My big bad wolf Max hasn't met a neighbor of ours that he doesn't adore to bits, but I haven't been so, shall we say, unabashedly affectionate. We must all work at the same time, and then pull into our garages at the same time, and get on with our lives and friends beyond our street at the same time. Our conversations go something like this:
A friendly "Hiya Max! How's the boy today?" I then usually answer for Max while he accosts his friend's lower region, and then we awkwardly sprint away. It all sounds more intimate than it actually is. Really.
But I just wish I knew them well enough to host a rollicking neighborhood dinner party. One of those progressive ones that start with cocktails and appetizers at one end of the block, and end with desserts and dancing at the other.
Because I love nothing more than a sweet sense of community. A street where everyone knows your name, and how to reach you at all hours of the day or night. And you would never get locked out of your house, because at least two neighbors have your spares. Lemonade stands and fireworks for no reason and impromptu happy hours.
A co-worker lives in a neighborhood like the one I've dreamed up, and despises it.
"My doorbell rings all the time. My weekends are full of invitations I can't refuse. And the gossip! I never thought I'd get tired of hearing everyone's secrets, but I was wrong."
I don't know. I still think I'd love it. Because every time my doorbell rings, I can't help but smile and wonder what's waiting for me on the other side. I am also a lover of invitations. As for hearing about other people's secrets, I must admit that I'm deliciously all in.
But only the really juicy ones.