that always sends you over the edge.

You get that little when-will-it-all-end throb in the base of your neck. Meanwhile, single people see us at work, with stains on our clothes, forcing smiles and trying to pretend that everything is OK. Well, there’s pickle juice in my socks and a patch of pudding on my necktie. There’s a Cheerio or two stuck to my mortal soul. So, yeah, I guess everything’s just fine, thanks.

Anyway, we’re off to the movies, the little guy and me. I examine him carefully before whisking him out the door for the 4:20 showing of “Firehouse Dog,” a nuanced little American film about the exploits of a dog at a firehouse.

“Where are you two going?” Grandma asks.

“Movie,” the little guy tells her.

“Have fun,” Grandma says.

Indeed, we have had nothing but fun since Grandma arrived two weeks ago, the exact duration of her visit a mystery to everyone but my wife, who won’t share the departure date with others.

“When’s Potus leaving?” I say, using my mother-in-law’s Secret Service code name.

“We’ll give that info out,” my wife says, “on a need-to-know basis.”

Till then, at least I have someone to drink with every night.

We sit in front of the TV, Potus and I, talking politics and watching “House” as we sip the Easter wine, one of only two precious bottles left.

“He kills me, this guy,” she says of Hugh Laurie.

“That’s a good quality in a doctor,” I note.

They are good evenings, rich in conversation and perspective. I’d compare them to the Algonquin Round Table, except with more candor and wit. Every once in a while, Grandma pops off the couch to take more photos of the kids.

“Hold still,” she barks.

“Mom, you’re the one who’s moving,” my wife informs her.

“Which kid is this?” Grandma asks.

“Grammy, that’s the dog,” one of the kids explains.

Still, she’s a good Grandma, one of the best in a very competitive field. She doesn’t possess that musky, sweaters-and-mothballs smell your grandma might’ve had. But that’s OK. She has a lot of other fine qualities.

As I’ve noted in the past, women don’t really peak till their early 60s. Before that, they are still works in progress -- skinny, naive and prone to fits of anger.

These younger women, age 60 and below, can be annoyingly self-conscious.

The other day, for example, I watched in horror as my own daughter stared at her own blue-jeaned butt in the mirror 15 times over a two-minute period, after which I lost count.

“It’s still there,” I told her.

“Just checking, Daddy,” she said.

So, keep your Lindsay Lohans and Paris Hiltons. I’ll take an edgy old dame any time over some young ditz always futzing with her cellphone.

Besides, you can really talk to an older woman.

“I’ve kind of soured on McCain,” Grandma says.

“Who do you like?” I ask.

“Bugs Bunny,” she says.

“Wasn’t Bugs Bunny a distant uncle of yours?” I ask my wife, on the couch next to me.

“We don’t talk about that,” my wife mumbles.

Sometimes, it’s better not to know.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com. For more columns, see latimes.com/erskine.