Man of the House: Creating a neighborhood embarrassment

We call our Honda minivan the Honey Fitz, which is the name John F. Kennedy gave his presidential yacht — you might remember, you might not.

The parallels are obvious. Both are sleek vessels used for family getaways. Both of them reek of old world elegance. When people climb aboard the minivan and it wobbles a little, as if afloat in a big tub of goo, there is just the expectation that memories are about to be made.

Usually, what we do is send out vellum invites:

“Please join us aboard the Honey Fitz, for a memorable evening of conversation and drinks under the stars.”

You’d be amazed at the number of people who think it’s all a joke.

Yet relationships rust if you don’t maintain them — sort of like lawn mowers and those cheap patio torches — so we like to entertain as frequently as time allows.

Lately, what we’ve been doing is making plans with friends, then canceling. It’s just cheaper that way.

We did this recently with John and Lois, who are always buckets of fun. Both are chatty and prone to funny literary references that I often shamelessly steal. In fact, I’ve been known to repeat them to my wife, Posh, on the way home in the Honey Fitz, the old minivan swaying back and forth as we negotiate the treacherous straits of Pasadena.

“You stole that line from John,” she sneers.

“So?”

“Could you wait, like, a day?” she asks.

Apparently not. I’m not much for waiting. And if I don’t repeat something out loud right away, I tend to forget it.

What kind of stuff?

Martinis are like breasts: One isn’t enough and three are too many.

See, I would never come up with something that clever on my own. In this case, I think it was my agent friend B.J. who said it, so I have to give her credit. I wonder if it’s a coincidence that both John and B.J. are originally from New York, where cocktail chatter tends to be more erudite. I’ve never lived on the East Coast, never had that kind of money. But I’ve read the New Yorker enough to realize that people back there are inherently wittier.

By the way, I’m thinking of putting the house on the market, have I mentioned that? Our plans all hinge on whether I sell my screenplay, which is sensational — 44 acts and lots of visuals that I cut out from magazines. I’m hoping that it might one day replace the Holy Bible on office shelves around Hollywood.

Anyway, everybody seems to be cashing out their houses, so why not us? Our place has never looked more marketable — all Halloweened and October perfect. In the dead birch tree out front, I hung a giant monster, who looks like he’s about to pounce on people as they drive up the street. Grrrrrrrrr. Splat.

Around him hang little plastic orange bags filled with crumpled newspaper. To me, they look like pumpkins; to Posh they look like ‘70s-era implants. Whatever they are, they hang forlornly, delicate little ornaments swaying in a dead tree.

“I don’t get you,” Posh says.

“Neither do it,” I say.

“You spent three hours doing that?”

When she says three hours, she’s including the hour I spent at Rite Aid shopping for more tacky stuff to hang from the house. I also stopped for coffee and checked all the college scores.

When I got back, we stood in the garage as Posh pre-scolded me — scolded me for things I hadn’t contemplated but might — about not turning the house into “a ginormous and tacky embarrassment” (her exact words).

More and more, she looks at me like I’m Bill Murray. I stand there scratching the same belly itch I’ve been scratching for 20 years, nodding and agreeing with her. Then I do my thing.

So, if you’re looking for a nice house — a family place, full of memories, full of song — consider ours. The wood floors need refinishing and I think the ceiling is separating from the rest of the house. She blames the contractor; I blame all the yelling.

Heck, we’ll even throw in the kids.

I told Posh that if we don’t sell, what we’re going to do is refuse to pay the December mortgage and plow all the money into gifts for the kids (and for Posh, of course. Somewhere, there’s probably a pair of shoes she doesn’t own).

A December mortgage protest is my latest idea for stimulating the economy. If everyone refuses to pay their mortgage in December — a national display of grassroots discontent — not only do we punish the banks for putting us in the mess we’re in, we give the stores and workers of America the economic boost they deserve.

Who knows, we might even have enough cash left over to stock the Honey Fitz with silly juice and Champagne.

John and Lois, we’ll pick you up at noon.

chris.erskine@latimes.com