The winds have fried my fridge, the TV and the new dryer in a blitz of bad luck. What’s next?

Know what’s really helpful? When your daughter gives you driving tips.

“Dad, traffic always slows near La Brea,” she warns me while we’re driving the 10.

Ten years ago I taught her how to drive, and now she is teaching me. How fortunate am I to have access to that kind of knowledge and experience?

“My palms are sweaty from the way you drive,” she says with a sigh.

It’s been a truly wonderful week. Summer arrived on a 3:15 flight, blew in from the east on one of those notorious Santa Ana winds that give the power companies fits, barreling across the Cajon Pass, nearly trampling a truck.

The hot, howling gusts grew so fierce on a Friday night that something snapped, or surged, or blew a gasket. An oak branch shorted a pair of power lines maybe, or a transformer bulged with extra juice. Maybe a giant squirrel fell from a tree and onto a very hot guitar string.

Whatever the cause, it sent a jolt of electricity through our cul-de-sac, knocking out all the overpriced yet unreliable refrigerators and some of the microwaves. Know that new electric dryer Posh just bought, the French one that doubles as a bread maker? Dead. Won’t budge. C’est fini.

Posh says that our homeowner’s insurance will cover the blown appliances, but I’m sure there’s a $15,000 deductible, not to mention the back-and-forth with the company rep.

Posh also says we can file a claim with the power company for the corn dogs and the cranberries that went bad. I ask you: Can you ever put a price on a bag of 6-month-old frozen burritos?

As I told the daughter, “I could get mad at life, but I won’t. Because that’s just what life wants.”

“That’s really mature of you, Dad,” she says.

“Well, it comes and it goes,” I confess.

The main TV blew too, or perhaps it was only the cable box (we hope.) The under-cabinet lighting in the kitchen won’t light, and a couple of the porch lights seem skunked.

Gotta say, makes me wish I hadn’t blown all the yard sale proceeds on beer and oysters with my pal, Miller. Made sense at the time. We cleared $71.62 on the yard sale, most of it in dimes, which we immediately reinvested in the always unstable fresh seafood market and a couple of icy lagers.

We toasted the arrival of summer, Miller and I. Though not official, summer has settled into Southern California like a fist to the gut. I hate the heat. In L.A., summer means death. Already, the foothills are turning to toast. Soon, the grass will crunch when you walk on it and your car seats will feel like grilled cheese. By June, the oversized California sun will begin killing everything it kisses.

Obviously, I hate relentless heat, even as I somehow settle into cities that lure it: Miami, New Orleans, Los Angeles. Me, a man with Viking bloodlines who sweats during snowstorms. It speaks to the nonsensical nature of my career.

The whole situation is curious and a little maddening. Like taking driving tips from your daughter. Or like teaching Spanish to the Siberian husky, when she doesn’t even fully understand French.

The other day I read her the owner’s manual for the new French clothes dryer, the one that doesn’t work anymore. The puppy loves the French language — the lyricism, the cadences, the wine. Yet, she doesn’t understand a single word.

While I read, the husky watched me with her Alpine blue eyes, like a certain first lady. The pup also has freckles dotting her nose.

I don’t know how smart or dumb she is, captivated as I am by her beauty. Like so many people of enormous good looks, she might be a fluff, a confection, an empty vessel of dubious character. Do I look like the sort of idiot who cares?

All I know is the new pup loves French appliance poetry, and she loves me. And if there is anyone less suited to a blistering summer, it is this overdressed Siberian, from a wilderness that never thaws.

We’ll get through this mean season together, I assure her. Besides, I say, there are many reasons to rejoice.

After all, the windstorm didn’t knock out the central air, nor the Wi-Fi, nor the old beer fridge in the garage, the outdated but reliable one, the only constant in an unsteady life.

Posh just made whipped cream with which to smother a large mound of fresh strawberries — so we have that.

Best of all, I tell the dog, my daughter is patiently working with me on my driving.

“So, don’t get mad at life,” I tell the puppy. “Because that’s exactly what life wants.”

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Twitter: @erskinetimes

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