It began with an invitation.

“Courtney’s Having a Baby!” Raised lettering shouted from the small Crane’s card with a little duck at the top. “Come celebrate!” It went on to list the particulars and name the Park Slope apartment of someone whose name I didn’t recognize.

The invitation, and, more specifically, its appearance in my mailbox, begat many questions – the first of which was: Why did Courtney, my known nemesis, invite me to her baby shower? We traveled in similar social circles, but only because her husband, Matthew, was an old friend. From the tight-lipped “I’m doing you a favor by being here” expression Courtney consistently wore on such occasions, you could tell she and Matthew were one of those couples who have a clearly delineated set of “your friends” and “my friends.” There was no doubt as to whose friend I was, and it wasn’t his shower.

“Of course she invited you,” Andy said when I asked if he thought it was strange. “If you were having a shower, wouldn’t you invite her?”

“No,” I said.

“Trust me,” Andy said. “You would have invited her for the same reason she invited you: because not inviting her would be too conspicuous.”

I had to admit he had a point. But then, of course, there was another question: “Does that mean it’s too conspicuous if I don’t go?”

Andy shot me a look and said, “Eve, you’re going.” I wondered if “celebrating” occasions in the lives of people you don’t really like was yet another dubious hallmark of being an adult.

But now that I was going, there was another question: What do you get your nemesis for her baby shower? Given the fact that half the shower is spent oohing and aahing over the presents, it’s hard enough to find the perfect shower gift for someone you actually like.

Being a man, Andy, of course, thought the answer was simple. “Get her a cute baby outfit,” he said.

“Yeah, right,” I said. “Clothing is sticky. I have no idea what her baby aesthetic is. If I get her something too froufrou, she’ll think I’m trying to make her baby look silly. But if I get her something too hipstery, she’ll think I’m trying to impose a fashion agenda.”

The look on my husband’s face said, “You sound crazy,” but in a calm, measured I-know-you’re-pregnant-tone, he said, “Why don’t you just get something off her registry then?” And suddenly, the beauty of the baby registry was apparent; it was the perfect way to get the obligatory gift.

I logged on to the Buy Buy Baby site and called up Courtney’s registry. I already knew the bulk of what was on there – I had basically copied hers for mine, thereby sparing myself the unmitigated season in hell that is a trip to Buy Buy Baby. The act of buying a shower present brings up yet another question – namely, how much to spend – but, thanks to the many hours I’d logged on the CitybabyWeb site, I knew the answer. All the BTDT – been there, done that – experts agreed: These days, cheap is anything less than $50.

Soon enough, I found the perfect shower present for someone I don’t like and, without further ado, bought it from the Web site. I then e-mailed the shower hostess my affirmative RSVP. I told Andy what I’d accomplished, thinking he’d be proud.

“Great,” he said, somewhat indifferently. But then, as if on second thought, he added, “How much did you spend on the present?” When I told him it was about $50, he said, “Fifty bucks? You don’t even like her!”

A few weeks later, there I was, enormous gift in hand, getting buzzed in to a brownstone floor-thru in the area known as “Prime Park Slope.”

“Hi, I’m Amy,” said the redhead at the door. “This is my apartment.”

“I’m Eve,” I said, hefting the large wrapped box to one side. “This is my present.”

“Oh my God,” she said, noticing my belly. “Let me take that from you. You’re as big as Courtney!”

I told her not to worry – the gift was bulky but not heavy – and she directed me to the fireplace, where the loot was piling up. I added mine to the heap and said hello to Courtney, who said, “Oh, hi, Eve. I’m glad you could come.”

The first hour of the party was spent mingling over tea, scones, and finger sandwiches. I wondered what it was about showers that brought out the Anglophile in all of us – perhaps the naked materialism of a party whose sole purpose is the giving of presents makes us overcompensate with seemingly classy gestures. Or maybe it’s just that groups of women gathered together in the afternoon like eating bite-sized food.

Soon enough, the party gathered around the various seats set up in a circle in Amy’s living room. Courtney herself, the guest of honor, sat in a winged armchair and began the proceeding by thanking everyone for coming, and Amy, “the best co-worker anyone could ask for” for hosting the party. A co-worker, I thought, as Courtney tore into her first present. No wonder I hadn’t recognized her.

Minutes later, Courtney had made her way through two Zutano baby outfits, a Boppy breast-feeding pillow, a Skip Hop diaper bag, and the always-one-in-every-group bag of individually wrapped small this-and-that’s like a nasal aspirator culled from the registry. She reached for the biggest box of all, which contained my present.

“This one’s from Eve,” she said, reading the card. Then, looking at me, she added, “I can’t wait to see what you got me.” She unwrapped the box to discover my perfect-for-someone-you-don’t-really-like shower present. “You got the diaper pail,” she said.

I smiled and said, “I figured you’d get a lot of use out of it.”

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