As I supplied the elbow grease to remove what was baked onto one of the pots, I listened to a conversation that sounded just as foreign as last night’s. This was about family, marriage, kids and their grades, discipline issues … things I’d never thought about. I realized I’d never heard women talk to one another about anything besides dating, acting, and sex, and the contrast was astounding. It took me a second to figure out how to classify these unfamiliar topics of conversation: they were normal. Noncompetitive. They were free of the fear of rejection or breech of confidentiality.

I thought back to the conversations between the men the night before: same thing, with a dash of friendly male competition. So this was what it was like to be a regular, nonfamous adult. I couldn’t decide if I envied them or pitied them, if I wanted to stay and be absorbed back into the life I’d grown up in, or run far and fast to escape it again. I lost myself in my thoughts, comparing my life against theirs—until laughter called me back.

“What?” I demanded, and then saw the puddle of filmy water on the floor at my feet. “Aw, man.”

“When was the last time you did dishes, Son?” The gleam in Mom’s eye was unavoidable.

“Each of my meals comes in its own dish, which is conveniently disposable,” I hotly retorted. This drew the laughs I had meant it to, and I withstood their jests and teasing as I mopped up the water from the floor. Mom wrapped her arms around me and grinned. “You’re not domestic, but I still love you.”

“Thanks, Mom; you’re swell.”

“Just make sure you marry a nice girl who knows how to cook and keep the kitchen clean, and you’ll be fine.”

I laughed. “I’m surrounded by actresses, Mom, not Donna Reed wannabes.”

“Can’t actresses cook?”

“Well, yeah, I guess … but why would they if they can afford to hire someone else to do it?”

“Or eat out,” my Aunt Claire added.

“Well, yeah,” I conceded, “but then you’re dealing with the paparazzi, people wanting your autograph, fans auctioning off your uneaten leftovers … Why bother?”

They were wide-eyed. “Wow, is it really like that?” Aunt Maureen asked.

I laughed and winked. “Only sometimes.”

“Jack—do they really not cook?” Mother looked concerned. Leave it to her to worry about the domestic skills of the women I kept company with.

“Of course they can cook!” I laughed. “As well as anyone else can who doesn’t spend a lot of time doing it. I was kidding, Mom.” I kissed the top of her head. “Yes, they cook—not nearly as well as you, but they manage.” I winked at her, and she swiped at me with a hand towel.