I participated in a very adult activity Friday evening. Something I've rarely been involved in and, frankly, have a significant fear of. The Dinner Party. When I was growing up, the phrase "dinner party" always made me think of the Dick Van Dyke program. Rob and Laura would have Sally, Buddy, Mel, Jerry, Millie and a bunch of people we never met, over for a lovely dinner and then a cabaret show would break out! Sally would sing. Mel would get out his ventriloquist dummy. Buddy would tell jokes and play his large stringed instrument...because there's always room for cello. Finally, Rob and Laura would sing Mountain Greenery or some other duet-friendly tune, accompanied by the full orchestra apparently hidden in Richie's bedroom.

My parents didn't really have formal dinner parties but they were in the rotation for card parties. That meant setting up a pile of card-tables around the house with bridge-mix, peanuts, chocolate stars and pretzels available as well as a few grown-up libations. On Fridays, couples would show up after hitting the fish fry. You could always tell the serious card-players. They were the ones that looked at me standing there in my hand-me-down Davy Crockett PJs...I think they had once been Davy Crockett pajamas but they'd been worn quite a bit by the time I got them so it looked like Davy had a pony-tail instead of the full coon-skin cap and was riding an armadillo...anyway, the serious players would give me the "Time-for-bed-little-boy-because we're-here-for-cards-so-you'd-better-behave-and-make-yourself-scarce-or-we'll-make-sure-your-parents-ground-you-until-you're-in-your-20s" look as they headed for their table. And that was just the women. There was no singing and dancing like at the Petrie's New Rochelle house on TV but I would hear people yell "EUCHRE!" every now and then when they'd gotten what's called a loner and taken all the tricks for a total of four points. As far as I know, they weren't playing for money. Just pride and, maybe, the right to have lefse without lutefisk. The morning's after were often fun for me because, if the tables were still up, I would cover them with blankets and create a very cool tunnel city where I could subsist on dropped pretzels and chocolate stars until it was clean-up time.

Well, that brings me to last Friday evening. A very nice couple we know had made a generous winning bid on "An Italian Dinner for Eight" to be made and served at their home. Like everyone else we know, they adore my wife and that high level of adoration trumps (now, I'm back to euchre) their well-placed uncertainty about having me in their home. But, as my wife lovingly puts it, "I can't really leave him home alone and the kids have started charging me for babysitting, so Joel will have to come along. Do you have some crayons?"

We arrived at their lovely home around 6:00 p.m. and enjoyed some pleasant conversation while the last touches were being applied to the meal. Honestly, my wife had most of the good conversation although I did ask if they had one of those crayon boxes with a sharpener because the Midnight Blue was a little dull. At the meal, I didn't spill anything or tell any inappropriate stories involving cow chips, cheese curds, or mucus. I didn't challenge anyone to a belching contest. I didn't use their bathroom, go through their medicine cabinet then come out and ask "Who's using the itchy skin ointment?" I didn't slurp my food or chew with my mouth open. Frankly, my behavior was so exemplary, I really think I could have been allowed to sit at the main table with the adults.

There was a gorgeous piano in the room off the dining room and immediately I started to think this might turn out to be like a Rob and Laura Petrie party. I wondered which of the other guests could dance...which was hiding a puppet somewhere that would soon spring to hilarious life...which would be able to play the piano and sing Gershwin tunes. I decided I had to initiate the entertainment part of the evening. Just as I was about to launch into a medley of Broadway showtunes and do my world-famous impressions of famous people doing bird-calls, my wife's cellphone apparently rang. She mumbled a few "okay...be right theres" and then said "Well, that was our son and he needs a ride so I guess we have to be going." Somehow, she knew that the shelf-life on my acceptable dinner-party behavior was just about up. We thanked our hosts for a truly wonderful time and headed out the door. As we got in the car, she insisted the phone call was legit. She also made me turn around and take back the Midnight Blue crayon and the ointment.