The party season’s in full zip

THE WEEKEND arrives, and there is a car headlight to replace -- again -- and the dog’s goopy ear needs attention. He shakes his head and shakes his head. Almost 15,000 years of canine evolution gives us this, ears that don’t really ventilate? What will another 15,000 years bring? Noses that don’t sniff? Lips that don’t kiss?

“We need to be ready by 6,” my wife announces.

Oh, we’re going out again? Great. Standing around making idle chit-chat is one of my greatest gifts.

“You’ll be ready, right?” she asks.

“I’m ready right now,” I say, smothered in yard muck and chore grit.

She knows I need a good four hours to prepare for an evening out. First, I have to put all the car repair tools away, wiping and oiling each one. Then I have a little something to eat. Then I nap a bit. Then I catch the final minutes of the Connecticut game. At 5:59, I’ll shower. At 6, I’ll be ready. I’m sort of a male Cinderella.

Now, in theory, we have three built-in baby sitters and one toddler. You’d think we’d have no problem arranging sitters, except that when we announce we need a sitter, one kid gets a serious nose bleed, another slips out a window like a cat burglar. The third stands in the middle of the den and wails, “Why do I always have to baby-sit, huh? Why me?”

To which her mother patiently responds, “Guess you’re just lucky, huh?” then turns to me and says, “Help me zip this up, OK?”

As you may know, there is an art form to zipping up your wife’s dress before an evening out, particularly if the zipper is a little tight. My advice? Don’t grunt when you zip up her dress. And under no circumstances, should you say, “Wait, let me get a big pair of pliers and a can of WD-40, I’ll be right back.” If you break a finger or snap a hamstring while zipping her dress, just suck it up and pretend nothing happened. Trust me. For some reason, the wrong comment right here can cast a pall over an entire marriage.

But eventually we make it to the party. It’s a miracle, really.

“Happy birthday, you look lovely,” I tell Jeff, then move on to the hors d’oeuvres.

This is a wonderful party. There’s Jeff, resplendent in a $100 shirt. There’s his wife Helen, skinny as a coat of paint with legs up to here. In her bare feet, Helen is about 6-1. In heels, she’s a willow tree. A vision. I think that I shall never see, a mom as lovely as a tree ...

“Wine?” someone asks.

As I may have mentioned, I can’t drink the white grape. For some reason, white wine stirs some stew in my brain that makes me restless, even ornery. For example, after one glass, I’ll rise from the table without excusing myself. Or I’ll fail to include others in conversation, that sort of thing.

“Got anything else?” I ask.

“Root beer?”

“Perfect,” I say.

Jeff has reached the rather impressive age of 50. That’s a long time, particularly as the father of four girls. We all agree that having four girls is a huge challenge. Having seen a lot of episodes of “Petticoat Junction,” I know what a house full of girls can be like.

An hour later we’re at another party at some Pasadena watering hole with celebrity connections. Oops. We rarely party hop, but this is a special occasion. Our friend William is turning 40.

“Happy birthday, punk,” I say, then move on to the hors d’oeuvres.

Lately, everybody seems to be having birthdays. Don is turning 45, which means I have friends hitting the milestones of 40, 45 and 50. Men are at their best at those ages. If they can stay awake past 10, men can be a lot of fun.

“Men are like dogs,” I assure someone. “They get better with time.”

“Good thing,” someone notes, “that they don’t get worse.”

“When are we going to eat?” asks Pete.

In bed later, my wife and I critique the parties and talk about who’s gained weight and who might’ve made too much of their cleavage, conveniently excusing ourselves from such discussions. On the other side of town, they’re probably talking about how I can’t hold my root beer or tell a decent joke. Fair enough. It’s party season, with school fund-raisers and black-tie dinners, charity car rallies and silent auctions. It’s March, and the social whirlwind is just beginning.

“Did you see how lovely Helen was?” I asked.

“Linda looked great,” my wife explains.

“And Bill ... “ I gasp.

“Huh?”

Just joking. If you can’t joke with a wife, whom can you joke with? If you can’t goof on your friends, what’s the point? It’s March, after all, our social solstice. Gentlemen, let the goofing begin.

Chris Erskine can be reached at [email protected].