In addition to being the 4th of July, this weekend was also Atlanta Pride.

Being 7 months pregnant, in Atlanta, and parenting a very routine-driven toddler, means that we don’t do a whole lot of Pride Celebration Activities. But our church had a booth, and it was indoors, so I volunteered to do a shift.

While I had lots of interesting conversations with other volunteers, both at our booth and at other booths, I only had one conversation with a random Pride-goer. (Well, a couple.)

It went like this:

Two guys pause in front of our booth. They aren’t really looking at the booth, but they’re there. One is wearing an American University t-shirt.

Liza: Hello! Did you go to AU?

Guy: Uh. Hi. Yes, yes I did.

Liza: Do you know Mindy? She used to run LGBT student services there?

Guy: Mindy. Mindy? Mindy…did she have a big annual Halloween party? What was that called…the Fetish Party?

After I quit laughing enough to agree, and to give AU t-shirt guy a short history of the origins of the Fetish Party — it actually began in Madison, when Melissa and I were housemates — we had a pleasant chat.

He, Jamie, was surprised to hear that the Fetish Party was no longer, but since the family is now both living abroad and parenting a toddler, agreed that it makes sense. (I don’t know this for sure, but I suspect it may be living on in Washington State, with yet another former Melissa housemate.)

Oddly enough, or perhaps not really, in my 3 hours at the festival, I ran into only one person I knew. This parenthood thing really has us not spending so much time out in the community. And most of the other LGBT people we know are also parents — who sanely did not take their toddlers and infants out in a thunderstorm to go to Pride.

Still, I had fun. I got a referral for a new adoption lawyer, and had a nice chat with another lawyer about getting a referral. And Jill and Noah had a nice, dry, quiet afternoon at home. They cooked peas and broccoli, and they made collages of car pictures.

I hope your weekend was equally nice and fun, and that if you have kids, they weren’t too scared of the fireworks.

About once a week, maybe a little less, I go with co-workers to a Mexican restaurant not far from our office.

And roughly 90% of the time, I order the same thing: a steak fajita quesadilla, with a side of guacamole and sour cream.

When I go with the guys who work in software security, we usually also split a queso dip. Not so much when I go with the other women in my department.

Every single time I’ve gone in the last month, within a minute of my finishing the actual quesadilla part of my lunch, someone has appeared while I had a chip and guac in my mouth and grabbed my still-full-of-guac-and-sour-cream plate. It’s already become a joke with my friends.

Today it happened so fast that I almost couldn’t get the plate back! Which also almost led to both of us spewing half-chewed food on the table, because we were laughing so hard.

But seriously! How do I get them to leave my food until I’m done?

I don’t know what I’m doing that signals the waitstaff to take away the plate. Should I leave 1 bite of quesadilla? They get all mushy if you don’t eat them while they’re hot. Should I try to train myself to sit at the table with my left arm protectively around the plate?

• Jill was recognizable on TV during the Dream game, and she had a really good time. Even though the Dream lost.
• Her favorite player, Tamera Young, autographed her sign. Someone else asked her if she was Tamera Young’s mother. Insofar as Jill is female, and technically old enough…I guess it’s a reasonable question.
• I really want Noah to get through this phase of screaming at us and hitting and refusing to go to sleep.
• New Deep South Moms post up, We’re Both the Moms, No Matter What the Cost, as part of today’s birth and adoption day stories theme.
• Goodnight.

Liza: Reaches up and scratches her head. What’s that in my hair? Feels around experimentally. Is that a bandaid?

Jill: Turns, then gets up and comes to look. Starts laughing hysterically. That’s motherhood in a nutshell!

They begin attempting to disentangle the bandaid from Liza’s hair.

Liza: Wait!

Jill: You want me to take a picture?

They both giggle uncontrollably. Jill takes a picture, then a second picture. While Liza looks at the picture, Jill returns to her computer.

Liza: Mommy? I still want you to take the bandaid out of my hair.

They both resume laughing, hard. Approximately two minutes later, Jill successfully frees the bandaid from Liza’s hair.

Jill: Yup. Motherhood in a nutshell. It feels good to laugh, though, doesn’t it?

Well, not right now. Tomorrow (Tuesday) at 7 pm EDT.

The Atlanta Dream will be playing the Phoenix Mercury on ESPN2 — and Jill will be sitting in the first row, right behind the Phoenix Mercury coaches!

On TV, it’ll probably look a lot like this, only maybe with not quite as much of a close-up.

Last night, as part of the Big Birthday Summer Tour, Jill and I went to see Joan Jett and REO Speedwagon. They were playing at an outdoor venue, Chastain Park, which is simply a unique and extremely Southern institution.

Unlike any other outdoor venue I’ve ever been for a concert, there are no covered seats: the entire amphitheater is under the open sky. I suspect this might have something to do with historic segregationist/integration policies, ie, “where there’s a roof, there’s segregation.” But I haven’t attempted to do any research on that theory.

That’s not what makes Chastain so odd.

Many of the events, including last night’s rock concert, are “table” service. That means that instead of just rows and rows of chairs, the full floor “plaza” seating area is set with tables of six, and many of the tiers of bench seats are also set up for tables of six.

People don’t just get a pitcher of beer and hang out around the table with their friends. It’s more like a dinner party with live music.
Garrison Keillor became so annoyed with the Chastain crowd a couple of years ago that he has sworn he will never play there again.

We were in “box seats” — 3 rows of folding chairs around the floor level, in the first two chairs at stage right.

At the two tables immediately in front of us, one was a group of drunken 50-something guys who went through a case or two of beer and a few bottles of wine. But the other was more representative of the surreal Chastain experience:

3 couples, also 40-something to 50-something. A rose tablecloth, fresh roses in a centerpiece, candles, glass wine glasses, real silver silverware, an elegant meal. Many bottles of wine. The obvious hostess was dressed immaculately and had her hair Done.

And all of them were singing along enthusiastically. Granted, none of them got into it as much as the drunk guy in front of us got into Joan Jett’s song “Fetish” but hey….

And that elegant table? THAT is how Atlanta does Chastain. Most of the plaza tables and many of the other tables we passed were also elegantly appointed. Almost everyone brings a wheeled cooler, no matter where they sit.

Other notable surreal or amusing concert observations:

• Drunk woman in a purple dress, who had to be warned a couple of times by security to get down off of her chair and not wave around her full wineglass.
• Extremely diligent security guards stopping very flirtatious women from crowding the stage in front of the front row of tables.
• Three separate couples stood in the plaza level for most of the show. All of them stood in that cosy affectionate way where the taller person hugs the smaller person from behind, and if you’re feeling the music, there can be some suggestive swaying. The couple in the exact center of the plaza level, a lesbian couple, took that to a whole other level. At one point, I wondered if the woman in front was having an orgasm. Now I have nothing against Public Displays of Affection, but I do think there’s a line, especially at a venue with a fair number of families present. And these were adult women, not teenagers.

On the whole, however, it was a blast. Both Joan Jett and REO Speedwagon had great energy onstage. The pouring rain stopped just after the concert was scheduled to start, so we didn’t get drenched. And if we make it to another table event at Chastain, we’ll know to bring a tablecloth and cooler full of the good china.

Seriously, I almost feel like Noah is reverting to newbornhood.

Yesterday when I picked him up from day care, he sobbed, threw himself on the ground, and didn’t want to leave. He calmed down in the face of bribery, provided kindly (to me) by another toddler parent — but then when the bribe cookies ran out, he went right back to hysteria.

I’m glad he likes it, but I could really deal with less crying.

This morning, Noah cried hysterically after waking up, demanding his breakfast instantly. But then refusing to let me change his overnight diaper — to the point of hitting me and earning an (even more hysterical) time out. Then again about going to day care. He didn’t stop crying until we were half-way there.

This afternoon, he cried about leaving again. So much that I had to pick him up, carry him to the car, and wrestle him into the car seat. He continued sobbing that he wanted to go to “Miss Shirley’s house” until we were about 6 blocks from home. Then he just whimpered it until we were inside the house and he got distracted by his train table.

More crying at bedtime, and again and again after bedtime.
Enough. Already. Please.