Rarely having the disposable income to hire it done has certainly contributed to the condition. In New York City there are people willing to do just about anything you don’t prefer to do–for a fee, of course.

Want a lightly toasted bagel and coffee delivered precisely ten minutes before you head to work in the morning? No problem.

Don’t want to carry groceries? Easy fix. All stores deliver.

It’s raining and your dog needs to go outside? Relax and let a dog walker wear the slicker.

I don’t indulge in the many conveniences living here offers and sometimes gripe about what a pain in the ass it is to reside in a crowded city while doing everything for yourself. Especially as I lug a new vacuum ten blocks from Bed Bath and Beyond to my apartment.

Last week I helped a friend empty her storage unit. She rented it seven years ago and the stuff had been inside, undisturbed, for all that time. Everything is crazy expensive in the city and storage units are no exception. Like most Manhattanites, she looked for ways to cut costs and paying to store forgotten possessions was a logical thing to chop. I told her if we could do it in three hours I was available as I had plans early that night (more on that later). We headed to Manhattan Mini Storage and got busy. I created three piles: Garbage, Sell, and Keep. Once finished she thanked me and commented on my physical strength as I lifted heavy boxes and suitcases from an upper level unit that required standing on a ladder and reaching inside. I am strong and I attribute that to my father. Being a girl never got me a manual labor pass. If something substantial had to be hoisted or carried I was expected to grab a side and go, without hesitation. Whining was never an option and I longed for gender discrimination at home (“Girls can’t do that!”). But since my dad did the grocery shopping and cooking along with the heavy lifting, the Equal Rights Amendment reached ratification in 1972 in one tract home on McKinley Avenue.

On Saturday I went to Home Depot. Just the scent of a hardware store makes me happy and there’s nothing I love more than walking the aisles while in my mind creating the next home improvement project I’d like to tackle. Many are just pipedreams—the result of living in a rental apartment where management might get testy if I walked in with the bathtub of my dreams and a sledgehammer.

Still, I’m considering sneaking in some glass tile and grout for a backsplash in my kitchen. I’ve watched several “how to” videos on YouTube and I think I can do it. Saturday I was there to buy containers and several bags of potting soil.

On the weekend there’s a man who sets up a stand near my street on Broadway. He sells deeply discounted flowers and plants that have seen better days. I have a suspicion he gets his wares from the dumpsters of florists. I call him Dead Flower Guy and snicker when I see people actually paying for those wilted bouquets. I turned into one of those fools on Saturday when I noticed two (not too dead) azalea plants. The price was right and I bought them. My daughter Morgan brought the car to the 3^rd Avenue Home Depot and we loaded the bags of soil and pots inside—she helped bring them into my building, too. Pedro (doorman extraordinaire) jumped up to give us a hand as he always does. “You two are always dragging in something heavy,” he said, laughing.

I planted the azaleas on Sunday afternoon. It was a beautiful day and it felt good to be in the sunshine on the terrace up to my elbows in dirt.

It was also a bit lonely.

I longed for someone to share in the toiling as well as the moment where one stands back and admires the accomplishment.

Not just any man. THE man. 

Last Friday night I squeezed into shape wear and met a single girlfriend for drinks. Our goal was to find a happy hour spot where age appropriate single men gather. We started at Milos and went to another place nearby, but had no luck.

If anyone knows where men of a certain age gather after work in Manhattan, please share the love.

I haven’t been on a date since ending my year of online dating. As much as I enjoyed blogging about the experiences, one awful meeting after another took its toll. It has taken several months to consider dating again and that might explain gaining seven pounds. When I took myself off the market I was no longer competing with the plethora of walking x-rays who inhabit this city. OK, I’m a little jealous of their ability to survive each day eating only a carrot and I’ve decided to forgo Levain cookies and Empire’s snack cakes until I’m comfortable parading around my apartment in the nude with the blinds open.  I’m also two weeks into the Insanity 60 Day Challenge, Shaun T is still kicking my badonk, but I’ve noticed my body is starting to change.

It’s time to get back on the horse.

My life is dogma-free. You will never find me praying to God, Allah, Buddha or Jesus. I’m not even sure what I believe. I’m more comfortable sending my hopes to the ambiguous Universe. I regularly propel thoughts out there and then forget them until what I’ve asked for materializes.

Here are a couple examples:

1. The only thing I miss about my home in Las Vegas is outdoor space—a rarity in Manhattan. I threw out my request and then didn’t give it another thought. A year ago a friend was moving to Palm Springs and he owned an amazing apartment a couple of blocks away. No outdoor space but it had a washer and dryer—quite a luxury. I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to move. All that was left was approval from his apartment board. “Only a technicality,” he was told. A day later my friend called with bad news. His building was pet-friendly, but only for owners. Anyone renting an apartment couldn’t have pets. I was so disappointed but I figured something better was coming. Several months later I went with a friend to an apartment on the roof of my building.  She knew the tenant and was feeding her cats while she was away. I walked outside and admired the second apartment on the roof. The outdoor space was amazing. At that moment a woman walked outside to hang wet clothes on the railing and I yelled from across the roof, “You’re living in my dream apartment.” She replied, “We just gave notice. It’s available October 1^st.” One minute earlier or later I would’ve missed her. The Universe conspired to give me that information and I’m now living my dream. 
2. I planned to get another dog. Kate was lonely and needed a friend. What I wanted was a Norwich Terrier, but I had a problem buying a dog given the amount of rescues in need of homes. A Norwich rescue just doesn’t exist as there are a small number of breeders and they keep tight control of where the puppies go. Every new owner must sign a document that states if they can no longer care for the dog they’ll return it to the breeder. They’re also very expensive. I contacted a couple of breeders and they chuckled at my naïve request. One told me, haughtily, “The Norwich is never a rescue.” Oh, pardon me. I quit thinking about a friend for Kate and figured The Universe would lead me to the right dog. Six months later I got an email message from a breeder who was a friend of a friend. She’d heard that I was looking for a rescue and she had a dog that was purchased because the buyer wanted a dog that might be good enough for Westminster. This breeder had a “Best in Breed” at Westminster many years ago and felt that the male puppy she had could be the next. After a year of working with a handler in preparation for the show ring it was determined that the dog was too big. The then-owner asked the breeder if she could give the dog to her adult daughter. The breeder agreed. Two years later the daughter had three children under five and couldn’t give the dog the proper attention. She contacted the breeder again and asked if she could return Nigel. The breeder had heard of my desire to adopt a rescue Norwich and she reached out to me. I was a bit concerned because the dog was going to be sent back to the breeder in California and I would have to fly to California to get him. I was leaving in two days for my annual summer trip to Virginia Beach so the timing was horrible. I spoke to the breeder and told her of upcoming vacation.“Where’s the dog now?” I asked.

“In Virginia,” she replied.

“Where in Virginia?”

“Virginia Beach.”

Two days later, Nigel was mine. I can’t imagine anyone thinking that was a coincidence. Thanks, Universe.

These are just two examples of things that happen often. That’s why I don’t “muscle through” life anymore. When something was difficult, the old me would plow through the muck no matter how tough–forcing the outcome. It seemed when I pushed hardest and got what I wanted it turned into a mistake. Now I know there’s a reason it’s not easy, something better is waiting if I can let go.

On Sunday, feeling lonely as I planted here’s what I asked for:

“This time around I want a man who’s handy. Someone who won’t roll his eyes but instead roll up his sleeves when I have an idea. He’s got to be sophisticated, though, and an Irish accent wouldn’t hurt.”

I know. The accent part was over the top but when sending thoughts into the ether of no deity, one is allowed to be a greedy bitch. Plus, “wouldn’t hurt” was only a suggestion.

I picture a fifty-year-old version of Gerard Butler, comfortable with a multitude of drill bits. The kind of guy who uses a level instead of determining a picture is straight by eyeballing it. I imagine we’ll tackle the occasional project together and he’ll do most of the heavy lifting. I can see us laughing as we work and when we’re finished, he’ll put his arm around me while we admire our accomplishment. Later that evening he’ll suggest I put on something sexy since he’s made a dinner reservation at Per Se.

“Tonight you’re ordering two desserts,” he’ll say, “because you’re much too skinny.”

If you dream, dream big, right? I won’t dwell, Universe.

Work your magic.

“The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom the emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand wrapped in awe, is as good as dead —his eyes are closed. The insight into the mystery of life, coupled though it be with fear, has also given rise to religion. To know what is impenetrable to us really exists, manifesting itself as the highest wisdom and the most radiant beauty, which our dull faculties can comprehend only in their most primitive forms—this knowledge, this feeling is at the center of true religiousness.” Albert Einstein

To read an interview I gave to Kevin Ryan for Huffington Post click here.

The post The Handy Man and The Universe appeared first on Melani Robinson.

OK, “crawled” is probably the wrong word. I slowly and painfully maneuvered the streets from my apartment to doggie paradise with a stiff-legged hitch-y walk that should only be described as strange. Even Nigel was embarrassed to be seen with me.

Kate just pretended I was her dog walker. 

Was I out partying the night before with an amazing man? Did the evening end with bedroom gymnastics that wreaked havoc on my middle-aged bod?

Don’t I wish.

I haven’t been on a date since ending my year of blogging. The highlight of my weekend was buying a new sofa and these days I’m buying flowers for myself.

The reason people on the streets were looking at me oddly as I winced my way east is because I started the Insanity Workout. Yesterday was simply the fitness test portion and I can only assume, by the level of agony I’m experiencing, I failed miserably. Shaun T asked if I was ready to dig deep. “Shut up, Shaun. I’ll be lucky to scratch around the surface for forty minutes.” It took me all of sixty seconds for the perky little six pack abs chick to get on my nerves. She was all bubbly and smiley as I groaned and panted through the process. 

Insanity claims that if you do the workout for 60 days you’ll have the beach body that would normally take a year to achieve. Um, we’ll see. I’ve been gearing up for this for about a month. I even bought new shoes and I hate to spend money on footwear that won’t contribute a thing to my wardrobe.

My daughter Morgan has a couple of friends who’ve had amazing results. Granted, they’re twenty-somethings and their nimble bodies spring back much quicker. I’m well aware my lissome days are over, but do I have one more bikini body summer lurking under the aftermath of a sedentary winter?

I’ve let myself go over the last several months and the result is a seven-pound weight gain. I kept it together during my year of online dating. “Put your best ass forward,” and all that. I also had great motivation to stay on top of the weight with the appearances on The Steve Harvey Show.

All it takes is to see one television personality in the flesh to understand just how skinny one must be to appear normal. Believe me, if someone looks slightly chubby on the small screen, they’re probably in need of IV nutrition.

At one time I had a hot body and it wasn’t in my twenties, but my thirties. I’m not saying that to brag. It’s the truth.

I wore a size two and NOTHING jiggled. Sure, I worked out but it was easy back then. I’d go to the gym, lift some lighter weights, take an aerobics class a few times a week and voilà my body rocked. As I’ve said before, the thirties were my glory years for a number of reasons. It was when I discovered the woman buried under the bad marriage and (much too young) motherhood of my twenties. It didn’t hurt to have the outside package to accompany the good stuff going on beneath the surface.  

Why the hell didn’t I take nude photos?

I swear I’d have them up in my living room today. In fact, I’d probably forgo any other form of wall adornment for poster-size birthday suit pics anywhere the eye could see.

“Yeah, Time Warner cable guy, those are my lady bits right there on the wall. Give ‘em a good look.”

I took the recommended photos of my before body. It is suggested that those participating in the Insanity program download them to the site for everyone to see and so after sixty days you can get the “I’ve Earned It” t-shirt.

Are they out of their fucking minds?

If I’m showing anyone this muffin top he’d better be liquored up, buck naked and ready to tell all kinds of lies. I wouldn’t walk down a flight of stairs for a goddamn t-shirt. Maybe a spoonful of Skippy Natural Creamy with Honey, though.

BUT, I will promise you this. If I make it through the challenge AND I think my body looks reasonably acceptable in a bikini, I’ll post a photo on the blog. So far one day in and I’m ready to quit. Who knew the fat on the side of one’s knees could be so sore? Those bat wing thingamajigs at the back of my armpits, too?

UGH, aging.

This morning as I staggered back from Central Park and into the building my doorman Frank asked about my unusual gait. He’s wanted to try Insanity and quizzed me about it. I have no doubt he’ll have a much easier time than me and when I finally made it to the elevator, Frank yelled one final question my way,

“Are you sure you’re ready for all the attention you’ll have if you get that beach body?”

Now that was snicker-worthy. If I can rock a bikini for one more summer, this time around I’ll be grateful for any second glance I might receive. I’ll savor every moment because today I’m acutely aware of just how fleeting those experiences can be.

BRING IT ON, BITCHES.

“The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.” Robert Frost

The post Are You Insane? appeared first on Melani Robinson.

My father was having health issues and I’d returned to Las Vegas to spend time with him. His wife was traveling and he shouldn’t be alone.  It is a painful thing to witness the inevitable decline of a parent. The loss of dignity in the aging process sometimes feels like a kick to the stomach especially when the father has been the invincible one.

My dad’s home abuts a mesa where I used to walk my dogs every morning. It was the desert at its best—rabbits, lizards, snakes and even the occasional coyote. It’s been almost four years since I trekked through the sagebrush and stepped around the occasional abandoned mattress–dumped by someone not wanting to dispose of it properly—and it felt odd to be back.  A lot had changed. I took my dad’s elderly dog, Buffy, out for a daily walk in the “new and improved” Whitney Mesa. It’s become a park filled with paved walkways, grassy areas, picnic tables and a playground. They’ve even put up warning signs.

I’m not a fan.

It’s quite lovely and exceptionally clean but the wildness is gone.

My last visit to the mesa before leaving for New York City four years ago included the perfect sendoff. For several months prior to my departure each walk included a lone coyote. I’d see him in the distance out of the corner of my eye and then he’d disappear into the brush or his den. I’d seen many coyotes growing up in the desert, but he was the largest and his coloring was not the typical light brown, he was almost white.

It made me a little nervous but he was always a respectable distance away. Still, I took to carrying pepper spray just in case.

On that last day in late August everything changed. I found out later from one of my dad’s neighbors that he’d taken a mate and they thought there might be pups. The coyote had little fear of humans as some had been feeding him. Big mistake. This time he brazenly stalked my dogs and me. He followed about fifty yards behind us and when I stopped and turned around he would pause, as well, while boldly staring me down. I did not feel safe and I knew he probably intended to make a meal of Kate. I also had my daughter’s dog Lola, a tasty pug casserole, indeed.

As the coyote began closing the distance between us I realized that he wasn’t going to let me walk out of the mesa before making his move and the gate leading to my father’s street was too far away to make a dash for it. I also remembered what my idol Cesar Milan said. “Once you start running you become prey.”

He was about twenty yards away and I pulled the dogs closer as I whipped around and stared him down. “GET OUTTA HERE,” I yelled, stomping my feet and waving my hands while channeling Barry White’s deep voice. The coyote began barking—an eerie sound that was feral with nothing dog-like about it. It seemed to go on forever and my pack was terrified.

This is exactly what it sounded like: CLICK HERE.

That could give you nightmares, right?

Party girl Lola had her ears flat and her head low and Kate was next to me, quivering with her eyes on the predator. I continued to yell and stomp and he kept barking. The hair on the back of my neck stood up with his unnerving wail as it reverberated off the sandstone walls surrounding us.

I looked around for some sort of stick to use but there was none so I picked up a rock and hurled it in his direction. He yelped in surprise as it skidded next to him. Then he was silent. I waved my arms some more and growled, “GET GOING,” over and over as I looked around for another rock. He seemed to know I was going to throw something else. His ears flattened, his head dropped as he slowly, ever so slowly skulked away.

It was finally quiet and I think I could hear my heart pounding.

Then the clapping and cheering started.

Really, it did.

“WHOO HOO. GOOD FOR YOU. YOU DID IT.”

I hadn’t realized there was an audience. Two neighbors were in their backyard watching the standoff behind the cement block fence that bordered their home.

“He’s been getting more and more aggressive,” they shouted.

I felt sort of proud, kind of Annie Oakley-ish, but it was also confirmation that the change I was making was the right one. I wouldn’t have gone back to that mesa again with the dogs as long as the coyote was there and with the housing boom the desert had turned into one big tract home development after another, encroaching on the wildlife that was there first.

It was as if that coyote had had enough.

I respected his bravado.

The following morning I got in my car and started my cross-country drive to the Big Apple. I thought about the safety in walking Kate on the streets of Manhattan. Little did I know she’d get out one night and end up alone in Central Park where–I was shocked to learn–there have been numerous coyote sightings.

The post Where The Hell Have I Been? appeared first on Melani Robinson.

I wasn’t elated.

Now, I knew that most men I dated weren’t thrilled with the prospect of becoming blog fodder. What kind of idiot would enjoy that? But the blog had brought such joy to my life. I loved the comments from readers. Especially when my tales resonated with women. It was the reason I’d started the thing in the first place since I was looking for, and couldn’t find, a narrative that confirmed what one needs when dealing with a touch situation:

“You are not alone.”

I was over the moon when I received comments from men who read the blog and used it as a What Not To Do manifesto. When Steve told me to quit before the year was up I was annoyed. Didn’t he understand I had a loyal following?

I’d made a commitment, damnit!

“Are you making any money from the blog?” Mr. Harvey asked when he saw the look on my face. He was probably thinking: This bitch is crazy.

“No, and my year is almost up. I have two months left.”

He suggested that since I was an attractive, positive woman I should blog about that. Put those dating tales of woe behind me. Yeah, it was sage advice and it wasn’t happening.

BUT it did get me thinking.

There had to be a way to use the blog as a springboard to other things that might help me earn a living. The obvious choice was a book. I’m working on that now, but I came up with a second idea just after DatingAdvice.com named me one of the “Ten Best Online Dating Experts.”

Sheesh, that was unexpected and quite an honor.

I decided to create an online dating workshop/boot camp for men (click on the tab if you’re interested). A three hour class where twenty men are taken through the online dating process–beginning to end. A friend of mine gave it a subtitle: Making the World a Better Place for Women: Twenty Clueless Men at a Time. She wasn’t being mean. What I’d give to take a class on what men were really thinking. I’d love to better understand the common, yet quirky aspects of the average guy.

In a couple of weeks I’ll hold my first workshop. I’m very comfortable in front of an audience. I was a corporate trainer for the bulk of my career. Give me snappy presentation and a room full of bodies and I’ll do my thing. It’s never boring. I’ve found that any subject is better with humor. In my former career you should’ve seen what I did with Harassment and Discrimination Awareness–brought the house down with that one.

My latest Huffpost piece is all about the upcoming boot camp. If you’re a follower who’s transitioned from www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com to here and you are feeling charitable, I’d appreciate a comment on The Huffington Post site. If you could direct your comment to the men who might be reading the article and considering  the workshop, I’d be grateful.  Let them know why you think they should attend.

CLICK HERE to be directed to the article on The Huffington Post. 

I’ll keep you updated on the workshop. I know there will be some fascinating stories that come from the experience.

“Change is the end result of all true learning.” Leo Buscaglia

The post For Men Only appeared first on Melani Robinson.

As I picked up Las Vegas shot glasses, flipped through racks of cheesy T-shirts and caught up on celebrity gossip in the magazine section, I thought about luck.

Many previous V-days were spent with a man I’d been with off and on for several years. Our relationship was far from perfect—some might say even toxic—but I was worn down and tired of hoping for something better. He loved my daughters and me and I wanted to have a partner.

BUT there’s nothing that illuminates a bad pairing more than meeting the Yin to one’s Yang.

Earlier that day a ridiculously large box of tulips was delivered to my office.

My favorite flower, and there were dozens in that package direct from Holland. There was also a note:

We’re so lucky to have found each other. Some of the women you work with won’t receive flowers today. Please share these with them. I love you forever, Neal.

Waiting just outside of Security I saw him approaching before he saw me. No matter how many times I watched him head my way I still couldn’t believe he was with me.

He always carried on his bag—not trusting baggage handlers in what he called “cowboy country.” By then it was almost midnight and we decided to drive until we got tired. We’d booked a room for the weekend in our destination, but we weren’t going to make it there that night.

By Barstow we were bushed. A bedraggled motel was the best we could do and Neal chastised me for walking barefoot from the shower to the bed as he brushed his teeth—wearing only his loafers.

Waiting for me on the pillow was a card and my favorite holiday sweets. Neal was a Godiva Chocolates sort of guy but that box would be for some other chick. I’m vintage and get an unnaturally large kick out of these.

Come on. If my candy’s saying:

“Cutie Pie”

Purr Fect”

“So Fine”

Or the best:

“Cool Cat”

It can’t be wrong.

The next morning we grabbed a McMuffin, and hit the road. A couple of hours later we’d arrived. I’ve been to lots of romantic spots but there’s something about Laguna Beach that’s especially magical. This was not a new experience—I’d been there multiple times since I was a child–I’d also visited with other men. The difference that weekend was that Neal and I were so in love. We could be anywhere and immersed in each other, but given that setting that exuded eroticism and it was almost overwhelming. It wasn’t that we did anything different than I’d done previously but it was the ocean, the way it looked, the salty scent and feel on the skin, the relaxed beach town vibe that encouraged the tactile.

We stayed at the Surf and Sand Resort and slept that Saturday night with the door to our balcony open.

The sound of the waves crashing caused me to fall into a deep sleep that would’ve lasted  until morning had Neal not awakened me. Always a light and sporadic sleeper I would often find the space next to me empty but on that night he was there, his mouth next to my ear, repeating my name.

He took my hand and led me to the balcony overlooking the surf. He wanted to share the view of the deserted beach and the water lit up by the moon. We were alone.

The next morning we took a walk on that beach and I asked him to go barefoot. He protested, reminding me how much he disliked sand between his toes–so unclean, and all that. But he finally acquiesced and grimaced a little for effect.

I knew the truth.

Neal was so beautiful in (almost) every way but he had the most heinous feet. Large, wide caveman-like monstrosities with a big toe that was startling in it’s girth. The first time I saw those tootsies I winced and then insisted he put them in my lap for closer inspection. After a few minutes of silent observation while running my hands over ever every part I nodded and said:

“Yep, those are without a doubt the ugliest feet I’ve ever seen.”

After he died, when I needed to smile I’d simply put my hand into his shoe to feel the deep impression left in the lining by that toe. I’d remember my merciless teasing and his laughter that always followed.

So Neal took off his shoes, we walked on the beach barefoot and then asked a stranger to take a photo.

The drive back to Las Vegas (and to the airport for his departure) was a quiet but comfortable one. We were both smoothed out–mellowed by the experience. Neal told me that for the first time, in as long as he could remember, he slept for the entire flight back to Toronto.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

“I’ve been lucky. I’ll be lucky again.” Bette Davis

The post Luck appeared first on Melani Robinson.

I was pretty good.

I was also eleven years old.

Have you ever had a skill you acquired in your youth that kicks your ass in adulthood?

Humbling, right?

How about having that humiliation on national television? That was my biggest fear when the producers of The Steve Harvey Show told me that one of my arranged dates with Rick would include ice-skating. I’m, um, a bit of a klutz. In a post I wrote on www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com I describe a date where I fell flat on my ass.

 In a fancy restaurant.

Packed with the lunchtime crowd.

On a first date.

Here’s what my friends say:

“You glide into a room—head high, shoulders back like you own the place then you eat shit better than anyone.”

Have I mentioned that I have the most charming group of friends?

Alright, enough bellyaching–on to the dates.

I waited on the bench outside of the skating rink for Rick. I had a smile on my face but inside I was a wreck. What if I didn’t feel any attraction towards this man? I’d already had that sort of experience with my last date on the show and was worried that it would begin to look like a pattern. “Is this a pattern?” I asked myself while waiting.

When I saw Rick approaching I turned towards the producer and saw her smiling.

Halle-flippin-lujah!

He was good looking,–I was definitely attracted to him physically, and after a few minutes of speaking he seemed like a nice man. We laced our skates, hit the ice and Rick confirmed my initial impression. He was a true gentleman. He extended his arm as soon as he saw my apprehension. I was grateful.

Shit, that ice was slippery.

I can hear you say DUH from here, by the way.

I’d also forgotten just how much ankle strength it requires. Not wanting to be a big whiner, I skated through the pain, but let me tell you if my fifty-one year old ankles could talk they would’ve said,

“Bitch, please. Sit your ass down and drink some hot chocolate and add a shot of whiskey.”

Here’s what I knew by the end of the first date:

1. I was physically attracted to Rick.

2. I liked him as a person.

3. He was a gentleman.

4. I needed to elevate my throbbing ankles and get my hands on some pain meds, pronto.

I believe the second date (salsa dancing) gave me more anxiety than the first and here’s why.  I’m not a horrible dancer but no one’s mistaking me for J-Lo either. Sad but true–I’m no Fly Girl. Just think about it the next time you hit the dance floor at a party. Would you want millions of strangers watching you shake your groove thing? Then there was the awkwardness of being so physically close to a man I didn’t know well, but salsa it was.

Rick was a much better dancer than I. I’m not sure if you’ll see that in the video, but he rocked. After a few minutes with our patient (and ridiculously young and beautiful) dance instructor, I forgot the cameras were rolling and began to relax and enjoy the lesson.

PLUS, I had on great shoes. If one’s going to look like a fool it’s best to do it fashionably.

After an hour of those hip moves I’d forgotten my ankles and focused on the icepack I’d be putting on my midsection once I returned to the hotel. I’m reminded of my grandmother—damn you, aging process!

Rick and I didn’t have much time to talk and I looked forward to our third date, which I was glad to know didn’t include zip lining or bungee jumping.

Dinner, just dinner.

Rick looked amazing as he walked towards the table in his suit. It was a perfect fit and I loved the European cut. I was very relaxed and during dinner I got to know him much better. He talked about his adult children and the significance of being a good father. He also talked briefly about his divorce and asked me about mine and that’s when I shared that I was a widow. I know that’s not the sort of information that’s expected and I usually share it on the first date. I think perhaps that’s too soon and I was glad I waited this time. Mr. Harvey gave me that advice the last time I was on the show and he was right.

The food and wine were absolutely amazing at Acadia.

I HIGHLY recommend this glorious restaurant if you’re in Chicago. Here are some photos that Rick asked me to take of the food.

As you can see, they are each a work of art and my compliments to the fabulous chef, our server, Carlos, and the warm and welcoming hostess—what a perfect dining experience from start to finish.

After dinner we shared a cab and Rick walked me into my hotel. He really is such a gentleman. We had a nightcap at the hotel bar, and it was nice to talk without cameras. We were going to try to get together the following evening but Rick had been coughing during dinner and it got worse during our drink. By the following day he was quite ill and we had to postpone our date (sans cameras) but we had a lengthy phone conversation.

The next time we saw each other was during the taping of the show. I thought Rick looked quite dashing in his suit and there wasn’t any awkwardness between us. He suggested we go on a fourth date—a cooking class. We both are foodies.

We’ve exchanged several text messages and talked in the last two weeks. Rick lives in the Chicago area and I’m in New York. Everyone knows that a long distance relationship is difficult, but simply dating long distance seems even tougher. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll visit Chicago or Rick will have a reason to be in NYC. If either happens I have no doubt that we’ll meet up again. It will probably be that cooking class he suggested. After three dates I don’t know everything about him but what I do know is he’s a man of his word.

Handsome, smart and guy who does what he says. I think it’s safe to say that Rick is quite a catch.

I’m the first to laugh at my clumsiness. Check out these outtakes from the show by clicking here.

Click here for our message to Steve.

“I’m the most uncoordinated clumsy, klutzy person. I always had a bruise, I always tripped and fell.” Katherine Heigl

The post After the Show—Second Steve Harvey Experience appeared first on Melani Robinson.

Steve sends me on a date or three with a guy he has chosen.  

New blog post will be up once the show airs!

The post Steve Harvey Part Deux appeared first on Melani Robinson.

For those who’ve been following my antics for the last year I say, “Hello, old friends!” If you’re new I’m happy you’re here and I’ll try not to shock you too much this first time as I’ve been known to have a bit of a cyber potty mouth.

Today my daughters and I appeared on The Steve Harvey Show. What an experience. A producer found www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com and loved the blog–especially the  relationship with my adult daughters and their advice during my year of looking for love. From some of the disaster dates I’d been on there was probably some things I was doing wrong and perhaps Steve could help.

He is kind of the Love Guru (cue porn music here).

They flew us to Chicago to tape the show. We felt very fancy as the driver picked us up at the airport.

He drove us to the Amalfi, a fantastic boutique hotel in downtown Chicago.

We had a few days of shooting video to tell the backstory. It’s strange because when talking about Neal, my late husband, I got quite emotional. It has been six years since he died and my reaction was surprising. I suppose there’s a prepared script in general conversations that one uses when describing the death of a loved one. The Things I Can Say Without Crying sort of thing and the producer asked questions that I don’t normally answer. Bottom line, I miss him terribly and probably always will. That longing for something that was is always exacerbated by circumstances both extremely good or very bad.

Being on the show was one of those extremely good things that I wished I could share with Neal. Yet the very thing that brought me there (the dating blog) would never have happened if he were still alive. Discovering my passion for writing wouldn’t have happened either since I wrote the book after his death as a way to honor him. There was a part of me that was unfulfilled, although I didn’t know it, and writing has filled the void.

I often wonder if Neal had lived would I have realized the need for creative expression? I thought my world was complete—he was all I needed. Not so.

Life is weird, right?

For instance, I’m an extremely private person. For most of my adult life I’ve only shared personal stuff with a small circle of friends and yet I’ve spent the last year putting the most private and intimate details of my world out there for all to see. Lately there’s been a lot said about the over sharing that’s occurred with the vast number of memoirs on the shelves and, gasp, Reality TV.

I get it.

BUT, I do think Jodie Foster should pick on someone her own size. “Leave Honey Boo Boo  alone, Clarice.”

Come on. When you’ve invited your dear friend Mel Gibson to sit at your table when accepting the Cecil B. DeMille Lifetime Achievement Award at the Golden Globes, getting all judge-y is perhaps not the best plan. In my humble opinion, of course.

I guess Jodie wouldn’t approve of the dating blog. Darn, I always hoped we could be friends.

OK, now back to Steve Harvey.

The girls picked a guy for me to go out with. Now that was different. They are a tough duo. Generally, my oldest Morgan, hates every guy I date–at least in the beginning. Plus, I’ve been known to be a tad picky. I’ve got this aversion to excessive nose hair and with the over fifty crowd it’s a jungle up there. This was no easy task but they chose a very nice man, Denny. Was it a love connection? Well, no. He was a good guy but there was no spark.

There’s got to be a flicker of lust.

I need to feel that at some point I’ll want to take my clothes off.

What?

Even women my age and older still want to get naked.

After the date we exchanged a couple of email messages—the usual pleasantries. I thanked him for being a good sport.

He suggested I was a serial dater—several times.

I didn’t take too kindly to his assessment (might’ve gotten a little terse) but we reached an understanding and wished each other the best. He told me he’s met someone and is happy. I’m glad for him.

Being on the show was the highlight of our trip to Chicago. Steve has the most amazing people working for him. Every single one of them. From the producers to the cameramen, the sound guys to hair and makeup, they were all absolute professionals and just nice people.

It was the experience of a lifetime for the three of us and I want to thank Steve Harvey for allowing me to tell my story, calling me out when he thought I was full of shit, and for genuinely caring about my success in this search for love.

He’s even invited me back so stay tuned, there’s more to come.

I’m trying something new. I’ve created a special video for those who’ve subscribed to this blog. I discuss the three questions my friends asked when I told them I was going to be on The Steve Harvey Show. If you’re interested, just subscribe—it is over there at the top on the right margin. You’ll be notified when there’s a new blog post AND you’ll be sent a link to the video.

Click here for the After the Show interview.

“I don’t like to share my personal life…it wouldn’t be personal if I shared it.” George Clooney

The post The Steve Harvey Experience appeared first on Melani Robinson.