There are certain things a woman who’s digital dating never wants to be labeled: desperate, needy, but worst of all:

CRAZY.

I recently managed to earn all three. That’s right. I am officially the Holy Trinity of the chick every man wants to avoid.

Now, I know you’re probably thinking, “Melani, say it isn’t so!” and I would love to write JK. Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.

BUT, I can qualify this new standing with a logical explanation. At least that’s what I’ve decided now that I’ve stopped screaming, “NOOOOOOO”. It’s the only way I’ve been able to talk myself off the ledge.

Here’s the story.

There’s this thing in New York City called Local Law 11. I’ve been told this was implemented because a brick came loose from a prewar building and killed someone. This law requires (every ten years) all facades must be inspected, brick by brick and any issues corrected. If you’ve seen scaffolding set up outside a building in NYC, it could likely be because it’s going through this inspection. The process takes months as the construction crew goes from top to bottom around the building drilling out defective brick and mortar and replacing with new. It’s noisy, messy and incredibly disruptive to residents. It’s also the law so there’s little a person can do except get really, really pissed and yell frequently. Sometimes the drilling is so intense that things fall off shelves  and during this process, sleeping beyond 8am, Monday through Friday is impossible. To make matters even worse for me (since I live on the roof of my building), all work, each and every day, begins right outside my window. My building has three elevators but there’s only one (the service elevator) that goes all the way up to my apartment. Between the elevator and the entrance to my apartment is the only door that leads to the roof so that means the workers are constantly going in and out of it taking down bags of debris, or moving heavy equipment to the roof. The elevator is always filthy and the path leading to my door is generally strewn with dirt that I then track into my apartment. They lower themselves onto suspended platforms from the rooftop, too, and that’s a noisy process.

The whole thing has been a fucking nightmare, actually. I’ve been told not to go out onto my terrace because if the wires that secure the platforms break or come loose, they could decapitate a person. Delightful, right?

Now, it wouldn’t be so awful if I left for work like most people do in the morning but, unfortunately, I work from home. If you’re wondering why the hell I haven’t finished the book, now you probably understand. Editing has been a nightmare. I’ve tried working at other locations but I’m a creature of habit and have my daily writing routine. That practice doesn’t include putting in earbuds and attempting to write at Starbucks or any other public place. For shit’s sake, an ugly pair of shoes or bad haircut can distract me and you have no idea how many horrific (and entirely unforgivable) things a person can see at a coffeehouse.

The only consolation is the construction foreman. He’s a wonderful guy who’s been incredibly understanding when it comes to my dilemma. He’s told his men to keep the noise to a minimum and although he’s not onsite every day, he’s given me his cell number and said I can text him if I have any problems with his crew. I actually feel bad for the workmen. On especially cold days I offer to set up a space heater so they can come off the roof and warm up. It’s a rough job they’re doing and watching them hang off the building in the bitter cold, doing work nobody would ever want to do, makes me feel like a spoiled brat to have any complaints at all. The foreman told me in all his years of doing this sort of work, I’m the first person who’s offered to give his guys a place to warm up. That made me feel a little less self-absorbed over my perceived victimization.

You know I’m on Tinder, right? Well, actually I was on Tinder but hid my profile during the holiday season since it seemed only the most desperate and undateable were looking for that mistletoe or New Year’s Eve kiss from a swipe-righter. I get it but figured spending the night watching the ball drop on television with friends and a couple of bottles of champagne was a much better alternative than doing the walk of shame on the first day of 2015. I get especially high-principled at the beginning of each new year. By March I’m a shameless hussy.

I wasn’t really chatting with anyone via Tinder anyway. There was one guy, I’d just matched up with but we’d only exchanged a few messages. He was interesting, though, and when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. We had one nice conversation but he lived far outside the city but was here about once a month. We decided the next time he was around, we’d get together for a drink. I sent him a quick text after our conversation and let him know I was going off Tinder so he didn’t think I’d unmatched him on the site and that was it.

For the first time I got a flu shot this year. I know this is a weird segue, but bear with me. My daughters did not and my youngest, Chelsea, came down with the flu. She didn’t want to infect anyone significant so she came to stay with me. Flu shot or not, I can’t stand to be around sick people. I’m a super freak germaphobe. This is a packed city and I’m a chronic hand washer, hand sanitizer user. I don’t get sick often and if you’ve got a cold, stay the hell out of my breathing space. OK, it was my kid and I didn’t mind being a real mom, for a limited engagement, since most women my age in this city are only a couple of years removed from breastfeeding. Seriously, I’ve never seen so many newish moms who qualify for AARP.

PLUS, it gives me complete justification for making comfort food. My chicken and dumplings would make Ms. Deen jealous. That’s right, my recipe for wellness is to bring the South to my kitchen, just like Paula, (sans N-word, of course).

Chelsea was really sick and needed to sleep. Unfortunately, the guys were especially noisy one morning and I had to text the foreman, Steve:

Hi, Steve. The workmen are doing lots of loud talking right outside my windows. Normally I wouldn’t say anything but my daughter has the flu and she can’t sleep with their yelling, whistling to each other and loud cell phone conversations, etc. Could you please ask them to be a little quieter? Thank you.

He replied:

Hi, Melani. I wish I could help but I’m in Philadelphia today. Sorry to hear about your daughter but hope you had a great Christmas.

WTF? Don’t cell phones work in Philly? That got me all crazy and I emailed the building manager with a terse message letting her know what bullshit it was that Steve had told me to text him with any issues and then opted out when I asked for help. I told her I’d been way too patient with this crap and she needed to contact Steve and let him know he must handle his guys. I even mentioned how nice I’d been about the space heater (so full of my own virtue) and it was appalling that Steve reneged on his promise to work with me. She replied that she found that unacceptable and she would speak directly to Steve. Whew, I felt better and the workmen were a little quieter. Crisis diverted, but I made mental note to give Steve a dirty look the next time I saw him.

I recently ran into Steve as I was walking into the building and gave him the stink eye. He asked if everything was OK. I said, “Does it really matter since the next time there’s a problem you might be in Philly?”

He looked at me like I was nuts and asked what I was talking about. I reminded him that I’d sent the text when my daughter was staying with me and he was no help since he was in Philadelphia. He said he never received the text. Then I got really annoyed. “Of course you did. You replied!” I pulled out my phone and showed him his text.

“I didn’t send that,” he said, perplexed. “Are you sure I’m the only Steve in your phone?”

Then it hit me. I had Steve in my phone as “Steve (construction)”. I’d sent that fucking text to the guy from Tinder, um, also named Steve. A man I’d talked to ONCE.

Read it one more time and cringe with me:

Hi, Steve. The workmen are doing lots of loud talking right outside my windows. Normally I wouldn’t say anything but my daughter has the flu and she can’t sleep with their yelling, whistling to each other and loud cell phone conversations, etc. Could you please ask them to be a little quieter? Thank you.

I am a bunny boiler.

After apologizing to Construction Steve and sending building management another email explaining that I was a complete idiot, I had to choose between ignoring my faux pas with Tinder Steve or owning it. I called my older daughter Morgan and told her the story. I was mortified but once she started laughing, I did too, tears running down my face. I thought of all the things he must’ve been thinking when that text came in and laughed some more. Stuff like: next this crazy bitch I hardly know will ask for a kidney or if her family can stay with me when they visit Philly.

The fact that he was too polite to tell me I was a nutcase made it even funnier. Kind of explained why I’d not heard from him.

Here’s the text I sent:

Steve! You must think I’m a complete idiot. The building I live in is under construction and the foreman is named Steve. His crew is right outside my windows. I only realized my error in texting the wrong Steve this morning when I saw Construction Steve and told him it was a pretty lame excuse to say he was in Philly. He looked at me like I was crazy so I showed him the text. OMG, you must’ve thought I was a lunatic. Anyway, happy 2015. Apologies for the mistake.

Then I waited, and waited. Hoping he would reply with at least an acknowledgement of my sanity.

Crickets.

I couldn’t take it and decided proof was in order. I sent a second text:

Still cringing from my error. Here’s a photo taken last month for an interview I gave. It should confirm I’m in the midst of construction and not batshit crazy. Take care, Steve. Melani

I sent this photo from the interview I gave to the German publication Frankfurter Allgemeine.

Listen, the second text and photo might’ve been overkill but after my “At Last” text issue (that was probably a teensy bit nuts), I wasn’t taking the hit for this one.

I’ll own my crazy when it’s legit, dammit!

Steve replied after the second text:

No worries, Melani. Thanks for the hot photo and hope our paths cross personally.

See? He’s a nice guy and as a bonus he knew to put a comma after “worries” and before my name—a rare find, indeed.

Our paths haven’t yet “crossed personally,” but maybe he’ll call the next time he’s in the city. If he does, I will do everything I can to keep a straight face when we meet. Wouldn’t want him to think I’m crazy.

‘Crazy’ is a term of art; ‘Insane’ is a term of law. Remember that, and you will save yourself a lot of trouble. Hunter S. Thompson