Originally mailed on June 18, 1995

I just this minute came through the door. I've been over at my Grandma's, and it has been quite the day, let me tell you. We got together because Grandma wanted me to fix up an indoor run for Flopsy, the Ever More Enormous. Grandma's a big softy and can't stand to confine Flopsy to her crate for many hours at a time, but when she left the puppy alone in the house recently while she went to lunch and a movie with friends, she came home to find that Flopsy had devoured a huge chunk of her living room rug and piddled on what was left. We cleaned the rug and rotated it so the shredded part is mostly hidden under the couch, but clearly a solution was needed. I installed a child-proof gate at the head of the stairs, so now Grandma can close all the doors upstairs and confine Flopsy to the hallway, which lets the puppy run around a little but keeps her from getting into trouble.

I've been driving the two of them to obedience school every Wednesday night, and they are enjoying it a great deal. Flopsy knows how to sit, lie down, come when called, and stay. Grandma is having the most fun thinking of herself as the Alpha Dog of the pack, and tries to deal with Flopsy by putting herself into dog-mind. Sometimes I drop by and Grandma's in the backyard playing tug-of-war with Flopsy, each of them clinging to their end of the tug-toy and growling. And Grandma demonstrated to me the other day her deep-voiced "No"; one of her dog-training books calls it "throwing a verbal rock," and Grandma says it's as close as a human can come to the disciplinary bark the Alpha wolf uses on its subordinates. My Grandma, the wolf-woman. I have to admit that, however strange Grandma may be getting, Flopsy is thriving. She's well-behaved and adores Grandma, following her everywhere and sleeping in her crate in a corner of Grandma's bedroom.

Grandma had an automotive near-miss recently, involving a red light she never did see, and it scared her, so now she's thinking she's too old to drive. She will still drive in broad daylight, if the weather's good, she doesn't have too far to go and she's feeling confident, but that auspicious confluence of events doesn't happen often. We have a deal that I'll take her on errands twice a week, on obedience school night and once on the weekend, so she has to plan for that and anticipate what she's going to need. I'm happy to help out, but I wanted to make it real clear that I'm not at her beck and call.

Louella is also helping Grandma out with daytime errands. They combine errands one day a week, so Louella drives and they go grocery shopping, to the pharmacy, the pet store, to the vet or Grandma's doctor if necessary. Louella says it's no trouble since she's got to do errands herself, but I know Grandma slows her down and adds stops to her trip. The payoff is that Grandma does an evening a week of childcare in return, so even on weeks when Sam doesn't have the kids for the weekend, Louella is guaranteed one free night. Grandma puts the kids to work, to the extent they're able at the ages of five and three. Mark, the five-year-old, gets to play a fun game called "Poop Patrol," in which he dons a helmet and goggles, General Grandma fires him up with a big pep-talk about hazardous duty, and he goes out and scoops all of Flopsy's fertilizer into a paper bag. Grandma says she didn't raise two kids of her own and one grandkid without learning a few tricks. I told Grandma I didn't see how any five-year-old of even average intelligence could be tricked into thinking picking up dog poop was a fun game, but she had two answers for me: first, "You'd have done it, Harriet," and second, "Little kids think poop is really neat." Go figure.

Louella is anxious and stressed just now. She and Sam don't know what to do; they still agree that Mom at Home is their preferred method of child-rearing, but Sam is starting to taste his freedom and is balking at supporting two houses. Sam says he's willing to pay for childcare if Louella goes to work, but the only work Louella thinks she'll be able to find is secretarial, which is what she did when she and Sam were first married, and she figures Sam will be paying more for quality childcare than she can bring in at first. But they also both feel that Louella working is symbolic; Sam feels burdened by having to support a woman he'll be divorced from soon, and Louella feels vulnerable as long as her support depends on Sam's whim -- she recently saw a bunch of brochures for gay cruises on Sam's coffee table when she was picking up the boys, and is scared that he'll decide he'd rather cruise the Riviera with a bunch of hardbodies than keep a roof over his ex-wife and kids' heads.

Louella's also worrying because she hasn't settled the question yet of whether she's bi or a lesbian. She's so wrought up looking for answers she even bought an issue of Harper's Bazaar that had "Are You Bisexual?" as a cover story. I said, "Louella, what kind of answers do you think you're going to get from a magazine like that?" The article was all about how "chic" it is to be bi and how fashion designers like to play with bisexuality because it scandalizes and tantalizes. Is your sexuality a fashion statement? Mine isn't, and I don't think Louella's is either. Louella said, "I admit it wasn't very helpful. The article on bisexuality didn't help me at all; it didn't even have a self-diagnosis quiz, like 'You're bi if you answer Yes to six of these ten questions.'" And all the super-slender retro-Sixties models made her feel like a frumpy dumpy mother-of-two housewife at 28. Poor Louella; the shit our culture dumps on us about our bodies sucks. I wish I could have her talk to Esther; at 200+ pounds, Esther is gorgeous, in love with herself, and has some great answers to both aesthetic criticisms of fat women and some of the less-well-founded so-called health risks. But Esther is in seclusion with her new lover these days and doesn't return phone calls.

Anyway, I think Louella wants to be a lesbian because she thinks it's less complicated than being bi. For instance, she met this guy who was interested in taking her out, and she felt like dating a man would raise too many questions without answering any, so she said No. I said, "And you think dating a woman now would answer those questions? I don't think so. I think you'd still be wondering if you might someday be involved with a man. Having a woman for your next lover doesn't provide an easy solution." But Louella said it was more than that, that she also feels too new in her attraction for women to set it aside so soon. She wants to find out what's possible for her with women. I said that sounded very clear, and that she should set aside the question of her identity as bi or lesbian, and focus on being with women. Let the rest of it sort itself out over time.

She said, "That makes sense, but, you know, there's one thing I feel regret about when I think about not seeing men for awhile."

I said, "What? Hairy armpits? Five o'clock shadow? A deep voice? Lack of communication? The right woman can give you all of that."

She said, "No. Geez, Harriet, forget I said anything."

I said, "No way, Louella. No tantalizing and backing out. It's rude."

She said, "It's just that I really like intercourse."

I said, "What, fucking? A woman can give you that. Didn't Buddy? I thought she was pretty butch."

Louella said, "Well, fingers, you know, and I liked it, but I miss the kind of intimacy I used to have with Sam, when he was inside me and we were face to face. I can't believe I'm talking about this."

"Louella," I said, "I wonder how much you know about dildoes."

"I know about dildoes," she said.

I said, "Have you ever seen one? Used one? Read about using them?"

Louella said, "I don't think it could possibly be the same, Harriet."

I said, "I don't know if it's the same because I've never done it with a man. But I know that what you just described sounded a lot like what it feels like when my lover and I use a strap-on, this wonderful feeling of being connected, holding each other in our arms, touching each other's faces, moving together. The first time Dorothy and I tried it, I felt so close to her I cried the whole time. And dildoes are modular components, so you can find one that's just right and take it home, not like a penis where you have to take everything that comes with it and choose from a very limited range of colors."

Louella said, "Harriet, I don't need this little sex lecture, thank you," but she seemed curious, so I ended up giving her a tour of some of the more tame contents of my toy bag-all the stuff I've bought under Splash's adventurous influence is still too new for me to feel I can show it off. But I did show Louella my dildoes, harness, and those other silicone things, you know, that I hate the name of but that are for anal sex. You know. Geez, now I'm embarrassed.

I think Louella was intrigued. She went home that night with a Good Vibrations catalog and a very thoughtful expression on her face.

But then I was all alone with my bag o' tricks and nobody to play with. Splash has been in Europe for a little over a week now and I miss her terribly. I'm also jealous because I'm pretty sure she's not lonely and frustrated the way I am. I bet by now she's spending her nights with one of the other girls on the trip, while I'm plumbing new depths of intimacy with my Hitachi Magic Wand. Sigh.

The summer is very hot so far and I'm wilting in my airless little efficiency. I've been to three movies in the past two days because I so desperately need to sit in a dark and air-conditioned place. I only wish I could take Fang and Speedball along, since they're suffering in this 90¡ heat, too. They lie on the tile in the shower to try to keep cool. I say to them, "Aren't you afraid you'll be bathed by mistake?" but they just open one eye and look at me in disgust because I won't buy them an air conditioner.

The heat makes for a nice segue into the only dramatic thing that's happened lately. It's a doozy, so I saved it for last. Earlier today, Grandma and I are at Meijer Thrifty Acres looking for the child-proof gate and also for a new fan for her, since her old one finally died last night after years of reliable service. Of course, the fan section is packed with people on account of the heat, all ready to bludgeon each other if necessary to go home with one of the precious air-movers. (I'm always amazed so many people need fans every year. I mean, we have at least one big heat wave a year, and the stores sell out of fans in two days. And the next year just as many people still need fans when the heat wave hits. Since fans seem to have an average life expectancy in the decades, I'm intrigued by the demographics there. But I digress.)

Well, I'm looking at those little fans that fit into windows in one aisle and Grandma is looking at big square box fans in the next aisle. We're planning to meet and discuss the pros and cons of each. I notice that this kid is staring at me, surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye. He looks about nine years old to me (though I'm such a great judge of children's ages that he could claim to be anywhere from seven to seventeen and I wouldn't dispute it) so I figure I've got a booger on the end of my nose or toilet paper stuck to my shoe or something. I can't think of any other reason he'd be interested in me, unless he's older than I think and so wacked out by surging hormones that a 29-year-old squishy-middled butch dyke in baggy shorts looks like a sex object. He and I stand around in the fan aisle glancing at each other out of the corner of our eyes for awhile, and I'm just starting to think he looks kind of familiar, when around the corner comes MY MOTHER, puts a hand on his shoulder and says, "Ready to go home, Ron?"

Then she spots me, and we both freeze. My brain starts to spin like a rocket with a bad gyroscope. I cannot think what the etiquette is when confronted with The Mother who threw one out at the age of twelve, so I decide to ignore her, as if seventeen years has erased her features from my memory and I do not realize that the woman who bore me nine months in her body is standing within spitting distance. I start to turn away. So does she, and that would be that, except that Grandma appears, dragging a box fan, declaring, "I've decided to get one of each, in case they run out." Ron says, "Grandma!" Grandma says, "Ronny!" And the jig is up.

Well, meeting one's brother for the first time in the fan aisle at Meijer is weird, to say the least. Grandma introduced us, and she made a big point of saying, "Ronny, this is your sister, Harriet. Harriet, this is your little brother Ron." I said, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ron. I thought you looked familiar-must have recognized you from the picture at Grandma's." He said, "Me too." Then I said -- and I swear it just slipped out -- "And you must be Ron's mother, Ellen." Grandma said, "Harriet!" and The Mother said, "Of course I am." And we stood there awkwardly for a moment. Then Grandma said, "Ron, would you like to come over for a little while and visit Flopsy? Harriet would be happy to drive you home later." I could have kicked her.

I figured no self-respecting 13-year-old would want to visit his Grandma, but apparently the lure of the Doberman/Rottweiler is strong, because before I knew it I was sitting in my car with Ron in the Meijer parking lot while my immediate female ancestors had a tense discussion in low voices. I don't know what they said, but it ended with The Mother handing Ron a dollar for bus fare and saying, "Be home by eight."

I tried to drop the two of them off at Grandma's and be on my way, promising to come by later in the week to install the gate, but Grandma said she needed me to check the pilot light on her stove. "I think it went out and my knees feel too creaky to get down on the floor to see, and they have an electric stove at Ron's house so he doesn't know about pilot lights. I'm afraid Flopsy and I will asphyxiate." I said, "Grandma, if your pilot light is out I'm Jiminy Cricket, but I'll come in for a little while if you want me to."

When we got inside, Grandma sent Ron into the yard to work on Fetch with Flopsy, and said to me, "I want you to talk to your brother. Get friendly with him. He could use a big sister like you."

I said, "Right, Grandma. I'm sure your average pubescent boy is just pining away for a bulldyke sister."

Grandma said, "Ron is. Harriet, he's a homosexual."

"Jesus, Grandma," I said, "You know I hate that word. Say gay. Are you sure? What makes you think so?"

Grandma said, "He told me so. I'd told him about you a long time ago so he knew it would be OK. I also told him how you ended up living with me, and it scares him, because he's very close to his mother."

"Of course he is," I said. "He's her baby. Grandma, what do you want me to do about this? The Mother is not exactly going to relish the idea of us starting a Big Sister program for troubled queer youth in the family."

Grandma said, "I want you to give him your phone number, let him know you're willing to talk to him. I want you to take him to the Pride March next week -- I'll work out a cover story with Ellen. And right now I want you to go pick up his boyfriend, so we can all have dinner together, and they can get a taste of what it's like to be teased and made a fuss over just like any pair of kids who've recently gotten interested in romance."

"I bet it's more like sex they're interested in," I said, "but tell me where the kid lives."

We did have a tasty dinner, and I liked both Ron and his boyfriend, Tony. Tony's a year older than Ron, but in the same grade at school from being held back in elementary school, and I'd have picked them both out of a crowd as FFA members (Future Faggots of America). Except, of course, they're faggots now. It's the Splash generation -- so much more on the ball than I was. I kept trying to make these solemn pronouncements like, "Now, you boys know it's perfectly OK to be gay," and they were like, "Duh."

Ron is white, like the rest of my family (I know that sounds obvious, but for all you know Al isn't white, right? Well he is, and so is Ron). But Tony is African- and Mexican-American. I asked if it was typical at their school for kids from different races to be friends. I remember when I was in the Lansing schools we pretty much cliqued up by race, and thought it might have changed in nearly twenty years, but they said it hadn't much. They've been friends since the second grade, and couldn't quite figure out why they were the only ones in their respective groups of friends to cross the racial boundary, until a couple of months ago, on a sleepover, when, you know. Proto-queer magnetism in grade school.

Anyway, we chatted over dinner, and then I drove the boys home. Perhaps "chauffeured" is the most accurate term, since I sat in the front seat with Flopsy while they smooched in the back seat. Kind of embarrassing for me; I was afraid to use my rearview mirror because I didn't want to seem like I was spying on them. We dropped Tony off -- oh, yeah, a funny thing about that. When we went to pick Tony up, I went to the door and introduced myself to his father so that he could look me over before he let his kid drive off with me. It felt so strange to say, "I'm Harriet Mageehan, Ron's sister." I'd never said those words before, and I'd never thought about having a brother before today. I'd just thought of Ron and Al Junior as The Mother's other kids, like they had no relationship to me at all. But already, after only a couple of hours, I feel affectionate and kind of possessive about Ron, and I'm sitting here now wishing I'd known him when he was little like Louella's kids are, small enough to hold in my lap, give a bath to, entice with a sugar cookie. Instead, Ron drops into my life, slender and waif-like yet seeming very grown up. I dropped him at the bus stop a couple of blocks from his house so he could walk home and lie to The Mother about what he'd been up to, and he said, "See you next Sunday for the Pride March, Harriet." I said, "I'm looking forward to it," and it felt good to realize it was true.

Love,

© Copyright 1994-1999 Su Penn. Design by David Dierauer.

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