Melani Robinson

Author | 1 Year of Online Dating at 50

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Merry Flannel Christmas

December 13, 2015 by Melani 42 Comments

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

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

Kate and Nig

“She’s such an asshole.”

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

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

 

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

 

I’m pretty sure there’s more.

Ok, there’s definitely more.

I’m single again.

Flannel PJs

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

French book

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

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

Again, that’s one tiny example.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pardon My French

September 29, 2015 by Melani 62 Comments

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

I was mortified.

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

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

Unknown

 

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

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

You read that right.

I am no longer single.

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

He’s French. Very French.

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

IMG_4204

Chance and Kate

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

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

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

December 12, 2014 by Melani 29 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

FullSizeRender-3

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

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

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

Own it.

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

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

The Fish Photo

Fish 2 blog

 

 

Fish Photo blog

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

Here’s the only thing that photo tells me:

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

 

Recently Separated or Divorced

Married couples blog

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

Here’s the only thing that photo tells me:

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

 I Love My Kids

Photos with child blog

 

 

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

Let me know how that conversation that works out.

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

 Here’s the only thing that photo tells me:

Dad’s an asshole. 

 

The Adrenaline Junkie

Adrenaline 2 blog

 

Adrenaline blog

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

 Here’s the only thing those photos confirm:

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

The Guitar Photo

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

 Here’s the only thing that photo confirms:

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

 

The Motorcycle Photo

motorcycle 2 blog

motorcycle blog

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

Here’s the only thing that photo confirms:

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

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

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

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

*Scenery photos without you in them.

*Multiple pics with your mom.

*Dead deer photos.

*Bare chest photos.

*Photos with other women.

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

*Any photo that’s weird.

*Bulge photos.

Check out some examples:

idiots 3 blog

idiots 5 blog

idiots 4

idiots 6

idiots blog

idiots 2 blog

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

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

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

Blog Snob

November 15, 2013 by Melani 18 Comments

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

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

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

Sometimes they’re presumptuous:

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

Old-women-on-laptop

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

Occasionally, they’re downright rude:

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

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

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

addon.php

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

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

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

That is until recently.

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

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

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

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

Pompous, party of one, your table is ready.

Pompous-Cat

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

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

Well, knock me over with a quill pen!

images

I read on.

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

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

I quickly replied:

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

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

Hell hath no fury like a lousy lover scorned!

frustrated_writer

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

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

I hope you’ll give it a look.

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

My 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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