Originally mailed on November 17, 1994
I had my 90-day evaluation at work and they didn't can me. Pete treated me to a practically word-for-word repeat of the lecture he gave me when he caught me sneaking extra hours, but then he had to admit that my printing is good and I hadn't committed any truly heinous crime, so I get to keep working there. Yay. But I didn't get the raise I could have been eligible for at 90 days, and I didn't get back my key to the shop because they're still "just not sure" about me. They haven't moved me off probationary status, which keeps me in a pretty precarious position -- permanent employees have more safeguards against being let go, and they also get some paid time off. So it sucks to still be on probation.
I was so relieved not to be fired -- I'd been checking want ads already because I was afraid Pete would get rid of me, and I was pretty anxious -- that I nearly just signed the evaluation and went back to the press, but then it occurred to me that my next evaluation isn't for six months, and that's a long time to go still earning probationary pay and needing someone else to let me through the door, Pete had said to me, "Your work is good, and if it weren't for the deception on your time sheets, you would be moved from probationary to permanent status," and I got him to put it in writing along with an agreement to evaluate me again in 60 days. So I feel pretty sure I'll get moved to permanent status at the beginning of January, which means a little more money.
Which will be a relief, since I'm still in debt from the Florida debacle. Moving from state to state costs a lot of money, and doing it twice in six months wiped me out and then some. In fact (and this is a secret I've divulged to no one) I had to use credit cards to get home. See, I had counted on living with Pan when I got to Florida, and instead I had to fork over bucks for a security deposit and rent on an apartment of my own, and so on. I hadn't brought anything with me to set up housekeeping. Pan had all that stuff, so I didn't even ask Dorothy to divide housewares with me. I just left all our stuff with her, probably out of guilt. Here I was leaving her for someone I'd met on vacation. It seemed crude to say, "and by the way, I want the good 300-thread-count 100% cotton sheets so my new lover and I can make love in them for hours just like we used to do." When Pan dumped me I had to buy a futon, a desk, dishes, glasses, a lamp, window shades, silverware, sponges, sheets, a dustpan...well, the list goes on forever and it wiped out my measly savings.
My savings were measly because I'd expected to live with Dorothy forever, and she had plenty of money in the bank. In fact, Dorothy was doing such a good job of planning for our retirement that she's probably set for life at this point. No, I didn't ask her to divide that, either. It was all her money she was setting aside.
So when I decided I had to get out of Florida, I had no cash on hand. The U-Haul rental, the motels, the security deposit on this apartment, utility deposits, and groceries all went on plastic until I found the job at Get It Now. And it's all sitting there racking up interest while I pay the minimum every month because it's all I can afford.
Boy, re-reading the last page makes me feel like I've been kind of stupid. "I thought Dorothy would take care of me. I though Pan would take care of me." Of course, Dorothy would still be taking care of me if I hadn't left. But it was the right thing to do. Maybe not the way I did it -- I admit trying to have a relationship with Pan was a very bad idea. But it seems clear to me now that I needed to get out of my relationship with Dorothy, even if it meant giving up some security.
I shouldn't have started this letter with my history of relationship stupidity because it makes me a little nervous about telling you about my latest relationship. Well, it's not a relationship yet. But I think it might be. I don't want to hear any "Harriet, this is a stupid thing to do." I got enough of that while I was packing for Florida. Besides, I'm not doing it yet. I understand that there are situations which, in general, it is a bad idea to enter into. I also understand, and hope you do, too, that there are always exceptions and that each situation must be evaluated on its own merits.
God, I sound defensive. Well, I am. Remember Louella? I'm pretty sure I mentioned her before. I met her in this community-ed Mexican cooking class, and we ended up being partners because there weren't enough stoves for everyone to have their own. So we ended up spending a lot of time together in class chopping onions and peppers and trying to make nice flat tortillas, and by the time we'd shared a couple of culinary fiascoes with each other we were getting pretty friendly. I invited her over for dinner, we went to a couple of movies, that kind of thing.
Well, Louella is straight, right? She's married to a guy and she's got these two little kids. The first few weeks we're in cooking class, all she talks about is, "Oh, Paul and the boys will love this," and "Paul just adores Mexican food, that's why I decided to take this class. The only Mexican food I can cook is tacos from those Old El Paso kits!" I'm kind of rolling my eyes, but secretly, because I don't want to offend her.
Of course, she asks me, "Are you married?" And I say, "No, I'm a lesbian and I'm single at the moment." And this just fascinates her. I mean, it fascinates her so much that I get tired of talking about it. She's especially concerned with how I knew for sure I was a lesbian, which is a tricky question for me to answer because I don't remember a time when I didn't know. I had it hot for girls from a very young age. Which also fascinated Louella, so I end up telling her all these stories about what I used to do with my friends on sleepovers (the people at the adjoining kitchenettes loved our discussions). I used to have all these "perfectly innocent" games that involved touching each other under our nighties -- like drawing on each other's backs and having tickling contests. I was also a master of "let's practice on each other so we'll be ready for boys." I never went out with boys but I sent a few very well-prepared girls into the dating fray.
One evening I'm telling her about how I got my best friend to let me fuck her under the guise of teaching her to use tampons -- you know, when I think about it I might have been pretty exploitive. I was sneaky and seductive, and it was always premeditated. I doubt most of the girls I fooled around with knew what they were getting into, and some of them probably didn't know even after they were into it. Of course, I was just a kid. But still!
Anyway, I'm telling Louella this story, really hamming it up for humorous effect, describing how I persuaded my best friend that she needed to use tampons against her mother's wishes (this was right around the time there was that big Toxic Shock Syndrome brouhaha) . I told her about the joys of swimming when you're menstruating, about how they don't really affect your virginity, about how easy they are to put in and take out -- and I offered to show her. Now, I had been kissing and petting with this girl for a long time, and so it's not like I'm making this big push for tampons while we're sitting demurely across the kitchen table from each other. No, I'm whispering the joys of tampon use seductively into her ear while I run my fingers lightly over her stomach and breasts, and even though she doesn't actually say OK, I take her heavy breathing as my go-ahead. Well, once I got my finger inside her at the back of a Slender Regular o.b., I just didn't take it out again. This girl probably still gets weak-kneed in the Feminine Hygiene aisle at the Rite Aid. Well, I'm describing this, and Louella's laughing pretty hard and she says without thinking, "I wish I'd known a girl like you." I think, "A-ha."
Sure enough, a couple of weeks later Louella and I are on my futon watching a Star Trek rerun and eating pizza, and she says she needs to talk. We turn the TV off and she says, "Well," and starts to cry. So I put my arm around her and say, "Come on, Louella, you can tell me," and she leans against me and says, "I think I'm a lesbian. I've had these feelings for a long time but I never knew what to call it until I met you. But I'm not sure." Here she turns big brown wet eyes up on me. "How can I know for sure, Harriet?"
This, of course, was my cue to kiss her. But I didn't. I said, "Louella, you're the only one who can answer that question. What kinds of feelings have you had? What makes you think you're a lesbian?"
I think this was not the response she'd anticipated. I think all my stories had gotten her pretty hot and she wanted to know if I was as good as my word. Of course, that probably does mean she's a lesbian, but I wasn't about to hop into bed with her unless she was sure. So I sent her home with the latest issues of Lesbian Connection and off our backs, a collection of Dykes to Watch Out For, and a lesbian detective novel, all of which happened to be on my coffee table. I figured I'd let her soak up some culture and then she could decide if she still wants to get in bed.
She says she does, but we haven't yet. It's not that I'm not interested -- especially now that she's making a speedy metamorphosis from wife to dyke she's looking pretty hot. I don't know what her husband thinks is going on. She had one of those women's hairstyles that starts with a permanent and then gets fluffed a lot every morning so it's real big, and she just went one day and got it buzzed. And she's starting to wear jeans and a T-shirt every time I see her. I think I'm her model of what a lesbian looks like. I'm going to have to introduce her to a few more, because lord knows we don't need any more aesthetically stunted Harriet clones floating around.
Anyway, she may be pretty sure she's a dyke but it's not like she's mentioned it to her husband yet. And she's still married and she's still Newly Out, if she can be said to be out at all. I'm tempted by her, I admit. She's a hoot to be with, and we have kissed a little. Well, a lot, but only on a couple of occasions. I'm taking it slow.
Anyway, I was going to tell you about the ACOA meeting Louella took me to. Normally I'm pretty anti-12-step, just because the slogans are so inane. I actually knew someone in Florida who owned a teddy bear that said AA slogans when you squeezed its paw: Easy Does It! One Day At a Time! First Things First! Bleh. But I'll pretty much accept any invitation these days, in the interest of getting to know people, so I went. Louella invited me after this one time we went to my grandma's house to fix her some tacos and of course Grandma drank about 6 white wine spritzers while we were there, just like she drank them the whole time I lived with her. So Louella and I leave, and the first thing she says in the car is, ""I think your grandmother is an alcoholic." OK. I won't argue, but she's been living that way for decades and doing just fine. But Louella takes me to ACOA because she knows I lived with my grandma for a long time and she figures that had a profound effect on my personality.
I didn't want to get too deeply into my sordid past with Louella, but I doubt Grandma's spritzers did half the job of fucking me up that being thrown out by my mother at the age of 13 did. At least Grandma kept feeding me for 5 years, even though she knew I was queer for girls, and even though I kept getting in trouble in school. I was an A student until the 8th grade, when my mother, in the space of a couple of weeks, got engaged and found notes some other girls had written me (she'd have been even more shocked by the notes I had written them). She decided a juvenile delinquent daughter would just mess up her chance at happiness with her new fiance, so she gave me 200 bucks and told me to get lost. I was lucky Grandma took me in; she had troubles of her own.
I haven't told Louella about that, yet. She can't figure out why I'm so resistant to going back to her 12-step meeting with her. I just want to tell her that Grandma's spritzers are a minor player in the universal plot to fuck me up -- but at the same time I don't want to tell her because the last thing I want is to see that look on her face that people always get when I tell them about it. I hate seeing people feel sorry for me, so I mostly just say my parents died when I was a kid, which is half-true -- my father died in a one-car drunk driving accident when I was nine. Which Louella doesn't need to know, either, or she'd quit with the gentle persuasion and kidnap me to ACOA.
I hope you're not completely depressed by all this; I'm not. It's just my history, and I'm pretty much OK with it these days. Believe me, between getting to know Louella, learning to cook really swell Mexican food, and fooling around with this bald-headed Lesbian Avenger (more about which later), I'm feeling pretty good. Besides, the new Star Trek movie opens today -- Louella and I are leaving in about two minutes to get in line to try for tickets for the sneak preview. I'll talk to you soon.
Love,
© Copyright 1994-1999 Su Penn. Design by David Dierauer.
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