Saturday, March 23, 2013

That Egg Hunt Was Totally My Neighborhood


The egg hunt at the clubhouse almost got scrapped due to rainy and generally disappointing weather, but in the end it just got delayed an hour. I took Hank up there to check out the scene. There were pastel balloons on the porch and everything looked springy. When we entered, I saw right away that the lady I blogged about just the other day was standing not two feet inside the door. I began shaping my face into a greeting, but with her usual social smoothness, she glanced away before I could speak, so I just bustled right past her.

The next thing I noticed was that the new neighborhood social director, the one in charge of organizing this event, had made her ten year-old daughter the Easter Bunny. Now, this child, bless her, has some complex of issues that are unknown to me and are not obvious, but one of the ways it all manifests is that she has no sense of personal boundaries and will come tackle-hug you out of the blue. Which is fine, but startling when you don't know the kid and she locks her arms around your waist. She's a big girl too. So the odd result of this choice of Bunny was that, though several little kids were unnerved by the EB and wanted nothing to do with her, this EB didn't wait to be approached, she was coming after you. When we first walked in and Hank clapped eyes on the Bunny, he said to me, very audibly, "I don't like clowns and that thing is just like a clown." So we steered clear and went to the snack table.

I had a very nice chat with a book club friend (post forthcoming), and then with a guy tennis friend, who dangled intensifying divorce rumors about this one couple on our mixed team. It seemed the wife in the on-the-rocks couple had asked my friend to be her partner in a flex league, rather than sign up with her husband, but my friend's wife-to-be had put the kibosh on this plan, supposedly because their wedding planning was going to keep him too busy. We agreed that the wife's not wanting to register to play with her own husband was a sign. Of something. Or not.

Then the egg hunting began and I had an interesting talk with Gift of Gab's husband--I think of him as Mr. Quiet Desperation--about hiking the Appalachian Trail. His lady love sidled over, now ready to acknowledge my presence, and we had a normal social interaction. Then all the eggs had been picked up and Hank and I made good our escape.

Then, tonight, Gift of Gab sent me a linkedin invitation. Idk wtf.

That's all I have but I swear it's the same as if you'd been there. xoxo

4 comments:

Elle said...

I feel compelled to testify that "bless her" and "bless her heart" are not the same thing.

Star said...

Closing lines are often let downs after fun texts, but yours are always lively zingers that make the whole experience even more real. Thanks!

M said...

Gift of Gab seems like saturated ick to me. I suggest ignoring all social media invites and then feigning ignorance when pressed just to keep her wondering about her place in the universe. If that fails, drive a stake through her heart.

Camp Papa said...

There is so much about Hank that is worthy of study and love.