Kristine Holmgren - Your Favorite Minnesota Writer
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Chapter 4

10/19/2009

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Never date a man who
asks you to touch
a body part - any body part!



He asked me to meet him at the California Cafe at the Mall of America; my favorite restaurant.

"I hope you don't mind if I insist on buying your dinner," he said.  "I want to make a good first impression.  Will you let me make a good first impression?"

His name was Randy, and the impression thus far was fabulous.

Randy was a retired Vice President from Cargill; a former basketball center from the University of
Michigan and, if true to his emails, a bit of a poet.

Picture
"Tell me what you need from me,
Tell me what to do,
Tell me when your heart is free,
Let me come to you."

That kind of thing.

His profile on Match.Com was brief - Randy wasn't looking for a date, he said.  He was looking for me; a single woman who understands how important it is to be in a real friendship with a good man.

And I was ready.  After three years of accidental meetings with closeted married men, disastrous coffee dates, brunches and dead-end happy hour rendezvous, I no longer wanted anything to do with the dating scene.

No more dates.  I knew what I wanted.  One man.  Perhaps Randy.

"Don't bother trying to charm me," I told him when he phoned. "I don't care about charm.  I want to get on with this thing."

"I'm with you," he said.  "I hate getting acquainted.  I want to know someone.  And if I don't know her, I want to pretend I know her and get to know her while I'm pretending."

It seemed like an ideal arrangement - a man who was ready to fake what I was eager to receive. 

We agreed to meet on
a Wednesday after work.

Of course, we had not yet laid eyes on each other.  Neither one of us knew what the other would look like.

He told me he would wear a sport coat and tie. I laughed and said he would stick out like sore thumb at the Mall. 

I told him I'd wear my new white cotton sundress to match his elegance. 

"Speaking of thumbs," he said, "remind you to tell you about my hands."

It was an odd statement and I ignored it.  Big, big mistake.
  


Picture
Randy was a beefy man, tall and straight in the cafe chair at the California. Bald, with large, thick glasses, he smiled as I sat across from him.

"You're yummy," he licked his lips and I winced. 

"That's a little on the rude side, Randy," I said as I straightened my skirt across my thighs and cleared my throat.

"Oh, sorry," his earnest eyes caught mine. "It's just that you're better looking than I thought you would be.  A little obnoxious, huh?"

I nodded and motioned for the waiter.

"So, what can I say to fix this?  I mean, here I go, screwing this whole thing up at the get-go."

I assured him he was fine, and I suggested we look at the menu. Was he going to buy me a glass of wine?  He nodded.  Of course, he said.  Of course.

"But all that aside," Randy leaned across the table, "you have to know I think you're a babe.  Tell me, what would it take for a woman like you to go out again with a bum like me?"

I suggested he was way ahead of himself.  I tapped the menu and suggested he pick something for dinner.

He looked at the menu cover, never opened it and looked into my eyes.

"You haven't asked about my hands.  Want to see my hands?"he whispered.

"Why would I want to see your hands?" I asked.

"Not see them, I guess," he said.  "Stab them. Want to stab my hands?"

"Stab them?" I slid my napkin to my lap and found the seat of the cafe chair and took hold.  Something solid, under me, for support.

"Yeah," Randy grinned.  "Most women don't believe me when I tell them about my hands."

I was afraid to ask, but of course I did.

And so he told me. 

He fell, he said, two years prior.  On a basketball court, trying to block an opponent during a pick-up game at Linwood Park.

"When I awoke," he said,"I was at St. Mary's in Rochester.  The Mayo Clinic."

Paralyzed at the extremities, Randy entered rehabilitation where he worked for three months to regain use of his arms and legs.

"Can you walk?" I asked.  I glanced around the restaurant, expecting a wheel chair, tucked away,  hidden from immediate view.

"You bet," he said.  "And I can use my hands and feet like anyone else.  Except for one thing."

The waiter approached with two large glasses of water. Thankful for his bright-eyed, friendly presence, I ordered a glass of pinot grigio and held my breath.

"What one thing?" I asked.

"I have no feeling in my hands.  Nothing."

His hands lay on the table, flat and large like two flesh-colored pork chops.

"That's too bad."  I said.

"So," he smiled, "you want to stab one?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Stab one. To prove I can't feel anything."

I declined, downed the glass of water and eyed the exit.

"I'm serious," he said.  "You can if you want."

I waved for the waiter.

"Okay," Randy laughed, "that's okay.  If you don't want, I'll do it for you."  He reached for his silverware, rolled in a linen napkin on our table.

"That won't be necessary, Randy." In my peripheral vision I saw our waiter approach, sensing my anxiety.

"No.  I want to.  Watch this," Randy picked up his fork with his right hand and flattened his left on the table of the California Cafe. 

He lifted the fork over his head like a mad ripper, prongs aimed for a brief moment at me, and then at his other hand.

In one swift, uninterrupted lurch, Randy stabbed his left hand; the blood spurted across the table cloth.  I think I screamed.

"Are you okay?" our waiter rushed to his side.

"Okay? Hell, I'm terrific!" Randy waved his blood-gushing hand into the air, swinging his red cells over my wine glass, my dress, my dinner plate and the white linen of the California Cafe's table.

The waiter's face lost color and I thought he might faint.

 "Oh, my goodness, my goodness," he mopped the blood with his apron. When it was soaked in red, he used the towel across his arm. Randy continued to bleed and laugh.

"Do need any help?  Anything. . . ?" I watched the waiter's young face twist in horror as blood flowed, unclotted, from Randy's left hand.

"Hey, I don't need nothing.  Only one thing, young man." Randy announced. "All I need is love!"

He looked into my eyes and winked.

I stood, reached for my purse, and took the young, pale waiter's arm. 

"Walk me to Bloomingdales," I whispered.  "My car's in the lot.  Please walk me to Bloomingdales."

The stunned waiter took my arm and together we walked away from the California Cafe, from Randy and the gore of that Wednesday afternoon.

The young man did not leave me at the door of the parking lot.  Instead, he escorted me to my Volkswagen Beetle, opened my door, and deposited me inside.

"Lady," his voice trembled, "I thought I'd seen it all . . ."
 
"You haven't seen anything," I assured him, "until you try dating after fifty." 

The ride home took over forty minutes in rush hour.  Two drops of hot-red blood stained my fresh, white summer dress. 

It slid off my shoulders and over my hips for the last time.  Stuffed into the garbage, I sent it packing along with Randy's telephone number and his poetry.

Another close call
.

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Chapter 3

10/12/2009

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Never trust a man over fifty
who wears a mullett


Picture
My children were in their early teens when I started dating.  I waited until the divorce was final for a year, and met Dave on Match.Com.

He combed his hair so it presented an odd fashion statement; the back grown out  six, seven inches longer than the front. 
Balding on top, thinning on the bottom, Dave's hair-do looked a bit like a toilet seat with the lid up.

If Dave had a little less gray and a little more hair, a person might have thought he was trying to emulate Little Joe Cartwright from the early years of the television program, Bonanza.

But Dave was no Michael Landon and we were not living in the 1970's.

Still, underneath the bad hair cut, Dave seemed to me to be a decent, honest fellow. And in those early days following my divorce, I wasn't asking for much more than what he offered. 

He made me a little nervous, however.  From the first date  Dave wanted to marry me.

He loved my cooking, he said.  He thought my kids were terrific.  I raised them, he offered, with the right values, the right approach to being female.  Dave was raised by a single mother and knew, he said, how hard it could be.  

"A lot of women fall apart," he told me. "Drink, do drugs, sex around.  But not you.  You're a terrific woman, Kristine."

No one else called me terrific.  When Dave asked me to the movies week after week, I said yes. 

The more I saw him, the more he talked about marriage.  The more he talked about it, the more I thought marrying him might be a logical solution to my loneliness and impending poverty.

Looking back, I can see how I slid into a relationship with him. Dave was a generous, loving man in basic, caring ways.

When my oldest daughter wanted to visit colleges on the east coast, Dave passed me a credit card and said, "go for it." 

Whenever he visited, Dave bought three, four bags of groceries. When he said good-bye at the door, I always knew that I would find a fifty dollar bill stuffed in my cookie jar for an "ice cream cone with the kids."

And he was kind.  He called each day to check on events at my work, followed up when he knew I had a worry or concern about my children or my home.

I guess that's why I believed him when he said he loved me. I loved being "the sweetest woman in the world." 

Even so, something held me back.  Dave was different from all the other men in my life.  Nothing about him was familiar.  My former husband was elegant, educated and refined. 

Dave faced challenges in those areas.

To start, there was his nasty reoccurring problem with ring-worm.  When his skin wasn't infested with the grubby nibbling parasite, Dave struggled with some weird, invasive brand of body acne.  These unfortunate circumstances put the skids on any discussion of romance.  Worms, disease and his chronic halitosis insured our physical relationship was limited to warm handshakes and an occasional wink at the front door. 

He had an odd living arrangement too.   Dave shared a place with Frank and Jane, two old friends from high school.  Frank and Jane had big hearts.  Stray friends roamed their apartment and so did stray animals. Dave lived in the middle of all of it.  His mullet and beard often smelled of rancid kitty litter and fresh, warm dog dung.

Any one of these horrendous shortcomings would be, to a  rational woman, a reason to dump poor, parasite-laden Dave and call it even.  Why then, did I continue to spend time with him?  Did I consider this a serious relationship?  And if I wasn't serious about Dave, what was I doing?

Sometimes, when I was alone with my thoughts, I struggled with my ambivalence.  Sure, Dave was a little rough on the outside.  But underneath the repelling body odor, his  addiction to fresh, violent tattoos and the missing index finger on his right hand, I saw a good, good man.

When I admitted this to Frank and Jane, they affirmed my judgment.  Dave needed me, they said.  His former wife, was notorious in her neglect of the poor guy.

All he needed, they assured me, was a loving, good woman.  Someone to show him a new path.  My good housekeeping, my excellent mothering, and my terrific social skills would be Dave's ticket to ride.  Sheltered by my affection he would shed the toe fungus, trim his thick nose hair and perhaps learn to shower.


My children?  They hated him.

"Something fishy about a man who wears a mullet," my youngest said.  "Check it out, mom.  The guy combs his hair like some kind of retro biker, for crying out loud."

"You can't take him seriously," my older daughter accused.  "I mean, what if I brought home a guy who looks like that?  Get real..."

I tried to assuage their complaints, but I couldn't.  I too wondered about the weird hair, the tee-shirts ripped at the shoulders, the goatee placed at the center of his chin. I never understood why, when we went to dinner at The Lavender Inn,  he wore steel chains around his ankles; some sort of Jail-Bird chic, I assumed. 

But a lonely, divorced mother of two, trapped in a small Minnesota town can make some odd choices. 

And so I chose to continue to see Dave.

The weeks turned into months.  We celebrated our six month, one year, eighteen month anniversaries. 

When New Year's Eve arrived, I knew we faced a critical point in our relationship.

My daughters watched with disdain as I dressed that  night for dinner and dancing at the Castle Rock Supper Club.

"He's not going to ask you to marry him, is he?" my youngest asked.

"And if he does, you're not going to marry this guy, are you?" her sister sat on my bed and hugged my bed pillow in despair.

Nice-enough guy, I thought.  Good to me.  Good to my kids, in a odd, nice-enough-guy way. 

But would I marry him?

"I don't know," I said as I wrapped my shoulders in my cashmere shawl and touched-up my lipstick."Wouldn't our lives be easier if we had a big, strong man around here to help out?"

"Good lord, no!" my baby said.  "And let's get clear here, right here and now."  My children circled as I mascaraed my right eye one more time. "You marry. this mullet-head, and we're moving in with daddy."

"Oh, my darlings" I assured them both. "I won't marry anyone without your approval."

My daughters sighed and closed in for a hug. 

They loved me, they said.  They wanted the best for me, they assured.  They knew, they proclaimed, that this guy was bad-cheese. 

"Don't let him seduce you," my oldest said. "Give yourself the same advise you give me.  Watch out for this guy."

At the restaurant, Dave ordered a round of stiff, hard, cold martinis and stared at me, love-sick and terrified.

"I have something to tell you," he said. His hand trembled as he held the martini glass.

"I know," I sipped the strong drink and felt my feet tingle.

"You know?"  he asked.  "How could you know?"

"Well," I fluttered the mascara, "I've been paying attention.  I know what's been going on here."

"You do?"  Dave took a long drink of his martini.  "Did Frank tell you?"

"I don't need to hear this from your friends," I said.  "I knew it all along." 

I reached for his hand, certain the diamond ring was somewhere;  dangling on his pinkie perhaps, lurking in his shirt pocket; perhaps all ready slipped into my martini glass when my eyes were averted.

"If it makes it easier, I know what you're going to tell me," I smiled.

"You do?"

"Yes," I glanced at the gin, searching for something shiny.

"Well then, I'll just say it," he cleared his throat.  "I'm married."

"There,"  I said, not missing a beat as I pulled back my hand.  Something in my chest turned cold. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

"No," he said, relieved.  "Thank God that's in the open."

"So, tell me everything," I finished the martini in one gulp.

"I didn't mean this to go so far," he stammered.  "I mean, I was just fooling around on Match.Com, you know?  I didn't ever expect to meet someone classy like you.  You're the best, Kristine.  The best.  I mean, you're the real deal."

"Thank you," I said, and felt my hands begin to shake.  "What about Frank?  Jane?  What about them?"

"They went along with this," he said, "because they like you too.  We all think you're great.  And hey, I'm going to leave her.  I am.  I really am."

I rose from the table, picked up my purse, shawl and cell phone.

"Will you excuse me?"

In the bathroom of the Castle Rock Supper Club, I looked long and hard at the woman in the mirror.

"Kristine," I said, "what in heaven's name were you thinking?  The man wears a mullet, for God's sake." 

Within minutes, my daughters were at the back door of the bar; my waitress standing guard in case Dave discovered my exit. 

My oldest held my hand and the baby patted my knee as we drove the pick-up truck down back roads to our house.

"You'll be fine," my youngest said.  "Chalk it up to another lesson learned."

The hard way.



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    Leaves From the Notebook of a True Romantic



    I hope you enjoy these true stories, based on my dating experiences as a romantic, older woman. 

    This collection has a publication goal of 2010.  Let me know what you think!

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