The short version of my week is that I went over to Las Vegas to visit my folks a week ago, and then this past weekend was LA Pride. The long version is that I went out to Las Vegas to continue to feel like a failure as a daughter and adult, and subsequently to lose money (and a bit of hope), and then wait over six hours for my 45-minute flight.  Clearly, awesome.

Oh, and to add insult to injury, my mom insisted on buying me a new girl bra, even though I patiently explained again that I rarely wear those kinds of bras, but she insisted I needed at least one, which required a FITTING by an old Las Vegas lady who was clearly a former exotic dancer and gave a huge effort towards not looking me in the eye. I chose to believe she was convinced I had put money in her g-string at some point in the very distant past. It made the experience bearable.  I felt like a hog being trussed.

Then the week happened, which would have been uneventful except that I rarely have uneventful weeks – I wonder what that would feel like?  First, I’m doing a cleanse. A “diet” cleanse. Therefore I’m a little… punchy, perhaps? As in, “I have eaten so little food I might actually rear back and PUNCH YOU IN THE BOOBS stupid girl looking terrified at me like I’m a butch-alien-terrorist” punchy. Although I like boobs too much to punch them. Other than that it’s going well. Second, I’m working with some clown friends on their terrific show in the Hollywood Fringe Festival, which means my time is not my own and I’m running around with a fake red mustache glued to my face (hot).

Then the weekend happened, and I sort of went to LA Pride. Friday was the Dyke March and the Purple Party, and after my show was done my gf and I went over to West Hollywood for the (free) festivities. We got there at a respectable 9:30pm, and avoided paying $20 for parking  (!!! really??? don’t they know we queers are poor/only have $ for drinks???) by driving around and not being afraid to walk. And once we were there things were… awkward.

Well, once we found the Purple Party – it was … really weird. We had missed the March, but I figured all the marching ladies would be appropriately boozed up and having a good time at the free music festival afterwards. Which was sort of true. I mean, there were some gay ladies there. Not really any butches (need I ANY more confirmation that I am alone on the island?). There was also a mixed bag of other people. And some terrific singers who had been on The Voice working really really hard up on stage, while the crowd milled about, not really paying attention, sipping their overpriced Budweiser or Bacardi’s (the only options).  I mean, the singers were incredible.  And the lesbians could give a fuck. And then Ilene Chaiken and the cast of the Real L Word came on stage, and the sound of the one clap was deafening.

Mostly the girls were good looking, well dressed, long-haired, neither too butch nor too femme. They looked either newly-21 or in their 50s. They stood in groups and only talked to each other, unless they were casting a judgmental eye around the surrounding crowd. More than once I caught someone giving my shoes the once-over. Clearly there was a status game afoot, along with some heavy cruising by the singles AND by the men there who were obviously into queer women. But no one really looked like they were having that good of a time.

My gf and I are not ones to pass up free entertainment, so we danced and enjoyed ourselves while the tiny horde of the either too-cool or too-drunk looked at us blearily. Since I am cleansing there was no drinking for me, which was ok because I would rather chew glass than drink Bud.

It was ultimately fun, but also a little depressing. We didn’t go to the parade on Sunday, which I’m sure was more lively. Instead we were REALLY gay and stayed home and organized the garage like good domestics partners.

When we kiss on our patio, it echoes off the Hollywood hills into forever, reminding us that we are largely alone.