Last weekend, Andy and I went to a “co-ed baby shower cocktail party.” It was held in honor of our friends Allison and David. They live in Park Slope, but the party was thrown by our friend Alejandro in his Gatsby-esque loft on the Far West Side, an area which, in recent months, had been receiving tons of press for its popularity among moguls and celebrities. “What do you think a co-ed cocktail party baby shower entails?” Andy asked as we drove across the bridge.

“Men, women, alcohol, and at least one big, pregnant belly?” He shot me one of his looks. He obviously was not looking forward to this event. “Co-ed showers are very big these days,” I told him. “Apparently everyone has them.”

“Okay,” said my husband. “But what do you do at them? Sit around and open presents?”

Our present – an infant-sized T-shirt-lined jean jacket from Baby Gap – was perched on my lap. It was cute and useful, but, given its price tag and limited shelf life, somewhat impractical – all to the baby-gift-giving good. And, since David and Allison didn’t know the baby’s gender, I’ll admit I was pretty proud of finding an item of clothing that was hip, adorable, and gender-neutral. If there were to be present opening at the co-ed baby shower cocktail party, we’d get the oohs and aahs coveted by shower gift-givers.

But I doubted present opening would be on the evening’s agenda, and told Andy so. “It might be a baby shower,” I reminded him. “But Alejandro’s throwing it.”

Our friend Alejandro was not the type one typically associated with baby showers. He made a large amount of money doing something high-powered in finance, and had a uniquely New York persona – the quasi-jet-set type who doesn’t really go anywhere. He was the kind of person who we could only have known from college, that great neutralizing ground where freshmen dormitories are randomly assigned and compatible tastes in music are all that’s required to nurture a friendship.

In fact, Columbia Student Housing was directly responsible for this shower: David and Alejandro had been roommates their freshman year and remained friends.

Other than shared memories, David, a sportswriter, and Allison, a public school teacher, probably had nothing whatsoever in common with Alejandro. But, then again, Alejandro was a person few people had much in common with.

And, while he may not have been a typical baby shower host, Alejandro certainly liked to host parties.

Soon enough, we found ourselves in Alejandro’s loft, staring out at its Hudson River views through floor-to-ceiling windows. With its white floors, white walls, and white leather couches, the operative word was sleek. The only things breaking up the monochromania were the enormous sharp-colored surrealist photographs hanging from various walls. The photographs were the reason for the last party we’d been to here; the photographer who took them had been in from Japan a few months ago, preparing for a gallery opening.

“Eve and Andy!” Alejandro boomed as we entered. “You look gorgeous,” he said, offering kisses just past all four of our cheeks. I was in jeans and heels, Andy was in a Banana Republic corduroy sports jacket. Alejandro was tie-less in head-to-toe Paul Smith.

“Oooh,” Alejandro said, eyeing the gift in my hand. “Something for the prezzie pile!” Leaning into Andy he said, “How pathetic is it to be so psyched for an unborn person’s gifts?” When we both chuckled, he said, “I’m dying to see the kid’s loot. It’s too bad there’s no way to make the whole opening-the-presents-thing seem ironic.”

“You could make David and Allison stay and open them,” I offered.

Alejandro scowled then sighed. “But then who will ooh and aah over my Prada diaper bag?”

“I will,” I said. “Ooh! Aah!”

Mental note: Whether my shower is co-ed or not, Alejandro must be invited.

A buff and gorgeous blonde man appeared next to us. He was wearing black jeans and a tight-fitting black tank top with a neon silkscreen of the Gerber baby on it. “Baby-tini?” he said, bringing forth a tray of full martini glasses. Along with the cocktail, each glass contained a little plastic baby.

I looked at Alejandro and said, “You are way too much.”

He shrugged and said, “There’s no such thing as ‘too much’, Eve. Now take your baby-tini’s or I’ll be offended.”

I could feel Andy’s eyes turn to mine but avoided making tell-tale contact. My pregnancy was still too new to be anything but a secret.

“I wish I could,” I told my friend. “But I can’t.” Then, gesturing vaguely around my face and neck, said, “Antibiotics.”

This seemed to satisfy Alejandro. He clucked sympathetically, and, shortly thereafter, made his way back into the hub of the party, toward a gaggle of Allison’s schoolteacher friends standing by the windows, agog at his Hudson views.

“Antibiotics?” Andy said, pulling a face.

“What?” I said. “He bought it.”

“Yeah,” Andy said. “But isn’t there a line between not telling people and lying?”

Before I could reply, someone called out our names behind us. We turned to find my platonic childhood friend Matthew and his wife Courtney, who had long hated me for no discernable reason other than the aforementioned platonic childhood friendship with her husband. She was not only my nemesis but had preceded me in becoming pregnant. Not that she knew that I was. Or did she? I suspected she was suspicious.

“The jury’s out on co-ed showers,” Matthew said after we’d exchanged greetings. “But this is a pretty sweet place for a party.”

As if on cue, another cater-waiter – this one Latino, but every bit as buff – dashed in with another tray. “Baby-tini?” He offered, then, noticing Courtney’s stomach, added, “or not!”

As Matthew reached for a drink, the cater-waiter continued. “You don’t need a baby-tini,” he said, smiling. “You have a teeny baby!”

We all laughed along with him. The cater-waiter looked at Andy and said, “and you already have one,” then brought the tray to me and said, “so that leaves one for you!”

“Oh, no thanks,” I said, waving him off. I could feel Courtney’s eyebrow rise. “I’m on antibiotics,” I said, repeating the vague gesture towards my upper respiratory area and smiling at the waiter – in part out of politeness, in part to avoid Courtney’s eyes.

“Oh,” the waiter said, pulling the tray back from me. “Well, I hope you feel better soon then.”

“Thanks,” I said. Then, trying to act natural, I turned back Courtney and Matthew.

When Courtney said, “So, what’d you end up buying them,” it seemed my nonchalance had paid off.

But as I answered, “Baby Gap jean jacket,” the turning cater-waiter caught my eye and winked. Maybe pregnansense really was like gaydar.

The Brooklyn Chronicles appears each Friday. Previous installments are available at www.nysun.com/archive_chronicles.php. The author can be reached at kschwartz@nysun.com.