Melani Robinson

Author | 1 Year of Online Dating at 50

  • Home
  • Meet Melani
  • Blog
  • Published Elsewhere
  • Single Because… Podcast
  • Media
  • Contact

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.

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

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.

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

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

Just Beachy

June 22, 2015 by Melani 12 Comments

I’m getting ready for my annual beach vacation. I’ve been rather quiet on the blog as I work on two big projects but I did want to reach out and wish all of you a FABULOUS summer filled with lots of everything you desire, including rockin’ sex.

Come on, most of us want that, right?

Send those wishes back to me. It’s been a cruel, cruel summer, thus far. Jeez, what’s a girl gotta do for a little action? On the other hand, I have a lot of nerve lamenting my lust-less condition. I’m not doing a thing to make it happen. I’m taking a break from Tinder, again. But you know, sometimes you just feel like grumbling about something.

One of the most popular posts from the original 1Year blog was about my beach vacation. I thought I’d share it again since it’s not included in the book. I just got some amazing feedback on the book, BTW, from a freelance editor. I’m feeling good about it. Maybe even a little full of myself.  See how I am? Even sexless my ego’s still going strong.

Here’s the oldie but goodie:

Summer Lovin’ (2012-05-31)

270085_589719610482_1844169_nThere’s something about the onset of summer that makes me want a man more than any other time of year. Official Summer is later than my clock. June 1st marks the day on my calendar. I know most people feel the yearning to be part of a couple around the holidays. For some there’s nothing nicer than waking up on Christmas morning with the person they love. There are the holiday parties and the comfort in knowing you have a date and it’s with someone you want by your side. There’s also the joy of shopping for the perfect gift and the anticipation of seeing their face as they open the present.

Not for me.

It’s summertime and being solo that make me melancholy.

I love warm weather: the smell of sunscreen, my feet in the sand on a beach, the water footsteps away, and libations with fresh fruit. It’s summer that has me longing for Him.

NYC has been hot and humid lately. The feeling is in the air—vacation is just around the corner. Four summers in a row I’ve rented a beach house in Virginia, right on the ocean. My daughters and their pals (as many as they want) are welcome to come. I also invite my closest friends. It is a relaxed time with absolutely no agenda. I don’t need lots of organized activities. I’m very happy to sit under the EZ-Up (my days of bronzing are over) with a stack of books, a beer or cocktail. I’ll occasionally grab a boogie board, head to the water to cool off, maybe ride a few waves and let the ocean knock me around a bit, but that’s the extent of my daily game plan.

There’s a Ping-Pong table and I have a ruthless serve and a nasty spin on my backhand (don’t smirk, I do) so a competitive tournament in the evening is possible. After a few days my younger daughter will finally beat me so badly I put down the paddle for another year.

There’s a game table next to the large windows overlooking the sea. My friend Lisa always has a ridiculously difficult puzzle in the works and won’t stop until she’s got it all finished. Love her tenacity.

284897_589719984732_4021952_nMy oldest daughter makes the meanest piña colada I’ve ever had and the blender is regularly in use. The living room has large overstuffed sofas and when I come out in the morning (I’m always up first) there are usually the sleeping forms of those too tired (or perhaps too intoxicated) to make it to the bedrooms the night before. I love the quiet of the morning and head to the deck with coffee to watch the dolphins that come close to shore at sunrise to feed.

The dogs love it too. Kate and Lola (firstborn’s rotten Pug) are beach bitches. Kate goes feral. We start our morning with a lengthy leash-free walk. Nigel joined us last summer but he was too heavy to enjoy the exercise. This year he’s lean and mean and I can’t wait to see him keep up with the girls.

281519_589720378942_6601046_nWe take flashlights once it is dark and shine them on the hordes of ghost crabs that begin feeding at dusk. The dogs chase the creatures and I wait for the requisite pinch they’ll receive from the claws of their prey.

I cook a big meal every night and dinner is served at whatever time it gets done. There are always plenty of volunteers to cut, chop and dice so preparation is as much fun as consumption.

45185_1563171201166_1054242_nI love to cook. Having a big group enjoying the food is my bliss. Dinners are filled with wine, highly inappropriate conversation and large doses of raucous laughter. It’s fun to watch my friends and my daughters’ having fun together.

It’s at those instants I feel the pang.
 I want to glance across the table and smile at the man I’m with. Share the “this is a brilliant moment” look.

I’ve not had that experience and this year will be no exception—even if I were to meet the perfect guy today. There’s a feeling of camaraderie at the beach. An intimacy. It would be much too soon to introduce a new man into that mix. I would have to be sure that he’s one I could end up with. I don’t want to taint future summers with memories of a guy I didn’t know well enough to realize was, well, a jerk. I also don’t want to be surprised by things I might learn under vacation conditions. I need experiences, perhaps a catastrophe or two before I can be sure he will add to the party.

For instance, I could tell a lot about a man by his reaction to the Kate boondoggle. If he wereCIMG1107 with me when it happened—even better. If he either added to the stress, or in any way made light of it, a warning shot would be fired. If he said something marvelous like, “It’s a dog not a child,” or went into high alert, barking orders, blaming me or the doorman, freaking out–he’s not my guy.

If our first date included my pratfall and he was embarrassed or ashamed by my tumble, if he couldn’t laugh with me once I got over the humiliation or tell me it wasn’t that noticeable–he’s not my guy.

I would also want to see him interact with my daughters more than once or twice. Although they are adults, independent women in their own right, it is important that they get along. If he’s condescending or dismissive—he’s not my guy.

Lastly, there is the most important reason that the beach is not a spot to bring Dude du Jour. It is the place where Neal’s ashes were scattered.

It isn’t a sad memory—he didn’t want it to be. I intentionally chose that location because he said any beach would be fine. That one was special. It was there I spent two summers of my childhood and those remembrances are some of the happiest I have. I wanted him to meld with those memories and have intentionally made each summer at the beach one big party. A way to recognize that although another year has passed, he’s still on our minds. To acknowledge him in a way that briefly pays homage to his life. There’s nobody who loved a good party more than he.

The man in my life would have to accept that on one night, with many who knew him best, we open a bottle of champagne and drink to Neal.

It will take time to be sure he can handle it. He will have to know there is no competition—Neal is gone. He has to feel loved by me with the same fierceness I once loved another. He will have to be as sure of himself as of me. Comfortable with the annual, short but significant, tradition of recognizing Neal was here. The stories will be the same and most of them funny. There are never tears. Just an hour or so of joyful appreciation of the larger than life person he was and how fortunate we all were to have known him.

The right guy will not ask that this be modified. He’ll get it. Perhaps even grow to enjoy the experience or toast Neal himself. He will instinctively know there’s no need to feel he is less and will accept that this ritual will continue for as long as our glorious summers in Virginia Beach remain.

“In Summer, the song sings itself.” William Carlos Williams

Have a beautiful summer. I’ll probably be posting beach pics on FB so I hope you’ll Like the page (if you haven’t already). Also be sure to sign up to be notified when the book is published. Go to the 1YearofOnlineDating tab.

Fatal Attraction-ish?

January 29, 2015 by Melani 14 Comments

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’veFullSizeRender-5 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?

IMG_2772

Yep, that’s my terrace.

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 dumplingsUnknown 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.

images-1

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.

melani-wird-oefter-von-jungspunden-angeschrieben-schliesslich-ist-ihr-name-robinson-wie-bei-mrs-robinson-aus-der-reifepruefung

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

At Last: Part Three

July 21, 2014 by Melani 83 Comments

Will talked often about future plans in a way that I’d normally find presumptuous, especially at the beginning of a relationship. Instead his desire to be included in my inner circle was comforting. He was sticking around.

He said he looked forward to meeting my daughters and mentioned that he’d told his entire family and friends about me. He wanted to meet my friends, too.

31321_1442866513624_7945465_n

Karen

Those around me had normal concerns.

“Take it slow, no need to rush,” said Karen, my surrogate mom. “How do you know he’s who he says he is?”

“He’s got crazy eyes,” said my daughter Morgan, while studying his photo. Several days later, we were on the phone and his battery died. Morgan said that was “shady.” It wasn’t as if she had anything to go on beyond what I’d told her but when I begin a new relationship Morgan’s firstshady-guy.jpg.html_ reaction has always been to dislike the interloper threatening to upset the normalcy of our lives. When she was a teenager and I told her about Neal she became hysterical and screamed, “You’re ruining your life!” then stormed towards the front door yelling, “I’m telling Papa!” Papa is my father—another person who’s been consistently suspicious of the men in my life. My dad asked for Neal’s Social Security number so he could do a background check. With one final shot before heading to get my dad involved, Morgan howled, “And what about Howard?” Howard was someone I’d had an on again off again relationship with for quite some time. Morgan couldn’t stand Howard in the beginning, either. It was nice to see that as an adult she’d toned down the hysteria.

Will was just a shady psycho.

Will’s family, (one brother in particular), had reservations, too, and advised him to date lots of women in the beginning of his new single status. He said his friends were happy, though, as he told them about me and shared my photos.

I wasn’t ready to meet his family. I wanted to cement our relationship in familiarity, spend time together, before we complicated us with our tribes. I told Will about my complex brood. When he described his, it often sounded like the plotline to Leave it to Beaver, and it seemed he grew up in the Rhode Island equivalent of Mayberry. I figured it was probably bullshit. A wise yogi once told me, “I was embarrassed to talk to people about my family but once I did, they did, too, and I realized we’re all one big Jerry Springer Show.”

Two days after our date I was heading home to Las Vegas for ten days and Will had a week of golfing planned at his family’s summer home. I was staying with my father while his wife was away.

Those who’ve followed the blog know my father hasn’t been well. He’s fallen and broken both his hip and femur. I’ve told you about those maladies. What I haven’t told you is a year ago he was diagnosed as having Lewy Body Dementia (LBD) symptoms. It is a disease often misdiagnosed as Alzheimer’s and one that can’t be confirmed until an autopsy is performed. It mirrors Alzheimer’s in many ways as people with LBD also have disorientation but they also are afflicted with balance and mobility issues. A definitive diagnosis really doesn’t matter, as Alzheimer’s and LBD are equally awful and this manner of slowly, tragically losing my father has left me heartbroken.

photo 2My dad raised me and I lived with him after my parents divorced. Though I’ve written much about my father, I haven’t done so with my mom and although many blog followers have asked, I’ve remained vague. My relationship with my mother has been complicated for as long as I can remember. As a child she told me, “You rejected me from birth.” Adults know that babies don’t reject their mothers. But we also know the opposite is possible and that was the case in my life. As stunning as it was to know my mother felt that way, I knew my dad adored me with every parental fiber possible and that was more love than many have from two parents.

My grandmothers also filled the maternal void and both loved me fiercely. I did not have an unhappy childhood, though sometimes confusing. I managed to sort all that out years ago when I was able to look at that relationship through a grown-up lens–with the help of therapy, of course. My dad was it and I considered myself lucky.

My Grams bathing me.

My two Grams giving me my first bath.

I told Will this in bits during several of our marathon telephone conversations. As it appeared he’d been raised by June and Ward Cleaver, it was a rather embarrassing, but also necessary. I was heading to Las Vegas and it was going to be painful. I needed Will to understand why I might not be myself—at the very least, distracted. It was also important that he was cognizant of the situation as I wouldn’t be so readily available for lengthy conversations or rapid response texts. A couple of times he’d seemed perturbed when I didn’t answer the phone or respond quickly to his text messages. He expressed this in jest with statements like, “If you didn’t call me right back, I was going to be so mad!” He would sometimes text when I was out with friends or my daughters and, again, joke about being ignored. He pressed for my undivided attention, despite his jovial approach and I didn’t mind. Perhaps it’s a personality type I’m drawn to, but I can’t remember a man I’ve been with who didn’t expect the same thing.

36472_1487837797878_3661030_nWill and I spoke on the morning I flew to Las Vegas. I also sent a text that I’d landed and he called again. We talked as I drove to my father’s house but once I got there my dad would be the focus. I loved my time with him and made sure he understood my undivided attention was all his. With the disease he’s often impatient, demanding and argumentative. He doesn’t have a filter anymore and says some horribly shocking things, too. Growing up he was always easy going, fun and brilliant. Nobody could make me laugh more. The stranger inhabiting my father’s body appears more often now and it’s gut wrenching. I keep it together when he’s awake but after he’s gone to bed I cry like a child who’s homesick. I miss my dad so much, yet he’s asleep in the next room.

Will and I talked in the evenings and I would give him the rundown. He was supportive as he reminded me this was the disease. He would find a way to make a joke about certain situations and the levity helped. He was having fun golfing with his family but they were giving him a hard time about how often he was texting and talking. One early morning he even asked me to textWally-Cleaver-1963 with his brother—the one he mentioned wasn’t thrilled about his new relationship. I think he wanted to prove how clever I was but given the pressure I was under, it seemed rather insensitive. I felt like a performing seal but did it anyway and even overlooked the caustic undertone of his brother’s texts barely hidden behind what he pretended was humor. Texts like, “Are you a ballbuster?”

Hmm, would Theodore Cleaver ask Wally’s girlfriend that question?

My dad had lost contact with many friends since his diagnosis. One buddy, John, called near the end of the week and said he’d been trying to reach my father for a year. I explained what had happened and he asked if we could to go to dinner. I was hesitant because this would take him from his routine but I asked my dad, and he was excited to see his old friend. The plan was to eat early and John made a reservation at Hugo’s Cellar in the Four Queens Hotel/Casino, downtown.

Photo courtesy Las Vegas Review Journal

Hugo’s Cellar. Photo courtesy Las Vegas Review Journal

It’s a fancy place, my father wanted to wear sweatpants and got mad when I asked him to change. Sweats it was. He uses a walker and it was an arduous trek from valet parking to the restaurant. Once there and with his friend I began to relax as he ordered a glass of wine. It was a great evening. My dad and John talked of old times and I couldn’t believe the fine points he recalled. His short-term memory was gone but long-term was amazing. They laughed and talked as they always had, both having fun. When my dad ordered a second glass of wine it made me nervous since he was unstable enough on his walker. I didn’t want to say anything, though, he was so happy. Then he ordered a third, which I knew was a mistake. Once dinner was over we got up to leave the then-crowded restaurant and my father began to sway, tipping the wheels of one side of his walker, then the other. I held onto the front to steady it and my dad yelled at me to take my hands off. Everyone turned to stare. I quietly explained that I was helping because he was tipping over and he yelled again–this time screaming the F-word. In my entire life I’d never heard him use that word. The maître d’ walked briskly towards us and asked what was going on. I discreetly explained my father had Alzheimer’s and I was trying to steady him. My dad loudly told the maître d’ to get out of his way and started pushing forward. And then he fell and yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?” A woman at a nearby table screamed as his leg hit her chair on the way down. I hurried to help him up but he began flailing his arms and yelling. He was completely disoriented, didn’t know who I was and refused to move, bellowing at me to leave him alone while shooing me with his arms. His hand grazed my mouth and when I told him to stop yelling he grabbed my upper arms and roughly shoved me away. I could see in his eyes I was a stranger. Someone obviously called hotel security, and they arrived a moment later. As three big guys walked towards us one was holding handcuffs. Having worked in the gaming industry for most of my adult life I’d like to clarify that hotel security guards don’t always make smart choices and certainly handcuffing an eighty-two-year-old man confirms that. I stepped between them and my dad and told them to stop. Then I explained my dad had Alzheimer’s. We didn’t need handcuffs but a wheelchair and help to the car. Thank God they listened.

On the drive home he asked what happened. I told him he fell and Security helped us to the car. He called himself “stupid” for drinking wine and said he was sorry. “No big deal, Dad. Everybody drinks too much sometimes and we handled it.”

That sort of episodic break is symptomatic of Lewy Body Dementia and alcohol can be a catalyst.

I got him from the garage to his bed, helped him into his pajamas and gave him a sleeping pill. He told me I was the best daughter a father could hope for. I told him he was the best dad ever. Then I shut his bedroom door and fell apart.

The first person I wanted to speak to was Will. I called his cell but he didn’t answer. The cell service was sporadic at the vacation home so he’d given me the landline number. I called that, too. Again, no answer. I called his cell a second time and left a message letting him know I angry-bird-yellow-iconneeded to talk. At that point I was angry. It was a combination of what happened that night and the fact that I’d always been available and accommodating when he called. Even during the difficult week with my dad—because I knew it was important to him. I performed on demand, first with his business partner, then his brother (Angry Bird). Was expecting the same too much to ask?

Texts go through at the vacation home even when calls won’t so I sent him a text. “Answer the fucking phone, goddammit! I had a crisis with my dad and need to talk.” And I waited. Nothing. I finally called my friend Jeanne. Once she helped me calm down, I sent another text letting him know he should disregard the previous text, I was with my friend and OK.

The next morning I got up to a text from Will sent several hours before—given the three hour time difference. He said he was “confused” by my texts. He also said they had an early tee time. I figured that meant he was unavailable to talk while playing golf, and still miffed, I replied there was no need for confusion and then gave him the awful details of the night before. I assumed he would respond by telling me he’d call when they were done playing, but I heard nothing.

By late afternoon I had a bad feeling and checked my email.

There it was, a message from Will.

I’m paraphrasing but it’s pretty close.

He was sorry for the ordeal but my angry text really set him back. He was at a loss to even discuss it and was rattled all day. He wasn’t in the right place to deal with that kind of drama with all the issues on his plate. When he resolves his issues perhaps he would feel differently and we could explore getting to know each other. He closed by asking me to respect his decision.

Drama? Wow.

I wrote back (paraphrasing, again) that I would absolutely respect his decision and my reply would be the last time he heard from me. I apologized for the inappropriate tone of my text but explained that I had just been through a traumatic experience and trusted him enough to talk me off the ledge. I assumed he would understand as I’d told him about what was going on, as he knew about my close relationship with my father. I wished him well in finding someone better suited for him, and added I will be cautious with the next man in my life. I said I would never again be so quick to trust in the infancy of a relationship no matter how close I think we are.

So there you have it.

Jeanne

Jeanne

I never had any intention of telling this story and I’m well aware of the irony: Will asked if I was on the site for writing material, I told him I wasn’t and yet here I am sharing. It was my friend Jeanne who pushed me. She explained that doing so was an opportunity to be vulnerable—something that does not come easy for me.

It has been a couple of months since this happened and it’s god awful to relive. I buried the Will sorrow for a time after returning from Vegas. The reality of how far my dad has gone away was all I could handle. It eventually bubbled up, though, as tamped down feelings usually do. There are lots of things that are troubling, but most of all his delivery method. I deserved to hear it from him directly, either by phone or in person. He didn’t think a text message was the proper way to ask me on a date so surely he knew sending that email was even worse. And if he had many things on his plate why push for an exclusive relationship and talk about a future? I would’ve happily dated Will and continued to date others until his plate was emptier. Why say you’re “baggage free” when you’re obviously not? And why ask to meet my daughters and friends? Perhaps one day I’ll run into him and we’ll finally talk.

My girlfriends bolstered me up.

“You’ll hear from him again.”

“His loss.”

“He’s not for you.”

“Now he has things on his plate?”

I have lots of male friends and asked them how they’d feel if they received the crazy text I sent Will.

“I’d apologize the next day for not being there when you needed me.”

“I’d be frantic to reach you.”

“I might be surprised but would understand once I knew what happened.”

“He’s weak. Move on.”

Morgan’s reaction was my favorite.

“The first thing that came to mind is, are you strong enough to be my man, and the answer is no.”

As hard as this was, something good happened. Finally I have confirmation that I can love again—in that big way. I wanted to believe it was possible but sometimes wondered, especially given the number of dates I’ve been on with many decent men. It even feels good to hurt over Will, as odd as that sounds. I wasn’t sure I could feel loss for anyone but Neal.

I’m back online again and dating. Not much has changed with that process, but I have. I have a new outlook and can thank Will for that, too. It was exhilarating to feel deeply and I want more. Gone is the mantra of “I had a big love once and if it never happens again, I’m luckier than most.” Instead I now say, “I can and will love again.”

At last.

 

Two quotes today, as I couldn’t decide which I preferred.

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Ernest Hemmingway

“When I’ve shown you that I just don’t care. When I’m throwing punches in the air. When I’m broken down and I can’t stand, would you be man enough to be my man?” Sheryl Crow, “Strong Enough”

PS-I’m going to take a break from blogging for the remainder of the summer so I can focus on finishing the book. Whew, these last three posts have been rough. If you don’t want to keep checking back I hope you’ll subscribe to the blog. Who knows? I could meet Mr. Right in July or August.

Also, if you aren’t following me on the Melani Robinson Facebook page, I hope you will. The conversation is always interesting and I’ll be posting on Facebook throughout the summer. Click here to Follow.

At Last

July 14, 2014 by Melani 42 Comments

I’ve never told a dating story like this one. It’s not about a disastrous but hilarious encounter, nor is it a tale of another “really great guy” who had everything I was looking for except that indefinable chemistry. Buckle up, my friends, because this is a love story.

After a year of online dating all of you know I was spent. Just the thought of my profile on a dating website made me nauseous as I was certain the process wasn’t for me.

BUT, there is something about time and distance that dulls the insanity of that forced year and a few months ago I decided to dabble in the practice again. There are many new options—apps, niche sites, etc., and the beauty in discovering all those new choices is that I also have the choice to stay on or get myself off when the inevitable burnout is reached.

Ahh, the luxury of being a normal online dater.

After only a week I’d gone on two dates and had two more scheduled. One of those dates was of the boondoggle variety you’ve come to expect. Maybe I’ll write about it at some point. The other was a good date—but he was only in the city for a short visit and returned to the UK a few days after we met. My two upcoming dates were with what I figured were nice guys but let’s just say they weren’t exactly wowing me with riveting pre-date conversations. Then I received this message from Will:

“You are beautiful, but I have to ask, current pics?”

I replied:

“Naw, high school, but my friends say I look just the same.”

And. It. Was. On.

What transpired was the most entertaining back and forth I’ve every experienced. The instant simpatico we had was, well, stunning. One of us would toss up the precursor so the other could deliver the outrageous punch line.

It was a dance of comedic timing and I’d met my match—in fact I’m sure he was funnier. So clever that I would often scream with laughter over his retorts. He told me he laughed out loud several times a day when recalling the things I’d written.

Yes, I went on those two dates scheduled prior to meeting Will, but those men—as nice as they were—didn’t stand a chance. It was all I could do to get through dinner without checking my phone for his magic texts.

Will (50) lived in Westchester, had one child in college and was in the process of divorcing. He described the situation as “amicable” and himself as one with “no baggage.” I know, ridiculous and impossible, but because our texting tête-à-tête was so over the top, I was happy for it to continue knowing that eventually I’d learn the realistic version of his circumstances.

AND (full disclosure), I wasn’t ready for our jousting to be muddied by the inevitable encumbrances that living a half-century includes. I was also reticent to exchange too many details, as I would then have to share that I write about dating. That tends to make men nervous. Wonder why?

Of course, I dreaded giving him my last name, too.

Damn you, Google.

But it seems all good free flow must end and Will eventually turned the conversation in the career direction and I had to disclose what I do. Um, kind of. He asked about what I’d written and I vaguely responded by telling him I wrote articles and blogged about a variety of different subjects: aging, being single over fifty, that sort of thing. He seemed satisfied but just as I relaxed and pulled my head from the guillotine, Will shared his last name and asked me mine.

NO! What do I say?

I told him I didn’t want to share my last name—went on a text ramble about my desire for him to get to know me before reading the stuff I’d written—really blathered on and on. A couple of seconds later he replied with:

“Robinson” Screen Shot 2014-07-14 at 10.36.47 AM

Seems all he had to do was Google Melani/Writer/New York City and with the unique spelling of my first name, www.melanirobinson.com popped up along with: Author/1 Year of Online Dating at 50. He asked if I was on the dating site for writing material. I assured him I was not. I also asked that he not read anything I’d written but instead get to know me. Then I waited for his response.

I asked if he was going to reply and he texted that he was “processing” all the information he’d just learned. He also mentioned that it was “surreal.” I told him I understood and I would wait to hear from him once he had finished processing.

Then I felt sick. Really awful. All night long. He never responded and I came to the conclusion that he was no longer interested. I didn’t blame him and my biggest fear of digital dating became a reality. In the real world when I meet a man I control my narrative and the fact that I wrote a blog about a year of online dating doesn’t sound ominous. Imagine, though, if you’re on a website and you learn that the person you’re corresponding with writes about online dating. Completely different game. I actually can’t think of a worse scenario—unless I was a stripper.

Unknown-2What? Are you thinking I’m delusional with the stripper comparison? Wow, I can almost see your smirk from here. OKKKKK, snarky reader, I’ll clarify. Unless I was a stripper working the assisted-living circuit. Sheesh, happy now?

By the next morning I’d still not heard from Will. At that point we had been communicating numerous times a day so I knew it was bad. Feeling down because I was beginning to believe he might be the one I’d been hoping to meet for so long, I decided to delete my profile from the dating site. Nobody else could compare and even if I met someone else, I would still have to go through the explanation of my work.

BUT, before I deleted my profile I sent Will one final message. I explained that the thing I feared most had happened and he obviously didn’t want to continue to communicate. I gave him my phone number and told him if he changed his mind he could call. I also explained that I would leave my profile up for a few hours to be sure he got the message but after that, it would be deleted.

slim-arms-side-plank-400x400

Chose a blonde so you might think it’s me.

Then I went to yoga.

And thought of nothing but him–even while holding two lengthy, torturous plank poses—regular AND side.

My yogi is a complete asshole.

Once finished with class I checked my phone and faced the truth. I would never hear from Will again. I deleted my profile and headed to Trader Joe’s for groceries.

On the walk I got a call…

To be continued.

“The opposite of talking isn’t listening. The opposite of talking is waiting.” Fran Lebowitz

Getting Schooled

June 19, 2014 by Melani 57 Comments

The other day we were driving back to the city from Staten Island, where I take my dogs to the vet (not a story filled with bitterness towards Manhattan veterinary care, promise). Although, there IS  belligerence bubbling just under the surface, don’t doubt that for a minute. Have I told you I don’t like to drive in or out of the city? I do it when I have to but if I can get one of my daughters to take the wheel, I’m golden. The girls regularly refer to this as “Driving Miss Daisy.” To. My. Face. Here’s how it sounds, “Seriously, Mom, does it always have to be Driving Miss Daisy?”

Driving-Miss-Daisy-1989

They really are the most retched creatures.

On this road trip as we passed Brooklyn, I noticed a church I’d seen before and struggled to remember the details of why it was familiar. Eventually it became clear. I’d walked past that church while on a date, during my year of online dating. It was one of those stories that never made the blog. I had plenty of over-the-top material to write about and this just wasn’t outrageous enough. Perplexing? Yes. But rather white bread when the competition was a little person following me on a date or a Robert De Niro impersonator with a roach-infested apartment. StANn'sdetailborder

This date was with an architect named Henrik who lived in Brooklyn.

Henrik and I went on two dates prior to the “walk past the church” outing. He took me to dinner twice and then asked if I’d like to see some projects he was working on—two brownstone renovations in Brooklyn. He also mentioned he’d completed gutted and then renovated his apartment and I could see that, too, if I was interested. I’m a do-it-yourselfer so the prospect of seeing what a pro could do was very enticing but the truth was simple and unfortunate. That mysterious “it” just wasn’t there with Henrik. We’d had two very nice dates, and he was interesting, smart and handsome. But Henrik was a serious guy and he never made me laugh. Not even once. I’m not sure if that was the reason I didn’t feel any attraction because normally it’s either there for me or not and I know it within ten minutes of meeting. But, remember (if you followed the blog), I was trying to be open to the possibility that it could grow over time. There was also this little thing that bothered me on both date one and two. Henrik had slight body odor. Now, this was not the “knock you to your knees” variety but more the “working all day and forgot deodorant” sort of funk. I couldn’t smell B.O. from across the table, but when he hugged me goodnight on date one and kissed me goodbye on date two, I caught a whiff.

I was going to tell him I just wasn’t feeling it but then he asked me to see his work. Talent turns me on and I thought, what the hell? Sure, he was a bit fragrant, but he was also European and it’s been my experience in certain countries, the natural body scent we all have sans antiperspirant is the preference when compared to the perfumed pits of an American. I figured if I saw his stuff, maybe it would trigger the feeling that was missing–then I’d work on his aroma.

imagesHenrik asked me to join him for brunch on a Saturday and later we’d walk to his projects. Brunch was pleasant and after he paid the bill we started out on foot. It was during the stroll that we passed the church (I mentioned at the beginning of this post). He took me through both brownstones and his work was A-MA-ZING. He was so talented and I loved every moment of exploring the construction in progress. We traversed from bottom to top, sometimes even using a ladder instead of stairs to reach the next floor. He was always a gentleman, taking my hand as we maneuvered around and through the rubble. Again, I caught the smell of his sweat a couple of times and it was stronger than usual—I guess with all the climbing we were doing.

After several hours of exploring, Henrik suggested we have a glass of wine and then head to his apartment so he could show me a finished project. I told him that sounded great but only if he’d let me pay. He agreed. We actually ended up getting something to eat, too, and I was glad to reciprocate since he paid for dinner twice and then brunch. I knew I wouldn’t see him again but I hoped we could be friends.

We had a couple of glasses of wine, some grub and then went to his place. It was spectacular–architecturally stunning and beautifully decorated. As he showed me from room to room I gushed appropriately, even making a spectacle of myself over his high-end dishwasher. Once the tour ended he asked if I would like another glass of wine. I told him I needed to get going as I had dinner plans with my daughters—true statement. He walked me to the subway and I noticed his attitude changed from the apartment to the sidewalk. He was cold and actually rather rude. I asked a couple of questions about the neighborhood and he could barely answer where as earlier it was as if he was auditioning for the guide on one of those red bus tours. Once we reached the subway, he simply turned and walked away without a word.

I was taken aback. Had I done something wrong? Was I not effusive enough about his apartment? IUnknown didn’t know how I could be more complementary unless I licked the walls or threw my body on his tasteful carpet and rolled around gleefully repeating, “Can’t get enough, just can’t get enough!”

Once home I sent a thank-you email. He did not respond and I never heard from him again. Sure, I could’ve asked if I’d somehow offended him but I knew this wasn’t a good romantic match and I didn’t need to figure out his sullen behavior.

That is, until the recent Brooklyn drive by with my daughter Chelsea and her friend Chelsea. Yes, my daughter has a friend with the same name. Her friend actually has the same first and last name and even middle initial. I’ve heard about “Chelsea who has the same name” for quite some time. They met at CU. It’s not that I didn’t believe my daughter, per se, but it was highly suspect and for very good reason. She’s done this before so it might be a pattern of behavior. She had imaginary friends  as a child, my odd little duck. She constantly talked about her “Mommy and Daddy animals that let her do anything she wanted.” OK, I admit I was often annoyed with those make-believe indulgent hairy parents. They were, after all, competing for the kid’s affection. Since I had never met the elusive Chelsea I was skeptical. “Never trust your children no matter the age” has always been my parenting plan. But then last week Chelsea showed up when she moved to the East Coast after graduation. That’s how she ended up in the car with us on our trek to Staten Island and here’s the conversation.

Me: “I remember when I saw that church.” (Then I told them the story along with the confusion at the end.)

Chelsea 1: “He was pissed because you didn’t have sex.”

Chelsea 2: “Yeah, date three is usually sex.”

Me: “What? No way! He couldn’t have thought we’d have sex. We barely knew each other.”

Chelsea 1: “Of course he did. You went to his apartment. I’m gay and even I know that.”

Chelsea 2: “If I’m not ready for sex and I’m invited to their place, I make a joke and say something like, ‘OK, but we’re not fucking.’”

Me: (laughing) “Welp, you learn something new every day.”

Chelsea 1: “Yeah, Mom, third date, his apartment means sex for straight people.”

Chelsea 2: “And for lesbians third date means move in together.”

Chelsea 1 (laughing): “Shut up, Chelsea.”

So, mystery solved, almost two years later. Henrik expected sex and when it didn’t happen, he threw the dignified architect’s version of a temper tantrum. Good to know. It seems even an “expert” like me has stuff to learn. Therefore, I’ve made a decision in the interest of my continuing education. Until further notice (that will never come) I’ll keep asking my daughters to drive me to and fro.

And you can call me Miss Daisy.

“The minute that you’re not learning I believe you’re dead.” Jack Nicholson. 

Chemistry: Finale

April 28, 2014 by Melani 42 Comments

numero-3-letras-y-numeros-numeros-pintado-por-luisalfre-9772436Alrighty, let’s put a fork in this trilogy.

I felt awful as I got ready for my date with Rob. Sure, it was only one night of promise with Scott, but it meant something to me. I allowed myself—ever so briefly—to be hopeful. You’d think I would be jaded, considering my history of bad dates. Some might even suggest I should plan for the worst so if something good happens it will be a pleasant surprise.

That’s just not my nature.

Yes, in many ways I’m a realist, perhaps even a cynic, but when it comes to love, I’m a dreamer.

Pedro Superdoorman called to let me know Rob was in the lobby so I took a deep breath, put on a perky face and repeated half-full-isms as I rode the elevator down to meet him.

He looked great. In fact, that’s an understatement. He looked like he stepped off the page of a Brooks Brothers catalog. The man was practically wrapped in cellophane and there’s nothing that makes meUnknown worry more about an errant hair or spinach in my teeth, than a guy who’s that fastidious. And you know I love a well-groomed man but have to say, I draw the line at Felix Unger.

Even his shoes shined like a mirror and the streets were a slushy mess after a recent snowstorm.

Did he walk over with trash bags on his feet?

We headed out to Dakota Bar where he’d made a reservation. The place was crowded and noisy—filled with a bunch of hipsters. What is it about that ironic mustached bunch that leads them to believe they’re so w7WE1Aeclever? That everyone (even those seated two tables away) can’t wait to hear what they have to say? Could it be all those trophies for participation?

OK, back to Rob.

We ordered wine and shouted across the table to each other. I learned that he was in the process of a divorce, but not single yet. His parting was taking longer than usual because he had a very difficult situation with his wife—one I’m not going into. That he shared it with me was brave and I respected and admired his willingness to be upfront. He talked about his job and what he enjoyed doing when not working. He was a triathlete and competed often in ironman competitions. He started running many years earlier as stress-relief from his marriage. He mentioned that he’d been unable to run outside because of all the snow and working out in the gym didn’t give him the results he must have.

Now, when I say this man had a perfect body I want you to understand I’m not comparing it to the average in shape fifty-ish male physique. Rob could hold his own with Olympic athletes and I told him as much. Then he mentioned his BMI was that of a fit twenty year old. He wasn’t bragging, either, just stating a fact. He also said he was hoping that the next day (Sunday) would be clear weather so he could get up at 5am and go for a run. A fifteen fucking mile run or some god-awful distance like that.

I couldn’t take it anymore.

Let the over-sharing begin.

“I put on weight this winter. I’ve been sedentary, trying to finish my book.”

“You have a great body, I don’t see anywhere you need to lose weight.”

OK, Rob got big points for that one but he didn’t understand. I was wrapped in shape wear that would eventually come off. When I bid adieu to my little spandex friend—shit would get real.

Unknown

At that point I knew two things: There was someone at our table who looked head-to-toe airbrushed AND one of us could strip down, walk naked to the bathroom and receive mad hipster applause. Neither, was the blonde wearing Spanx.

After a second glass of wine I was ready to go. Rob walked me home and apologized for choosing such a noisy place.

“Next time I’ll make sure we can hear each other if you’ll see me again,” he said.

I struggled to see the point. I could probably push through the impossible hardship of dating a physically PERFECT specimen, but Rob didn’t make me laugh. Not once. He was smart, had beautiful manners, and seemed incredible decent but I was kind of bored. Nonetheless, after the recent Scott debacle, “decent” won and I told Rob I would enjoy getting to know him better.

“I need to clarify that I’m not ever going to run. If you’re looking for a woman who’s willing to lace up her sneakers for a Sunday morning togetherness jog, that’s not me.”

I didn’t add that I was hoping for Sunday mornings in bed with the Times, a bacon, egg and cheese bagel sandwich, strong coffee and an even stronger man because, well, some things are best saved for the second date.

We said goodbye in front of my building with a chaste peck and over the next several days, Rob and I sent a few texts back and forth. He said he’d like to arrange a dinner date for the weekend and he’d get back to me once he had figured out his schedule.

Good ole reliable Rob. I was all snuggled up, safe in his steadfastness.

Welp, that weekend passed and another and another and I never heard from Rob. I didn’t text him, either, and wasn’t bothered a bit. Sure, it was weird, but no biggie. I just wasn’t that into him and obviously he felt the same.

A month later my neighbors and I were just about to head over to that same bistro for dinner when I got a text.

I’m at [bistro name] and haven’t been here since the night we met. Would you be interested in meeting for a drink?

Funny you should be there. I’m having dinner with friends in less than an hour.

We met up with Rob as we waited for our table. He ordered drinks for all of us and we chatted until our table was ready. I asked if he’d like to join us. He declined and instead asked if I would be interested in going to dinner the next night. I knew Rob was a good man and probably had a logical explanation as to why he disappeared. I was willing to hear him out. He said he’d call in the morning with a time and place and asked if there was any food I didn’t like. I told him I was really watching what I ate and I would appreciate a place with fish on the menu. I didn’t add that I’d lost five pounds and wasn’t wearing shape wear because who shares that kind of information anyway?

Steady Eddie called the next morning to let me know he’d made a reservation at Ocean Grill and would meet me there. Dinner was absolutely delicious–the conversation, painfully predictable. Rob didn’t mention his disappearance so I did. He apologized and then explained. He realized after our date that he had to push forward with the divorce—a messy situation. He’d also been approached about a job in another state and he’d traveled there, first for an interview, and then twice to assess the area. Both were valid reasons for being unavailable but still not justification for his lack of communication.

“I get it. Totally understandable that you’ve got a lot going on. You still should’ve told me.”

“You’re right. I got caught up in everything but should’ve reached out.”

“Ok, but I want you to understand. You disappear again, I disappear forever.”

We finished our meal while continuing to talk. I made him laugh and hoped he could do the same for me. Didn’t happen. It wasn’t as boring as watching paint dry, but it was pretty dull. I didn’t think I was up for a third date and after another chaste kiss goodnight I was sure of it. If he’d really kissed me I might’ve known if we had a drop of physical chemistry.

The next day he texted to let me know he’d enjoyed our night. He had some divorce stuff going on that week but would keep in touch and was looking forward to seeing me again. Over the next few days we exchanged texts. I didn’t want to go on a third date with Rob but I also didn’t want to reject him in the midst of what he was dealing with. I spent a lot of time thinking about a nice way to tell him. I wanted it to be the perfect blend of flattery and kindness—to let him down softly, that decent, considerate and consistent man.

UNNECESSARY.

After a few days that radio went silent and I never heard from Rob again.

Good Ole Reliable Rob.

“A man’s kiss is his signature.” Mae West

Chemistry: Part Two

April 16, 2014 by Melani 73 Comments

loveOK, here we go.

 With my back to Rob and deep in conversation with Scott it did occur to me that I was being rude. After all, I approached him with the Cheek’d card and my friend was forced to compensate for my bad manners by making small with Rob.

I turned back around and joined their conversation.

“I’d like to take you out tomorrow night,” said Rob.

“Um, OK,” I said, kind of surprised at how quickly he made that statement.

I had very little interest but was also aware that a dose of healthy competition between two males was nature at its best. The truth: Scott had attempted to cock-block Rob with his statement about Rob’s stupid comment so it was obvious (at least in his mind) that it was Game On.

“Can I get your number or do you want me to go through this site?” Rob said, pointing to the Cheek’d card.

I gave him my number and he told me he’d call the next morning with time and location. He left soon after, and I turned back to Scott. I wasn’t ignoring my friend as she’d turned towards the woman next to her and they continued the conversation they’d started before Rob approached.

Scott ordered a second drink for the three of us and put his to-go order in as our conversation continued. I article-1224022-07062664000005DC-98_468x284learned that he was divorced with a ten-year-old daughter. Not exactly what I was hoping to hear but given his age (45) and location, it was to be expected. With the freakishly successful fertility doctors in New York City it’s not uncommon for men in their fifties to have a set of twins still breastfeeding. I guess a fifth grader wasn’t so bad.

The conversation was stimulating and I found myself fantasizing about many more with him in the future. My friend joined in and mentioned that I was an exceptional cook. Scott asked if I would cook for him and I was already creating the menu in my mind. I imagined inviting him over and dining al fresco on the terrace. I pictured lots of candles, a great bottle of wine and the decedent meal I would prepare. I also imagined what might follow the feast—something even more delicious.

The bartender eventually arrived with his order—all boxed up and bagged. Scott handed him his credit card and then asked for my number. He suggested I text him when I got home as he hated to cut the evening short but had to deliver the meal to his relatives. Then he left but not before sharing how glad he was that we’d met and how much he was looking forward to knowing me better.

I’d say it was a pretty amazing night and there hadn’t been a time recently where I felt so belle of the ball-ish. Two men who were interested in one night? It wasn’t quite the days from my roaring thirties on Friday nights at Gordon Biersch, but close.

Gordon Biersch Las VegasBack then I would strategically talk to four men (one per side of the square bar) looping around all night. I did that often and it was easy. Now it was a big night if someone called me “Miss” instead of “Ma’am.”

We stayed a little longer, finished our second martini and then asked for the bill.

“You’re all taken care of. The gentleman paid for your drinks,” said the bartender.

“All taken care of” was something I hadn’t felt in a long, long time. Even better? Scott took care of my drinks AND my friend’s and did so without fanfare. He was both generous and courtly. A keeper, for sure.

We swayed home—normally one martini is my limit—and I couldn’t wait to text Scott once in my apartment all PJed up, makeup washed off.

For the next hour we exchanged texts that grew increasingly flirty. He was a digital wordsmith and I loved the banter. Scott was leading our conversation down the path to sexting and although I was absolutely sexually attracted to him, I was wise enough to know I’d had too much to drink and would regret flying the freak flag with the sober sunrise illuminating my cyber slut-isms. article-2297474-18DC8B3B000005DC-628_308x425Instead I told him I needed to get some sleep but before we signed off, I asked his last name. He gave it and then reiterated how happy he was and how lucky he felt that we met. I replied:

Me too, Scott. I’m really glad I met you.

He responded by telling me he HAD to see me soon. We’d make plans.

The next morning I woke up smiling even with a hangover. I scrolled through the text conversation again before getting out of bed. I knew I’d hear from Scott once he’d awakened I figured we might even meet for brunch.

Like clockwork, Rob called as he said he would at 10am. I couldn’t have been less interested but I tried to remember not to put all my eggs in one bin—as hard as that was. He suggested drinks and appetizers at a new wine bar on the Upper West Side on 72nd and Columbus, the Dakota Bar and insisted he would pick me up in the lobby of my building. Normally I would’ve been impressed with his follow through and gallantry but Scott occupied my brain and I was surprised I’d not heard from him.

By mid afternoon the radio silence continued. I didn’t reach out to him either, though, and here’s why. Scott is Alpha. He had no issue going after what he wanted the night before. He didn’t hesitate even when I repeatedly brushed him off while pursuing another man. He was very comfortable in that role and I knew if he wanted me, he’d make it happen.

But he hadn’t, yet.

LET THE CYBERSTALKING BEGIN!

I Googled Scott’s full name and nothing came up. Weird. I searched the firm he worked for and his name and nothing came up. Really weird. Then I simply searched his first name and his firm. Bingo! A company event and a photo of Scott. Except his last name was spelled much differently than what he’d texted. Seems Scott had given me the phonetic spelling of his name. Without outing him by giving you the two names, what he did was spell a part of his name with an “F” when a “PH” was how it was actually spelled. Obviously not a typo. What the hell?

LET THE “I THINK HE’S AN ASSHOLE” FRENZIED SEARCH PROCEED!

A few seconds later I had a pit in my stomach as I stared at a photo of Scott, his wife and little girl at a children’s charity event. It was only a few month old so not only did he lie about being married, he also added several years to his daughter’s age—probably because I’d told him my daughters were adults. His child was no more than four. He wasn’t bringing food to his brother and sister-in-law. While he chatted me up for almost two hours, his wife and child waited for him to bring home their dinner.

Wow, did I feel foolish. Thank God we didn’t sext.

I have no idea why Scott did what he did. Perhaps he gets off on playing women. Maybe it’s the thrill of the pursuit and the knowledge that he still has it? Possibly his marriage is boring? No matter the reason, he’s a scumbag. Halfway through our conversation at the bar he asked if I was divorced. I told him I was a widow and he expressed how sorry he was and then asked several questions about how I recovered from the loss. He KNEW the hardest thing I’d done after losing my husband was to attempt to make a new life and find love again. He knew I was certainly more vulnerable and maybe even more fragile than the average divorcee and, yet, he still pursued me with the knowledge that he was going to disappear back into his marriage without even a backward glance.

When you break it down, it’s truly twisted.

I never let Scott know I was onto him and deleted his number from my phone. He only lives a few blocks away and maybe one of these days I’ll pass him and his family on the street. I would never say anything. His wife will find out eventually whom she’s married to if she doesn’t already know. But I will take pleasure in looking him in the eye with an expression that reflects that I’m aware of who he is underneath that unassuming, exceedingly average exterior.

1114-closeWell played, Scott, but one day you’ll pick the wrong woman, she won’t exit as quietly and might even be a bunny boiler.

 

 

My date(s) with Rob in the next installment.

To be continued…

“I’ve told Billy if I ever caught him cheating, I wouldn’t kill him because I love his children and they need a dad. But I would beat him up. I know where all of his sports injuries are.” Angelina Jolie

Cyber Cojones

February 25, 2014 by Melani 23 Comments

The first week in February a senior editor from THE HUFFINGTON POST contacted me. The “Women” section would run a series for Valentine’s Day, “What I Know About Being Single Now That I’m In My 20s, 30s, 40s, 50s.” The editor was selecting one writer for each age category and I was very happy to hear she’d selected me for 50s.

 I thought about the predictable things I could state.

1. I’m less critical of my body.

2. I’m finally confident in my ability to choose the right partner.

3. I’m happy being single.

4. Friends are just as much fun as a man.

5. I know what I’m looking for now more than ever.

6. I’m in no hurry. The biological clock has quit ticking.

Blah, blah, blah—BO-RING (and trite).

I try my best to tilt away from banal and that’s gotten me into trouble on both the online dating blog and THE HUFFINGTON POST. Seems nothing “stokes people’s hate fire” more than opinions that go against the grain. If you need proof, look at the Comments section of some of my more provocative pieces. This essay, though, didn’t seem to piss people off as much as others had. The comments were fairly mild in both number and tone. I always gird my loins when I publish a piece and it seemed this time the girding was unnecessary.

Click here to read the post.

Sure, I had one comment on Huffpost from a man named “Windy Daze” who tried to rough me up. I don’t remember exactly what it said because it was “flagged as offensive” almost immediately and removed, but I think it went something like this:

“As a happily married man of more than 50 years I will tell you that relationships ARE hard work. I work hard every single day and NEVER take my wife for granted as you so ignorantly said. You have a lot to learn, MISS ROBINSON. Who do you think you are? You know nothing!”

I respond to every comment on my blog but I pick and choose on THE HUFFINGTON POST. I usually thank some who’ve left kind comments but I also go right back at some of the more insulting ones.

I know, I know. I should simply ignore those rude commenters since the attention fires them up and they keep coming back for more. But that’s conventional wisdom and I don’t buy it. What I’ve found is, if one person is bold enough to leave an offensive reply it can quickly become a feeding frenzy of cyber-courage when the more tentatively acerbic see blood in the water. For every one person willing to post something detestable there are many others who would like to say something inflammatory but lack the guts—until someone else crosses the line ahead of them.

I don’t have a problem with those who disagree with me. After all, my writing simply reflects my opinion. What annoys me, though, is when it gets personal or the reader makes assumptions based on their circumstances—as was the case with “Windy Daze.”  I replied to his comment but since his was removed, my response was, too.

Here’s what I said:

“That might be your reality, but it wasn’t mine, mister. And where did I say I took my husband for granted? Go back and read the essay again, Windy Daze, and next time try a thorough read before waxing poetic in the Comments section. I get the feeling you want to put me in my place. Never gonna happen, you daffy ole bag of windy.”

Part of me felt a little sorry for the gusty one. I can’t imagine conjuring up CAPS rage unless something about the piece hit home. Maybe what I wrote caused our intrepid husband to have a fleeting thought that the strife of his marriage was not saintly devotion, but “miles in manure.” Nonetheless, the rest of the comments were mostly positive, and even when not they weren’t off-putting.

Next I went to THE HUFFINGTON POST Facebook page since they posted a link to the article and the first comment was this:

Screen Shot 2014-02-24 at 1.07.58 PM

I was confused. Was “rat copulation” a new expression I’d never heard before? I went to Urban Dictionary, searched and found nothing. Then I searched “rat fuck” to see if I could get a definition of what Andrew Soto meant. Here’s what I found:

Screen Shot 2014-02-25 at 12.25.07 PM

Uh, don’t think that’s a match.

Next:

Screen Shot 2014-02-25 at 12.25.28 PM

Nope, I don’t think that applies, either.

Other readers took Andrew Soto to task so I didn’t ask for clarification. One questioned when his article would be published; another called him a “douche.” Although one powerhouse wordsmith wrote “big whoop” about an article in THE HUFFINGTON POST since they don’t usually pay and then qualified his comment by letting everyone know he’s a “published author and a well-paid editor.”

Um, yeah, OK.

I guess I’ll never know what Andrew meant by rat copulation but I don’t think it was complimentary. I have my opinion as to why Andrew Soto left that comment. I think Andrew feels insignificant and for one brief moment as his fingers typed away he got a rush, maybe even a boner. He felt more substantial hopped up on cyber-courage. Or, maybe I’m getting too analytical and he’s just a douche.

BUT, I am 100% certain he would never have the balls to say it to my face.

Whatever the reason, The Andrews or Windy Dazes of the virtual world will continue to spew their venom—especially when nobody calls them out. I know I will continue to do so and it’s my hope that some of you will do the same. The next time you read a defamatory or overtly asinine comment following an article you’ve enjoyed, I hope you’ll let the commenter know how you feel. I’ve found it usually shuts them up along with their less ballsy cohorts skulking through the comments trying to muster the nerve to be nasty. I have the luxury of blocking idiots from my blog and Facebook page and I blocked three from www.1yearofonlinedatingat50.com and none, yet, from this website. I don’t have that option when another site publishes my work. You’ll be doing a service to all writers who provide free entertainment. I don’t think anyone penning an opinion piece expects all to agree, but what’s wrong with a little civility when being contrary or even the radical move of simply clicking away to something more to your liking? Cyber-courage is an epidemic and I think it’s time we develop a vaccine.

“When a bully is held accountable for his actions, his future actions will change. Bad behavior only continues for those who allow it.” Gary Hopkins

A Spa Day

January 17, 2014 by Melani 23 Comments

crowdedsidewalk_wide-8ba68b00c818f0f3ebd5a67e42398cc9dbe9f864-s6-c30If you’ve moved to New York City from a more suburban setting you will occasionally reach a state of mind that is not of the New York variety. I know, Billy Joel sings a persuasive anthem but there’s sometimes a yearning for a simpler life in this complicated place. The pace can be overwhelming for those who would like to read a label in the grocery store or even linger for a moment at the selection of canned tomatoes. Not possible here. Know exactly what you want, get in, get your stuff and don’t you dare use a shopping cart that clogs the already congested aisles. Carry everything in a basket and keep it tucked close to your body—along with those elbows. Then lug those heavy bags home on crowded sidewalks with pedestrians moving at a frenetic pace. Don’t even think about slowing your gait and if you need to shift the bag to the other hand, pull to the side. Proceed quickly, do not stop or you’ll certainly be told by one of the locals, “What the fuck are you doing?” or “Hey, dumbass, you can’t block the sidewalk.” OK, I admit I’ve corrected my share of tourists. I’m a little bit kinder—but not much.

Every few months I long for the lavishness of a huge shopping cart, opulence of wide aisles, and, of course, the decadence of a car filled with groceries to be carried the briefest few steps from the trunk to the home. That’s when I schedule my spa day—at Costco.

Unknown

A friend of mine has a membership. Well, actually her father in Texas does and I can’t remember how we got on the subject but once I knew she was a “legacy in the making” I suggested she ask to be added to his account. A couple of days ago I picked her up (in my car!) and we headed to the Harlem Costco. I love these trips. My friend has lived in the city for most of her adult life but occasionally longs for the simplicity the suburbia of her youth provided. We like to meander down every single aisle while discussing earthshaking topics such as the “The Real Housewives” of whatever city is currently on Bravo, or the undeniable need for 100 plastic storage containers with color-coded lids.  My shopping list was short, cat litter and Diet Coke, but I brought three hundred cash because one never knows when the perfect memory foam/cool gel pillow or cozy pair of slippers might materialize. Bought both. We also look forward to the samples. We’ll try just about anything—especially if it’s highly caloric or carb-packed. Unfortunately on this trip, Costco decided to go all healthy. Greek yogurt spread on pita chips and veggie/fruit smoothies—chock full of Omega this and that. Spare me.

We always catch up during our wanderings and she asked about the New Year’s Eve party I was going to attend. It started out with promise—a big party at a private residence in Chelsea. Then it transitioned. First was the email instructing guests to bring their favorite libation. OK, I planned to take a bottle of good champagne for the hostess so that wasn’t too annoying, but still, it felt a little frat party BYOB and the only role I could play these days at a fraternity is House Mother.  Next, a second email instructed guests to sign up to bring some sort of snack. That note closed with the guidance to come dressed in “cocktail attire.” Really? You want me to put on fancy clothes then schlep guacamole and chips? The party had transitioned into a potluck—not that there’s anything wrong with potlucks. I just wouldn’t show up to one in sequins and four-inch heels carrying a platter of Rumaki. My friend was equally appalled—one of the things I love about her. I didn’t attend that soiree but instead took the bottle of Perrier-Jouet downstairs and shared it with my favorite neighbors. They provided caviar—my kind of potluck.

images-1

I was giving serious consideration to hosting a party next New Year’s Eve, I told my friend. She thought that was a great idea and reminded me that by the end of 2014 I’d be married.  Yes, you read that right. I’m getting married this year. Now don’t get uppity. I’ve not been holding out and hiding the engagement ring. I, um, haven’t met my husband yet. A psychic (friend of a friend) who said she’s never wrong, told me over a glass of wine that I would meet a man so right and we’ll have a whirlwind courtship ending in marriage this year! Have I ever told you I don’t have any desire to get married again? None.

We walked a few more aisles and segued into wedding plans, which we agreed could be seamlessly combined with the party. I’d invite all my closest friends to a New Year’s Eve celebration and surprise them by getting hitched. Costco, not Disneyland, is the happiest place on earth. Where else can a person plan a lifetime of joy AND buy Charmin in bulk?

Two hours later we headed to the checkout line—the ultimate consumers, it took both of us to push the overflowing shopping cart. I had to run back and snag a plush rug for my bathroom–a last minute must have–even though I already have plenty. You can never have enough plush rugs, though. I think Yoda said that.

Yoda

We finished as we always do with a quick stop at the snack bar because there’s nothing like a Costco dog. It is at this stage that we, without fail, misplace our receipts and will later dig through our handbags at the door while security looks on patiently. We could never get away with this level of lameness in our neighborhood grocery stores. We’d be physically tossed to the curb and banned for life.

At the end of the spa day I’m relaxed even as I struggle to find space in my small apartment for the stuff I just bought. The chocolate muffin purchase adds to the Zen-like atmosphere and gives me a way to finish the perfect day with the final fistful of luxury. Seriously, try them.

images-2

“I love to take things that are everyday and comforting and make them into the most luxurious things in the world.” Marc Jacobs

Blog Snob

November 15, 2013 by Melani 18 Comments

Each week I receive email messages asking if I’d be willing to promote another blog on my website. The requests are sometimes humble:

I’m just starting out and would be so grateful if you would add my blog to your blogroll.

I don’t have a blogroll, which means they didn’t thoroughly check out the website, but I appreciate the tone of the message.

Sometimes they’re presumptuous:

I have a new blog and am willing to cross-promote yours on my site if you’ll do the same.

Old-women-on-laptop

Um, let’s see, you have a new blog which means you’ll “promote” mine with your current followers—your ten closest friends and lonely Aunt Edna. Thanks?

Occasionally, they’re downright rude:

I haven’t had a chance to read all of your blog but I just started my own about online dating from a younger person’s perspective and mine is really funny. Would love a plug.

OK, I’m all over that, especially since you’ve told me three things: you’ve not read any of my blog (don’t bullshit), you think I’m old, and not the slightest bit funny.  I’d be crazy not to help!

I do always check out their blogs. It’s not that I’m opposed to helping someone who’s just getting started, but I’m not about to stick my endorsement on mediocre anything, and that’s a kind assessment in most instances. I know many literati look down their noses at what I do. In their world, blogs are to writing what Velvet Elvis is to art.

addon.php

That’s rapidly changing, but there are the holdouts smugly clutching The New Yorker magazine while refusing to share a seat at the Algonquin Round Table they’ve created in their minds.

That same highbrow group would gasp if I told them I could hardly stomach Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking.

BUT, I’m not snoot-free, either. I want writing that grabs me and takes me along for the experience. My standards are the same for books, newspapers, magazines, and, yes, blogs. Sure, it’s fantastic to have material such as a man pinching a woman’s breast on a first date, but if the writer can’t tell the story properly it’s irrelevant. I work hard on my posts and have yet to be approached by anyone asking for an endorsement whose writing’s kept me reading.

That is until recently.

Last week my inbox was bombarded with requests–ten to be precise. The first few I politely declined, but by the last several the responses grew terse. This was message number ten:

I’m not sure how this is done, or what the etiquette is, but I was wondering if you’d allow a link on your blog to my blog, which I just started two months ago. I would of course reciprocate. Thanks, Amy

The newbie was going to pay for the other nine that came before her. I decided I was taking off the gloves. I would be brutally honest—suggest she take writing classes, join a writing group, or give up on blogging completely since not everyone is cut out for writing. I actually created a disclaimer in my mind that I’d add to my website. It went like this:

Please don’t contact me to suggest I share your blog with my followers in exchange for reciprocation on yours. A quid pro quo-based endorsement of your work shows zero integrity.

Pompous, party of one, your table is ready.

Pompous-Cat

Then I smugly clicked on Amy’s link and read:

I thought I was there. Paradise. At the least, it was within my reach. The man of my dreams–literary, brilliant, a trifle kinky–turned out to be an insecure, compulsive porn addict with bipolar disorder and pretensions to spare.

Well, knock me over with a quill pen!

images

I read on.

And so I was pitched back into the purgatory of single womanhood by this yellow-fanged, shaggy goat of a self-anointed god.

Amy grabbed me with, “literary, brilliant, a trifle kinky,” and HAD ME at “goat.”

I quickly replied:

Beautiful writing, Amy. I’d be happy to recommend the blog. If you’re game I might be interested in interviewing you and writing a blog post, too. I get many requests to add blogs to my website but I’ve always declined because the writing, well, sucks. Yours does not and I think others should know about it.

So Amy and I chatted on the phone a few days ago. I learned more about the goat, whom she met online, by the way. He’s a well-respected writer of fiction. His latest book, however, is a nonfiction accounting of his sexual escapades with middle-aged women. Amy thinks her less than flattering portrayal in the book (yep, he wrote about her) is probably in retaliation for her many faked orgasms. Facts that are shared during a breakup can be devastating, especially with a man who’s a sexual legend in his own mind.

Hell hath no fury like a lousy lover scorned!

frustrated_writer

Amy thinks his motivation for the current book is to get laid and why not? What’s wrong with a man writing a book about the joys of being with middle-aged women and satisfying all their sexual needs in order to entice more middle-aged women into bed? Seems like a perfectly reasonable goal and there’s nothing lascivious or mercenary about it, right?

Amy’s blog, The Post Menopausal Paradise, is a beautifully written chronicle of her dating experiences now that she’s single again. I would highly recommend it and will be following along as she navigates the choppy waters of dating after fifty.

I hope you’ll give it a look.

When something can be read without effort, great effort has gone into its writing. -Enrique Jardiel Poncela

My Intimate Night With Sting

September 27, 2013 by Melani 20 Comments

The best thing about exposing my private life on 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com is that I made lots of new friends. Most of them cyber but occasionally I’ve had the opportunity to put a face to those emails and such was the case on Wednesday night.

My friend Jo and I began exchanging emails a few months into my year. She found the blog through a Huffpost piece. She was close to my age, single and had been online dating. I enjoyed our banter and eventually we began talking on the phone. Our conversations progressed from laughing about our shared dating experiences to our children or the dreams we both had of making a living as writers. You know, deep stuff–the joys of Botox and all that.

I often wished she lived closer. I imagined we would have fun going out, hoping to meet suitable men, but if they didn’t show up we’d still enjoy each other’s company. Alas, she lived in L.A., nixing my wing-woman fantasy.

BUT, Jo loves the theatre and visits the city at least once a year. A few months ago I had a missed call and a couple of texts–she had news.

I could hear the excitement in her voice as she told me she had a surprise. It seemed Sting was going to do ten benefit concerts in NYC at the Public Theatre and she’d purchased two tickets. They were crazy expensive as the venue was only 260 seats and she knew if she’d asked before buying, I would’ve said, “No way.”

She didn’t and we were going!

I love Sting. I love everything about him. He’s a musical genius, a deep thinker and rip-one’s-clothes-off-if-given-the-chance sexy. He may or may not be into tantric sex—something that’s always piqued my interest and if he’s what sixty-one can be, where do I find his doppelgänger? Several years ago I even flew to Miami for The Police reunion tour–during the summer, no less. Do you know what Miami’s like in the summer? I searched for the photos because public humiliation is what I live for, but couldn’t find them. Suffice to say I danced through the entire outdoor performance and was the least attractive version of myself when the concert was over–makeup gone,  a wet haired sweaty mess.

So on Wednesday, Jo and I met for the first time. She came to my place early for a glass of wine and the first thing she said was, “You look exactly like your photos,” and she did, too. Actually, Jo had water and I drank wine. I was a little nervous about our meeting and hoped it wouldn’t be awkward–it wasn’t.

photo-282 - Version 2

Apologies for the flip-flops. I do wear heels but never put them on until almost to the destination. The dress is DVF—my fav—and I got it on sale at Bloomingdales. The black areas are leather and the color blocking is deceptively flattering. I paired it with a black leather jacket. I wanted a pair of black cage booties and loved the Michael Kors below but couldn’t find them plus I didn’t want to pay $200 or more for shoes I would probably wear only a few times.

yvonnebootie_black_side_13

Instead I found these at DSW for $60 and they gave me the same look I wanted.

photo-283

Here’s a trick my daughter taught me. When you’re wearing shoes you know will give you blisters, apply runners anti-chafe stick to your feet. You’re dogs will still be barking but they’ll be blister-free in the morning even after hours of wearing heels.

photo-286

OK, OK! Enough about fashion and back to the concert.

We left my apartment and headed to Lafayette for dinner near the theatre. We both ordered steak frites probably because a woman should have a good foundation of meat and potatoes when she’s getting intimate with Sting. The food was perfect as was the conversation but enough dilly-dallying. Mr. Perfection waited.

photo-284

I couldn’t believe our seats. He would be no more than twenty feet away. “Holy shit,” I thought as the theatre filled, “If I rushed the stage and wrapped my legs around his waist could I do it tastefully?” His wife Trudie was one of the last to take her seat. She wore black leather pants and top with gray suede over-the knee platform boots. Her body was amazing—she’s fifty-nine. She was at the concert in Miami, too.

Why’s she always cramping my style?

Then HE came out with little fanfare wearing a torn white t-shirt and jeans. Pause right now while you’re reading this for a moment of silence because he  deserves worship. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on his perfectly toned physique. You should’ve seen his arms. I could die happy to have those wrapped around me just once and, of course, he’d simultaneously sing “Fields of Gold” in my ear.

The concert was given to introduce the audience to his current work, The Last Ship, a musical based on his childhood growing up in an English shipbuilding town. OK, I admit it was a little disappointing.  I assumed we’d not be hearing his greatest hits, but he could sing nursery rhymes and I’d be on the edge of my seat. No surprise, his new work was beautiful.

photo-288

AND he did throw in “Fields of Gold,” “When We Dance” and an encore of “All This Time.”  “Fields of Gold” is one of my favorite songs and what woman doesn’t dream of hearing:

I never made promises lightly

And there have been some that I’ve broken

But I swear in the days still left

We’ll walk in fields of gold

He played for three hours with only a ten-minute break. He danced along with one song and I swooned. He wasn’t the best dancer but he was having fun and exuded confidence. Men, take note. You don’t have to be Justin Timberlake—just dance joyfully. Ladies love it.

It was magical evening, over too soon. Obviously seeing Sting was spectacular but the best part of the night was finally meeting my friend. I have no doubt we’ll have lots of fun in the future and this is a friendship I’ll appreciate, in the days still left.

photo-287

“There’s no religion but sex and music.” Sting

Why Didn’t I Think of That?

June 4, 2013 by Melani 20 Comments

On Memorial Day I hosted a barbecue and invited eight guests. If movies and books are to be believed, New Yorkers have the most stimulating dinner conversations covering a wide range of topics such as: politics, literature, cool restaurants and art. I think that’s a fairly accurate portrayal. This city is filled to the brim with smart people and that took some adjusting when I first arrived.

I don’t want you to get the wrong impression. It’s not that I’m giving Einstein any competition but I do feel I’m fairly intelligent or at least did until landing in 10023.

einstein1-e1295937841431

Reality?

I’m barely a C student here.

BUT, I’ve found, no matter the zip code, the chat always, and I mean always comes around to relationships. Who’s in one, who’s still looking. Inevitably there will be someone who offers suggestions to the singletons at the table. Perhaps sharing a successful formula for finding a match.

That happened during my dinner party.

A recently engaged guest suggested (to the single ladies) that we make a commitment to meet at least once a week, preferably twice weekly, at different happy hour spots in the city. We should gather from 5:30 pm to 7:30 pm as a group in different neighborhoods to meet different kinds of guys. She said she’d join us and be our wingwoman, initiating conversations with the men we found interesting. “What do I have to lose?” she asked. Her fiancé said he’d occasionally come too.

I thought it was a brilliant strategy and one that would work perfectly with something NEW I’d stumbled upon, Cheek’d.

Here’s how Cheek’d works. You sign up and create a basic profile. You order a set of Cheek’d cards that you keep with you at all times. If you happen to see someone you are interested in you walk up, hand them a card and walk away. Simple, painless and no risk of rejection and the next move is theirs. The information on the card tells them where they can find you. They go to the cheekd.com and enter a code that takes them to your profile where they can send you a message.

How ingenious is that?

Now, instead of perusing profiles and ending up disappointed with the person once you’re face to face, you’ve already determined there’s an attraction. No more missed opportunities, either. How many times have you seen someone and wished for the courage to make contact? It happens to me often and once they’re gone the chances are almost zero that I’ll see then again. I even wrote a post about missed opportunities during my year of online dating.

The cards are clever. Here are some examples:

look up. you might miss something.

this is your lucky day.

you can thank me later.

shouldn’t you be asleep at this hour?

i’m a keeper.

this leads to someone you should meet.

don’t let me get away.

your move.

where have i been all your life?

this card is good for finding me again.

i’m totally cooler than your date.

i’m hitting on you.

So, I’m going to combine the weekly happy hour gatherings with the cards and see what happens. I’ll let you know how it goes. I’m also keeping them with me every single time I leave the apartment. You never know who you might see walking down the street or at the deli counter at Fairway Market, right?

0706_guy-checking-out-girl

UPDATE: Within fifteen minutes of this post going live, Lori Cheek of Cheek’d found me on Facebook and offered 50% off your card order. Use the promo code: SUMMERLOVIN. Thank you so much, Ms. Cheek!

Insanity Update: I should be almost finished with my 60-day challenge. Unfortunately, I fell a couple of weeks ago (totally sober and with an audience), and bruised my coccyx. I wrote a blog post called “Coccyx Blocked” but my “editor” told me it was quite boring so I scrapped it. The details aren’t important. Suffice to say that I took two weeks off to let my tailbone heal and started back on Insanity this week. UGH, it was too soon so I’m giving myself a little more time to recover and then I’ll get back to cursing Shaun T and that perky chick on the DVD who smiles through the torture. I’ll let you know the outcome and am still committed to wearing a bikini if the results are good.

“Opportunities are never lost; someone will take the one you miss.” Author Unknown

The Handy Man and The Universe

May 1, 2013 by Melani 42 Comments

I’m a do-it-yourselfer.

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

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

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

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

Unknown

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

Unknown-1

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

Unknown-2

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

85cde395864a011232b84eaac8bd3363

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

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

photo-256

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

It was also a bit lonely.

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

photo-257


Not just any man. THE man. 

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

estiatorio-milos-uniqe-restaurant-furniture-interior-design-milos-in-new-york-590x471_28_550x370

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

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

It’s time to get back on the horse.

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

Here are a couple examples:

  1. The only thing I miss about my home in Las Vegas is outdoor space—a rarity in Manhattan. I threw out my request and then didn’t give it another thought. A year ago a friend was moving to Palm Springs and he owned an amazing apartment a couple of blocks away. No outdoor space but it had a washer and dryer—quite a luxury. I was thrilled and couldn’t wait to move. All that was left was approval from his apartment board. “Only a technicality,” he was told. A day later my friend called with bad news. His building was pet-friendly, but only for owners. Anyone renting an apartment couldn’t have pets. I was so disappointed but I figured something better was coming. Several months later I went with a friend to an apartment on the roof of my building.  She knew the tenant and was feeding her cats while she was away. I walked outside and admired the second apartment on the roof. The outdoor space was amazing. At that moment a woman walked outside to hang wet clothes on the railing and I yelled from across the roof, “You’re living in my dream apartment.” She replied, “We just gave notice. It’s available October 1st.” One minute earlier or later I would’ve missed her. The Universe conspired to give me that information and I’m now living my dream. photo-258
  2. I planned to get another dog. Kate was lonely and needed a friend. What I wanted was a Norwich Terrier, but I had a problem buying a dog given the amount of rescues in need of homes. A Norwich rescue just doesn’t exist as there are a small number of breeders and they keep tight control of where the puppies go. Every new owner must sign a document that states if they can no longer care for the dog they’ll return it to the breeder. They’re also very expensive. I contacted a couple of breeders and they chuckled at my naïve request. One told me, haughtily, “The Norwich is never a rescue.” Oh, pardon me. I quit thinking about a friend for Kate and figured The Universe would lead me to the right dog. Six months later I got an email message from a breeder who was a friend of a friend. She’d heard that I was looking for a rescue and she had a dog that was purchased because the buyer wanted a dog that might be good enough for Westminster. This breeder had a “Best in Breed” at Westminster many years ago and felt that the male puppy she had could be the next. After a year of working with a handler in preparation for the show ring it was determined that the dog was too big. The then-owner asked the breeder if she could give the dog to her adult daughter. The breeder agreed. Two years later the daughter had three children under five and couldn’t give the dog the proper attention. She contacted the breeder again and asked if she could return Nigel. The breeder had heard of my desire to adopt a rescue Norwich and she reached out to me. I was a bit concerned because the dog was going to be sent back to the breeder in California and I would have to fly to California to get him. I was leaving in two days for my annual summer trip to Virginia Beach so the timing was horrible. I spoke to the breeder and told her of upcoming vacation.“Where’s the dog now?” I asked.

“In Virginia,” she replied.

“Where in Virginia?”

“Virginia Beach.”

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

photo-259

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work your magic.

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

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

  • 1
  • 2
  • Next Page »

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

  • Facebook
  • Instagram
  • Pinterest
  • Twitter

Never miss a thing!

Enter your email address here and I'll send you my blog updates.

*I hate spam as much as you, so you can be confident that I won't spam your inbox!

Melani’s Tweets

Tweets by @Melani_Robinson

Blog Archive

If you enjoyed following along during my ridiculous year of online dating, you’ll love the book.

New stories, previously untold details, and an embarrassing amount of over-sharing.

What’s not to love?

SIGN UP TO BE NOTIFIED WHEN IT’S HOT OFF THE PRESS:

Copyright © 2022 · Magazine Pro Theme on Genesis Framework · WordPress · Log in