Melani Robinson

Author | 1 Year of Online Dating at 50

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Any Fantasy in a Storm

February 18, 2022 by Melani 1 Comment

I don’t know about you, but I’ve been feeling a bit blue lately. Not a serious, deep depression but more a just-under-the-surface malaise or maybe melancholy. I understand the source of this—the pandemic—but in that understanding, there’s also no end in sight. 

I know, I know. Fauci has said we’re getting there but I’m not so old that I’ve forgotten the Hot Vax Summer that never was. I was looking forward to it if you must know. Lots of middle-aged casual sex with other vaxholes like me bragging about our double shot status because, well, you know, that’s sexy as hell. 

It was during that early Covid period that the highlight of my day was a phone call from a man I’d met only once for a date before the world shut down. I still cringe when I think about that date in early March 2020, unmasked, in a bar so crowded and noisy one had to yell to be heard. An entire fucking enclosed space of yelling close-talkers, potentially shedding covid droplets at a greater rate than if we were all using our inside voices. 

My date, Ted, was gorgeous. The sort of handsome that one might find modeling on the Brooks Brothers website. Tall, fit, with thick grey hair I had the urge to run my fingers through. He wore jeans, a cashmere sweater and what I believe were Tod’s boots.

Ted was clever. When I described a friend’s recent turmoil with her boyfriend and then her mother he said, “That’s not real life, that’s a Tennessee Williams play.” 

You can read the rest of this post on my Patreon Page. Click here to subscribe.

Manifesto II

December 3, 2021 by Melani Leave a Comment

…one night Mike was in the city having dinner with friends and he called me when leaving the restaurant. “I want to kiss you,” he said and then asked, “Can I drive to your apartment, and will you meet me outside?” He knew I lived with my youngest daughter and visiting me late at night would not be acceptable. 

“Uh, no. I’m in bed with my faced washed and my pjs on.” 

I’m not sure why I didn’t want him to drive by? I love spontaneity and it was a romantic gesture. He wasn’t aiming for a booty call, he just wanted to kiss me. I regret not allowing that to happen. 

Mike invited me to his home in Westchester when he knew I was driving back from visiting a friend in MA. He knew I would go right by his house on the drive home. I declined that offer too. 

Finally, many months later, he came into the city for the night and asked if I would meet him for dinner. He looked great and it was clear he’d been working out. He was still stout, it was his body type, but I like stout. During our meal at a tapas restaurant, he mentioned how much he liked me and how easy it was to talk. He complimented me on the way I was dressed and mentioned he loved my hands. He said he’d forgotten that I had beautiful hands, a bit later he talked about our first date and how quickly we ended up in bed. He said it was “really good sex” too. 

“Yeah, not really,” I replied, and he belly laughed. I laughed too…

You can read the rest of the story by supporting my work through my Patreon Page. Click here to head there now. This was a hard story to tell. One I never thought I would share, but I think it’s important for you to know it’s not always stories about rejecting men.

The Manifesto

November 16, 2021 by Melani Leave a Comment

I called it the “____Manifesto,” and the blank line was his name. Which, in hindsight, was probably the wrong descriptor when hoping to appear stable–and sane.

OK, let me explain. I wanted wanted to start off with humor and then pivot immediately to baring my soul. It was done spontaneously and that’s normally not my style. 

BUT, I’m getting way ahead of myself, so let’s start from the beginning. 

When I finished the dating blog I was completely burned out. I had been on a roller coaster of dates for a year and desperately needed a break. I took myself offline and figured I’d go old school dating for a spell. I think I went on two or three dates in that year, post blog. I’d been on over 100 the previous 365. 

Once I was two years beyond the blog, I finally got back online. I joined Bumble and Tinder and a year later, Mark showed up on Bumble. I try to avoid dating writers because overall they’re fucking weird. OK, not ALL men who write are wacky, but many I met through classes or workshops were as unpredictable as a sprayed cockroach. But, there was something about his two word profile that piqued my interest. 

Writer. Gentleman. 

Head over to Patreon and subscribe for the rest of the story. This was a difficult one to write because, well, feelings. CLICK HERE for my Patreon page and if you can’t afford to subscribe, reach out to me and we’ll work something out.

The Musician: Part Deux

September 30, 2021 by Melani 2 Comments

We made our way to the parking garage and SUV Jack had rented. When he opened the back there was little room for my small suitcase and carry-on bag because Jack’s cumbersome (and hideous and filthy and beat to shit) bags were haphazardly strewn throughout most of the space. The fact that he had ugly luggage provides little relevance to this story and didn’t really matter to me at the time, but I pretended to be horrified, “Oh…wow…that’s…really something,” I said, as I squeezed my rollaboard into to the space. Have I mentioned I can be condescending when irritated? 

We were at In-N-Out in less than two minutes and I quickly had food in my stomach. I sipped the last bit of chocolate shake and feeling satiated, I reached across the table, squeezed Jack’s hand and said, “I know it was a little tense in the airport. Can we start over?” Jack seemed relieved as he smiled and nodded yes. 

At the hotel we headed to the front desk and I asked Jack if he was able to book rooms with balconies. He told me he’d spoken to the front desk manager “personally” and she was adamant that none were available. I asked if he minded if I tried. 

“It’s a waste of time,” Jack replied. 

“Will it bother you if I try?” I asked again. 

“Go ahead,” Jack said, and I saw a smaller version of that airport grimace.  

I’ve found that being polite and friendly sometimes works. Let’s just say that when we walked out of the lobby, one of the two rooms had a balcony.

Unfortunately, it was Jack’s. My room had an unexpected late checkout and had not been cleaned and Jack took the available room because he had about an hour of gig logistic calls to make.  

Back at the car, Jack struggled with his hodge-podge of bags—two were HUGE. I easily took mine, my carry-on and then reached in to take two of Jack’s smaller bags. They were clearly holding his instruments. 

“Don’t touch those!” He snapped, panting from exertion and then followed with, “Or be very careful. Only I handle them.”

“I don’t let anyone carry my computer bag, so I’ll leave them here.”  

“You can take them. Just be very, very careful.” 

Do you get irritated when someone speaks to you like a child? 

Yep, me too. 

You can read the rest on my Patreon Page. Click HERE. As a preview there’s a night of too many martinis that caused embarrassing behavior and lots of oversharing. Again, if you can’t afford to subscribe, please let me know.

The Musician

September 21, 2021 by Melani 2 Comments

Although Jack was not the sort of guy I typically swiped right on, there was something about his Bumble profile that got my attention. It certainly wasn’t his pics. His blurb was cleverly written with pithy humor and good sentence structure. 

“Never Underestimate the Appeal of Good Sentence Structure” should probably be printed on t-shirts. 

Sure, Jack was shorter than the height I preferred (5’10” or taller) and he kind of resembled an old timey comedian whose name I couldn’t recall, but I threw prudence to the cyclone as my swiping finger said, “What the hell.”

It was an instant match, as Jack had already swiped right on me (love when that happens). Bumble is often referred to as “Feminist Tinder.” Only women initiate the conversation and have 24 hours to do so, or the match disappears. Obviously, that’s only for straight dating. With same sex Bumble dating, either person can make the first move. 

I sent him my standard initial message:

Hi, Jack! Lovely to connect. I enjoyed your profile and look forward to learning more about you. What are you up to today?

Jack replied immediately and we texted back and forth for a bit. He lived in NYC but was travelling for the next six weeks for work. Jack, a professional musician, had several gigs across the country, but at that moment was on the West Coast. For the next several weeks, our contact would be strictly digital. That was disappointing. I hate to waste time with perpetual texting when one face to face meeting will likely tell me all I need to know. Do we have that illusive chemistry? 

I know. Relationship experts often advise singletons to go on several dates before deciding if it is a match, but that has never worked for me. I’m either getting naked with him in my mind, or not, and there isn’t much wiggle room. I’m not saying I want to have sex with him on the first date, not that there’s anything wrong with that. What I’m there to discover is if I can imagine myself eventually cat-walking toward a man in my birthday suit.  

Repeatedly texting via Bumble grows old quickly and Jack and I almost immediately transitioned to messaging through our cell numbers. He was quick and entertaining which made me laugh often. I’m a sucker for a man who can crack me up. After several exchanges, Jack suggested a phone conversation and I happily agreed. 

I don’t know about you, but voices are important to me. It’s not that I expect everyone to sound like a radio DJ, but I’m looking for a committed relationship and that means potentially listening to that voice for a long time—maybe the rest of my life. I had better be able to stand the sound of it. Jack’s voice on that first call, well, sounded something like this. 

Ok, maybe not that extreme, but enough like Truman Capote: nasally, with a bit of a lisp, that at first, I thought he was pretending.

He wasn’t.

Then he said something ridiculously funny, seriously inappropriate and I belly laughed. Could I get beyond that voice, I wondered? 

The rest is available on my Patreon Page. Again, if you cannot afford to support my work through Patreon, I get it. We’ve all been there. Reach out to me privately and we’ll work something out. This is a story that is series-worthy. It’s that outrageous.

She’s Back!

September 13, 2021 by Melani 18 Comments

Well, I’m sixty fucking years old.

60th birthday Cooper’s Beach, Southampton

Ten years ago, (TEN!) I started the blog, “One Year of Online Dating at 50” and chronicled 365 days of digital dating. Much has changed in the dating arena over the last decade. There are apps, social media dating such as via Facebook and amid a pandemic, virtual dating. People have fallen in love while Zooming with prospective partners/serial killers living a few blocks away—or even across the pond. 

BUT, as much as online dating has evolved, some things remain the same. There’s still a hell of a lot of misfits to weed through and don’t get me started on the Trumpers. They’re constantly skulking around liberal dating profiles, hiding their red hats and unvaccinated arms. My dating profile used to read, “If you voted for Trump, we are not compatible.” Even that didn’t stop some members of the crimson-lidded gang, so I added the three words guaranteed to make even his most ardent (and sneaky) supporters pump the brakes: 

#BlackLivesMatter

So, let’s catch up. What’s new? How’ve you been? Tell me everything. Heck, we were virtual before virtual friendships were cool—or, well, necessary to prevent the brutal experience of inflamed airways and then death by drowning in lung fluid (because there’s that).

I’d like to catch you up too. Much has happened—lots of good and some downright hellish, but that’s life, right? Let’s start with hellish. I was in NYC at the beginning of the pandemic, and it was terrifying. They knew very little about the virus when NYC was the epicenter. Sirens blared round the clock, and I knew what it meant for those inside the ambulances. Eight million people living on top of each other will create the perfect environment for an aerosolized disease and that virus was doing a happy dance in our city. While many residents escaped to second homes, I didn’t have one to run to and hunker down.

Throughout the pandemic, I was living in Harlem after moving from the Upper West Side, two years prior. My youngest daughter was headed back to nursing school, and I needed a roomier apartment with two bedrooms since we would be living together for the first time in a decade. I found what I thought was the perfect place in Harlem.

The Harlem neighborhood I moved to had several funeral homes and the blocks surrounding our apartment were some of the hardest hit in Manhattan. As the death toll climbed, I would see delivery trucks pull up and drop off caskets. There’s nothing more sobering than to see coffins stacked in rows, while funeral directors scrambled to find storage inside.

I was also in the middle of ongoing litigation with my new landlord.  Half of that fabulous apartment I rented didn’t have adequate heat. My daughter and I had spent our first winter absolutely freezing while fighting with the landlord as he claimed the frigid indoor temp was just in our minds. We eventually called the city, and he was cited multiple times, but even that didn’t motivate him to fix the problem which required properly insulating the basement level as well as replacing the boiler.  Expensive, for sure, but for shit’s sake, it was untenable otherwise. 

When I told a friend and former NYer that I was fighting my landlord and I’d hired attorneys, he said, “Cut your losses and leave. It will end up costing you more than you’ll spend on even the most expensive move. That’s what happened to me.”

I should’ve listened because once it was settled, I had spent more in attorney’s fees than the entire rent for a year and an expensive move combined. Sure, we might’ve technically been victorious as the judge believed we had inadequate heat, but in the end the anxiety we had, feeling under siege in that nightmarish living situation, took a toll on my daughter and me. Then, just as we were supposed to move out, the pandemic hit, and we were in lockdown.

Simply writing about that shit show has given me knot in my stomach, so let’s segue to the good stuff.  In 2018 I shared with you that I had created a scripted series based on the dating blog. For those who missed that post, the next two paragraphs below recap:

I have an insanely talented friend, Michael, who’s a screenwriter in LA. We’ve known each other since fifth grade. He doesn’t usually collaborate, and he told me that when I asked if he would be willing to work together to create a series. Then I begged, used a bit of “decades of friendship” guilt, pestered him some more, read: I was an imperial pain in the ass, until he finally agreed. 

5th Grade

We created the pilot script along with a bible, which is basically, a detailed character breakdown and where the story might go. My friend thought of a fabulous series title, “Broken Heals” and we registered it with WGA. Then not much happened. I don’t have many connections in that world and Michael moved forward with other projects he was in the midst of before he paused to work with me.  

Cue the Jeopardy music.

But wait! 

Pre-Covid another old friend, Lisa, I’ve known since my freshman year in HS, visited NYC with her sister, Laura, also my friend. We met for lunch. Lisa is a brilliant costume designer in LA (check out her latest project, “Malignant”). Anyway, my friend told me she and a group of other talented women had formed a production company. Each woman had a pet project she wanted to produce, mostly movies, but I asked if they had considered a series, and then told her about mine. She said she was open to reading the script. Lisa also said she’d be honest even if it was bad news. I was still stoked, and I sent her the pilot script immediately. 

And she liked it!

Lisa arranged a Zoom meeting that included another woman from the production company along with a potential (and impressive) showrunner. I thought I was pitching, so I began selling the series. A few minutes into my hard sell the showrunner stopped me and asked, “Do you think you’re pitching?” I awkwardly replied, “Um, I thought I was.” She said, “No, you don’t have to pitch. I’m in.” I thought my heart was going to explode from relief and pure joy.

 We needed money for series development and to shoot the pilot episode to sell to streaming. All those Hulu, Netflix, Prime “Originals” you watch, started exactly this way with an outside production company. 

Because I don’t happen to have $1.5 – 2 Million lying around, I began approaching potential investors. Many turned me down but with one avenue I pursued, it looked like it was going to happen. Then Covid hit, the stock market crashed, and investors got nervous. As much as it felt like a gut punch, I understood. Everything was so volatile, and there would be no return on the investment unless/until the project was sold. Obviously, most filming shutdown during the pandemic and there was no clear timeline of when it would resume.

I’m proud of the series premise and it’s about goddamn time we see women of a certain age as interesting, sensual, sexy, complex and full human beings. Paulina Porizkova, a supermodel, often writes about the invisibility of women, herself included, in the age demo “between JLo and Betty White.” Why is that?

It reminds me of the scene in “Something’s Gotta Give” when Harry (Jack Nicolson) accidentally saw Erica (Diane Keaton) naked. He acted like acid had been flung in his eyes. He was overweight and losing his hair and yet he was horrified by her body? Her body was amazing, and he should be so lucky, but we live in a world that reminds women every single day that aging faces and bodies are repulsive. Aging men, on the other hand, are still sex symbols and are often paired in television and movies, with women half their age. It’s insane.

 

If you have any doubt about how aging women are shamed, just say “menopause” in a conversation with a group of men and watch their body language. 

Erectile disfunction has been absolutely normalized. Hell, you can’t swing a dead cock without hitting an ad for the latest ED drug.

WHAT?

AND why, goddamnit, are there very few drugs on the market for menopause and research in women’s health and aging remains sparse too? Well, that’s because researchers have historically been men. That’s changing, gradually, but the more we talk about it and demand menopause be addressed plus NORMALIZED, the quicker women will have relief—and good sex. 

Meme by Marcie Jallali

By the way, who are these old dudes fucking? They can shwing through life with an on-demand hard-on, and yet the age-appropriate women, one hopes they’re intimate with, often suffer from untreated vaginal wall thinning, vaginal dryness (atrophied vagina) and low libido. For a woman experiencing these symptoms it often means going to several doctors including female OB-GYNs to try to find a solution. It’s insane and I won’t even get into the struggle to find someone to prescribe hormone replacement therapy that isn’t the one size fits all estrogen patch, especially on the East Coast. It’s as if doctors are in cahoots with Hollywood. “Hey, babe, your lady parts have expired. You’re officially irrelevant. 

This mindset is exactly what “Broken Heals” will address bluntly, clearly and through a main character who refuses to allow anyone to tell her she’s no longer sexy, sensual or interesting. “Melanie” knows exactly what she has to offer and is as comfortable getting naked as she is in her unabashed desire to have all the steamy sex her hormonally-normalized WAP can handle.

There’s no other series like this AND it’s about time. 

Prior to Covid, streaming services had allocated billions for new content. Now that we’ve all Netflixed and chilled for the last 18 months, there’s an even higher demand for new stuff and more money allocated to buy it. 

Lastly, after a ten-year break from blogging about my dates, I’m ready to do it again. “One Year of Online Dating at 50” was a lot of work, and the content I created was done without getting paid—it actually cost me money to blog. I was trying to build a following, hone my writing skills and make a name for myself, all of which I succeeded in doing. I had little confidence as a writer when I began a decade ago, but I do know my worth now.

I hope you’ll support my work through my Patreon page (click here) now that I’m back to dishing the dirt. I have many stories to tell you, each as ridiculous as the next and it hasn’t been just the men I’ve dated. I’ve been a complete asshole as well. I promise you won’t be disappointed. I’ll post the beginning of new blog posts here and if you’re supporting my work through Patreon, you’ll receive the whole enchilada. Beyond the new dating stories, each month I will also rerelease popular blog posts from “One Year.” There are currently three of those popular posts on my Patreon page. If you can’t afford to subscribe, I get it, we’ve all been there but please reach out to me privately via “Contact Melani” and we’ll work something out. In the meantime, buckle up. I’ve got some stories to tell and the first one, coming this week, is a doozy.

“A woman my age isn’t supposed to be attractive or sexually appealing. I just get kinda tired of that.”

Kathleen Turner

Hello, Old Friends

January 3, 2018 by Melani 12 Comments

Happy New Year!

I thought it would be a good time to reach out via the blog and check in. I know you hear from me with each Single Because Podcast episode, but I’m in need of this sort of contact with all of you.

I’ve been on and off dating apps over the last year. I’ve even had a few experiences that have gone beyond a date or two. Alas, in the words of U2, I still haven’t found what I’m looking for. It’s not for lack of trying, though.

Who am I kidding? Here’s the truth, I’ve been half-assing it most of the time, even with men who might be mistaken for the models on the over-50 dating site ads.

Sometimes it’s just a boatload of aggravation getting dressed up, applying makeup and then squeezing into fucking shapewear to make small talk with a stranger. Don’t get me wrong, it’s nice to look across the table at a gorgeous man, and I’ve  dated quite a few lately. But, here’s what I’ve discovered and it’s likely because of my age:

It’s not enough.

Now, I don’t mean it’s not enough long-term, what I’m saying is a pretty face won’t cut it even for the casual horizontal hula. Sex just isn’t fulfilling if the person doesn’t grab me—and by grab, I mean all of me. I need smarts, humor and someone with an interesting life. A little swagger doesn’t hurt either. Sheesh, I’m not asking for the moon. All right, the section of my dating profile that states, “Must have given a TED Talk and, don’t try to squeak by with TEDx,” might seem, um, delusional to some.

C’est la vie!

Kill me now.

I’ve also found I would rather focus on my writing. Coupling up just isn’t as important as it once was. I often feel that I’m living my life backward and when I hear people my age speak of retirement I can’t help but shudder.

I married and had my daughters quite young, got divorced, raised them and worked a job I enjoyed but it wasn’t my passion. It was satisfying enough and it paid the bills.

Then, I had a great big beautiful love and was widowed—all by the time I was 45. I didn’t have my twenties to find myself, act irresponsibly then begin to establish a career that was based on work I loved. I’ve only had that for the last eight years and I still haven’t really accomplished anything, dammit! Well, maybe the irresponsible part, just a bit.

I want professional success and that’s really where I’ve been laser-focused. I finished the book about my year of online dating. I’ve sent it out to agents and small publishing houses not requiring an agent submission, but haven’t had much interest. I’ll keep trying and may eventually self-publish if I can’t sell the darn thing.

I worked with a friend of mine, Michael, a talented screenwriter who’s had an amazing career and worked for several major studios. Together, we created a scripted series based on the blog and book. Michael was a wonderful teacher as we wrote the pilot script and bible and although he’s not one for collaborating, he was kind enough to make an exception. The series, a dramedy, is made for streaming services or cable (lots of swearing).  It is called, “Broken Heals” and we’d love to find an audience.

I’ve also been writing a memoir based on the two years my husband and I lived in Russia called, “Mudderland.” Since I had a crash course in screenwriting and wasn’t sure how much I’d retain, I went ahead and created a scripted series, a comedy, based on the book that I’m still in the process of writing. This is a comedy because our life in Russia is a ridiculous gift that keeps on giving–if one is writing about it after the fact instead of living in the craziness, of course. I have the pilot script and series bible finished. “Mudderland” is another project I would love to sell. It’s hard (some have told me impossible) to sell these projects as an unknown, and that’s exactly what I am. If I could finagle a way to get the right eyes on either or both, who knows what might happen? I’m not sure how, but I’m going to keep pushing. With all the female-driven work finally getting attention through people like Reece Witherspoon and her Hello Sunshine production company, all it takes is one person to read it and believe it’s a story that should be told.

So now you know all that’s going on in my life–lots of work and very little lust. BUT, I’m happy and busy and I’m feeling fulfilled. Not as content as I would be if I could actually figure out a way to support myself with my work–but I’m doing everything I can to get there.

I was recently in a DatingAdvice.com article, and if you’re interested, you can read it HERE. It was an unexpected and wonderful surprise and while you’re there, check out the site. DatingAdvice.com is the leading web authority on dating and an excellent resource.

I hope you had a wonderful holiday and New Year. I don’t know about you but I was glad to put 2017 in the rearview mirror. I haven’t slept through the night in over a year. As my grandmother used to say, “Every night I’m up and down like a whore at a picnic.” The cause of my insomnia is clear: the fucking nightmare that is Donald Trump and his insane administration. I never thought I’d worry about nuclear war. I can’t even get out of bed without looking at Twitter. I need to know what that lunatic will destroy next.

*takes a deep cleansing breath*

Here’s wishing everyone peace,  joy and restful sleep in 2018. What’s new with you? Feel free to dish some dirt in the comments section. I always love hearing about your lives.

PS: I’ve really missed you.

Melani

“It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them.” Ralph Waldo Emerson

A Seat at Her Table

December 18, 2017 by Melani Leave a Comment

Meet Steph and listen as she talks about the work she’s done to finally feel comfortable in her own skin.  Steph shares her struggles with low self-esteem, but more specifically how living with Poland syndrome, a rare disorder, that has impacted her relationships in the past. Listen as she describes what she’s done to avoid making the same mistakes in her current relationship.

 

Click HERE to listen via iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from the website.

Please: Rate, Review and Subscribe to the podcast on iTunes.

See you again in 2018!

 

Her Second Act

October 4, 2017 by Melani 3 Comments

Meet Donna and listen as she talks about the circumstances led her to the second act in her life. One she never saw coming.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Click HERE to listen on iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from the website.

Don’t forget to RATE, REVIEW and SUBSCRIBE on iTunes. As you know–it matters.

You Talkin’ To Me?

May 2, 2017 by Melani Leave a Comment

I’m sharing a story from long ago about a guy named Chuck. It’s from the blog 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com where I chronicled a fairly disastrous year of digital dating. I ask guests on the podcast to share personal and often embarrassing stories.  It’s only fair that I occasionally do the same. For the record, I always changed the names of the men I wrote about. I would modify other details too such as where they lived or worked to be sure nobody they knew would recognize them. I didn’t seek to humiliate anyone but sometimes, given the level of crazy, it might’ve happened. Just the facts and this one is embarrassing and, um, dirty. Very dirty.

I want to thank those of you that have taken the time to Rate, Review and Subscribe on iTunes. If you haven’t written a review I hope you’ll do so. Based on stats there are about 10,000 regular listeners who’ve not yet done so. Come on, show me some love.

Click HERE to listen from iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from this website.

What’s In A Name?

April 3, 2017 by Melani Leave a Comment

Listen as Jackie tells her story of transformation from the insecure “Little Korean Girl” to the powerful and confident woman she is today. Was it all because she changed her name?

Jackie talks about her evolution and the winding path she took to reach a place where she could embrace everything about herself, flaws and all. She was comfortable with the possibility that she would never find love or get married. Of course, that was when she met her soulmate and knew it something different–a love that would last a lifetime.

You’ll find more photos of Jackie and her fiancé, on the podcast show notes page.

Click HERE to listen on iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from the website.

Be sure to RATE and REVIEW on iTunes. Over 10K of you are here every month and yet I have a small number of reviews. Reviews make it possible to approach sponsors and will allow me to continue to provide entertainment to you–free of charge. It’s important as every podcast or blog post I do costs money. Many podcasters use patron funding platforms such as Patreon instead of corporate sponsors. Let me know your opinion. Should I ask listeners to help? I’ve never attempted to monetize my work, but I think it is time.

A Walk Down Bad Memory Lane

August 23, 2016 by Melani 20 Comments

12295397_10208006258376246_3837478106358887835_nMy friend Kim moved out of the city and in the last year we haven’t spent much time together. I was delighted when she emailed to let me know she was coming for a visit and wanted to get together.

Once Kim arrived, and after my dogs stopped behaving like we were getting a visit from the Queen (they shamelessly worship Kim), we decided to head to dinner in my neighborhood and settled on Pomodoro Rosso.

We had a hankering for pasta.

We walked past a wine bar on Columbus. The patio was filled with people pairing the cooler than usual early evening with a glass of wine.

I quickened my pace as we moved by.

“Oh my God, did you see that guy sta…” Kim couldn’t finish her sentence as I interrupted.

“Yep. Saw him. We dated,” was my clipped response.

He was laser-focused and did not attempt to be discrete or even polite.

“I can’t believe the way he was looking at you.”

“Yeah, he’s the testicle guy. Remember that blog post?”

It was a ridiculous story that stood out even in the midst of that absurd year. Many readers shared that it was their all-time favorite.

I suggested he could’ve been staring because I wasn’t wearing makeup and hadn’t done much with my hair. Maybe he couldn’t place me? Or he might’ve been thinking, dodged a bullet with that one.

She did not agree and repeated how intently he was checking me out. Kim asked if I would tell her the story and over my ravioli and her Linguine Frutti di Mare, I did just that.

It’s worth repeating, so here’s an encore of that post.

THE PATIENT

My life has been filled with a regular peppering of experiences—all of my own doing—that leave me with nothing else to say but, “How the fuck did I get myself into this?”

I met Luke after a brief email exchange, and our first date was just for a drink as I had another date for dinner that same evening. He was a gentleman from the moment I arrived: standing as I approached the table, helping me get settled and then ordering my drink. We had a good conversation and I was immediately comfortable in his company.

Luke’s Midwestern roots were obvious in both his no-nonsense conversation and the inflection in his voice. There’s something wholesome about people from the heartland and he was from Iowa. Have you ever met an asshole from Des Moines? By the end of our first date I knew Luke was the sort of guy a woman could count on.

We arranged to see each other again and as I walked to my second date, a few blocks away, I thought about what I was looking for in a partner. Luke certainly fit in most ways. He was handsome, a good father, kind, polite, interesting, successful and well dressed. He was also smart and confident. But there wasn’t an instant physical attraction from my end. There wasn’t a thing wrong with him, so what was wrong with me?

UnknownDate number two was for Cuban food. Luke took me to a fantastic restaurant, Guantanamera. I had a couple of mojitos, a sublime chicken dish and lots of plantains. Everything was perfect, and, again, Luke was great. I couldn’t name one thing that bothered me–I even liked the way he chewed. He gave me a quick kiss goodbye and I walked home with my head filled with questions as to why I didn’t feel what I should with a great guy like Luke. Date number three a week later was for Thai food—a favorite of mine. Everything was just as nice and when Luke suggested we walk along the Hudson after dinner I thought it was a lovely idea. He took my hand as we strolled. It was comforting but still no stomach-churning fireworks. As we meandered through Riverside Park heading towards my street, I stopped him.

“Kiss me. Really kiss me,” and he did.

It was an excellent kiss. A knee-buckling level kiss, and I felt nothing but appreciation for his skills.

During the evening he’d mentioned (twice) that he was going in for minor hernia surgery in two days. Just day-surgery—no big deal, but he didn’t know anyone he could ask to pick him up at the hospital and see him home. They wouldn’t release him without an escort. I knew he was hoping I’d volunteer. I didn’t want to, yet when he dropped me off at my building, I told him I would be happy to come to the surgical center and see that he got home safely. He looked relieved. Why did I do that? Guilt. I felt guilty that I’d gone on three dates with Luke, had an excellent kiss, and still I didn’t have feelings for him. I felt a sort of obligation to do something nice since he’d been so kind to me. I worried that while waiting for passion to develop, I was likely leading him on.

RoosevelthospitalSo, that’s how two days later I found myself entering Roosevelt Hospital and searching for the day surgery area. I had to text Luke the night before and ask for the correct spelling of his last name. It might be weird if the “next of kin” as I was listed on his admission papers didn’t know his surname.

“The family of [last name],” called the clerk.

“The family of [last name],” she said, louder.

“IS THERE ANYONE HERE FOR LUKE [LAST NAME]?”

It finally hit that she was yelling for me. It was show time and the attendant took me back to the recovery area.

“He’s still groggy,” said his nurse, “But go say hi.”

“That’s OK, I’ll just wait here,” I replied, standing outside the curtain.

“Go ahead, it will help him wake up.”

I quietly drew back the curtain.

There was Luke.

And also his scrotum.

He had tossed off the covers and his gown had crept up just far enough for the boys to getman-hospital-gown-1052239 some air. There are some things a person shouldn’t see while casually dating: bank statements, family videos, junk drawers, and testicles. I averted my eyes and I’m not sure Luke was even aware, but it was painfully uncomfortable for me. He was still loopy so I sat in the chair next to the bed while his anesthesia wore off. The nurse was harried as she hurried by and handed me a sponge on a stick in a cup of water. She asked me to wet his mouth.

That act of gingerly touching his lips was bizarrely intimate.

Eventually Luke recovered enough for us to leave. The nurse asked me to help him get dressed. She was slammed. I started to protest and Luke did too.

“It’s not like you haven’t seen it before,” she said with a laugh as she handed me his clothes.

Actually, Nurse, I’ve only seen his balls and that was within the last hour, but why not the penis, too? What the hell–let’s just throw in his ass and the awkward position I’m going to have to be in as I help him into his white briefs since he can’t reach down and put them on himself.

A woman doesn’t expect to find herself in that place until at least the fourth date.

Luke shuffled slowly out of the hospital and I hailed a cab. Once home and settled in bed, I ordered him food to be delivered. The meal would arrive in thirty minutes so in the meantime I took his prescriptions to a nearby pharmacy and waited for them to be filled. Another, “How the hell should I know?” moment happened when the pharmacist asked for the name of his insurance provider. Now, if he’d asked the size and shape of his tally whacker I was golden but those pesky little details like insurance, his middle name, or even his zip code?

For shit’s sake, after the hospital I had only reached one-night-stand-level-intimate.

“I’ll just pay for it.”

I gave Luke his meds, sat with him while he ate then helped him get into something more comfortable. At that point he could’ve just stripped down and let me give him a Brazilian wax I was so accustomed to his nudity. His adult daughter arrived just as I was helping him button his pajama top. She was able to leave work early and as she encountered us, an instant stink eye followed. I didn’t blame her. I was, after all, a complete stranger caring for her father in a very familiar way. If the roles were reversed and Luke was tucking me into bed, my girls (at least Morgan) would’ve pepper-sprayed him.

With his offspring’s arrival it was the perfect time for me to leave. Luke mumbled a thank-you and I told him, no problem. He thanked me again, but didn’t make eye contact and, no surprise, I never heard from him again. I did pass him on the street a couple of months later. We made eye contact and I was just about to offer a greeting when he looked away and quickly moved past. I don’t blame him for being mortified. But I also knew we were more than even.

###

It seems Luke recovered his dignity. At least long enough to stare in a borderline creepy manner. At this point I swear I’ve dated a good portion of the single, age appropriate men in this city, often with untenable outcomes. I guess running into one of those bad memories was bound to happen.

PS- I’m excited to let you know I will be launching a PODCAST in October. I’ve named it:

Single Because…

I’ll be interviewing interesting, often funny people about the reasons they’re single. More information to follow, but if you have a provocative reason behind your singleton status or know someone who does, I’d love to hear the story. Send me an email through the Contact Melani link on this website.

“My friends tell me I have an intimacy problem. But they don’t really know me.” Gary Shandling

 

Where You Been?

July 12, 2016 by Melani 22 Comments

The other day I got a text from a friend:

“Just went to the blog. Are you taking a break from writing?”

Fair question and I rationally replied:

“WHO are YOU, the literary police?”

I know it’s been a loooooooong time since I’ve written and I would love to tell you it’s because

Ran into Tarzan at Sundance.

Ran into Tarzan at Sundance.

I’m having a crazy, lust filled romance with an age appropriate version of Alexander Skarsgård.

Sadly that’s not the case.

I’ve been struggling to come up with something to write. Although I don’t have writer’s block, per se, my love life hasn’t given me much material to work with. It’s quite yawn inducing even to me—can’t imagine how boring it would be to everyone else.

I had a date with a nice enough guy. He showed up thirty minutes late after multiple text apologies as he made his way to the bar. I find tardiness off-putting and on a first date, it’s downright rude. Although apologetic, his words had a practiced feel to them and I’m not down with someone who’s decided that his time is more important than mine. I also quickly learned that although separated he was not yet divorced. Ugh. We had a drink and I was ready to end our evening. There was definitely not going to be a second date and I offered to split the bill. I had two margaritas, guacamole and chips. He had a few chips but told me he wasn’t a fan of guac.

WHAT???

UnknownHis aversion to a significant part of my favorite cuisine—Mexican–was reason enough to hand him walking papers. I mean really, who doesn’t like guacamole? I’ll tell you: A person with a serious character flaw OR a picky eater–which is even worse. OK, perhaps I’m a little sensitive with the current political climate, because I wanted to ask, “Does your disdain begin and end with fare? How do you feel about walls?” Probably a silly question because I’ve amended my profile to state, “If you’re voting for Trump, we would definitely not be compatible.”

My date also looked at the bill and commented on the TWO margaritas I had consumed. He had only been there for one. What I could’ve said was, “Call the police. I’m a middle aged white chick and don’t fear law enforcement.” Of course that would’ve been silly because he was a cop. I reminded him that I had been waiting a half an hour for his arrival and wasn’t going to be sipping water. He agreed to split the bill, btw. Not quite what I expected and if I had arrived late, I promise I would’ve insisted on paying the entire tab. Then I got up from the bar and realized I was taller by at least two inches. I know, who cares, right? That night, I did.

I had another date recently with a Brit who’s visiting NYC for the summer. When I arrived at the bar, he was sipping water. I ordered a glass of Rosé and he ordered a Coke. No big deal if he’s a teetotaler, but then he proceeded to tell me about a bar he frequents each time he visits. The establishment offers free refills. He told me about how he’ll sit for hours, using the free wifi and watching TV, while sipping on one Coke that is refilled without charge. Lots of “free” in his vocabulary and as my grandmother would to say, “That Cheap Charlie has the firstUnknown-1 nickel he’s ever made.” I realized I was absolutely paying for my glass of wine and decided to order dinner. I made sure to tell him we would have separate checks. He didn’t order food but I shared my steak because I hate to eat alone and his frugality had to be on high alert after Brexit. There’s nothing that gives the thrifty greater anxiety than the threat of truly being broke instead of just living every second of their life that way. Do I even need to tell you there would not be a second date? Didn’t think so.

BUT, I did have an awesome date a few nights ago. The man is a widower. We’re definitely going out again. I have no urge to write about it.

Hmm, wonder what that might mean?

That’s about all that’s happening in my world. I hope you’re having a fabulous summer filled with adventures.

If you aren’t following my Facebook page, I would be over the moon if you could click HERE and show me some love.

“Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.”  Oscar Wilde

The Spring of My Discontent

March 21, 2016 by Melani 26 Comments

Yesterday was the first day of spring–and it snowed. I can’t think of a more perfect analogy for the current state of my love life.

I’ve been on many first dates lately—all that began brimming with hope and anticipation of possible growth into something more. Rather like the delicate jade-colored leaves that have begun to appear on the honeysuckle vines planted on my terrace. The ones I know will turn a darker shade of green as they grow and cover the trellis just as they did last summer.

FullSizeRender-22There was the date on Valentine’s Day with a lovely man from Boston. Sure the distance was an obstacle but I’d successfully dealt with that before. I was hopeful, but in his desire to learn more he did something I wish he hadn’t: read every single word I’d ever written and thought he knew me. I can always tell when someone has read my stuff. There’s a false familiarity that makes me squirm. I always ask men to hold off on reading my work and instead form an opinion based on our dates, but he was a master Google-er and had done so before our first meeting. He sent me a bouquet of tulips two weeks later when I wasn’t feeling well, (flower choice was prompted by a blog post from two years ago about my late husband giving me tulips). It turned creepy. His intentions were honorable, for sure, but the depth of his digging left me feeling as if he’d rummaged through my underwear drawer or read my diary.

Then there was a douchebag writer who had me fooled for a minute. He asked lots of questions, and after thoughtfully answering each one; he implied that I was monopolizing the conversation. He also got offended when I made a generalization about writers and the reasons I don’t usually date themUnknown. Believe me, my research may not be scientific but I’d bet the farm on its accuracy. Did I mention that he mentioned (four times) that he was in therapy? All within the first thirty minutes of the date, mind you. Or that he made a joke about a well known sexual predator getting sex during a time when he wasn’t getting any at all? Maybe I’m too judgmental because after all he writes comedy and there’s nothing funnier than rape humor, right?

Next I had a date with a kind and handsome man who’d graciously understood when I had to cancel our first date. When we eventually rescheduled I was looking forward to it. Five minutes into our date I knew there was nothing wrong with him but I felt absolutely zero chemistry as we sat next to each other at the bar. He kept brushing my leg with his and at one point took my hand. Awkward. It didn’t help that there was another man who’d passed by on his way to an empty seat and we exchanged mutual holy-shit-you’re-hot eye contact. Each time I glanced that stranger’s way, he was looking at me with the same intensity. I finally turned my chair away from his distracting and enticing gaze so as not to be rude to my date. When our evening ended I split the check. It was fair, as I had no intention of dating him again. He even said, “There’s a theory that when a woman splits the check on a first date there’s not going to be a second.” We parted with a kiss that went quickly from first date appropriate to “Oh god, don’t use your tongue!” I pulled away and headed to my apartment as he waited for an Uber. As I walked I thought about the man at the bar and a missed opportunity. I stopped for a moment and looked back to see if my date had gotten his ride. He hadn’t and caught me looking back. I felt guilty and wondered if he’d figured out I was contemplating a return. I turned and continued to my apartment but once there I asked my doorman for a Post-it and wrote, “I was on a first date but you definitely caught my eye. I think I caught yours, as well. If I’m right, I hope you’ll call.” I signed it, added my cell number and headed back to the bistro, certain that my date’s Uber had arrived. I skulked around the corner and was relieved to see he was gone.

Unfortunately, I discovered the handsome stranger was nowhere to be found either. I asked the bartender if he had moved to the restaurant for dinner. My plan was to walk up to him, hand him the Post-it and exit. He was with a male friend and I had no desire to be intrusive. She told me he and his friend had left. Dammit! She also said, “He’s in here all the time but I think he’s gay.” Perfect. I told her that I believed we had a connection. The restaurant manager (definitely gay) was passing by so the bartender called him over and asked, “Are the guys who were sitting here gay?” He rolled his eyes, “Of course they’re gay.”

Unknown-1There you have it: my guaranteed attraction to a gay man with whom I am certain is straight. It is a theme that started with Boy George, continued to George Michael and is clearly still going strong.

The following day I turned off Discovery on my Tinder and Bumble accounts. If you’re not familiar with the apps, that means my profile is hidden. I’m in need of a break. Early this morning, with my puffer coat covering my pajamas I headed outside to survey the snow damage to those new, fragile honeysuckle leaves. Some had browned overnight as they gave up and succumbed to the freeze, but other tenacious ones were still hanging in there with a defiant “screw you” to the unpredictable elements.

IMG_3965

I sit here at 11:35am (still in my pajamas as I type this). And as it pertains to digital dating and the precariousness of the process, I wonder:

Which leaf am I?

“Spring is nature’s way of saying, ‘Let’s party!'” Robin Williams

A Noun, A Verb And…

February 24, 2016 by Melani 17 Comments

I’m not in the business of making public service blog posts. My goal is to make you laugh and let you know you’re not alone in the absurd world of digital dating. Or, to provide further proof that you’re one of the lucky ones who’s happily paired up—never to return to the insanity of being single and online dating.

I’m going to make an exception this time.

As I’ve written before, I live in an apartment located on the roof of a building on the Upper West Side. Just me, another neighbor and the roof with fifteen floors of many apartments below mine.

imagesLast Thursday night, my youngest daughter Chelsea came over to hang out, do laundry and keep me company. Doing laundry in my building is like cage fighting. Most of the time several machines are out of order. Even when they’re all working (um, almost never) there are too few to accommodate those living in the building. Chelsea has dubbed the laundry room “Thunderdome” for good reason. You’ve got to be a badass to venture down to the basement because it’s the garment version of kill or be killed. (I know, you thought that was Fashion Week.)

Once Chels was able to get all her laundry done, it was late and she opted to sleep on my sofa. She’d been great that night in between loads giving my Norwich terrier Nigel, Pedialyte. He was not feeling well for a few days since I got a new bag of dog food. I was told he might’ve developed an allergy to his food and so I’d been back and forth to the pet store trying to find a flavor of the Blue Wilderness that agreed with his system. He’s not a fan of their salmon, btw. He wasn’t eating or drinking and was lethargic–almost loopy. If he wasn’t any better I was going to take him to the vet the next day.

Chels and I were both asleep around midnight when I was startled awake by an alarm in myimages-1 apartment. It was ringing and also saying, “Warning. Carbon monoxide.” I stumbled out of bed went into the living room and tried to wake up Chelsea. She normally springs right up, even from deep sleep, but this time she was irrational, yelling, “It’s the battery!” I yelled at her to open the terrace door in the living room as I did the same in the bedroom. It was about thirty-four degrees that night. I also called the front desk while opening windows and told the doorman that the detector had gone off. He said he would send the building superintendent upstairs to check. In the meantime, with doors and windows open, the alarm sounded less often and then eventually stopped. The Super arrived, checked to be sure it wasn’t malfunctioning (it wasn’t) and went to check the rooftop boiler as a possible source of carbon monoxide. The boiler room is on the other side of my bedroom wall. He came back and told me he suspected it was the boiler, had shut it down, but if the alarm sounded again, I should get out of the apartment immediately. He suggested we sleep with all the windows open and that he would call the vendor right away for emergency service.

Here’s where I fucked up: I agreed.

The next morning I had an opportunity to educate myself on carbon monoxide poisoning. Thanks, Google. There is no way I should have stayed in the apartment, there is no way I should’ve accepted that the boiler was the possible source, I never should have been OK with simply calling the front desk and Super and certainly shouldn’t have been satisfied with the information that a vendor had been called.

I should’ve immediately called FDNY.

images-2They have the equipment to find the leak, stop it and most importantly the equipment and training to assess my daughter’s and my condition as well as any pets exposed. They would’ve determined if we needed to go to the hospital or at the very least, given us oxygen. They would’ve been able to determine the particles of carbon monoxide in my apartment and if we were safe to sleep in that environment. The first call should have been to them. Now that I clearly understand how deadly the situation was, the incredibly dangerous level it takes for an alarm to sound, I will never make that mistake again. Sure hope I don’t have to.

By the way, the vendor didn’t arrive until noon the following day. Twelve hours after it happened. John, a smug buffoon boiler repairman came into my apartment with a device that looked like a gun with a long thin hose. It measured carbon monoxide particles. He had a look on his face that made me want to slap him. It inferred that I was overreacting by asking him to test my living space and I only knew his name was John because it was scribbled on a jagged piece of white tape, haphazardly stuck to his device. Probably in case he got distracted and misplaced it somewhere—like when he was caucusing for Trump.

To say I’m furious about how this was handled is an understatement. Believe me, I’ve gone all Erin Brocovich on building management.

There is good news, though. Nigel has rallied and is back to being the odd little dude he’sphoto-18 always been. I did not know that some pets are more sensitive to carbon monoxide than others. With Nigel’s reaction I learned that we were gradually being poisoned over several days. Nigel was the canary in the mine.

The day after the leak I noticed in my FB feed that someone’s cousin and five other family members had recently died in their sleep from carbon monoxide poisoning. If you don’t have a carbon monoxide detector in your home, please, please get one. I would also recommend the kind that doesn’t just sound an alarm but tells you whether it’s fire or carbon monoxide. If it had only been ringing, carbon monoxide would never have crossed my mind. I would’ve surmised it was malfunctioning, as there was no smoke. If I had hesitated, gone back to sleep or even tried to disconnect it, it could’ve been too late. Disorientation happens with carbon monoxide poisoning and I don’t think I was clearheaded enough to figure it out without being told.

Morgan could’ve lost her mother and sister in one night. She said if she had gotten that call, she wouldn’t want to live. Imagine getting that call?

On a lighter note, because we’re a family of complete assholes and several days have passed, I laughed out loud last night while on the phone with Morgan. I talked again about the incident and more information I’d read that day. Yeah, I have a tendency to obsess. By about the third new fact Morgan borrowed one of the best lines ever from Joe Biden and said, “Jesus, Mom! You’re like Giuliani. Every sentence is a noun, verb and carbon monoxide!”

She’s right, I’m a lunatic, but just humor me. Right now, walk over to your device and check to make sure it is both fire and a carbon monoxide detector. If so, and yours uses batteries, replace them. If you don’t have one, get it today.

Seriously, just do it.

Giuliani is “probably the most underqualified man since George Bush to seek the presidency,” he says. “Rudy Giuliani – there’s only three things he [needs] to make … a sentence: a noun and a verb and 9/11.” Joe Biden

 

The Hall Pass

January 21, 2016 by Melani 12 Comments

Have you ever had an agreement with a spouse or partner that if the opportunity presented itself, he or she would have permission to have sex with a celebrity? You know, this kind of conversation:

 She: Who’s the celebrity you’d like to have sex with?

He: I don’t want to have sex with anyone but you.

She: Cut the bullshit and tell me who you’re banging?

He: Ok, but you first.

She: Brad Pitt

He: Wow, that was fast. Are you sure? I hear he doesn’t bathe. 

She: Yep, in a heartbeat. Now you.

He: Ok, Scarlett Johansson.

She: Little young, but I get it. Her breasts are amazing.

Then they both agree that if they happen upon that celebrity (and sex is an option) they have a “hall pass” to screw to their heart’s content. Who knows, it may even become a game they play that night? She puts on her Wonder Bra while he calls her “Scarlett” and she asks him to wear a cowboy hat and a look that is a combination of angst and lust as she calls him “Tristan.” 

 LegendsJacket014

We know who’s more imaginative in that fictional relationship, right?

I matched with Sean on Tinder about a week ago. Not only was he handsome, his blurb made me laugh:

Englishman in New York. What does a stranger do in a strange town? Smile first and who knows where it will lead us! Don’t worry…I have my own teeth…Even straight ones.

Having been deluged with opening lines such as:  Hello, Hi, Ur beautiful, we were off to a good start with his:

How can I be smart and witty? I’m English!

(FYI, my blurb states that I’m seeking someone smart and witty.)

Then he followed with:

Btw…Did you manage to get some ointment to cure those nasty blisters you developed on your 3rd photo? Man, they look painful.

 10425052_10205000197346599_2230838253183571010_n

Laughed out loud. Of course, I was a goner. We began a delicious back and forth texting exchange that had me smiling, laughing and stretching my brain to come up with replies that were equally clever.

There is no question I am seduced by words–I’m a writer, it makes sense. “Sapiosexual” is a description I often see in profiles. When I read it an immediate eye roll follows.  It feels like the user is trying too hard to let women know he’s smart, because what dummy is turned on by intellect? Whatever, dude, don’t tell me. Show me. I guess when reflecting, I’m Sapiosexual-ish. Intelligence is a huge turn on but my guy’s got to be funny AND physically attractive (only by my standards, of course). Then we have to have that tiny little thing of mutual chemistry. Might explain my perpetual search, right?

Well, Sean was the whole package and I was hoping he’d ask me out to see if we had the chemical magic. Then I learned some disappointing information.

 IMG_3741

 I asked him, “Why do men cheat?”

 He avoided the question so I asked again.

IMG_3742

And quickly followed with the text below. (I’ve deleted his name following the comma after “you” because you know I change all names):

IMG_3743

Finally Sean decided to answer my question. He told me he didn’t want it to sound like the predictable, “My wife doesn’t understand me,” and also made sure to emphasize, “Now that I know I won’t be maneuvering into your panties, why would I lie?”

 True dat.

He explained that his girlfriend and he hadn’t had sex for two years. It became too painful for her after menopause. She also has zero desire. She tried hormone replacement, which made her lethargic and gain weight. She’s now given up. He added 1:3 women are impacted in this way. He’s right about that number.

Sean told me, “I love her. She’s my best friend, but I still miss sex.”

Before this trip she said she wouldn’t be checking up on him and he should do what he wants when he’s away.

Sean was given a most unusual hall pass—a generosity I probably wouldn’t be capable of bestowing upon my partner.

I told him there are many options she’s not tried and began to list a few. He asked if I would be willing to meet him for coffee and conversation and added that he understood it was strictly platonic.

Guess what? I met him.

Unknown-4We went to my favorite neighborhood bistro, sat at the bar and talked about everything. It was the most honest, open and frank conversation I’ve ever had with a complete stranger. Three hours of deep subjects, lots of laughter and three glasses each of delicious rosé. It was real, gritty and refreshing.

 

Then Al Pacino walked in for a late lunch.

 No, seriously, I swear.

 Al flippin’ Pacino!

All alone. Wearing that jacked up headband, too.Al+Pacino+65th+Annual+Tony+Awards+eivQzO59HbRl

We were sitting at the bar and he took a booth in the corner of the restaurant. We were briefly intrigued but the thing about New York City is celebrities are usually left alone. Perhaps it’s that New Yorkers are a tough crowd and few things (or people) impress them? I’m not sure but I will say that I regularly see famous people and nobody is bugging them for an autograph or selfie.

Sean and I turned away from Serpico finished our third glass of wine, talked more. We have decided to be friends and I hope he contacts me again the next time he’s in New York City. I also hope he is able to talk his girlfriend into trying the different options I suggested. If I had no sex drive I would be all over it. If Sean were my boyfriend, he’d have no need for a hall pass.

Ever.

Even with Scarlett Johansson.

“I hope they make a video game of me. At least I wouldn’t have any cellulite then.”  Scarlett Johansson

Merry Flannel Christmas

December 13, 2015 by Melani 42 Comments

It’s almost Christmas, I haven’t gotten a tree and the most I’ve done is drag my decorations out of storage. Actually, I didn’t even do that. Chelsea came over and was kind to her mama. For the last week, multiple bins have been stacked in my already small apartment. I frequently bump them when I stumble to the kitchen in the middle of the night to get water. I scream, “FUUUUUUCK!” (Sounding distinctly like Regan in “The Exorcist”), I diligently study my toe to be sure I don’t need to snap it back into place and slowly limp back to bed.

I’m trying to gather the energy to do the decorating but NYC isn’t exactly cooperating. Today it’s 61 degrees. Seasons are new to me since moving from the desert, and dammit, I want my Christmas cold. I’m also having an, um, “crisis of conscience” over the tree. Ok, that’s probably not how most would define it but those friggin’ tree vendors want to charge $90 for a five-footTree Lot tree. I could buy two coats for the homeless with that money! I walk by lots on the sidewalks of my neighborhood, spy the perfect mini pine and ask the cost. The price never changes but I find my reaction getting more dramatic. The first time I pointed, feigned surprise and said, “Oh, ninety dollars for that tree?” a few days later it was, “WOW! Price jump this year?” And it’s now morphed into a spectacle that includes reeling back from the tree (like it’s covered in ticks) the requisite exaggerated shock, Whaaaaat?!” Followed rapidly by, “That’s insane!” as I walk away vigorously shaking my head with such flair that I am quite sure others on the street are thinking the same of me.

Kate and Nig

“She’s such an asshole.”

I do this most mornings as I return from Central Park and have no clue why. Do I think there will be a Tuesday flash evergreen sale? Am I hoping the seller will be less shady on Wednesday? It’s gotten so bad that Kate and Nigel pull to cross the street as we near the tree lots.

When dogs get embarrassed, you’re clearly an asshole.

 

There’s probably more to this than a stupid overpriced New York City Christmas tree.

 

I’m pretty sure there’s more.

Ok, there’s definitely more.

I’m single again.

Flannel PJs

My girls and I have a tradition on Christmas Eve. We call it Flannel Pajama Christmas. Now, this isn’t a longstanding practice but one we made up last year. Here’s how it goes. We get in our pajamas on Christmas Eve around noon. I prepare a spectacular feast of only our favorite things and we eat together in a relaxed, laidback way—avoiding the pomp that has always accompanied our Christmas Eves.

It was an ordeal that included large groups of friends and neighbors, a lavish (yet tastefully) decorated Pinterest-worthy table, and a hell of a lot of stress. Last year we made the decision to take it down a colossal notch and it was perfect. I think it will guide-to-hosting-an-unforgettable-christmas-party-at-your-ottawa-apartment-624x472now be a family tradition long after I’m gone. Imagine that? My grandchildren, their children and their children’s children eating their meal in flannel pajamas on Christmas Eve and maybe remembering their odd great, or great, great grandmother who started the awesome folly? Or they’ll hate it and curse me, but I’ll be dead so who cares?

 

We also have included the movie “Love Actually” as part of the evening. Others, too, but that is the first one we watch—with plates propped on our laps.

(This is all my transition to the breakup, so hang in there. You know I always weave it around and then back again.)

If you’ve watched the movie you’ll remember the scene when Jamie (Colin Firth) and Aurélia (Lucia Moniz) have a conversation in different languages and don’t understand what the other is saying. Here’s the scene:

In the movie they find a way around their cultural differences, both learn a little of the other’s language and it ends with a proposal. Yeah, that’s the cinematic version. Unfortunately, it didn’t end that way in my relationship. He didn’t understand me. Although we were speaking English, we needed subtitles.

He gave me a book hoping it would lead to a better understanding of his world.

French book

I read it, gained insight into the many subtleties of French culture, but unfortunately, I didn’t have a handbook for mine. He has been in the U.S. for eight years but has dealt primarily with French clients. Americans were in general confusing, he proclaimed. He said we were very similar to Brits in that we say one thing but there’s another meaning, an almost false politeness.

Now, you know I’m direct, often blunt, but I realize he was right. There are many nuanced meanings to conversations that would be difficult to understand. For example, when I say, “Oh, you’re tired—again. You’ve been yawning during every conversation this week. Why don’t we get off the phone so you can sleep.” What I’m really saying is, “I’m sick of you being tired so don’t call me and yawn in my ear because it’s rude and annoying.” But that message didn’t register, he insisted we continue to talk, the yawning persisted and I ended up feeling aggravated. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Again, that’s one tiny example.

He also didn’t know I was funny. I have the ability to deliver a quick comeback or observation that (if you will pardon the bragging) is goddamn funny. He never got it. I continued to “think funny” but stopped verbalizing. What was the point? I realized that not only does the person  I’m with have to make me laugh (and he did); he also has to crack up at my jokes. Period. No exceptions.

Bottom-line: we were speaking the same language but weren’t talking the same lingo.

There is no bad guy in this breakup. I care deeply for him but I am certain the longer we were a couple, the more frustrating it would become. We were together for six months and I began to feel that “I’m about to jump out of my skin” sort of sensation, regularly. He said (when he realized I was getting aggravated), “Let’s have this conversation in French and see how clear it is to you!” That was fair and he was absolutely right.

I want to be honest. I miss him and my Christmas tree lot behavior probably has little to do with the rip-off $90 five-foot tree. Although this was the right decision, it doesn’t make it easy. I have been alone for a long, long time and being with him made me realize how much I’ve missed having a partner. It was comforting and good in many ways.

04-the-costumes-1024So, on Christmas Eve, in my flannel pajamas with my girls present AND Morgan’s boyfriend (hey, we’re not completely “Grey Gardens”), I’ll watch “Love Actually” with new eyes.

I’ll see the scene I shared above that always makes me laugh, but it will also be poignant this year. I’ll understand the importance of language in a relationship and my desire to be understood. Not simply using a translation tool but on a deeper level. I have discovered I am the sort of person needing one hundred percent comprehension.

I’ll probably buy that tree this week, too.Tree lot 2

“Falling in love and having a relationship are two different things.” Keanu Reeves

Pardon My French

September 29, 2015 by Melani 62 Comments

My friend Tracy said that my willingness to to put myself out there, via digital dating, was an admirable trait. The fact that I had SO many awful experiences and didn’t quit was a lesson in tenacity that others (herself included) should follow.

I was mortified.

Was it desperation? Wouldn’t a normal person quit? Seriously, what kind of maniac continues to be tortured and goes back for more?

The following wise words have been attributed to Einstein, Twain or occasionally Franklin, “Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.”

Unknown

 

According to Albert, Mark or Ben, I surely have bats in my belfry.

BUT, not so fast, iconic dead guys. Along came the right man on Tinder and I am officially off the market.

You read that right.

I am no longer single.

We’ve been together for a couple of months and I’m happy–maybe even blissful. Being with him is easy and has been from date one. To have instant ease was at first scary but I did my best to avoid overthinking our connection. Surely a peccadillo or ten would surface. If nothing else, our cultural differences would be challenging.

He’s French. Very French.

Beyond two debates on World War II and wine, we manage to agree on most things. He’s hilarious and unfiltered. I’m impressed with his quick wit given that he’s translating the humor into a language that’s not his own. Maybe it’s the accent but I crack up all the time. When I repeat something, he asks (with annoyance), “Why do you make me sound like Inspector Clouseau?” I laugh some more.

IMG_4204

Chance and Kate

We spend weekends at his rambling home in Chappaqua. He’ll cook dinner as I sip wine and keep him company in the kitchen. His dog and my two get along—the only family blending we have to worry about with adult children. He works in the city so during the week we spend time in my neighborhood.

I recently passed a test, though unaware it was being given. He was entertaining friends from Paris. Dinner began at 7pm and we didn’t finish until 2am. We ate, drank, listened to music–discussed everything from politics (French and American) to pop culture. We also danced. Often. He said that although a lengthy dinner with many courses was typical in France, he’d not found it to be common in America. Maybe so but I’m a continental chick and, duh, if the music includes “La vie en rose” I’ll be charming all night.

His friend decided I was “sexy with class.” Oui!

He is in Europe now on business and will be gone for two weeks. I would’ve joined him had I not lost my passport. Next time, for sure.

It feels good to miss him; safe in knowing he will be back soon.

 

 

France is the most civilized country in the world and doesn’t care who knows it. John Gunther

The Exception: A Good First Date

July 29, 2015 by Melani 20 Comments

“You’re not going to write about this date, are you?”

This is the sentence I hear on almost every first date and as Joan Didion said, “Writers are always selling somebody out.” I was asked that question on my first date with RJ on Sunday night. We matched on Tinder and exchanged a few texts. RJ was visiting NYC on business BUT was looking to rent an apartment. He was in the city about one week a month.

RJ was handsome and complimentary in his messages. Although a part time dating situation was not ideal, I figured I’d deal with that if we hit it off. I mean, come on, it’s not like I’ve knocked it out of the park with locals, right?

UnknownRJ was having a late dinner with his adult son (who lives in the city) but was free for drinks. He was staying at Essex House on Central Park South and I suggested we meet in the hotel bar. When I arrived he was already seated at a table by the window. RJ smiled, stood and walked towards me. He was definitely handsome and a gentleman.

“Your pictures don’t do you justice,” he said. Not a bad way to start the conversation, whichimages lasted through two drinks before he had to meet his son. He was interesting, had traveled the world and we shared many common experiences. I think we could’ve talked for hours. He walked me outside to my Uber and we hugged goodbye. RJ was leaving on Tuesday and he asked if I was available for dinner. I had a dinner date on Monday so it looked as if we would have to wait for his return to the city in August to meet up again. He had my cell number and by the time I got home, he’d sent a text thanking me for a great first date. See, RJ was a Tinder Virgin. I was his first. He’d shared that he had ended a long-term relationship about six months earlier and was finally ready to get back out there. I told him he needed to get “dirtied up on a few Tinder dates” so he would understand that a good first date is the exception, not the rule.

JD TextOn Monday we exchanged more texts, flirted a bit and then talked on the phone. I even told a friend that I’d had a really good first date and was cautiously optimistic. Since RJ was heading home on Tuesday, he asked if I would be willing to meet him in Central Park the following morning. I suggested Tavern on the Green where there’s a coffee to-go window and outdoor seating. I said I could meet at 10am before my hair appointment.

Again, we chatted for an hour and it was a stimulating conversation. He mentioned that hetaverngreen didn’t think Tinder was for him because it was awkward talking to a bunch of strangers, especially since people aren’t going to tell the whole truth about their lives. I agreed. It’s kind of like a job interview. When a prospective employer asks what your biggest weakness is and you reply, “I’m just too dedicated and I focus on work even when I’m at home.” I think if I weren’t forced to be honest, I’d probably hold off on sharing too many details. But, because of stuff I’ve written, easily found with a Google search of only my first name, the gild is off my lily before I decide to de-gild.

It was time for me to start walking to my hair appointment. I had to cross the park to the Upper East Side and walk to 65th and 3rd Avenue. RJ asked if he could walk me there. It was gallant and I liked it. He took my hand as we strolled and I enjoyed the feel of holding hands. It’s been a while.

When we got to my destination, he kissed me goodbye, said he’d be in touch and he looked forward to seeing me again at the end of August. As the hairdresser cut and colored my hair I thought about the ease of the two dates with RJ. No drama, just two single adults enjoying each other’s company. It was comfortable, normal and sane.

Let’s face it, it was wildly refreshing.

Last night, around 6pm, I’d just poured myself a glass of wine and was watching the evening news when my cell rang. It was an unfamiliar number from RJ’s state and I quickly surmised that he was probably calling from his home phone. Here’s the conversation:

Me (cheerfully): Hello.

Caller: Hi, this is the wife of the guy you just dated.

Me: (stunned silence)

Caller (furious): You know, RJ, the guy you met on Tinder?

Caller: This is his wife and he’s busted BIG TIME.

Me: (still shocked and silent)

Caller: Maybe you should lose his number.

Me: (yep, still silent)

Caller: He’s married.

Caller: I don’t suppose he told you he’s married?

Me: No.

Caller: No, of course not but he won’t be for long. Maybe you should keep his number.

Me: No, I don’t think so.

Caller: You don’t think so (obviously repeating for his benefit).

Caller: OK, goodbye.

Dude’s having a really bad day.

And he deserves it. Obviously he’s either a lousy first time cheater or one of the serial variety. It really doesn’t matter as he’s not my problem and I want no part of the shit show. I quickly blocked RJ’s cell as well as his wife’s number. Then I sat quietly for a minute, taking it all in,   until I eventually laughed out loud. Just when I think there’s nothing about dating that can shock me, I answer a call and can’t find my words.

I don’t know what I would’ve said except to let her know that nothing happened. Sure, it was a slimy move omitting that minor detail that’s he’s hitched, but it was a fairly innocent dalliance. Maybe it will be the catalyst they need to fix their clearly broken marriage. I hope so because it’s not easy to start over. Sheesh, even a pro like me can be gamed when an interesting and normal person comes along. As RJ said, “With online dating, people aren’t going to tell the whole truth about their lives.”

Preach, RJ.

I couldn’t stand that my husband was being unfaithful. I am Raquel Welch – understand? Raquel Welch

Avocados

July 8, 2015 by Melani 12 Comments

Yesterday I was waiting to checkout at the Trader Joe’s in my neighborhood. It’s the busiest inTJ double line the country so the line winds around the store. Instead of my favorite pastime of playing Tetris while waiting, I engaged in my second favorite—judging others and the food they’re purchasing.

Come on, you know you do it too.

I observed the bratty kids and thought, you’re lucky I’m not your mother—or, ugh, grandmother. I perused the cart of a svelte woman and surmised that I too could be a rail if willing to eat only the multiple bags of kale she had in her basket. Who eats that shit anyway? And even if you do, you can’t possibly enjoy it. All that endless chewing of something that was once a garnish in every buffet in Las Vegas. I also saw a young married couple looking so miserable (as he stood salad-barin line and she placed items in their cart) that I felt like tapping them on the shoulder to say, “Rip the bandage off and hire lawyers. You’ve lost that lovin’ feeling.”

Then I saw the man with avocados. He had three in his hands as he walked back to his place. He held them up with glee and smiled lovingly at someone behind me. I surmised that he and his love were entertaining guests that evening and guacamole was on the menu. He’d found three that were perfectly ripened and that pleased him immensely. I thought, Aww, I want someone to smile at me over produce. He had a happy Yoda-ish face and I quickly amended my original wish.

I want a handsome man to smile at me over produce.

 Then I saw his Ecco sandals.Unknown

I want a handsome man to smile at me over produce and one who’d never wear those heinous sandals.

 I adjusted even more.

I want a handsome man to smile at me over produce and one who’d never wear those heinous sandals—in fact, one who’d never wear sandals at all.

 Then I harshly generalized.

 God, men have ugly feet.

TJ AvocadosAvocado Romeo and I were in two different lines and he caught up and then went ahead. I looked for his partner, expecting to see a sweet-faced woman, glowing with love while wearing sensible footwear. He was alone and I decided his significant other had gone to grab a jar of salsa or tortilla chips.

I’m telling you, I can build a story without a single fact.

I kept watching, waiting for his partner to join him and then something odd happened. He held the avocados up just as he had before, and grinned joyfully.

imagesWhat the hell is he doing, holding them up like baby Simba?

He placed two in his basket and took one in his hand, put it near his ear and knocked, then smiled extra big. He did the same with the other two.

OK, this guy’s a flippin’ nutjob.

Listen, I sincerely appreciate a perfectly ripened butter fruit, but, sir, have some self-control. If a man can’t maintain his sanity over Trader Joe’s produce, there’s no telling what he might do in Duane Reade’s seasonal aisle. One of those spray bottle fans could send him into a euphoric state he might never dial down.

New Yorkers are unfazed by crazy. That’s comforting. I like to know if I go all Mrs. Havisham (always a possibility), the city will embrace me. Especially as I approach my fifty-fourth birthday. Did you know she was only in her mid-fifties? You’re a cruel man, Mr. Dickens.

After paying for my groceries, I didn’t lament lugging the heavy bags home alone as I normally do and in fact was temporarily grateful for my spinsterhood. One can never tell the eccentricities lurking under the surface of what appears to be a perfectly normal man—be it a foot fetish, the furry scene or an uncontrollable yearning to worship Persea americana.

I always thought I was going to end up an old spinster, with my cats and fur coats. Gemma Arterton

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MATCH!

April 27, 2015 by Melani 8 Comments

A few days ago my friend Tracy and I were talking on the phone and I realized she worked with a guy I’d had my first online date with–waaaaay back in 2001. I was in between relationships and I thought I’d give it a whirl. The site I used was Match.com. Secretively, of course, and I wasn’t on for long. My profile didn’t include photos and gave no hint as to my occupation. Heck, I wouldn’t even give my name when corresponding.

I was deep undercover. Skulking around like a criminal.

I didn’t even tell most friends. I felt I’d be perceived as a loser, a woman so desperate and undateable she couldn’t get a man the normal way. The truth was the company I worked for frowned on employees dating—particularly anyone in a managerial role. As a single mom, my free time was usually filled with softball games or school events. I certainly wasn’t going to date any single dad who had kids running in the same circles as mine. There was already enough speculation about my private life from the cliquish group in the softball community. Seems nothing gets people riled up more than a single woman who refuses to gossip about others OR bare her soul. So they simply made shit up and created a torrid and lascivious love life for me–strictly in their silly little minds.

My, my, my how things have changed.

I officially became an over-sharer. I spent a year blogging about the good, the bad and humiliating. Although I was on numerous sites, most of that year was spent on Match.com. While chronicling my experiences, I often wondered if those gossipmongers (from the past) found the blog.

How do you like me now, bitches?

 

It may surprise you to learn that Match.com is twenty years old. Holy shit, I thought I was a pioneer in 2001 and it had been around for years before I dipped my toe in the cyber pool. Digital dating is the new normal and here are some interesting facts:

  • More than 125 million people have joined Match
  • Match has created more than a quarter of a billion matches
  • Match users have sent more than 4 billion winks and emails
  • More than 20 million people have used Match through a mobile device
  • Match has created more than 10 million relationships 

 

And in the next 20 years:

  • Two out of three relationships and more than half of all marriages will begin online
  • The single population will double

 

Bill & Freddi

Bill & Freddi

And remember Match’s original success story—Bill and Freddi? We cyber-seekers can breathe a sigh of relief. They’re still going strong.

 

Rock on, you crazy lovebirds.

 

Now to get back to MY first Match.com date. My friend Tracy did in fact work with him and knew him well. She confirmed what I believed—he was/is a really good guy. I asked if she knew if he’d remarried and she thought he had.  Here’s what happened back 2001. We’ll call him Carl.

Carl and I went on several dates. He was kind, compassionate and decent. Many nights when my teenaged daughters slept we’d talk on the phone. I was pretty stressed in those days, working long hours and attempting to be both a mother and father to my girls. One person just can’t do it all and I was running myself ragged trying to fill the gaping void in their lives. There was little time for me and late at night when I was picking up the house and doing laundry, I’d talk to Carl and he’d sometimes suggest a temporary but most needed reprieve. He’d ride his Harley to my house and pick me up. He had a sound system on his bike and would always play music from the 70s. The stuff that took me back to my teenage years. Carl would take me down Boulder Highway (Las Vegas) and out to Boulder City, a small town near Hoover Dam. It was usually around midnight so there were few cars on the road. For that one hour, with the wind in my face, my arms around his waist and songs I knew by heart, I was free. Just a chick on the back of a bike feeling mellow.

 

What a gift.

 

Carl and I didn’t see each other for long. After several dates he had not done anything more than kiss me goodnight. I didn’t know if he was sexually attracted to me and was too embarrassed to ask. We weren’t exclusive and it was about that time that I went on a business trip to Pittsburgh, met Neal, and was no longer single.

 

When I returned, Carl called me and I told him I’d met someone, well, not just someone but the love of my life. He was gracious and wished me well.

Carl called occasionally to “check in” and see if my relationship was still going strong. Of course it was and he always said he was happy for me, but also disappointed. He thought we had something special. I cared about Carl and figured I should tell him the truth: I never knew if he was attracted to me. He was flabbergasted. He said he was so enamored he didn’t want to do anything to blow it. He was being a gentleman and taking it slow out of respect. I then asked if he wanted some advice. He welcomed it.

 

See? I was even a dating know-it-all back then.

 

I told Carl that the next time he felt that way he had to “go for it.” Most women don’t want to be treated like delicate flowers. I know I didn’t. I told him after a couple of dates he should make a move, let her know that he’s hot for her. He laughed, assured me he’d take my advice and then told me if things didn’t work out with Neal, he had a thing or two to show me.

 

Atta baby, Carl!

Tracy & Mel-35th HS reunion

Tracy & Mel-35th HS reunion

 

I shared this story with my friend Tracy. We laughed and wondered if he met his current wife online? I’d like to think so.

Happy 20th Anniversary, Match, my original cyber-relationship broker.

How about you? When did you first dip your toe into the digital dating waters? Which site was it? Full disclosure: This post is sponsored by Match.com. BUT, I was given creative freedom, cause you know that’s how I roll.

Match Timeline Final“Online dating only sucks until it doesn’t.” Melani Robinson

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My name is Melani Robinson and I’m a writer/blogger, and online dating expert living in New York City on the Upper West Side. READ MORE

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