Hippy skippy!

Yay for pagan hippy parties! Sunday was my friend Melanie's May day party, an annual event that we are trying to go to every year. This was my second time going. Last year I was pregnant and it was neat to get there and have all these folks who know me vaguely come running to see Kevin. It's like walking into a land where babies and kids are the most sacred thing ever. I guess you get that when you mix pagans, midwives, homebirth mommas and hippies all together. I'm not sure how many kids were there, but they definitely outnumbered the adults, and there were lots of adults. Some of my other dancer friends went too, and they aren't hippies... in fact, one of them is dating a cop. I almost laughed myself sick to see Melanie introduce them... "This is Lisa, she's in my dance troupe. This is her boyfriend Bob. Oh. He's a COP."

Of course, you can't have a may day party without the ultimate phallic symbol.


Unfortunately for us meat-o-sauruses, it was a vegetarian potluck. I survived, but my hubby stuck a bag of beef jerky in the diaper bag.

I like Melanie's parties though. She knows interesting people and the parties are always entertaining. There's always a half-dozen musicians and random music going on. And after dark, the fire-spinners come out. We only stayed long enough to watch one of them. Not a great pic but it was fun to watch in person.


A casual remark from me led to a discussion of the lack of libido in some new moms (like me) and I found out I'm not the only one, that's it a normal thing. Part of that whole protection from over-breeding thing I guess. Somehow that discussion digressed into whose old man (as Melanie and friends call their hubbies) had piercings on genitalia or nips. 8)

What IS the deal?

In the last 3 days I've observed my husband:

• use a kleenex to wipe water off the outside of a baby bottle, bypassing a towel that was closer and then tossing the used kleenex on a table only to walk right by a trash can on his way to the baby.
  
• use a kleenex to blow his nose, toss it toward a trash can... miss... stare at the kleenex on the floor and then walk away. Leaving the kleenex on the floor.
• Not to mention the 5 dirty kleenexes left on the couch.
• I watched him accidently drop a piece of plastic that tied our yard waste bags on the floor. Instead of picking it up, he tried to kick it under the couch. Then denied that he kicked it under the couch when I immediately said "don't kick that under the couch."

This is a small sample of the things I see every day. Are men just naturally pigs or just my husband? Are they born this way or do they work at it? What is the deal? Is it really so difficult to do some minor picking up after yourself?

And you know, if I weren't here to pick up after him, eventually this place would look just like his living space before we moved in together... like a landfill.

I hope that I can instill some value in keeping one's space halfway clean into my son.

Breaking and Entering...

I managed to lock myself (and my 5mo old son) out of the house last night.

He was asleep in the car seat, so I tote to the house all the mom-shit that one suddenly has to carry with her once she's given birth, dropped it inside the door and ran back to get the kid. He's asleep on my shoulder as hand grasps the screen door handle and tugs... ineffectively. WTF?

Dang door's lock managed to slip down and lock somehow, leaving me and sleeping rugrat outside... and keys, cellphone, purse, DIAPER BAG inside.

As I sit on the porch steps, ready to rant or cry (silently so as not to wake the baby) I think, surely the husband will be home soon. I wait. Foot taps. Kid stirs. Pat the baby's back, he returns to sleep, thank you goddess! and wait. Hang on... is the back screen door even unlocked? What's the point of waiting for the husband if we can't even get in WITH keys? I go around to check. Sure enough, the back screen door is locked. DAMMIT. I really really hate being married to a wanna-be cop sometimes. I appreciate the desire for home security, but this shit's for the birds.

So I go back to the front door and jiggle the screen door handle some more. Then I slam on it with my fist. Ha. Damn thing is made better than I thought. I stare at the door some more. The window is up 2 inches. If I rip the screen at the bottom, I can get my fingers in there and raise the window enough for my hand to go in and unlock the door.

So, 10 minutes later I call the husband on the cell. "Where are you?"

"the mall... why?"

"buy some screen on the way home."