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.

It’s An Energy Thing

January 30, 2018 by Melani 2 Comments

Meet Sulimon and listen as he describes what he’s looking for in a woman. Believe it or not, it has nothing to do with appearance.

Sulimon shares he once had a recording contract so if you would like to hear more of his music, beyond the song included in the podcast, you can find him on Spotify and iTunes (Sulimon Balogun).

To listen to the podcast on iTunes click HERE.

To listen to the podcast from this website, click HERE.

Here’s wishing Suli finds a woman with just the right energy because he deserves every happiness.

PS-My podcast editor said, “Oh my god there was so much sexual tension between you!”

Hello, Old Friends

January 3, 2018 by Melani 12 Comments

Happy New Year!

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

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

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

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

It’s not enough.

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

C’est la vie!

Kill me now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*takes a deep cleansing breath*

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

PS: I’ve really missed you.

Melani

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

Young Guy Old School

July 3, 2017 by Melani Leave a Comment

Meet Keith and listen as he tells us how his generation (and dating) isn’t what it used to be.

Keith has an old-fashioned view of dating, yet as a millennial living in New York City, he feels forced to use technology in the search for love.

 

 

 

Click HERE to listen on iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from the website.

This will be the last podcast until September. I’m taking the rest of the summer to polish the book about my year of online dating. I’m also working on a new book, a memoir, about two Americans living in Russia. I’m calling it, “Mudderland” and I think the subject matter is rather timely, right?

If you haven’t already subscribed to the podcast or blog, I hope you’ll do so either from this website or on iTunes. If you subscribe, you’ll be notified when new podcast episodes air in the fall. You can also follow along on the Single Because Podcast Facebook Page or my Facebook Page. You can also follow me on Twitter if you can stand that all I do is bitch about Trump. Ugh, maybe he’ll be gone soon and I can get some sleep.

Have a wonderful summer filled with love and seriously lustful sex. Light a candle for me in that area, please!

As always I hope you’ll take the time to rate and review on iTunes. It doesn’t take long and it means a lot to me.

 

A Walk Down Bad Memory Lane

August 23, 2016 by Melani 20 Comments

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

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

We had a hankering for pasta.

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

I quickened my pace as we moved by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE PATIENT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Go ahead, it will help him wake up.”

I quietly drew back the curtain.

There was Luke.

And also his scrotum.

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

That act of gingerly touching his lips was bizarrely intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll just pay for it.”

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

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

###

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

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

Single Because…

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

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

 

Where You Been?

July 12, 2016 by Melani 22 Comments

The other day I got a text from a friend:

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

Fair question and I rationally replied:

“WHO are YOU, the literary police?”

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

Ran into Tarzan at Sundance.

Ran into Tarzan at Sundance.

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

Sadly that’s not the case.

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

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

WHAT???

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

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

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

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

Hmm, wonder what that might mean?

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

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

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

The Spring of My Discontent

March 21, 2016 by Melani 26 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

IMG_3965

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

Which leaf am I?

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

A Noun, A Verb And…

February 24, 2016 by Melani 17 Comments

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

I’m going to make an exception this time.

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

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

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

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

Here’s where I fucked up: I agreed.

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

I should’ve immediately called FDNY.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Seriously, just do it.

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

 

Merry Flannel Christmas

December 13, 2015 by Melani 42 Comments

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

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

Kate and Nig

“She’s such an asshole.”

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

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

 

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

 

I’m pretty sure there’s more.

Ok, there’s definitely more.

I’m single again.

Flannel PJs

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

French book

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

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

Again, that’s one tiny example.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Exception: A Good First Date

July 29, 2015 by Melani 20 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s face it, it was wildly refreshing.

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

Me (cheerfully): Hello.

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

Me: (stunned silence)

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

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

Me: (still shocked and silent)

Caller: Maybe you should lose his number.

Me: (yep, still silent)

Caller: He’s married.

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

Me: No.

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

Me: No, I don’t think so.

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

Caller: OK, goodbye.

Dude’s having a really bad day.

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

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

Preach, RJ.

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

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MATCH!

April 27, 2015 by Melani 8 Comments

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

I was deep undercover. Skulking around like a criminal.

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

My, my, my how things have changed.

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

How do you like me now, bitches?

 

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

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

 

And in the next 20 years:

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

 

Bill & Freddi

Bill & Freddi

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

 

Rock on, you crazy lovebirds.

 

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

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

 

What a gift.

 

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

 

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

Atta baby, Carl!

Tracy & Mel-35th HS reunion

Tracy & Mel-35th HS reunion

 

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

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

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

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

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

Holiday Greetings From the Hot Mess, Er, Men of Tinder

December 12, 2014 by Melani 29 Comments

Bergdorf-Goodman-window-architecture‘Tis the season and all that but sometimes there’s not enough Christmas cheer to prevent a single woman from reaching a level of frustration that cannot be cured with a Santa sugar cookie or the work of art that is Bergdorf Goodman’s holiday window displays.

There’s only so many times one can swipe left (brimming with seasonal joy) and hope that the next guy, the next photo, will be the one. Now I don’t mean THE ONE, the one. I mean: the dude who just seems normal.

Do the holidays bring out the crazy in all the digital daters?

OR, do normal singles give it a rest during this time of year? Hide their profile, take some time off from the dating ruckus to relax a bit with family, friends and carbs?

 IMG_3299-2Is it only the truly desperate still showing up on my app? If so, what the hell does that say about me? (Currently hiding my profile as I type this.) And you should see my toes. My polish is so chipped it’s shameful but I can’t even bring myself to get a pedicure with the choices I’ve seen lately. Seriously, I haven’t seen anyone worthy of the walk from the nail salon to my apartment in flip flops. You know it’s frigid here, right?

 Now, before you get all judge-y of my judge-iness, I have a disclaimer. I can’t see the women of Tinder as I was able to on other dating sites. I have no doubt their profile blunders are equally predictable (and somewhat disturbing). I’m only seeing men who meet my criteria. Can’t check out the ladies—unless I want to change my preference to females. Let me tell you, this last month I’ve tried to pray the gay my way. I just know a woman would totally get me. Especially my Cow Jumped Over the Moon flannel PJs with Uggs that are a wardrobe staple in winter. All that praying for nothing, though. Sigh, I still like the boys.

FullSizeRender-3

This season I’m doing my usual donation to Heifer International and I’m torn between several honey bee donations or just one llama. Both are impossibly cool. I’m also gonna throw a little charity out there in the form of free digital dating advice that I hope reaches the masses of guys who need it. Just the way the Magi reached little baby Jesus in the manger except YOU are the star shining over Bethlehem.

In other words, share this post with some unattached man in your life who’s convinced his profile is perfect. It’s not, I promise. Now, for those of you unfamiliar with Tinder, here’s the deal. First of all, it’s connected to your Facebook account. Don’t get freaked out, nobody on Tinder can see your FB page. It just means your real age, real photos and real first name are all part of your dating profile. Unless, of course, you’ve created a fake FB page for the sole purpose of being a sneaky, lying motherfucker in the dating game—or you’re, like, Jason Bourne.

You get a limited amount of space to write something—short and sweet—and then you add photos. I like the concept because really the profile is normally BS anyway and women are just like men in that we need to have a physical attraction first. This is scientifically proven, ladies, we’re just as initially superficial.

Own it.

Here’s what I’ve done. I have taken screenshots of a few examples of what can be only called the Tinder Epidemic of Profile Blunders. I could’ve taken hundreds, that’s how infectious this seems to be. I’m also more than happy to do the female version of this if any of you guys want to take screenshots of ridiculous photos the ladies are posting and email them to me. I’m an equal opportunity let’s get realist. In the screenshots below, I’ve blurred the faces, tattoos and backgrounds and also deleted their names. They should be unrecognizable. But hey, they are the ones posting these pics on a public site. They’re also the ones who have these on their Facebook profile for everyone they know to see. Obviously they’re good with the masses checking them out.

I’ve given what I’ve seen most often a category:

The Fish Photo

Fish 2 blog

 

 

Fish Photo blog

Gentlemen, thank you for sharing your dead fish. I know you’re proud of your accomplishment but I think we need a reality check. This is not the movie Castaway and you are not Chuck Nolan. Your plane did not crash in the ocean and you did not wash up on an island with a bunch of useless FedEx boxes. You did not have to adapt to island life, whittle a tree branch into a spear and learn to hurl it at unsuspecting sea creatures because you were starving and needed nutrition. If you ate that fish and didn’t mount it on your wall, you did so by choice not necessity. You might’ve even hired someone to gut, scale, flash freeze and ship your catch from Alaska, Florida or wherever the hell you were fishing.

Here’s the only thing that photo tells me:

You’re a middle-aged man and you’ve outsmarted a fish. Once. 

 

Recently Separated or Divorced

Married couples blog

I know it’s hard to get back out there, especially if you’ve been married a while, but what are thinking? You’re posting a photo with your (hopefully former) significant other on a dating site? I know, it’s probably a good photo of you. You may even talk yourself into believing I’ll think it’s your sister. You would be wrong, though. I know it’s your wife. Use another photo.

Here’s the only thing that photo tells me:

You two look good together. Maybe there’s hope for reconciliation?

 I Love My Kids

Photos with child blog

 

 

Why are you posting photos of your children? I get it, you love ‘em and want someone who’s dating you to understand you’re a good father. Maybe you even think it would be nice to date a woman with kids, too, since she would surely understand. That is delusional thinking because any woman who thinks it’s OK to put photos of her child on a dating site is an idiot. Period. Don’t get me started on what your child’s mother would think. I don’t imagine you’ve posed this question to her, “Honey, I know we’ve split up and we’re both moving on, so would you mind if I plaster my digital dating profile with pics of the only good thing that came from our marriage? You wouldn’t mind if I use our children to prove I’m a good man, so I can meet someone who’s nothing like you or at least get laid?”

Let me know how that conversation that works out.

Or here’s another scenario. What if one of your child’s classmates has a single mother and she’s casually swiping through the profiles when she comes across the pic with your kid? She turns to her child, shows him the photos and asks, “That’s your friend Joey, isn’t it? I didn’t know his parents were divorcing.” Maybe she’ll even tell your ex-wife about it during a PTA meeting? Gird your loins.

 Here’s the only thing that photo tells me:

Dad’s an asshole. 

 

The Adrenaline Junkie

Adrenaline 2 blog

 

Adrenaline blog

If every single photo on your profile is of you doing something adventurous or extreme, I figure that’s all you do. It’s like dating a stuntman who’s working all the time. Surely you have something else that interests you besides extreme sports? OK, maybe it’s impressive that you partake in Ironman competitions, helicopter skiing, snowboard jumping, multiple marathons, mountain climbing and the like, but you’re going to turn off women like me and I consider myself athletic. I can snow and water ski, play tennis and racquetball. I exercise four to five times a week but my idea of fun is not spending my free time trying to kill myself. If you’ve rappelled down a mountain once and someone took a photo, don’t post that on your profile. You’re not impressing most women. They imagine themselves next to you in that crazyass photo and I promise they’re not saying, “Yeah, I can see myself with Master Deathwish.” And the marathon photos? Seriously? The only thing I think as I look at you straining and pushing through the pain is, “That’s his sex face.” Yep, I imagine that’s how you look at the height of sexual exertion. I visualize that same face, contorting on top of me. Never anyone’s best look. If you run marathons, terrific, but write it in your profile, don’t show me five running photos. And remember this: nobody ever looks cool in a bike helmet. No one. Not even George Clooney.

 Here’s the only thing those photos confirm:

You’re far more impressed with that shit than most women could ever be.

The Guitar Photo

guitar blogI’m right there with you. Guitar players are hot and must feel sexy as hell when they’re playing, especially if it’s well. I played the guitar and took lessons when I was younger. My fingers, to this day, will naturally go to a warm up drill my instructor taught—C, Am, F and G7. I think my band (four gawky eleven year olds with cheap guitars) might’ve even placed in the talent show at Jo Mackey Sixth Grade Center, but here’s the deal. I’m not posting photos because my guitar doesn’t gently weep. I actually don’t even have a guitar but if I did I certainly wouldn’t post five photos of me pretending to be Nancy Wilson. Promise. I could understand one guitar photo, but five? I think it’s awesome when anyone can play a musical instrument—even badly. I give big props for effort, but unless you’re Eric Clapton, save that hobby information for the written portion of your profile, or better yet, the first date.

 Here’s the only thing that photo confirms:

If things work out I’m going to have to tell you that you’re not Slash.

 

The Motorcycle Photo

motorcycle 2 blog

motorcycle blog

Once again, I get it. I love riding on the back of a bike, wind in my face, life flying by. It’s a feeling of pure freedom. But the moment I see the dude on the bike pic, I’m swiping left. I think there’s enough information out there for a man to know better. How many jokes must one hear about divorcing the wife and buying a Harley? If you’ve posted that motorcycle photo on your profile you’re not Easy Rider, you’re proudly a cliché.

Here’s the only thing that photo confirms:

You think that’s your best asset. I assume it’s your only one. 

Above I’ve listed the mistakes I see most often. Here are a few others that are worth mentioning:

*Multiple pics with your dog or cat. A pic of just your dog or cat.

*Multiple group photos where I have to play detective to find you.

*Scenery photos without you in them.

*Multiple pics with your mom.

*Dead deer photos.

*Bare chest photos.

*Photos with other women.

*Any photo that you think is funny because it’s not. Really.

*Any photo that’s weird.

*Bulge photos.

Check out some examples:

idiots 3 blog

idiots 5 blog

idiots 4

idiots 6

idiots blog

idiots 2 blog

Normal is all a woman hopes for in the beginning. Just be normal in the written portion of your profile and even more importantly, the photos. One or two good close-ups of your face, taken within the last year and one or two full body pics, nothing weird, nothing even quirky. It’s really that simple.

Have a wonderful holiday and I’ll be talking to you next year. By then I’ll be ready to reactivate my Tinder profile or maybe I won’t need to. I could be meandering along Fifth Avenue gazing at the holiday window displays and bump right into my own Santa Baby.

 “There are no bad pictures; that’s just how your face looks sometimes.” Abraham Lincoln

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

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 © 2023 · Magazine Pro Theme on Genesis Framework · WordPress · Log in