Joint

So we're all at the dinner table a few nights ago, digging into one of those grocery store rotisserie chickens. I like to eat the legs and wings. Surprisingly, neither of my two daughters nor my wife like the dark meat. Both girls stare at me while I wrestle with the bird to get a leg off. Eventually I have to saw into it with the butcher knife.

A few minutes later I'm gnawing on the darn thing, only half-hearing my wife answer a Little One question. I think she asked if a chicken has the same bones as we do. I hear my wife talking about bones and ligaments and tendons and joints. Then my ears perk up when Little One asks with her child's innocence, "What's a joint?"

I drop my food and raise a finger, commanding the table to silence. Well, not quite; at the very most my gesture commands cursory glances from the females as they ignore me and continue discussions. But there's a strange glint in my eye that my wife catches. An evil smile spreads across my lips as I clear my throat.

"I'd like to answer that question."

The wife returns my evil grin with a you-better-not-say-what-I-think-you're-going-to-say look.

"A joint is," I begin, expansively, capturing Little One's attention, "a joint is ..."

My better half sets her jaw and I see the warning lights going off in her eyes and feel her blood pressure rising from across the table.

" ... a Spike Lee movie," I conclude with a toothy smile.

Then I'm ignored again as conversation immediately resumes amongst the ladies.

But I've had my fun for the night.