Melani Robinson

Author | 1 Year of Online Dating at 50

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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.

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

 

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

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.

Miracles

October 23, 2014 by Melani 12 Comments

I will not try to explain the serendipitous nature of life because, well, that would make me either one of those lunatics ranting on a street corner or maybe a Jesus follower. Since I’m not religious nor crazy, I’m not even an honorary member of either club.

BUT, there is a synchronicity to the Universe that never fails to fill me with wonder and I had one of those “holy shit”  (pun intended) experiences recently.

About a month ago I was walking on 11th Avenue from my Upper West Side apartment in the 70s to the Toyota dealership between 46th and 47th Street. I had my earbuds in and was listening to the music downloaded to my phone. My music is an eclectic mix—Jay Z to Andrea Bocelli and everything in between. My Prius is the one holdout to my acceptance that I’m a realIMG_2191 New Yorker. I don’t know many living in this city with a car but I can’t seem to let it go. As much as I love my life—never been happier with a locale—I need to know if it gets too hard, I can drive away.

So, it was time for the car to be serviced and I was walking to pick it up and return it to the garage where it will sit, sometimes for a month, without being driven. I passed the long line of people waiting for tickets to The Daily Show with Jon Stewart and it was at that moment an oldie but goodie started playing through my headphones. It was Jefferson Starship “Count On Me” and as I listened I had the strangest thought: This is the song I’ll dance to at my wedding.

 Precious love, I’ll give it to you

Blue as the sky and deep

In the eyes of a love so true

                                            Beautiful face, you make me feel

Light on the stairs and lost

In the air of a love so real

                                                     You can count on me

Count on my love

Count on me

Count on my love

To see you through

Keep in mind I’m single with not even a fleeting thought of ever getting married again. I don’t see the point at this stage in my life. Of course, you do know I’m actively waiting for my next Big Love but this chick won’t be singing, “If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it” so why did I have that thought? Is there a buried desire to get married that I’m not aware of? And as foreign as that seems, I would never even consider a wedding where I’m actually dancing with my legally bound partner. I mean that nonsense is for first timers, right?

I walked a few more blocks confused with that random thought while questioning my own foolishness until I decided it wasn’t the end of the world that my brain went all wonky. I reminded myself that weird thoughts are constantly popping into my cranium–and not always of 97e473dbthe school-girlish variety. For instance, just the morning before, an oblivious woman passed me while I was walking my dogs, and she, her German Shepard. I realized from fifty feet away that her fucking lunatic canine was out of control and as we passed it lunged, snarling with teeth bared and tried to bite, my sweet Kate and Nigel. I yelled at her to get control of her dog and she screamed, “RELAX, HE’S ONLY PLAYING!” Yeah right, you dipshit. Then I thought: I hope you die in your apartment and Cujo eats your face off.

Welp, no rainbows, butterflies or girlish wedding dances about that silent prophecy.

Anyway, it was a long walk and I gave up trying to figure out my brain. I paused for a moment and put on another Jefferson Starship song from my playlist, “Miracles.” I was fourteen when I first saw Starship at the Aladdin Theatre for the Performing Arts in LasUnknown Vegas on October 3, 1976. My best friend Jill and I had a mad crush on Marty Balin and we attended with binoculars that were focused on him for the entire concert. I would’ve given anything to meet him. I knew little of love and nothing of sex but there was something about that song (written by Balin) that stirred a yearning in my pubescent mind—and body. Clueless to the acts those words were describing, I knew whatever he was singing about, I wanted. Preferably with him.

Then you’re right where I found ya (Oh, baby)

With my arms around ya (Oh, baby)

O-o-o-o-o-o-oh, baby

Baby, baby

Love is a magic word, ooh, yeah (Baby)

Few ever find in a lifetime

But from that very first look in your eyes

I knew you and I had but one heart (Baby)

Only our bodies were apart (It’s making me crazy)

That was so easy (Baby)

So easy (Oh, baby)

I had a taste of the real world (Didn’t waste a drop of it)

When I went down on you, girl

 Then there’s:

You ripple like a river when I touch you (Let me touch you)

When I pluck your body like a string (Show you what I mean)

When I start dancin’ inside ya (Oh, baby)

Unknown-1At this age I listened to those same words as I meandered along 11th Avenue and knew  exactly what he was describing. Sigh.

A couple of weeks later I was having dinner with my daughter, Morgan. She had just started a new job in management and had to make some decisions that come hard with a person’s first job as the boss. As she lamented being the bad guy with one employee in particular who’d asked for time off during a ridiculously busy time, I dismissively responded, “Hey, that’s why you’re earning the big bucks, you gotta make tough calls. She can’t go. Period.”

“I know, but her stepfather has a huge show in San Francisco.”

“What kind of show?”

I figured he probably had a booth at some trade show.

“He was in some old band and they’re performing.”

“What old band?”

“Benny and the Jets is coming to me, but I know that’s a song.”

“Yeah, Elton John.”

Then I began listing.

“Is it Joan Jett and the Blackhearts?”

“Nope.”

I dug deep for that “old band” that I figured started with a J.

“Jetro Tull?”

“No.”

“It’s not Jefferson Starship, is it?”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

I could hardly contain myself as my voice got squeaky, “Is her stepfather Marty Balin?”

Yeah, I think so.”

“ARE YOU CRAZY? THAT’S NOT AN OLD BAND, IT’S STARSHIP AND HE’S A FUCKING LEGEND!”

“Settle down, Fidel.” Morgan said, barely controlling a snicker.

After dinner I made Morgan come to my apartment and listen to Jefferson Starship tunes for at least an hour. I’d obviously failed to properly educate her on quality music—although she can’t stand Taylor Swift so I’ve clearly done something right.

The next day she  shared the story of our evening before with the stepdaughter.  She loved that IIridium use this one called him a legend and told Morgan that he’d be playing in the City in a month. She’d make sure we had tickets to his performance AND I would get to meet him.

On October 10th, Morgan and I attended his performance at The Iridium on Broadway and 51st. Our seats were front and center in the crowded basement room and I squirmed in anticipation. Even the portly guy to my right, much too close and spilling over into my personal space could not dampen my excitement.

I don’t know what I was expecting but when Balin took the stage Marty guitarI was a little surprised. The object of my youthful lust had, well, aged. Who knew rockers got old just like the rest of us? (Except Mick Jagger, of course!) I admit I was a little disappointed and Morgan kind of looked at me like, that’s the dude who made you wanna rip your clothes off?

He began his set playing Jefferson Airplane songs and the crowd of, um, aging hippies, started rocking out. I didn’t because I’m not old enough to be an Airplane aficionado, thank you very much, and after several songs I began to regret attending. Everyone around us couldn’t get enough, though, as they sang along, grooved in their seats and leapt to their feet to applaud his Airplane revival. OK, it was a slow leap, but enthusiastic nonetheless.

Complete adoration

Complete adoration

Then it happened.

He transitioned to Starship and the first song, “With Your Love” was my undoing. I felt that stirring. Morgan leaned over and said, “Mom, your face is flushed and there’s sweat on your upper lip.” In an instant I was fourteen again, hormones raging and all I wanted

Singing along

Singing along

to do was tell Marty to keep singing and while he was at it, pluck my body like a string–often.

The song transformed that seventy-two year old man into my sexual fantasy in a nanosecond. The power of music is remarkable. And don’t even get me started on libido-impact when he sang “Miracles.”

When he finally finished I had the opportunity to meet him and, thankfully, got it together. I told him my daughter and his worked together and thanked him for a great performance. I also had my picture taken and promptly messaged it to my friend Jill. She replied, “OH MY GOD!”IMG_2801 - Version 2

I will never stop being amazed at things many deem coincidental. The serendipitous nature of my life leaves me a disciple of something bigger than what I can see or touch. I don’t believe in flukes and will continue to recognize the outcome of thoughts and wishes as these sorts of experiences come my way.

And I will always be grateful.

“The wiser you get on the inside, the uglier you get on the outside. The world’s great gurus have beautiful things to say but they generally look like shit.” Grace Slick

A Big Life

September 22, 2014 by Melani 30 Comments

My daughters asked what I wanted for my August birthday. I’m sometimes hard to buy for as I don’t want anything. Not because I’m trying to be difficult, or worse, noble, but stuff has little value anymore. My apartment is small, space is limited and I’m a minimalist when it comes to décor. I don’t have a single carpet on the wood floors. Bare looks better. I don’t want nor need anything tangible. It (the gift) should not clutter my life and must be useful in a some way.

That is a skincare device, not a vibrator.

Last Christmas I asked for a Clarisonic–the basic one without multiple attachments that would surely end up scattered around my bathroom cabinet.

Dual purpose–check: takes up little space and I pretend I look ten years younger.

On my fifty-second birthday I asked for two hubcaps. Yes, hubcaps. Mine mysteriously disappeared while the car was in the parking garage. The manager was suspiciously blasé (that’s right, I’m looking at you, Joe).

For my fifty-third, though, I knew exactly what I wanted.

I asked the girls to get three tickets to the Eagles concert on September 18th, Madison Square Garden. I told them it would be “the experience of a lifetime, one they’ll carry with them long after I’m gone.”

OK, that might’ve been a slight overstatement. I recall my dad saying the same thing when he took me to see Wayne Newton at the Desert Inn. BUT, in his defense, I can still pour my heart out when singing “Red Roses for a Blue Lady”.

My girls did what I asked. Um, kind of. They bought two. Seemed neither was eager to have the GREATEST NIGHT EVER. They would flip a coin, they told me. Loser would attend. With that statement I had validation of my thoughts during their teenage years:

I have birthed the spawn of Satan.

“Fine,” I told them, “I don’t care who goes but you better sing and dance to every song. Don’t you dare fucking ruin this for me.”

When your children are twenty-six and twenty-nine, it’s perfectly acceptable to swear at them. I doggedly throw curse words their way these days because life is too short to let simple pleasures pass me by.

Chelsea said she knew the songs, but would not dance. Morgan said she might dance but only knew “Hotel California”. Morgs lost the coin toss. I would be singing alone.

In preparation for the concert I watched the documentary History Of The Eagles multiple times. I recorded it on my DVR with the “delete by” date of: hell freezes over. By the tenth time, I’d learned much personal information about the group and cursed my youngerDHenleyAhYouth self for not having  a stronger work ethic. I should’ve at least tried to become a professional Eagles groupie. Seeing a young Don Henley on the screen, all hair and angst, was a reminder of the importance of having clear goals and objectives even when young.

To further prep, I played Eagles songs over and over. I purchased new headphones because my ears were sore from constantly wearing the worn out earbuds.

On the day of the concert I began getting ready hours before it was necessary, and that included wine. Although wearing black skinny jeans, I shaved my legs for Mr. Henley. He could look out in the crowd and spot me, after all, and I didn’t want to be hindered by two-day growth. I photo-324topped off my all black attire with a denim jacket because, duh, it was an Eagles concert. I also wore shoes that should be both worshipped and cursed.

My flip-flops fit snugly inside my evening bag. Only the truest fan—who’s also in decade five—would be devoted enough to lug alternative footwear for dancing.

I arrived early and it was heaven. Denim was rampant; people were old just like me. I don’t mean decrepit, shuffling along pulling an oxygen tank. It was an Eagles concert not the Metropolitan Opera. I even got a contact high from pot being smoked all around me.photo-323

Morgan showed up and after a quick photo, we headed inside.

“Mom! You don’t have to run!” She yelled, ten feet behind.

I bought t-shirts. Quite obvious which one she picked–that disgraceful lone song she knew.

photo-325

Once seated (we were in the rafters), a man walked up and began talking to three people next to me. Seems he was in the bathroom and a concert employee approached with tickets, several levels lower. He told the group (his wife and another couple) they should head down. Being a nosy person, I asked him how he got so lucky.

“I guess he just liked my face,” he said, laughing.

“Well, ask him if he likes this face.” I replied shamelessly, and he told me he would.

A few minutes later he returned with two more tickets. I couldn’t get up faster and had already put on the flip-flops.

“Stick with me,” I told Morgan, “I get shit done.”

And I question why they love to take me down a notch?

We made it to our seats and I told the man seated next to me (part of the group that got tickets) that I was probably going to sing off-key for the entire show. He said he was singing, too, but had a good voice. His wife didn’t want him to sing, he said, and she nodded in agreement. “We can sing together.” I said, happy that I’d at least have someone who knew the songs. Morgan whispered that his wife didn’t like that. Really? I didn’t think she seemed upset. Come on, I’ll do a lot of things in front of my daughter but hitting on a married man (with or without his spouse nearby) isn’t one of them. I was having fun with the person in the seat next to mine—gender was irrelevant.

The concert started slowly with Henley and Frey taking the stage for a song. Then one by one the rest of the band joined with each new tune they played. The voices were as clear, the harmonizing, pure perfection.

I have two favorite songs for two predictable reasons. “Peaceful Easy Feeling” because my first boyfriend told me the lyrics below reminded him of me.

I like the way you’re sparkling earrings lay

Against your skin so brown

And I wanna sleep with you in the desert tonight 

With a billion stars all around

My skin was always caramel-colored in those baby-oil-instead-of-sunscreen years. My boyfriend and I didn’t sleep in the desert or anywhere else, but I thought about the possibility.

“Desperado” is favorite number two. I played that constantly when another boyfriend and I broke up. He didn’t want to be tied down with anyone, he told me. I was sure if he really listened to that song it would change everything.

You better let somebody love you, before it’s too late

We never got back together but I did run into him many years later and he said it was one of his biggest regrets. Isn’t it great when things like that happen? We never forget.

Morgan recorded me singing “Already Gone” for your listening pleasure (I even have a twang). Actually she sent it to Chelsea during the concert because that’s how they are.

https://melanirobinson.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/09/IMG_2267.m4v

Screen Shot 2014-09-22 at 11.21.01 AMI made sure to remind her she was hearing history during the lengthy “Hotel California” guitar riff. I’m not sure this tweet showed the awe I was hoping for.

Joe Walsh had obviously been working out. His muscular arms were unbelievable. I got a second contact high because people were lighting up inside MSG. Cyber fist bump for those rule breakers.

When the band pretended to finish and thanked everyone for attending, I reached into myIMG_6627 bag for the only accessory more important than flip-flops, the Bic lighter. None of that idiotic cell phone waving crap for me. I rock the flame to ask for an encore. Several people around me were wowed. “Look, she’s using a lighter!” One guy said, “Oh yeah, the lighter. I forgot we did that.” You forgot? I almost asked if he’d considered fish oil pills.

I rode the subway home, buoyant from the experience. A friend, close in age, sent an email yesterday and said he’s got to start doing more fun things like going to concerts. I replied, “If not now, when?” Isn’t that how we all should live, regardless of age? Shouldn’t we forget about the right time to do things that bring us happiness? I have no idea why I didn’t see them before they broke up in 1980. And why not when they reunited in 1994-96? I probably thought it was frivolous to spend money on an expensive concert ticket when my daughters’ needs came first. But if I ever deserved a reprieve, it was then.

Why aren’t we more generous with ourselves and why don’t we take presented opportunities to grab all the fun we can, when we can? I still have thoughts like, I’ll go back to Italy when I’m in love. That’s ridiculous. I’m certain I’ll be in another relationship but why is that the joy-qualifier? I’m going to be conscious of my whens from now on and instead, like my friend, seek fun more often. I don’t care a lick if I live a long life but when it’s over, I want to have lived a big one. Something as simple as that concert contributed to the bigness and I will be more open to opportunities, instead of timing.

Before it’s too late.

“So often times it happens that we live our lives in chains
And we never even know we have the key”  
The Eagles “Already Gone” (Jack Tempchin, Robb Strandlund)  

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: Part Two

July 17, 2014 by Melani 36 Comments

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…

It was Will but you already knew that, right?

He apologized for not getting back to me after he processed the information, as he was away on business and very busy.

It was strange to finally hear his voice. Sure, we had numerous text conversations but this was intimate, serious and real–two hours of real. Then he called again that night and we talked for three hours.

AND several times the next day.

AND every day after that.

We also continued to text multiple times each day and raucous laughter was automatic. Will was away for two weeks on business but I don’t think he got much work done. I know I didn’t do much writing as my head, normally filled with my current work, was full to the brim with him. He asked me if I would like to go to dinner a day or so after he returned. He first sent a text and then called to apologize for asking me out in that manner. There are some things that should be done with a phone call, he explained.

I liked that.

During one of our typical days of texting I was surprised when his business partner responded. Will was driving. I wanted to be a good sport so we went back and forth for a short time and then he called.

“Will has a girlfriend,” he said. I could hear the teasing tone in his voice accompanied by Will’s protests in the background. “He’s in love. It’s Melani this and Melani that. All he does is talk about you.”

I really liked that.

As much as I hoped to be Will’s girlfriend, I didn’t bring it up. After all, we hadn’t even met.

BUT, he did.

He asked me if I was dating other men and I told him I was not. He said he’s always preferred to focus on one person, dating multiple women was not the path he chose and he’d like to focus on me.

So, after hours and hours of talking, never ending texts and just about any over-sharing one could imagine, it was date night. I wasn’t even a bit nervous. I knew this man and was comfortable being myself. I also have (cough) a few first dates under my belt.

I’m Melani Robinson-Goddess of First Dates!

Pour La Victoire

I took my time getting ready and since Will chose a restaurant one short block from my house (my favorite neighborhood bistro, by the way), I decided to wear a dress and serious heels. The kind that might get a girl in trouble—or at least accentuate her calves. Shoes of the impractical variety.

 

I was serene as I rode the elevator down to the lobby, “Lookin’ hot, Mel!” Said my doorman Rich. I strolled around the block and did notice a man or two checking me out. I’ve got this, I thought smugly. When I arrived, the hostess told me Will had already been seated so she showed me to our table. He saw me coming and stood up.

I took one look at him—all 6’3” perfection, wearing a beautiful suit to match his gorgeous face and I’m sure you know what was going on inside. You’ll be happy to know that I maintained my dignity, greeted him warmly with a big smile and gracious, “Hello!” as I effortlessly took my seat across the table from him.

OK, that’s how the scene would play out in the movie version. Let’s try again.

Will stood up, smiled as I walked his way–and I lost it.

One look at him and my face flushed bright red, my legs stopped cooperating so my walk got aeyes-wide-open little hitch-y, and my eyes widened as I stared at him, a shocked expression on my face. I awkwardly took my seat, never taking my focus from him, and although my brained screamed SAY SOMETHING, YOU IDIOT, my mouth refused to work. I couldn’t find my words and at the same time I felt beads of perspiration forming on my upper lip.

Will spoke first. “Are you OK? Do I disappoint you?”

Palace_of_Versailles1Did he disappoint me? Probably in the same way the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel let me down or Versailles seemed like just another big ole house.

FINALLY, I found my voice.

“Oh my god, no, not at all. I’m choking under pressure here because you’re so much more than I expected. Your photos don’t do you justice and I came here tonight, full of myself and confidant and took one look at you and I’m a total idiot. I need a drink.”

Will looked relieved as he smiled, and then motioned our server and I ordered a martini.

And after a couple of sips you’ll be glad to know I rallied.

We talked and laughed. He teased me mercilessly about my entrance—we laughed some more. Once I paired the voice I knew and trusted with his face it was effortless. I also knew, without a doubt, I was falling in love. Close to two hundred dates and almost seven years alone, it was quite clear.

After dinner he said he wasn’t ready for the evening to end so he suggested a nightcap. After attempting one neighborhood lounge that was not what we were hoping for, I knew exactly where we should go:

THE SEXY BAR.

If you followed 1yearofonlinedatingat50.com you might remember the sexy bar. It’s a secret underground paradise in my neighborhood. As we made our way from Broadway to Columbus my feet were killing me. I didn’t think we would be walking or I would’ve saved those stripper heels for another date. I told Will I had made a bad footwear choice and we slowed our pace to a stroll as he held my hand and guided me towards our destination.

And that, my friends, was a very good thing because if he hadn’t been firmly holding my hand I would’ve fallen flat on my ass. As it was, the heel of my shoe got stuck in a sidewalk crevice and my ankle turned. That led me to stumble in that incredibly alluring manner—first the ankle turns thensquat1 the knees buckle followed swiftly by the badonk slamming to the ground. Will held on and was able to steady me enough that once all motion had stopped, I found myself squatting on the sidewalk. It looked a lot like this.

That’s right, I’m bringin’ sexy back.

He pulled me up and all I could do was laugh. What other option did I have?

We managed to get to the sexy bar and he was impressed.

Shalel's almost hidden entrance

Shalel’s almost hidden entrance

“How did I live in the city for all those years without discovering this place?”

We ordered drinks and soaked in the sultry vibe. Then he leaned across the table and kissed me.

Now that was a movie moment.

An hour later he we were headed to my place but neither of us wanted the night to end. We sat on a bench near the bar and talked for another sixty minutes. The date had lasted six hours by then.

He walked me home and I was tempted—oh so tempted—to ask him inside, but I resisted and instead we gave hormonal teenagers a run for their money with the passionate kisses in front of my building.

Neighbors, be damned!

I think I floated to the elevator (the only graceful moment all night) and by the time I was in the apartment and getting undressed, Will called. I know, we’re ridiculous. We talked as he drove back to Westchester and then for another hour.

I have never made a bigger fool of myself on a date. I was Mary Katherine Gallagher. None of it mattered, though.

The magic was there.

To be continued…

“We were together. I forgot the rest.” Walt Whitman

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

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 One

April 10, 2014 by Melani 33 Comments

Chemistry is tricky. Most of the time we think of it as an instant attraction. You know, the certain feeling one gets during that first encounter. The “I think I’d like to have sex with you. Maybe not today, but eventually,” sort of vibe.

BUT, that’s chemistry with a small c and there’s no doubt we’ve all experienced it more than once. What I’m talking about is the tricky Chemistry. That’s the feeling of “I think I’d like to have sex with you. Maybe not today, but eventually, and then afterwards I’d like to talk—for hours.”

As you know, I made a decision after a year of online dating to kick it old school. No more cyber-augmented love for me. I also decided I’d keep my love life to myself after that year of over sharing.

SHHH

Well, I’m going to break that second rule now and tell you about one night in my traditional dating world.

About two months ago a friend and I were having cocktails at a neighborhood bistro.  We both love a perfectly prepared martini and the bartender makes a mean one.

martini

It was a Friday night and we arrived around 7:30pm. The place was packed but we eventually got two seats at the bar. She’s in a committed relationship but is often my wingwoman and we immediately began looking around for eligible men of a certain age—for me.

We both zeroed in on a man seated at the opposite end of the bar.

“Do you see that good looking guy at the end of the bar?”

“Just spotted him,” I replied.

cafeluxbarKind of sounds like hunters preparing to chamber a bullet, right? Here’s why. The guy was the black rhino of single men fifty or older. Extremely good looking, well-dressed, fit, no wedding ring, and confident. I knew he was confident because as I looked at him he boldly looked back, smiled, nodded and raised his glass to me.

I told you about using Cheek’d cards in a previous post. I’d slipped a few into my evening bag that night and my friend and I quickly began looking for the right clever greeting to give to the gorgeous stranger. Let me tell you, I was not going to let him leave without one. As we debated about the selection, the man seated next to me interjected by asking about what we were doing. We’d been there for about thirty minutes by then and I could tell two minutes after we sat down, he wanted to join our conversation.

I also thought he might be interested in me–just a feeling I got–and that feeling wasn’t mutual. He was not my type. At. All. Early to mid-forties, chubby, an expensive but rumpled suit, and hair that was in need of a trim, nothing like the other man I had my sights on but I answered his questions and turned back to my friend. He butted in again and I brushed him off. I was too distracted to even hear what he said because the other man was paying his check and I had to make a move. Grabbing the card I headed over to him and said, “I didn’t want you to leave without this.”

“I was just getting ready to come over and talk to you on my way out. Just waiting to sign the bill.”

Dammit! I could’ve been coy but instead went all Alpha Chick.

“Great, see you soon.”

Back in my seat, the pest next to me asked how it went. My friend was in a conversation with the woman next to her and this time I turned towards him and actually answered. He officially introduced himself, told me his name (Scott) and we chatted for a minute until the perfect man from across the bar walked up. His name, I learned, was Rob.

I introduced my girlfriend to Rob and we turned our stools away from the bar since he was standing behind us. The three of us made small talk but a few minutes in he said something that annoyed me. It was about our new mayor, Bill de Blasio, and it was a typical smartass and uninformed statement from someone less “progressive” and aware than is normal in this city.

“That was a dumb thing to say,” said Scott quietly for my ears only. I turned back towards him and agreed.

“I think he might be Republican,” I sighed and Scott told me that although he worked on Wall Street, he was a liberal Democrat. We started talking politics—both local and national–and he was very knowledgeable.

“How old are you?” I asked.

“Forty-five.”

“I’m fifty-two.”

“I would’ve never guessed. I noticed you the moment you walked in and when you sat down next to me I told the bartender to hold off on my to-go order. I am supposed to be bringing dinner to my brother and sister-in-law’s, but then I saw you.”

Ding, ding, ding. Chemistry with a capital C smacked me in the face.

chemistry-of-love-heart

I wasn’t sure I even felt little c with Rob after his stupid remark.

This story is lengthy and gets more interesting as the night wears on.

To be continued…

“The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any reaction, both are transformed.” C. G. Jung

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.

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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.

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“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.

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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.

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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.

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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!

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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!

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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

Bigfoot

September 5, 2013 by Melani 28 Comments

Last Saturday I used my first Cheek’d card.

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It took me a while. I know, I know, I’ve had them for a couple of months but I’ve not felt physically attracted to any men I’ve encountered.

OK, that’s kind of a lie.

I’m attracted to lots of men, they’re just too young. I’m having a bit of a crisis because I am consistently drawn to men in their early forties. I’ve concluded that males are at their physical peak at that age and I chronically have to remind myself that I’m fifty-two. I guess a ten year difference isn’t that awful but there’s that voice in my head whispering that a decade WILL matter when I’m eighty.

There’s nothing sexy about a chick with a walker.

SO, I’ve been scouring the crowds in my fair city to find a fifty-something man whom I can imagine cozying up to. Physical attraction is always the first step quickly followed with an assessment of just how fucked up he is. Seriously, we all are (to some degree) with a half-century of living behind us.

Back to Saturday.

I spent the day with my surrogate family—Karen and Mark, my neighbors. It was a sweltering afternoon–Finnish saunas have nothing on the NYC subway system with the soaring temps coupled with humidity. We had just returned to our neighborhood after seeing the micro-living exhibit at the Museum of the City of New York, followed by lunch at the Red Rooster in Harlem. We surmised two things: living in the tiny apartment on display might be doable if we weren’t claustrophobic AND my fried chicken kicks Red Rooster “Yard Bird” ass.

As we exited the subway station at 72nd, a mountain of a man (at least 6’4”) approached and asked for directions. He was looking for a specific shoe store in our neighborhood, one that carried footwear in larger sizes. Karen, Mark and I looked at his feet and, yep, they were massive. “What size are they?” Mark asked and he replied, “Sixteen,” with a grin.

I admit that got my attention. Ladies, my brain went where yours would, too. You know you were thinking–big feet, big…..

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I noticed he had an accent but I couldn’t place it. Let’s see: tall—check, age appropriate—check, accent—check, handsome–check and the potential foot correlation was a bonus.  Mark gave him directions to the shoe store on 72nd and he plodded away but not before we had a moment. You know what I mean–that thing that happens when eye contact is made and held a couple of seconds longer than necessary.

As I watched him go I remembered my Cheek’d cards and started the awkward and annoying task of rummaging through my handbag to find them.

UGH.

I fumbled endlessly until I eventually located the cards but not without puncturing my hand with the bristle of a vent brush and dirtying my fingernails with the crumbs of god-knows-what from the bottom of my bag. Next I had to choose the appropriate card and by then he’d crossed the street and disappeared. Mark and Karen had an errand on 72nd Street so I gave the card to Mark and said, “If you see him, tell him it’s from the blonde.”

Who the hell says that besides Mae West?

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I walked home wondering how long it would take for contact.

Perhaps I was being overconfident as I checked my Gmail account minutes after walking in the door. Cheek’d will send a message when someone has logged on using a card.

Nada.

I assumed that Mark couldn’t find him until he sent a text letting me know he’d given Paul Bunyan the card and also confirmed he wasn’t married.

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Well, maybe he was busy with shopping and I’d hear from him later.

Nope.

Perhaps, because he’s foreign, he’ll wait until he’s returned to his hotel to use their computer so as not to rack up international charges on his smartphone.

Naw.

Still nothing by the next day.

AND every day after that.

A person can only make excuses for so long before facing the harsh truth—he  wasn’t interested. I wasn’t deterred, though. I took the rejection in stride and faced his lack of interest like a big girl. “Who cares that he didn’t like me.” I muttered, “We could never slow dance with those clodhoppers all up on me.”

“I’ll be better prepared next time,” I thought as I cleaned out the chasm of crud also know as my purse. I put the cards in a strategic pocket, easily accessible the next time I found myself attracted to a handsome stranger, one with normal feet, mind you. I wasn’t going to let one tiny hiccup discourage me, no siree! There was no need to spend another moment looking back or deliberating (ad nauseam) as to why he didn’t make contact. And as I gathered the unsightly pile of pocketbook debris: gum wrappers, receipts, political flyers, a golf tee, a wine cork, half of a doggie chew stick, a broken rubber band, seven paperclips, two empty bottles of hand sanitizer, a used up tube of lip balm and the pile of crumbs of unknown origin and made my way to the garbage can I knew I’d put the unfortunate incident behind me.

Almost.

As I stood over the trash receptacle brushing the crumbs from my hands I had one of Oprah’s Aha! Moments.

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“OF COURSE,” I yelled, without, um, delusion. “He must be gay.”

“I really wish I was less of a thinking man and more a fool not afraid of rejection.” Billy Joel

Luck

February 13, 2013 by Melani 32 Comments

Neal’s plane from Toronto was delayed several hours. I hadn’t checked the flights before leaving the house so I was at McCarran Airport two hours ahead of schedule. It was rare that I had nothing to do with raising two teenagers and a demanding job. I meandered through the stores looking at stuff that visitors bought last minute to commemorate their trip to Sin City.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Come on. If my candy’s saying:

“Cutie Pie”

Purr Fect”

“So Fine”

Or the best:

“Cool Cat”

It can’t be wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

I knew the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Valentine’s Day.

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

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

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