thefatjewess

my forays through love and other gastronomical stories

The Lesbian Chronicles 24: All Of Me — May 24, 2016

The Lesbian Chronicles 24: All Of Me

My Tuesday morning musings, awaiting your perusal.  Today ( and actually every day, I am weird that way) I am going to try really hard to be authentic and allow myself to be with all of my feelings. I still find it a challenge to luxuriate in all of my emotions, I find it so much easier to split off from my so called ‘bad’ feelings and just feel – nothing. Growing up in my dysfunctional family of four, feelings were not allowed to be spoken or felt. If I dared to tell my mother I was anything less than fine, I would be told to go to my room to think about all the starving children in Africa and how happy and grateful I should always be.

The following story is a perfect example. My younger sister gets the prime role of Mary in our public school’s Christmas pageant. ( Yes, way back in the sixties public schools were not yet politically correct. What is amusing to me now is that our school was at least eighty percent Jewish as were we, but I digress.) My mother says “Katharine, tell your sister how happy you are that she won the role of Mary. Now normally I would tell her, except this time I am actually not happy because I think my sister is bum kisser and a so-so singer and I know would have made a kickass Mary and instead I have to play one of the wise men which totally sucks because I don’t want to put on some fucking itchy beard, I want to be radiant and beautiful and wear flowing dresses and play Mary and I am so mad and jealous and maybe underneath all that anger there is a smidgen of respect for my sister Susan for getting that prime role, but it is buried under all my angry feelings that I am not supposed to feel and here is my mother saying “Katharine you are a bad selfish girl for not celebrating your sister’s triumph!” and then Susan flashes me her trademark evil wink and whispers in my ear ” See Mommy does love me more!”

I wanted so badly to be loved and accepted that I pushed all those  confusing dark feelings far far down in my gut. Now what was I to do? I did the ‘right’ thing. I got married and had a child and there I was, a not so young anymore adult and fifty pounds overweight and out of shape and constantly trying to please my angry verbally abusive husband and my demanding daughter and I didn’t understand why or how I ended up here when all I had ever done was try to be good.

Here is the moral of my rambling road of a story:

If  you did not have a parent(s) who validated all of you, who mirrored back to you in word and deed that your feelings are just that -feelings – not actions nor deeds; then you will spend your life running from your crazy. I was so separate from my so called bad feelings that I had to  marry someone who acted out my buried rage so that I could berate him for daring to act out my unspoken and unallowed feelings. I hid from my true feelings for so long that I couldn’t acknowledge even to myself that what I  most deeply wanted was to be with a woman, until I was almost forty years old, and when I did finally choose women, the only thing that changed until I changed, was the sex.

So please please please my HuffPo peeps,  love all of yourself. Tell yourself every day that you do matter and it is more than okay to be angry and feel angry and think angry thoughts and that doesn’t make you a bad person, it makes you a real one.

This morning ( and every morning, see above) when I wake up I look in my bathroom mirror at my reflection and I say out loud ” I love and accept all of me. Every bit of my me-ness from my frizzy hair down to my wierd looking scrunched up tongue.”  Today I am going to allow myself to feel my feelings and do my best to not run from them and in doing this brazen act of self – love and acceptance I will set myself free.

 

 

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The Lesbian Chronicles 23: Some Bunny Loves You — May 16, 2016

The Lesbian Chronicles 23: Some Bunny Loves You

Yesterday after my session with Jodee, my always thought provoking therapist, I took a walk down her magnolia tree lined street and noticed that the bookstore my daughter and I used to frequent had now moved down the street from Jodee’s home. I was curious to see how the store had changed, so Lucille ( my puppy) and I walked in.( Yes, I take my dog with me to my therapist. Jodee says I ‘indulge’ Lucille, as if indulging is a bad thing. I am Jew, we indulge!!) The new store was much smaller than the old, but it had still retained the feeling of a comfy home library. A woman who worked there came out to greet me and then yelled out to a co-worker to come see Lucille. I heard her yell out “Maureen, come see this dog!”

I instantly paid attention, because ten years ago the famed psychic Sylvia Brown gave me a reading and told me that my wife would be named Maureen. I had met a few gay women named Maureen over the years, but no one that I wanted to date; yet alone marry.  Fortunately  or unfortunately depending on how one looks at it, I am that hopeful bunny that believes despite evidence to the contrary that wifey is waiting for me just around the next corner.

Now out walks Maureen and instantly I feel a frisson of electricity pass between us. She was  sartorially splendid, wearing burgundy velvet pants and a white shirt made out of the thickest cotton with extra wide cuffs. When I say I felt a frisson of electricity , perhaps I should be clearer and say that while I was instantly enamoured I was not certain that it was reciprocal. Maureen admired Lucille and then went back to her office and I to my car.

As I was driving home, I thought that I should have made more of an effort to connect for what if she was the Maureen? After much thought I decided I would drop off a card at her store, in it I would tell her about my reading with Sylvia and profess my undying love or at the very least my immediate lust for her luscious dykely body.

So off I went to my favourite gay boy owned card shop and chose a card with a picture of a frog with big red lips and long sparkly eyelashes; an image fitting for Maureen in all her dykely splendour.

Later that night after I was certain the store had closed, I drove back down and put my card into their mailbox. How convenient that they had a mailbox! It seemed like destiny but after two weeks of not hearing anything from Maureen I can only assume that Destiny took a wrong turn and is now as we speak wandering the desert of Palm Springs visiting the girls at the Dinah Shore Open. Perhaps if I had chosen a different card?

 

Yesterday I was walking Lucille down a busy street in downtown Toronto when an older woman (and when I say older, I mean older than me, since sadly I am already old) approached me. She had a beautiful thick head of grey hair, was nicely dressed and barefaced. She wanted to know about Lucille – had I gotten her from a breeder and was she was a lap dog or more of a feisty fighter type ( definitely the latter!) and could she pick her up? I thought that this was a strange request but consented because I just liked the feeling of this woman. Her name was Linda and she told me that she had always had large dogs but with the passing of her standard poodle last year she was thinking about getting a smaller dog since she was beginning to have lower back issues. I told her that Lucille was a big dog in a small package. I then gave her the name of Lucille’s breeder and bid her adieu.

Later that day I got an email from my dog breeder saying thank you for the referral of my friend Linda.  That certainly raised my hopes for our eventual meeting and marriage with our two dogs as bridesmaids. Too soon to dream? In my experience, often the dream is the most delicious part as reality often proves disappointing. There a two weeks left in May, so I shall keep dreaming…

Speaking of dreaming; in my quest to find the dyke of my dreams I have signed up with an online dating site. I have decided to change my trajectory. I will now try to seek out kind and healthy as opposed to kinky and cold, my previous go to for girls.

Last week I received a message from a woman named Jill. She was retired and was now taking courses to become a Master Gardener. Her photos were interesting and she had a nice open face. After a few brief messages I asked her if she wanted to meet for tea. Jill agreed and asked if she could speak to me on the phone before we met. I was quite surprised when she called later that night to discover she had no affect to her voice. This was disturbing to me, since dating a somnambulist did not appeal but I agreed to meet, because you never know….

The next day I met her at a coffee shop near her home. When I walked in I was pleasantly surprised as she was quite attractive, however the moment I sat down in the chair beside her our date went downhill when Jill was quite reluctant to have a conversation.  I tried to make inroads but it was proving quite difficult. Out of the blue she offered up the information that she lied about being 59, she was really 64. She asked me if I lied about being 59 and when I said I rarely lie and never on a bio she said “Well you look older than that!” The next jewel out of her mouth was a question about my mouth. She asked me if I had a stroke because I spoke differently. I told her it was not a stroke but a birth defect. I was born with Moebius Syndrome which unfortunately for me meant that only one side of my tongue worked properly. She then said that just because my mouth looked weird didn’t mean that I was not attractive, in fact she was extremely attracted to me.

While it is lovely to be appreciated, this conversation was beginning to overwhelm, so I told her that it was lovely meeting her but she must blow out her torch as her time on my island had come to a close.

And so my friends, these hopeful lesbionic bunny tales have come to an end for now.

 

Happy trails to you…..

 

 

 

 

The Lesbian Chronicles 22: Mother’s Day — May 9, 2016

The Lesbian Chronicles 22: Mother’s Day

Mother’s Day. Despite the commercial cheesiness; most mothers look forward to ‘their’ day.  If their child is in grade school,  Mums can look forward to macaroni necklaces and homemade cards shiny with glitter and glue.

I know that I certainly did. I was so pleased with my daughter Victoria’s homemade presents that even I; who bow to the Spare Queen; have kept one Mother’s Day gift that  Victoria made out of popsicle sticks. It is raft with a heart shaped flag with the letters M and V written on the heart . The raft lies on the top of my dresser drawer, along with my dog Gucci’s ashes and a tiny statue of Mary that is supposed to be filled with sacred water of Lourdes that I had bought from The National Enquirer over twenty years ago. The water has long dried up but I keep it still, because my belief in the redemptive powers of Mary is stronger than my more than niggling doubt that this Mary was actually made with tap water in the someone’s basement in Cincinnati.

As Victoria got older there was no one to help her buy a present for me; no willing girlfriend to pick up the gift slack; certainly not my own mother who consistently used this day for her divisive ways. It would have been easy for my mother to help Victoria  buy something special for me; but in my mother’s mind, the only mother that needed gifting was her. Perhaps a different child would have persevered and made a homemade card; but I imagine that for Victoria the lack of familial support was so painful she just decided to not participate at all.

The year Victoria turned 10 I met the charismatic Jane. Victoria; who was nonplussed at best that I was gay; told me how thrilled she was that I was a lesbian because now Jane was in her life. Jane was brash and bold and larger than life. She helped Victoria to plan really wonderful Mother’s Day brunch’s that made my heart sing. ( In case you are wondering my heart sang Bach Concerto for 2 Violins, my absolute favourite piece of music.)

Sadly our years with Jane came to an abrupt end one cold Christmas Eve; and we were back to just us two; once again. Each subsequent Mother’s Day I led with my fear. I would start to harass Victoria, lightly at first and then as the day got closer; more and more intensely.

” Victoria, it’s Mother’s Day next week , what are you doing for me?

“Victoria, it’s Mother’s Day tomorrow!! What are we doing? Should I make a reservation at The Four Seasons? ”

As you can see, I would always be driving the machine. Exhausting work, but I couldn’t pry myself from the wheel.

Of course I blame myself for being not a good enough mother for Victoria, for why else couldn’t she show up for me on my day ? I think back on our years together and I rest on a meeting we had with her art therapist. Victoria was ten years old at the time and was having a particularly difficult time at school so I decided to take her to an art therapist where she could feel free to share her feelings in a more relaxed atmosphere.

Up until this meeting I was under the impression that things were pretty great between my daughter and myself; so it was a huge shock when Victoria told me during a family therapy session, that she did not like me. She did not like how I dressed or what I did for a living or anything about me. I really did not know what to do with that information. So I buried it in the dessert along with my pain at not having a partner to share this information with and to work through this together as a family.

I did the only thing that was available to me at the time. I tried harder to please;  and in trying so hard to make my daughter happy; I lost my sense of self as I was so desperate to have her love me. I know that this just made Victoria recoil even more, but I did not know what else to do. I felt all alone and without agency. I did not have any family to turn to for help and guidance.

I decided to return to therapy myself, for myself. I found out that I needed to give Victoria the space she needed to just be. I began to nurture my own abandoned inner child, and spoke to her every day.( I still do.) I promised myself that I would breathe through my fear and let myself feel the pain of giving up my dream of Victoria and I sipping tea and watching Young and Restless and be in reality.

Guess what? Reality sucks. But the alternative sucks way more. So much more.

Last week was not a fun week for me, hoping that Victoria would finally write or phone to ask me out for brunch. As the week came to a close I became more and more panicked , but held on tight to my resolve to do the right thing; for Victoria and for myself.

Finally Sunday morning arrived with no fanfare and to distract myself I took my puppy Lucille to the beach. Watching Lucille play in the water was just the tonic needed. The bracing wind seemed to lift my panic away and I felt; if not completely calm; then at least not crazed.

As Lucille and I walked back to my car, I heard a ping. It was a text from Victoria.

Happy Mother’s Day. I love you lots! ❤

 

Baby steps. Baby steps.

 

 

 

 

The Lesbian Chronicles 21: Queen Of The Fucked — May 2, 2016

The Lesbian Chronicles 21: Queen Of The Fucked

I was in Montreal for weekend and met up with my two oldest friends for Sunday brunch . Since we are Hebes; we begin meal not with wine, but with whining. We were talking about our upcoming annual vacation to South Beach  and our subsequent food  and sun fest.  Marla spoke first and said she would probably be eating way too much; Sarah said something similar and I; allowing my competitive spirit to kick in announced that I have been bingeing with food since I was fourteen and would enjoy more of the same for the duration of my holiday. I had never shared my out of control eating with these girls, but my competitive spirit kicked in and my secret shame became something  here I could be proud of. 


Last night   after watching the  première season 12 of Keeping Up With The Kardashians (yes, I am a fan!) I lit some candles and sat in contemplation.

 I asked myself this question.

Do I really want to be Queen of the Fucked?

And the answer was — While being Queen of anything has a certain soigne charm; I  need to re-prioritize.  I shall begin today to make food my fuel; and not my friend. I have struggled  with eating mindfully and I have been wavering lately in my desire to be whole and healthy.

I  feel so much better when I am eating mindfully and healthily. I have been wanting to go to this yoga class for seniors that meets every Monday for months now; but not even the luminous white haired teacher has been incentive enough. I have to reprioritise and try to drag my round and resistant bum to that class today. I need to stop feeling sorry for myself and then stop turning to food for comfort.

I have always felt as if I have won the trifecta of the damned. Born disabled to dysfunctional parents  with the added bonus of a mean spirited sister; I have felt entitled to my addiction; food was my reward and my protection for if I eat myself into a stupor I don’t have to feel.anything.ever.

The nature of my disability affected my tongue and mouth. I was born without the ability to suck; the nurses had to feed me out of a dropper. I literally could not take in nourishment. My ADHD mother checked out early on and left me first in the hospital and then with a series of nanny/nurses. By the time I was 6 months old I was out of the hospital and able to eat normally but my driver to eat as if my life depended on it has never left me.

Food has always been my drug of choice; my best friend, lover , sister and mother all. Food has never hurt me, never ridiculed me and never left me alone. For over forty years food has been my go to for every feeling; happy – sad – glad – mad – alone – terrified. I am so much better than I used to be  back when I would binge all day until 11:59 that evening because I knew, I just knew that tomorrow would be another day and I would stop hurting myself and could begin again.

For the most part I do eat mindfully, trying my best to cut back on sugars/fats/soft drinks; and I say to myself “Katharine, you got this!” and I let myself feel proud of where I have come from. Sadly these moments, days and sometimes weeks where I am aligned body/mind/spirit always come to an abrupt end. First of all ; I must eat; everyone must eat; so I can not for example; just say no to food; or I will die. Secondly, while I am doing my best to be with my feelings and just allow them to pass through my body; sometimes the pain becomes too much and I collapse into the pure relief of overeating .

My dining room table is now clean, for most of my adult life was table was filled with bags of chips,  opened cans of peas or corn, half eaten bowls of cereal along with books and magazines; because I could never just eat the food; I always had to read as I ate. I try now, to be present with my food, to be grateful that I have ‘Made It Through The Rain’, to quote Barry Manilow.

I am trying really hard to relinquish my crown, but this is so hard for me to do because even though I am Queen of the Fucked; I am still Queen of Something; which is still sounds better than the alternative; Queen of Nothing. Perhaps I can be the Princess of Love, what a wonderful place that would be to live and to reign.

Right now this Princess getting off her duff and off to  yoga class. I’ll be taking my crown with me for support!

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