Here is my theory of relationship. We live out our relationships in a hologram. For example – if a hologram of a rose is cut in half and then illuminated by a laser, each half will still be found to contain the entire image of the rose. And so it is for each of us. Let’s say for the purpose of this FB entry that as a child Ruby’s parents were both attentive to her needs. Attachment theory dictates that you need both availability as well as responsiveness to be fully met. Let…‘s go back to Ruby and her mom and dad. Ruby’s mom scores a 7/10 on the attachment scale and her dad is scores 8/10. Ruby will be one lucky girl in life , because chances are Ruby will be attracted to women (if she’s really lucky!!!!) who will treat her as her parents have. Conversely, if your parents score low on the attachment scale,then you will probably spend your life with women or men who replicate the opposite of healthy attachment. So where does that leave me? Fucked ten ways to Denmark. I know that last sentence doesn’t make sense, but I like it and just demonstrates how truly fucked up I am.
Many years ago when I was young and almost beautiful; I spent a summer in Europe meandering through small towns and bigger cities. I went shoe shopping in Florence; I found this tiny cafe in Paris that served the most delicious chocolate croissants. I visited the oldest synagogue in Rome where I sat quietly feeling the prayers of the thousands who had come before me. Eventually I landed up in Monte Carlo where I was to meet up with Mother. Mother liked to go out clubbing and so after a late night dinner, we went to Jimmy’z to dance all night long. I loved dancing so long and hard that sweat would pour off my body like water, and that night was no exception. Later that night, my sweaty self spotted a handsome hippy-ish looking fellow across the dance floor. He was wearing a pair of faded blue jeans with a camel suede fringe vest, and had the most beautiful pale blue eyes. I was intrigued and boogied over to introduce myself. The hippy turned out to be a Russian magnate named Harry. Harry then proceeded to wine and dine my mother and me throughout the week we were in Monaco. Harry owned a conglomerate of hotels all over Europe and was in Monte Carlo to scout out new locations for his growing empire. I liked him well enough; and certainly appreciated the flowers and gifts he would bring me each night; but I did not think living in Europe was for me, and so bid him adieu. Months later, ensconced safely in my apartment, a postcard came in the mail. It is interesting to me still , that I remember this moment so well when so much of my life has been forgotten. Featured on the front of the postcard were two white persian kittens, on the back was written a single sentence, ‘Je pense a toi, toujours’ (I think of you, always). There was no name, nor address. I had a feeling the postcard might have come from Harry as the postmark was stamped from St.Petersburg, but those were the eighties, before the iPhone had come into existence, and I had misplaced my address book so sadly, I could not respond. Flash forward many many years later, September 2oth is the birthday of someone I once loved very much a long time ago and although we do not speak anymore and she will more than likely not see this posting ‘JC, je pense a toi toujours. Joyeux Anniversaire’.
Tonight, I tried once again to remedy my solo status by attempting to attend a lesbionic event. It was a book launch at The Gladstone Hotel featuring the author Marnie Woodrow. There was going to be tarot readers or tarot cards or something to do with tarot. I wasn’t clear on how tarot was involved exactly, but since my three favourite things are : women, tarot and books; I felt this could possibly be the night where love might finally reveal itself, or at the very least I would get my tarot cards read. As an added bonus, the event was starting at 7 p.m. which was an extremely civilized time, not 10 p.m. as in previous events I have tried and failed to go to because frankly, I am asleep by then. So tonight I got dressed in my favourite soft blue flannel shirt, the one I borrowed from my ex and never returned. Jane is fearless in her approach to life, and so whenever bravery is required in myself I wear her shirt to somehow inhabit her moxie. Tonight I am ready – shirt on, hair looking reasonably tamed, lips newly slicked with my Burt’s Bee’s lip crayon ‘Niagara Overlook’. I know, that is a weird name for a lipstick, but it is the earthy Burt’s Bee’s Company, and not the hip nail polish company OPI whose nail polish has names like ‘ Muir Muir On The Wall’ , and ‘The Berry Thought Of You’, a lovely berry colour which I have on my toes today. I put on my favourite perfume, Chloe, in hopes that smelling like roses will appeal to the dyke of my dreams. I get in my car and drive to The Gladstone, and proceed to walk up the 35 steep stairs even though I am old and my knees are killing me, because I am determined to show up at this event. Of course, it is not upstairs, which I find out after I have walked up the 35 stairs to the top of the hotel, only to find out that my event is taking place in the main bar on the main floor. But, that is ok, I will put on arnica cream tonight on my knees and I will be hopefully fine and the pain will have been worth it. Right? So, finally I walk in to the bar, and I see so many handsome dykes and interesting looking women and they are all older than 40 and isn’t this awesome! Umm …yes it was, for about 10 seconds. By the 11th second, I realized that all the women were sitting down at their tables and everyone seemed to know everyone else, and I knew no one and what was I supposed to do? Stand at the bar and pretend to be cool? I am many things, but so not cool. So I did what I always do. I bailed. Katharina left the building. And as I was driving home, much as I was sad that I was driving home alone, I was also relieved because once again, I did not have to show up. I could escape and be free of judgment and rejection, because surely that was what was going to happen. After all, who would really want crooked little me? So I sabotaged myself by going an hour late, and then bailing when there was no room at the inn. Perhaps if I had come on time, I might have been able to talk to a few women before everyone sat down together. Perhaps.
Most people like people who are like themselves, herein lies my problem. Because I have yet to meet someone just like me, I end up choosing lovers who I like for reasons that are rather random. Here is just one – beautiful hands.
I am born under the sign of Libra and Libra is ruled by Venus. Venus is the planet of love, relationships, and beauty. It stands to reason then, when I meet a woman who has beautiful strong hands I most often fall a little bit in love . I imagine those beautiful hands building an outdoor hot tub (because I have always wanted an outdoor hot tub custom built just for me by my own sexy handy dyke) and while that is a worthy fantasy after that tub is built and we are chillin’ in the tubby, I have very little to say to said dyke.
I am a series of anomalies wrapped in a tiny but chubby body. I read the newspaper every day so I am well aware of current events but choose not to discuss politics or business or the state of the world, choosing instead to talk almost obsessively (according to most dykes I have dated) about Relationship. This does not go over well with most dykes who would rather take a blow to the head, rather than talk about ‘us’. I am a voracious reader who prefers not to talk about the books I have read, but choose to keep them close to my heart. I am a Jew who goes to my local LGBT church. I am J.A.P who doesn’t wear makeup or blow dry her hair, but loves to frequent five star hotels. I eschew jewelry but am obsessed with my oversized gold Rolex. I am an expansive relational woman who finds other expansive relational women too much – hence my trajectory toward the cold contained W.A.S.P dyke; who then rejects my wild heathen ways. Oh well, it is what it is, and I am what I am. As Doris Day has sung ‘Que sera sera’. The Toronto Film Festival begins this week, and I am off to stand in line in the rain to see if can purchase a ticket for the film ‘Freeheld’ . Perhaps if the fates allow, I shall be standing in line when a gallant dyke offers me the shelter of her umbrella.
Good Morning All:
I want to say a few words here, about grace, hospitality and love. First however , I want to talk about context. When daughter number one says , and I quote ‘It’s no big deal about your HuffPost thing, all of my friends are bloggers!’ . Now, that might well be true, however I personally have never written anything of note except for my grad school thesis, which, while certainly brilliant (insert slight sarcastic tone here) was never seen by more than at best, ten people. So for me, getting published in the Huffington Post was a big ass deal, and wanted daughter to be more than, slightly less than blasé. But stop Katharina, FOCUS! This is not about my needy needy self needing praise, this is about context, and grace and of course, hospitality.
Ok, phew, I am back on track. Moving on..
This weekend I went to Montréal to stay with my very best friend in the whole wide world and his husband and their daughter ‘little bud’.
I must digress just a tad right here, please bear with me.. but I must share that ‘little bud’ does not love me calling her ‘little bud’, but tolerates it with weary shrug that belies her young years.
Thank you for allowing me that momentary lapse into digression, let us now return to my story..
When I, weary and slightly frazzled from carrying my vintage Louis Vuitton purse , a Hello Kitty knapsack, the dog carrier and the dog; walked into my friend’s guest bedroom, I was so moved I began to cry. There were blush roses ( my favourite) in a beautiful spare (again my favourite) vase. There was a box with artisanal organic soap. A glass bottle of water, and the piece de resistance , rose candies from France.
Woweee!! All this for little me?
Now this is where context becomes imperative. I am certain this room would make anyone happy, but for me it held more of a charge, because this gracious hospitality has before never happened for me. Here is what has happened to me up to the very recent , not so distant past. I get passed over, passed aside, thrown under the bus. I have heard tales of terrific cottage ‘family’ theme weekends , that my cousins could have invited me to join, but chose, for reasons of their own not to. I am bitter? Hell yes! Do I need to let this resentment go? No shit, Shirley.
Last night I had a dream about toads. I got rid of a terrarium filled with toads, but having dispensed with them, came back to my bedroom to find them hopping all over my bedroom floor. I need to get rid of my ‘toads’ , both the internal and the external. I need to surround myself with supportive people who ‘get me’ and who I ‘get’. Friends that, when I knock on their door, take me in.
What I loved about my weekend away, almost ( I said almost) more than the flowers et al, was the way my friends are so protective of each other. They always have each other’s backs, and are truly each other’s ‘home’ . This is so lovely for me to feel and witness. I truly now believe that someone out there is waiting for me. I too can have a relationship with a partner that I can call my safe harbour. I shall welcome her into my home with open arms. In the meantime, I have some toad dispensing to attend to.