Every Easter my neighbor MaryAnn and her wife “Pastry” throw a party, just as they do every Christmas Eve. Both women are great cooks, so those of us lucky enough to land on the invitation list are not only well-fed at the party; we can take home plates of leftovers that feed us for days.
The weather couldn’t have been any nicer, so we were able to have the annual Easter egg hunt, the Bocce tournament and the Cornhole playoffs in the common area behind our townhomes. Beer and wine flowed for hours.
It has been a long time since I’ve participated in anything more fun. We had straight couples, gay couples, lesbian couples, singletons white and black, a Chinese gay man, a Cuban lesbian with her straight daughter and son-in-law, and some surprisingly conservative gay men who are black. I was the oldest this time. The youngest was around 40.
When the party started at 2 p.m., we were all calm and low-key. Somewhere around the middle of the Cornhole matches, the decibel level of shrieks and laughter, cat calls and teasing rose to a disturbing-the-peace level.
A children’s Easter egg hunt is very cute, at least until the little ones get quickly frustrated at their inability to find an egg and start wailing. Who would have thought the same could and would be said about an adult hunt?
Random voice: Dammit Pastry, where did you hide these eggs?
Pastry: I can’t remember. I’ve had three beers.
Random voice: (sing-song) I found a golden egg. I found a golden egg.
One guy started beating the shrubbery with a big stick, swearing loudly. He had no egg and was obviously getting desperate. His partner, on the other hand, had about five eggs and was gloating all over the place. I got lucky and found one of the two golden eggs, which garnered a “big prize:” a hot pink and aqua polka-dotted beach towel with two appliqued flip-flops. I was the envy of all in attendance. Hah!
Tossing the cornhole bean bag at a wooden ramp with a hole about the size of a salad plate sounds easy enough. It is not. We all had our own techniques. Some lobbed it high, hoping for a landing on the flat side of the bean bag. The son-in-law, who is rather small in stature and shockingly handsome, developed a technique that had the bean bag landing on a corner and rolling itself up the ramp – something like the way you’d skip a rock on the surface of a body of water.
Neighbor woman who claims not to be a drinker: Here comes Skippy. Somebody please teach this guy how to toss a bag.
Me: But he keeps winning.
Random male voice: Yeah, but look how he does it. Skippitieskip.
Me: Are there extra points for form or something?
Female voice: Shut up, Lezlie!
Jeff and I won the Bocce match by two points. We high-fived and ran around the yard in triumph until our opponents began to feign vomiting. We were not what you’d call good sports about our victory. Neither of us had ever played the game before, but my alleged bowling prowess had come in handy.
Everybody was having too much fun to think of taking pictures. Besides, given the antics of many, it is probably prudent to omit photos to protect the privacy of the guilty.