It’s An Energy Thing

January 30, 2018 by Melani 3 Comments

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

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

To listen to the podcast on iTunes click HERE.

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

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

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

Hello, Old Friends

January 3, 2018 by Melani 12 Comments

Happy New Year!

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

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

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

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

It’s not enough.

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

C’est la vie!

Kill me now.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*takes a deep cleansing breath*

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

PS: I’ve really missed you.

Melani

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

Young Guy Old School

July 3, 2017 by Melani Leave a Comment

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

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

Click HERE to listen on iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from the website.

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

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

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

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

The Wedding Planner

March 9, 2017 by Melani 3 Comments

Meet Jesse and listen as she tells us her story of searching for the right guy in New York City. Oh, and she’s a wedding planner whose professional life is spent creating the perfect day for happy couples, while she navigates the (often discouraging) dating scene in NYC. Yikes, talk about an occupational hazard, right?

Click HERE to listen on iTunes.

Click HERE to listen from the website.

Be sure to Rate, Review and Subscribe on iTunes.

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.

There 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 them. 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.”

There 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.

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

The Hall Pass

January 21, 2016 by Melani 12 Comments

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

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

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

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

He: Ok, but you first.

She: Brad Pitt

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

She: Yep, in a heartbeat. Now you.

He: Ok, Scarlett Johansson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he followed with:

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

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

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

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

I asked him, “Why do men cheat?”

He avoided the question so I asked again.

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

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

True dat.

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

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

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

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

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

Guess what? I met him.

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

Then Al Pacino walked in for a late lunch.

No, seriously, I swear.

Al flippin’ Pacino!

All alone. Wearing that jacked up headband, too.

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

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

Ever.

Even with Scarlett Johansson.

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

Merry Flannel Christmas

December 13, 2015 by Melani 42 Comments

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

I’m trying to gather the energy to do the decorating but NYC isn’t exactly cooperating. Today it’s 61 degrees. Seasons are new to me since moving from the desert, and dammit, I want my Christmas cold. I’m also having an, um, “crisis of conscience” over the tree. Ok, that’s probably not how most would define it but those friggin’ tree vendors want to charge $90 for a five-foot 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.

“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.

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 now 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.

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.

So, 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.

“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.”

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.

Chance and Kate

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Exception: A Good First Date

July 29, 2015 by Melani 20 Comments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let’s face it, it was wildly refreshing.

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

Me (cheerfully): Hello.

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

Me: (stunned silence)

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

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

Me: (still shocked and silent)

Caller: Maybe you should lose his number.

Me: (yep, still silent)

Caller: He’s married.

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

Me: No.

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

Me: No, I don’t think so.

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

Caller: OK, goodbye.

Dude’s having a really bad day.

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

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

Preach, RJ.

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

Fatal Attraction-ish?

January 29, 2015 by Melani 14 Comments

There are certain things a woman who’s digital dating never wants to be labeled: desperate, needy, but worst of all:

CRAZY.

I recently managed to earn all three. That’s right. I am officially the Holy Trinity of the chick every man wants to avoid.

Now, I know you’re probably thinking, “Melani, say it isn’t so!” and I would love to write JK. Unfortunately, I’m not kidding.

BUT, I can qualify this new standing with a logical explanation. At least that’s what I’ve decided now that I’ve stopped screaming, “NOOOOOOO”. It’s the only way I’ve been able to talk myself off the ledge.

Here’s the story.

There’s this thing in New York City called Local Law 11. I’ve been told this was implemented because a brick came loose from a prewar building and killed someone. This law requires (every ten years) all facades must be inspected, brick by brick and any issues corrected. If you’ve seen scaffolding set up outside a building in NYC, it could likely be because it’s going through this inspection. The process takes months as the construction crew goes from top to bottom around the building drilling out defective brick and mortar and replacing with new. It’s noisy, messy and incredibly disruptive to residents. It’s also the law so there’s little a person can do except get really, really pissed and yell frequently. Sometimes the drilling is so intense that things fall off shelves and during this process, sleeping beyond 8am, Monday through Friday is impossible. To make matters even worse for me (since I live on the roof of my building), all work, each and every day, begins right outside my window. My building has three elevators but there’s only one (the service elevator) that goes all the way up to my apartment. Between the elevator and the entrance to my apartment is the only door that leads to the roof so that means the workers are constantly going in and out of it taking down bags of debris, or moving heavy equipment to the roof. The elevator is always filthy and the path leading to my door is generally strewn with dirt that I then track into my apartment. They lower themselves onto suspended platforms from the rooftop, too, and that’s a noisy process.

The whole thing has been a fucking nightmare, actually. I’ve been told not to go out onto my terrace because if the wires that secure the platforms break or come loose, they could decapitate a person. Delightful, right?

Yep, that’s my terrace.

Now, it wouldn’t be so awful if I left for work like most people do in the morning but, unfortunately, I work from home. If you’re wondering why the hell I haven’t finished the book, now you probably understand. Editing has been a nightmare. I’ve tried working at other locations but I’m a creature of habit and have my daily writing routine. That practice doesn’t include putting in earbuds and attempting to write at Starbucks or any other public place. For shit’s sake, an ugly pair of shoes or bad haircut can distract me and you have no idea how many horrific (and entirely unforgivable) things a person can see at a coffeehouse.

The only consolation is the construction foreman. He’s a wonderful guy who’s been incredibly understanding when it comes to my dilemma. He’s told his men to keep the noise to a minimum and although he’s not onsite every day, he’s given me his cell number and said I can text him if I have any problems with his crew. I actually feel bad for the workmen. On especially cold days I offer to set up a space heater so they can come off the roof and warm up. It’s a rough job they’re doing and watching them hang off the building in the bitter cold, doing work nobody would ever want to do, makes me feel like a spoiled brat to have any complaints at all. The foreman told me in all his years of doing this sort of work, I’m the first person who’s offered to give his guys a place to warm up. That made me feel a little less self-absorbed over my perceived victimization.

You know I’m on Tinder, right? Well, actually I was on Tinder but hid my profile during the holiday season since it seemed only the most desperate and undateable were looking for that mistletoe or New Year’s Eve kiss from a swipe-righter. I get it but figured spending the night watching the ball drop on television with friends and a couple of bottles of champagne was a much better alternative than doing the walk of shame on the first day of 2015. I get especially high-principled at the beginning of each new year. By March I’m a shameless hussy.

I wasn’t really chatting with anyone via Tinder anyway. There was one guy, I’d just matched up with but we’d only exchanged a few messages. He was interesting, though, and when he asked for my number, I gave it to him. We had one nice conversation but he lived far outside the city but was here about once a month. We decided the next time he was around, we’d get together for a drink. I sent him a quick text after our conversation and let him know I was going off Tinder so he didn’t think I’d unmatched him on the site and that was it.

For the first time I got a flu shot this year. I know this is a weird segue, but bear with me. My daughters did not and my youngest, Chelsea, came down with the flu. She didn’t want to infect anyone significant so she came to stay with me. Flu shot or not, I can’t stand to be around sick people. I’m a super freak germaphobe. This is a packed city and I’m a chronic hand washer, hand sanitizer user. I don’t get sick often and if you’ve got a cold, stay the hell out of my breathing space. OK, it was my kid and I didn’t mind being a real mom, for a limited engagement, since most women my age in this city are only a couple of years removed from breastfeeding. Seriously, I’ve never seen so many newish moms who qualify for AARP.

PLUS, it gives me complete justification for making comfort food. My chicken and dumplings would make Ms. Deen jealous. That’s right, my recipe for wellness is to bring the South to my kitchen, just like Paula, (sans N-word, of course).

Chelsea was really sick and needed to sleep. Unfortunately, the guys were especially noisy one morning and I had to text the foreman, Steve:

Hi, Steve. The workmen are doing lots of loud talking right outside my windows. Normally I wouldn’t say anything but my daughter has the flu and she can’t sleep with their yelling, whistling to each other and loud cell phone conversations, etc. Could you please ask them to be a little quieter? Thank you.

He replied:

Hi, Melani. I wish I could help but I’m in Philadelphia today. Sorry to hear about your daughter but hope you had a great Christmas.

WTF? Don’t cell phones work in Philly? That got me all crazy and I emailed the building manager with a terse message letting her know what bullshit it was that Steve had told me to text him with any issues and then opted out when I asked for help. I told her I’d been way too patient with this crap and she needed to contact Steve and let him know he must handle his guys. I even mentioned how nice I’d been about the space heater (so full of my own virtue) and it was appalling that Steve reneged on his promise to work with me. She replied that she found that unacceptable and she would speak directly to Steve. Whew, I felt better and the workmen were a little quieter. Crisis diverted, but I made mental note to give Steve a dirty look the next time I saw him.

I recently ran into Steve as I was walking into the building and gave him the stink eye. He asked if everything was OK. I said, “Does it really matter since the next time there’s a problem you might be in Philly?”

He looked at me like I was nuts and asked what I was talking about. I reminded him that I’d sent the text when my daughter was staying with me and he was no help since he was in Philadelphia. He said he never received the text. Then I got really annoyed. “Of course you did. You replied!” I pulled out my phone and showed him his text.

“I didn’t send that,” he said, perplexed. “Are you sure I’m the only Steve in your phone?”

Then it hit me. I had Steve in my phone as “Steve (construction)”. I’d sent that fucking text to the guy from Tinder, um, also named Steve. A man I’d talked to ONCE.

Read it one more time and cringe with me:

I am a bunny boiler.

After apologizing to Construction Steve and sending building management another email explaining that I was a complete idiot, I had to choose between ignoring my faux pas with Tinder Steve or owning it. I called my older daughter Morgan and told her the story. I was mortified but once she started laughing, I did too, tears running down my face. I thought of all the things he must’ve been thinking when that text came in and laughed some more. Stuff like: next this crazy bitch I hardly know will ask for a kidney or if her family can stay with me when they visit Philly.

The fact that he was too polite to tell me I was a nutcase made it even funnier. Kind of explained why I’d not heard from him.

Here’s the text I sent:

Steve! You must think I’m a complete idiot. The building I live in is under construction and the foreman is named Steve. His crew is right outside my windows. I only realized my error in texting the wrong Steve this morning when I saw Construction Steve and told him it was a pretty lame excuse to say he was in Philly. He looked at me like I was crazy so I showed him the text. OMG, you must’ve thought I was a lunatic. Anyway, happy 2015. Apologies for the mistake.

Then I waited, and waited. Hoping he would reply with at least an acknowledgement of my sanity.

Crickets.

I couldn’t take it and decided proof was in order. I sent a second text:

Still cringing from my error. Here’s a photo taken last month for an interview I gave. It should confirm I’m in the midst of construction and not batshit crazy. Take care, Steve. Melani

I sent this photo from the interview I gave to the German publication Frankfurter Allgemeine.

Listen, the second text and photo might’ve been overkill but after my “At Last” text issue (that was probably a teensy bit nuts), I wasn’t taking the hit for this one.

I’ll own my crazy when it’s legit, dammit!

Steve replied after the second text:

No worries, Melani. Thanks for the hot photo and hope our paths cross personally.

See? He’s a nice guy and as a bonus he knew to put a comma after “worries” and before my name—a rare find, indeed.

Our paths haven’t yet “crossed personally,” but maybe he’ll call the next time he’s in the city. If he does, I will do everything I can to keep a straight face when we meet. Wouldn’t want him to think I’m crazy.

‘Crazy’ is a term of art; ‘Insane’ is a term of law. Remember that, and you will save yourself a lot of trouble. Hunter S. Thompson

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

December 12, 2014 by Melani 29 Comments

‘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?

Is 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.

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

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

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

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

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

I’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

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:

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

It’s An Energy Thing

Hello, Old Friends

It’s not enough.

C’est la vie!

Melani

Young Guy Old School

The Wedding Planner

Be sure to Rate, Review and Subscribe on iTunes.

The Spring of My Discontent

Which leaf am I?

The Hall Pass

Al flippin’ Pacino!

Ever.

Even with Scarlett Johansson.

Merry Flannel Christmas

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

I’m pretty sure there’s more.

Ok, there’s definitely more.

Pardon My French

I am no longer single.

The Exception: A Good First Date

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

Dude’s having a really bad day.

Preach, RJ.

Fatal Attraction-ish?

CRAZY.

Here’s the story.

I am a bunny boiler.

Crickets.

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

Own it.

The Fish Photo

Recently Separated or Divorced

I Love My Kids

The Adrenaline Junkie

The Guitar Photo

The Motorcycle Photo

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

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

What’s not to love?

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

It’s not enough.

C’est la vie!

Melani

Be sure to Rate, Review and Subscribe on iTunes.

Which leaf am I?

Al flippin’ Pacino!

Ever.

Even with Scarlett Johansson.

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

I’m pretty sure there’s more.

Ok, there’s definitely more.

I am no longer single.

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

Dude’s having a really bad day.

Preach, RJ.

CRAZY.

Here’s the story.

I am a bunny boiler.

Crickets.

Own it.

The Fish Photo

Recently Separated or Divorced

I Love My Kids

The Adrenaline Junkie

The Guitar Photo

The Motorcycle Photo

If you enjoyed following along during my ridiculous year of online dating, you’ll love the book. New stories, previously untold details, and an embarrassing amount of over-sharing. What’s not to love?

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

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

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

What’s not to love?