Of Miss Hathaway and Dinah Shore
You’ve got to cut people a little slack or you’ll never make friends
By Sally Sheklow 06/08/2006
Peanut butter. Rich, fragrant peanut butter. Think PBJs, Reese’s, fresh-baked peanut butter cookies. I’m salivating here at Andie and Stella’s kitchen table while the whole room pulsates with a warm peanut-buttery aroma. My oral urge is up and I want to lick somebody’s fingers, but that’s not on tonight’s agenda.
Besides, I don’t know these gals very well yet. I’m here with Wifey as part of our make-new-friends campaign. Our former best buds split up and moved out of our lives. One left the country and the other’s with a man now — not that there’s anything wrong with that — so we’re seeing other people.
Tonight’s foray into new friendship includes this after-dinner activity of making pine cone birdfeeders. Wifey and I aren’t crafters, but when you’re making new friends you try new things. Andie and Stella brought out a stainless mixing bowl and dumped in a jumbo jar of peanut butter, a can of Crisco and a liberal dousing of bird seed (hence the non-licking agenda).
Our foursome is still a little stiff and formal, not all cuddly and mellow like with our old pals. Even though using peanut butter for non-sensuous purposes is not my general practice, I’m game this time because doing a project together might loosen us up and get us closer to that best-friend kind of comfort I miss so much.
After years of lesbian nesting and a shrinking social circle, finding new buddies is not that easy. Luckily, Andie and Stella are new to town and looking for good friends, too. Since last fall we’ve been meeting up, taking turns hosting dinner and letting down our guard little by little.
We’ve played Password, Hoopla and Lesbian Trivial Pursuit, but tonight is the first time we’ve delved into peanut butter. Stella and Andie are smart and funny. They have cute dogs and friendly cats and share our disgust for all things Bush. Like us, they don’t drink, smoke, or carouse — although, as it turns out, we all have checkered pasts with sordid details surfacing as we get to know each other. Bonding has begun.
Stella’s into birding. She got this organic bird feeder craft idea from Bird Watcher’s Digest. Bird watching is a foreign world to me. All I have to go on is the old priggish birdwatcher stereotype. Come to think of it, Stella does resemble that binocular-toting bird-watching Miss Jane Hathaway, in a rounder, softer, but just as dykey sort of way. Despite Nancy Kulp’s definite dykeness, her birdwatcher character was a Jethro-chasing weirdo. Not the kind of person I’d normally seek out, but if I want new friends I need to expand my horizons.
The plan is to make bird feeders by stuffing the peanut butter mixture into pine cones. Andie proudly presents four shoe-sized cones, collected she tells us, last summer while playing golf in Sonoma. I shoot Wifey a look — golf?
Golf is so not our world. My first exposure to anti-Semitism was my discovery that private golf courses could legally exclude Jews — and still do. I associate golf with the unbridled privilege of rich, white, narrow-minded gentiles. No offense, golf fans.
I know golf’s not a totally bad thing. Sure, we’ve got the dyke-infested LPGA and the annual Dinah Shore Classic. But let’s face it: Golfing hasn’t exactly been a hotbed of progressive politics. The fairway isn’t fair. Suffice it to say, you’ll never uncover evidence of an Abramoff-sponsored St. Andrew’s junket in my FBI file.
While I’m wondering whether I could possibly be friends with a golfer, Andie’s long fingers work the peanut butter mixture into soft, aromatic goop. The seedy slop squishes and slurps as she kneads it smooth. The sound is unmistakably sexual. Peanut butter oozes up Andie’s wrists and glows golden under the bright kitchen light. Stella slides up behind her partner and rolls Andie’s sleeves out of the way.
Our friends are probably testing us out, too. Checking if we’re the kind of friends who can get loose and goofy and appreciate lovey energy. Lesbian etiquette frowns on acting all mushy and snuggly with your spouse around other people — unless the other people are mushing and snuggling too. With our old friends, mutual mushing was not only acceptable, but we served as each other’s mush support group. Since their dramarama break-up we haven’t found anyone to share the mush factor.
Wifey puts her arms around me. I lean into her embrace. I’m liking Andie’s indulgence in the sensuous experience and Stella’s supportive laughter. Andie makes a show of squeezing big fistfuls of goop. We’re all laughing now.
So we’re different. You’ve got to cut people a little slack or you won’t make any friends at all. How can we ever expect the mainstream to accept us if we can’t even accept each other? Even bird watchers and golfers.
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