NLNO

The average age of my neighbors is sixty-five.

Tonight, I watched one of them pull her Honda out of her garage and wait patiently in the middle of the street while the other two emerged from their houses and hopped in.

I shouldn't say "hopped." That action implies they are lithe and limber.

So I watched them saunter to the car and slowly fold themselves in. One was missing; she hasn't been the same since her stroke several years ago, and although she was probably invited, she politely declined, I imagine citing something like "just not feeling up to it."

It's NLNO--Neighbor Lady Night Out, and no, I wasn't invited.

This makes me sad for one reason only: I want neighbor ladies--around the age of thirty--to have NLNO with.

They are probably going to Olive Garden, where they will probably get tipsy on white zin and probably fill up on the free breadsticks.

They will talk about the one lady's long days at Bigg's bakery, and the other's grandson who just died all too young, and they'll discuss the driver's goal of quitting smoking, and electronic cigarettes, and all the redecorating she's doing to keep busy in the meantime.

And they will definitely, without a doubt, gossip.

And no, it's not enough that I have girls' weekends with my sorority sisters, and high school friend reunions at the holidays, and co-workers to have book club and margaritas with, and yogamamas to breathe and drink wine with; I want neighbors, who's houses I visit to play Bunko and get drunk on Bartels & James wine coolers (do they even make those anymore?) while we talk about the trials of working moms and stay-at-home moms and gossip about the new people down the street, and maybe even while we attempt to make costumes for our kids' school play or arrange snacks for the soccer team.

Someone--please--buy our house.

I'm ready for my invite to NLNO.