I’m certain every woman has a story about an “interesting” date or experience with a man. Here’s one of mine that I thought would be fun to share. I’d love to know your story.
His Former Mistress
Virginia A. Simpson
He approached me as I waited for the service department to bring me my car. I don’t remember his name. It happened long ago. I was 30, which also was a long time ago. He wasn’t classically handsome. He was sophisticated, blond, and I assumed in his late 40s. Having recently ended a relationship with a much older man, late 40s didn’t seem too old.
He spoke with an accent. He wore a light suit. He was impeccable, the ideal image of an upper class European gentleman.
He invited me to join him for lunch the next day at Jimmy’s. More interested in seeing Jimmy’s, the hottest new Century City restaurant, I agreed.
Jimmy’s was elegant. We sat at a table for two in the middle of the restaurant. I learned a valuable lesson. Never order cracked crab on a first date or when you’re wearing a silk blouse. Impossible to eat with finesse and, as was typical for me and silk, impossible not to stain.
The gentleman was brilliant; the conversation stimulating. I had never been mentally challenged to this degree and found him both invigorating and intriguing. Our conversation was mental volleyball. I liked stretching to stay alert and keep those intellectual muscles flexible and strong.
We agreed to go out the following week on a Tuesday evening. I gave him my phone number.
About an hour before we were scheduled to meet, my phone rang. It wasn’t him but an officious sounding assistant. I was in the kitchen tethered to the black cord (this was long before cordless or cell phones), my movement restricted to pacing back and forth between the refrigerator and sink like a caged panther. I ignored the twist and turn warning of my stomach trying to tell me to cancel the date. I disregarded the off-putting nature of the call with the demands and attitude—the arrogance behind the words—and agreed to be ready at the allotted time.
He took me to The Bistro Gardens, a charming restaurant in Beverly Hills, another place I’d always wanted to go. We sat next to each other at a small table for two, which allowed us an unobstructed view of the dimly lit dining room.
The first red flag arrived soon after we ordered our drinks. “How old do you think I am?”
I shifted in my seat. “Forty-seven?”
“I’m in my sixties.”
Oh, geez, not another man 30 plus years older than me. Ever polite, I responded, “No, you can’t be that old.”
He reached into his interior suit pocket, pulled out his driver’s license, and put it in my hand. Sixty-three!
“What’s your secret? How do you stay looking so young?” Who doesn’t want the answer to the Fountain of Youth?
He said something about being Swedish and getting shots of sheep urine or something equally disgusting when he went back to his country.
Before I could catch my breath, red flag number two. “When we were at Jimmy’s my friend saw you and said you looked just like Paula, my former mistress.”
My muscles tightened but I maintained control over my facial expression. He didn’t wait for my response.
“You know, Ver-geen-ya, you have a rough sophistication, which I’d like to help you smooth out. I can set you up in apartment and we’ll travel all over the world.”
I thanked him and declined the offer. Ever the good little girl and wanting more of the mental stimulation I’d experienced at lunch, I told him I wouldn’t mind if we were friends and saw each other on that basis.
I thought he agreed since we went ahead, ordered and ate dinner, had dessert, and then he drove me home.
Because of my naiveté and belief that it was the polite thing to do, I invited him in for coffee when we arrived at my front door.
While we were seated on my loveseat, the only piece of furniture in my living room, I reached over to my right to pick up Time magazine to share an interesting article I’d read. When I turned back, there he was. There he was! Penis pulled out, rubbing his shaft up and down.
In an unrecognizably high cartoon voice, I heard myself squeak, “Can you put that back?”
“Veer-geen-ya . . . look what you do to me,” he said each word timed to the movement of his hand.
“I didn’t . . . I don’t do anything!” I jumped off the couch. “You need to leave.”
He tucked everything back where it belonged and headed to the front door. Once he was the outside, he turned towards me. “Will you go out with me again?”
“I don’t know…I don’t know,” I stammered, focused only on getting him to leave.
“Well, make up your mind. It’s now or never.”
I found my voice. “It’s never,” and with those words, I slammed the door.
It wasn’t until I called my girlfriend and told her what had happened that I realized I had been in a dangerous situation and was lucky to have gotten out unscathed.
And that, my friends, is my most interesting date.
I don’t recall his name. His former mistress was Paula.
A Father’s Story of Love
Robert R. Burdt
There’s a hole in my heart and a wondering that will never leave, and yet, I have had a great life.
His name was Brandon, and he was my son, my first child, the one who made me a father. This was his first gift.
Brandon died on Good Friday, April 13th. He never lived to see age two. His birth was the happiest day of my life, and every day for the first six months, my heart expanded daily as I watched this sweet, good-natured baby smile and blossom.
With little warning, everything changed and when we took him to the doctor, we learned he had an incurable heart defect. My joy turned to fear and a sadness more profound than I’d ever known or could have imagined. As I fought to save my son’s life and make every day of his life the best it could be, I also discovered a courage within myself I didn’t know existed. That was Brandon’s second gift.
We never gave up trying to save his life. Brandon spent the days, weeks, and months prior to his death in and out of Children’s Hospital in Oakland, California. When he was home, we had to drain the fluids from his lungs every four hours to keep him comfortable. I experienced every grimace of pain with him. Those times when he felt well, his contagious smiles and giggles brightened my days. This was his third gift: he taught me that when life is going well, celebrate and don’t hang on to yesterday’s pain. Maybe his real lesson was that pain teaches us to celebrate any chance we have to experience happiness.
Brandon died thirty-seven years ago and as I write this, my body shudders as it recalls those days and nights I spent helplessly watching my baby suffer as his life was being stolen. Until Brandon became ill and died, I had never experienced grief. Grief was just a word, something that happened to other people. Once he was gone, my grief felt like I lived in a barren forest destroyed by fire. No beauty to be seen no matter where I looked—just total, unrelenting devastation. Being a man, I was expected to stay strong, and while I could pretend to anyone looking from the outside, inside I was a shadow of the man I’d been.
When Brandon was undergoing treatment at Children’s Hospital, my wife and I didn’t want him to be alone, so one of us was always there. The hospital had no accommodations for us or other parents, so I would spend each night sleeping under his crib so I could remain close to him. Unfortunately, for reasons known only to them, many parents I met were unable stay with their children.
Although my grief was all-consuming, I believed Brandon’s life had to have meaning beyond the still unimaginable fact that he was gone. I got together with a few other parents I’d met when we were at the hospital and together we decided to raise money for a home so that parents would have a place to stay close by. There were many fundraisers, and meetings with hospital executives and local businesses. Getting involved and knowing I was doing something to help others helped me cope with my grief. My forest was devastated but I began to see new trees and flowers and hear the birds singing. This was Brandon’s fourth gift: he added meaning and purpose to my life and to the lives of many others.
Brandon gave me the gift of fatherhood and love, and his courage enabled me to reach out to others, knowing it was more important to do something which would honor Brandon’s life rather than sink down forever in a hole. I wanted the joy of his life to mean more than the pain of his loss. Brandon lived and because he did, I learned to celebrate life whenever there’s an opportunity, and to be a better father to my two sons who never knew their older brother.
I will always miss Brandon, but because of him, I learned compassion, love, and how to listen to others when they are hurting without having a need to fix, judge, or change. That was his fifth gift: he made me a better man, husband, father, and friend.
These were Brandon’s lasting gifts: Live with joy, laugh often, be kind, show compassion, focus on what’s good, love with all your heart, and celebrate life as often as possible.
Neither a borrower nor a lender be ~ William Shakespeare
First and foremost, I want to say how much I appreciate everyone who has read, liked, and reviewed The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life.
Early on, as a newly published author, I felt humbled and honored when people told me they loved my book so much that they’d lent it to a friend.
A year later, my reaction has changed and I’d like to tell you why.
Do you know what authors get out of you loaning your copy of our book to your friend? The answer is this: We get nothing.
For the most part, the person you lent the book to never lets us know how they felt about our book and never writes a review on Amazon, Goodreads, Barnes & Noble, or their blog.
Financially, we earn nothing from that loaned book.
Please keep in mind that writers have a lot invested in their book in terms of time and money. And the only way we are able to recoup some of our outlay is by book sales.
While we authors appreciate your good intentions in loaning our book to your friends, please understand that this is our business and we prefer you not give our work away.
That is, unless you plan to send it to Oprah Winfrey or someone of equal fame, and then, by all means, please do send your copy. I’ll be happy to reimburse you for the shipping costs.
At the rising sun and at its going down; We remember them.
At the blowing of the wind and in the chill of winter; We remember them.
At the opening of the buds and in the rebirth of spring; We remember them.
At the blueness of the skies and in the warmth of summer; We remember them.
At the rustling of the leaves and in the beauty of the autumn; We remember them.
At the beginning of the year and when it ends; We remember them.
As long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as We remember them.
When we are weary and in need of strength; We remember them.
When we are lost and sick at heart; We remember them.
When we have decisions that are difficult to make; We remember them.
When we have joy we crave to share; We remember them.
When we have achievements that are based on theirs; We remember them.
For as long as we live, they too will live, for they are now a part of us as, We remember them.
A few weeks ago, I wrote about being a finalist in three writing contests.
Today, I am proud and excited to announce that The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life WON the following awards:
2016 May Sarton Women’s Book Award for Memoir
2016/2017 Reader’s Views Reviewers Choice Award Regional Best from West Pacific, and First Place Memoir/Autobiography/Biography
(I won’t know the results of the third contest for a few more weeks)
Winning—being a winner—feels great.
At first, I said, “I’ve never won anything before.” I then began to ponder winning and realized I’ve always been a winner. Here are a few examples of how:
- I’ve won every morning I am privileged to awaken to a new day
- I’ve won each morning when the sound of my husband’s breath lets me know he’s still with me to share another day
- I’ve won when Shelby, my Golden Retriever, stretches into a new morning and gifts me with a tail wagging hello
- I’ve won every moment I continue to have the gift of sight
- I’ve won each day I can hear, especially music or the sound of my husband’s voice telling me he loves me
- I’ve won because my legs are able to walk and carry me wherever I’ve wanted to go
- I’ve won because I am still curious and able to learn
- I’ve won because I live in a home with indoor plumbing, a roof over my head, and food to eat so I never have to go hungry
- I’ve won because I’ve survived 100% of every painful challenge life has thrown my way and managed to learn and grow from each one
- I’ve won because I have great friends who’ve spanned every decade of my life, some for as long as sixty plus years
- I’ve won every year the people I love have stayed alive
- I’ve won because fear didn’t stop me from accomplishing the one thing I always said I wanted to do—write a book
- And, of all the things I’ve won and continue to win, I’m most proud of this: I learned how to love and how to be loved.
Yes, today I am a winner, but I always have been and always will be as long as I remain mindful of what and who I have to be thankful for.
And so, in honor of winning, I invite YOU to take the time to write down all the ways you’ve won and continue to win.
I’ve watched the Academy Awards since I was a little girl, and for the past few years the Golden Globes. I’d hear the actors and actresses in advance of the program say, “It’s just an honor to be nominated.”
Now I know the truth.
I’m currently a Finalist awaiting the results in three awards contests: May Sarton Women’s Book Awards, The Northern California Publishers & Authors Book Awards, and the Reader Views Annual Literary Awards for 2016-2017.
Each time I received notice that The Space Between: A Memoir of Mother-Daughter Love at the End of Life had made it to the finals, my initial reaction was happiness. Then my mind immediately raced to winning. No matter how many times I’d say to myself, “It’s just an honor to be nominated,” I’d hear my little girl shy voice add with a gleam in her eyes and a cockeyed grin, “But I really want to win.”‘
I’m grateful that when I find out whether I’ve won or am destined to forever be a finalist, no cameras will be watching to capture my reaction. I’m not an actress nor am I good at pretending — and I actually don’t care to pretend at this stage of my life. I’m uncertain whether I would be able to graciously applaud and smile for the person who stole my award — I mean, the person who was fortunate to be declared the winner.
Wish me luck!