Thank the Stars that June is over, Gentle Reader. Now that Pride month is over, we can resume our regularly scheduled adventures, right?
Wrong. It’s customary for me to recap my own Pride shenanigans early in July around these parts – and Tacoma Pride hasn’t even happened yet. Some aging queen must have seen her shadow, because you’re getting three more weeks of Pride.
This year’s event was rather more independent for me than hitherto. I was staying with Darling, of course, and Capere was supposed to as well; very understandably, she changed her plans. And of course Pride is always a work-weekend for the ever-popular Mr. Darling, and while I am monstrous fond of his beau, his roommate, and his roommate’s beau, I expected them all to be completely booked for the duration. I was very vague about when I was coming up, or if I was coming up at all – finally that Friday arrived, and I packed a bag or two and went up to Seattle.
While I prefer to be spontaneous, and let plans shift and slide and just live in the moment – at the same time, I am perfectly wretched if my arrangements aren’t rock-solid. This goes double when I’m taking buses whose schedules I haven’t got memorized. Darling and Company have recently moved; while I’m sure as blazes on navigating to his last two abodes, I’m still a little shaky on the current one. When he didn’t answer his phone as I got closer to the destination and appointed time, I chose to focus on the heat, instead. I knew the address, I know the area a little; everything would turn out alright. And when I got to the door, and there was still no answer, did I let it phase me? No, I did not.
I texted, presuming he was taking a disco nap or in flagrante delicto, so to speak, and took myself to a little Greek place on the corner to wait. Sure enough, by the time I’d finished my strange lemon-cream-based soup he phoned; I went back to his place, where he was enduring an unending case of the hiccoughs*. We all visited, a little, between hics – and, knowing that Darling et al. would be pretty busy all weekend, reassured him that he didn’t need to worry about entertaining me. I am an independent lady, after all.
However, since I was headed to Trans Pride, which takes place on Friday, hoping to see my Cousin Mary – well, rather than dispersing into the night, the fellas walked me down to the event. We took a turn around the park – it’s rather smaller, you know; more in keeping with, say, Kitsap Pride or Tacoma Pride than the big city – and before the gentlemen ghosted, I met up with Mary. We had a nice visit – I was glad I’d come up on Friday; it was the only chance I’d have to see her before she flew out for surgery later that week. After Mary took her kids back home – past their bedtime, I should add – I was free to try to meet with other friends. I ran into some folks that I’m trying to get to know better, including Jarel, who I ran into approximately 6000 times over the course of the weekend. Some friends that I was hoping to see I just missed – but they saw my enormous cartwheel hat across the field. Others, that I wasn’t expecting, lurched out of the past to say hello. It was a lovely afternoon. Eventually, however, it was time to gird my loins for the evening, and I think perhaps I shall leave you here, shivering in the park, wondering what the night might bring.
*While he was in the other room, suffering from hiccough, Darling’s beau and I were looking up possible cures on our phones. Apparently, “digital manipulation of the anus” is a legitimate strategy to try, Gentle Reader. You’re welcome.