Originally mailed on February 22, 1996

Just got back from house-hunting with Louella. In her divorce settlement with Sam, she got the house, her car, a lump sum, child support, and Sam's commitment to pay the boys' college expenses when the day comes, but she's still struggling some. Right now she's trying to sell her house and buy a smaller one, hoping to cut her mortgage in half, so we've been out looking at older houses in Grandma's neighborhood, the Eastside. Louella loves every house she sees; the house she's selling is a big modern split-level suburban type of thing. "Featureless," she calls it. These old houses have wood floors and built-in ironing boards and funky light fixtures and laundry chutes and milk bottle pass-throughs-much like Grandma's house. Louella is charmed. I don't think her problem will be finding a suitable house, but deciding which of the six she fell in love with today to make an offer on.

The boys love the houses, too, with the absolute lack of discernment kids of 5 and 6 have. They can't judge that they're going to be living someplace smaller, older, with fewer of the amenities they're used to, like their own bathroom and a special playroom. The house they liked best was a bungalow-style, the upstairs one big long attic with built-in drawers and closets that are really just crawl spaces under the eaves. Instant forts, they saw, asking Louella if they could put their beds in there. And they liked the two-bedroom house because, if they have to share a room, they get bunkbeds. (Louella thinks they'll be less thrilled five years from now and is holding out for three bedrooms.) They think laundry chutes will be great for dropping things down and the milk-bottle pass-throughs are for hiding treasure; one house had a dirt-walled room off the basement and that, they informed me, is where the bodies are buried. Mark, being older, thinks that's cool, but it kind of creeped little Sam out.

Now that the divorce is final and Louella knows exactly what her resources are -- and now that she's spent some time fruitlessly hunting for a job that will support her and the kids -- she's decided her best course of action is to go back to school. She says the short-term hardship will pay off in long-term earning power. She has a college degree -- English or History or something mostly useless (market-wise) like that, so she's returning to Michigan State, she told me recently, for a degree in Packaging.

"Packaging," I said, "They actually offer a degree in packaging?" I could hardly imagine. I had this vision of Louella earning a degree for putting things into boxes. Packaging 406: Advanced Box Opening Techniques. Packaging 407: Advanced Box Closing Techniques. And her senior thesis: Airtight: A Cultural History of Re-sealable Media from Tab-in-Slot Cardboard Boxes to the Ziploc Sandwich Bag.

Louella was not amused. "For your information, Harriet, the School of Packaging is a part of the College of Agriculture and Natural Resources, and I plan to specialize in environmentally-friendly packaging techniques, like using recyclables and minimizing the packaging used for frozen foods and stuff like that. You won't be laughing when I go to work for a big food conglomerate or laundry-detergent manufacturer and start raking in the big bucks. It's people like me, who study packaging, who invented those condensed Cran-Raspberry juice boxes you like so much, and that refillable plastic laundry soap bucket you feel so virtuous using. And yes, a packaging specialist invented the Ziploc bag, miss smarty-pants. And tell me what your life would be like without screw-top jars!"

I was sorry I'd offended her, making fun of her career choice. I just never imagined they offered a degree in something that sounds so... prosaic, so capitalistic, so passionless. Louella said, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Harriet, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," and I said, "Yeah, I've heard that before."

The truth is, the program sounds pretty tough. As well as actual classes in packaging (which do have titles like Cardboard Packaging and Plastic Packaging and Glass Packaging. Thrilling.) she's got to take physics, calculus, and -- get this -- microbiology. Since Louella earned her B.A. at MSU, they're letting her re-use all of her basic requirements, but she didn't exactly load up on science the first time around so she's got something like 60 credits ahead of her. More if she decides to specialize in say, pharmaceutical packaging. Or go on for a Master's.

Louella is excited now, in an emotional phase where the divorce doesn't feel like a failure but like a thrilling new opportunity. She's dating a guy (yes, a guy. More about that later) who is already making serious noises, about love and commitment. He keeps dropping hints that she should look for a house big enough for a lover to move in later, but she just says, as if she doesn't know what he's driving at, "Oh, no, it's just going to be the boys and me for a long time." She's getting to make her own decisions and she loves it. Whenever we look at a house, she tries to imagine living there, and she'll stand in the dining room, for instance, saying, "Maybe I should paint the walls dark pink. No, no, a navy blue with white trim. Or yellow. A yellow room is so cheerful. What do you think, Harriet?" And when I open my mouth to answer, she says, "Never mind! I forgot -- it doesn't matter what you think!" and she cackles gleefully. She does this, oh, three or four times in every house. "If I bought this one, should I enclose the porch to make a screen room?" "Well," I say, "I think..." "I don't care what you think! I'll do what I want!" It's my job as Louella's friend to play this game with her, but the boyfriend just doesn't get it that his input isn't really wanted, so he's not invited along anymore.

This poor boyfriend. I won't even bother telling you his name, because he's just not that important in Louella's life. You see, Louella sees bisexuality as a thrilling new opportunity, too, and has no intention of tying herself down. "Not that I'm going to become Splash," she says, "but how can I choose one person of one sex when I haven't even tried very many out?" Especially women. Louella feels confidently bisexual after, what, a year now of wondering "straight or gay, straight or gay," ever since she first got involved with what's her name... Buddy. Poor long-gone Buddy. Louella says she feels fine dating a man, and can even imagine having one for a partner some day, but not before she's "gotten to know" a few more women. Which is why I can't think of the boyfriend except as that "poor hapless guy." He's serious; there's no way she's going to be. He's comfortable with her bisexuality, in theory; she's eager to practice. He thinks Louella's not sleeping with anyone else because she cares so much for him; she's just been too busy with the divorce and house-hunting and all, and can't wait for things to settle down so she'll have more time for sex. Whenever I'm at her house and he comes in the door, these ghostly voices start moaning in my mind, "Doomed! Doo-o-o-med!" He's just a heartbreak waiting to happen.

Louella is worrying about Sam's relationship with the boys. Sam and Louella have been living apart for some time now, and for awhile Sam was a model divorced father, spending many weekends with the boys but also coming over at least one night a week to read them a story and put them to bed, calling them every day to find out what they'd been up to. He even took his vacation time at home so he could have two solid weeks of living with the boys, enough days in a row that it started to feel normal to them all again. But now he's seeing someone, and it's much less convenient for him to make daily time for Mark and little Sam. He rarely calls or visits outside his prescribed-by-the-court visitation times, and has started picking the boys up on Saturday morning instead of Friday night so he and his lover can have dates on Fridays. Louella tells him, "Sam, the boys are part of your life and your lover has to accept that; sure it's easier if they're not around, sure it's more fun to plan entertainment at the adult level instead of the kindergarten level, but you've got a commitment here."

Sam says, "Louella, we got married so young, I've never been single, never had only myself to think of, never been able to be spontaneous or irresponsible, always had to think of your needs, and the kids'. I just want to be a single unfettered gay boy for awhile."

Louella says, "Sam, do you think I had any of those things? Do you think I'm suddenly living the life of carefree girl? We made choices that mean we don't get to be young and unencumbered. We gave that up when Mark was born, and it means I have to live in a smaller house and buy my clothes second hand and stretch a half a pound of burger meat for dinner every night, and you have to make some sacrifices too."

Sam says, "Do you need more money? I'd be happy to send a little extra every month since I'm not feeding the boys so often."

Well, you can imagine Louella's response to that. She says men must have a dormant shithead gene that's triggered by divorce. She's been calling his machine every day and leaving messages like, "Sam, this is your ex-wife. Someday you'll regret the time you're missing with the boys now, but you can't get it back," and "Hi, Sam, it's Lou. Just wanted to remind you that it's easier to keep the boys' trust now than to try to regain it later," and "Sam, Lou. Just read something interesting in the paper: seems a new study has proven that love and money are not interchangeable commodities." He is not amused.

So, Louella and my grandma have gotten chummy as hell. You may remember that Louella was taking Grandma along on errands since Grandma stopped driving, and Grandma was baby-sitting in exchange. Well, errands turned into "let's have a cup of tea" turned into "have you seen this movie?" turned into daily phone calls "just to chat." One of Louella's house preferences is that it be "within walking distance of Miriam's." I think it's great; I certainly think Grandma is worth making friends with, and Louella, too. But I admit, I do feel kind of, well, jealous. I mean, Grandma has always had a lot of friends, but I am her only granddaughter. And it's not that Louella is usurping that role...it's just that she's the same age as me, more or less, and I've been Grandma's only friend my age until now.

And then they went and had a secret without me. See, Louella decided she and the boys should have a puppy, and Grandma has done such a great job with Flopsy, now a year old and 95 beefy pounds but absolutely obedient to Grandma, that she wanted Grandma to be her advisor. And they thought it would be fun to surprise me, so the other day I get to Grandma's for lunch with her and Louella, and Flopsy comes running to meet me, and at her heels is a little shepherd-mix pup. Grandma and Louella and the boys all yell "Surprise!" and the boys fall all over themselves telling me how they all went to the Humane Society and Grandma knew all the right questions to ask about the puppy and how hard it was to choose but they finally did and the puppy's name is Ziploc in honor of Louella's new career but they call her Zippy.

I knew they thought they were doing something that would be fun for me, but all I could think was that they had all gone to pick out a puppy without me. I was trying to get into the spirit, saying to Mark and Sam, "Boy, I sure was surprised! She sure looks like a great puppy! Look at those big feet!" and so on, but I felt like a little kid who didn't get any presents on Christmas morning. At lunch, Grandma said to me, "Are you feeling OK?"

I said, "Well, I would have liked to help pick out the puppy."

Grandma said "I know what will stop your pouting. Boys, it's time,"

Mark said, "We got something for you, too Harriet, so you wouldn't feel left out," and the boys headed for the bedroom. I thought, "Oh, God! They got me a puppy! The cats will freak out! I live in a studio! I can't have a puppy!"

The boys ran into the pantry and came out with, not a puppy, but a plastic box containing a water bottle, a wheel, and, just barely visible under a pile of sawdust, two rodents. I said, "Oh, look, they're..." and Louella stage-whispered, "Hamsters."

"Oh," I said. "Not rats? I thought they were rats."

Grandma said, 'You've always wanted hamsters, Harriet."

I said, "When I was nine, Grandma." But to the boys I said, "Aren't they wonderful? What cunning little ears they have! Do they run on the wheel? What should I feed them? I think I'll name them Mark and Sam!"

They do run on the wheel. All night long. Louella and Grandma split the cost of a Habitrail, and its wheel is a fully-enclosed plastic thing (except the entrance) sticking out the side of the cage. The hamsters carry a whole bunch of food and bedding into the wheel, which circulates as they run, not only pelting them constantly in the head but making a loud rattling in addition to the squeaking of the wheel. I live in an efficiency; wheel-running takes place, therefore, a maximum of 10 feet from my head. All night long, did I mention? The wheel also has air holes, and much of the bedding, food, and, of course, hamster poop in the wheel centrifuges out through the holes, landing on the shelf in a neat distribution pattern which I have to clean up every morning.

The cats love the hamsters, whom I have actually named Jeff and Akbar because they look exactly alike. Fang and Speedball love to watch Jeff and Akbar run around and dig and chew things. Hamsters in a clear plastic cage are kitty TV, and I'm sure the little tail-less rats will grow on me in time.

Splash continues to be anxious about her college graduation this May, and there's not much I can do for her. I've never graduated from college, and I've always had the kind of jobs you find in the classified ads, or by going physically to every restaurant in town. The kind of job you interview for at 3:00 and start at 6:30 because they've been short a waitress for weeks. Even when I learned to print and started finding jobs as a printer, the process was the same: look in the yellow pages under "printers," mark each printshop on a map of town with red ink, then figure out the most efficient route and start walking through doors and talking to managers. I've never had to put together a resume or buy a suit or figure out how to find a job they don't advertise in the Lansing State Journal.

Even when I dropped out of school, the transition was easier on me than this is being on Splash. I was ready to leave school, and I had experience doing shit work; I just started doing it full-time instead of part-time. No one was telling me stories about their cousin in Dubuque who graduated last year with an engineering degree just like hers and landed a $45,000 salary, or taking me shopping in the women's department for a conservative jacket and skirt. Her mother even offered to pay to have her legs waxed.

Poor Splash. She's stressed out because, on the one hand, she feels like she'll be failing if she doesn't get that elusive 40 grand job. On the other hand, she has evolved into the kind of person corporations don't exactly rush to give the big bucks and the company car to. She's your basic buzz-cut punk butch in a black T-shirt, four heavy-gauge hoops in her left ear, one in her left eyebrow, and two in a very tender private place I'm too shy to name. Also, while she's by no means fat -- and I'm not just trying to avoid saying she is because that word is supposedly an insult; I mean, even if she wanted to be a fat activist and name herself a Fat Dyke in a radical positive affirmation of size and space-taking, Elana Dykewomon and Susan Stinson would probably just chuckle indulgently -- still, by those obnoxious "ideal weight" charts she "needs" to lose about 40 pounds. The thing is, she likes herself and doesn't want to change to fit into corporate America, but she also wants to work in her field and fulfill her earning potential. Hence the stress.

Louella and Splash are both at transition points, and it has me thinking about my future. I've been taking a few general requirements at the community college, and for awhile in January I thought I had figured out my future career: chef. I'm already a very good cook, and thought if I earned a degree in Culinary Arts I'd be able to get a job I enjoyed. But I'm wondering whether I want to work in a restaurant all my life. Restaurants are busy, noisy, stressful, and smoky; they're big drinking environments, and you have to work odd hours. Maybe that's not what I want. But what do I want? I don't want to be printing another ten years; the hours are fine but the work is loud, I stand all day on a cement floor, and the printing chemicals and ink are toxic. Maybe I should follow Louella's lead and think about what will earn me money instead of some fantasy career doing exactly what I want to do all day long.

I borrowed Louella's Catalog of Academic Programs and I keep looking through it for a program of study, but nothing calls to me. I've even tried the old psychic method of closing my eyes and opening the catalog randomly. Here, I'll do it again: Page 201, Department of Finance and Insurance. I don't think so. It's all moot anyway because I can't afford college at (here it is on page 33) $147.75 per credit hour plus matriculation fees, and I'm no scholarship committee's fair-haired boy.

But enough gloom and worry! The happy news is that I'm enjoying my new computer very much. Not that it's new; it's used, but new to me. I'm learning to word-process, so maybe my next letter will be typed, and I'm playing a lot of Tetris and Lemmings and Computer Solitaire. Splash is the computer queen; she's always wanting to install some new "extension" or make my "desktop" a fancy pattern or teach me to "access applications more efficiently by using desktop aliases," and I just keep saying, "Splash, it's enough for me that I know how to turn the damn thing on at this point."

Love,

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

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