Horror faces courtesy of Karen and Mark

Heeeere’s Lucy

This is not about a date with someone I met online. I know. I said I wouldn’t write about the “men in the real world” but I think you’ll understand why this one had to be shared.

I met Terrence while wandering around Barnes and Noble on 82nd and Broadway. If I have any free time I do that sort of thing. The Strand near Union Square is my favorite NYC bookstore, but on that day time was limited so I stayed in my ‘hood.

Terrence approached the New Nonfiction table where I stood. Tall (over 6’), handsome, and an ageless face. He could’ve been forty or sixty for all I knew. We began talking about the recent works of nonfiction that we’d read. I told him I had just finished the Steve Jobs biography. He had read it too. He was an interesting guy—talked quite a bit—and we chatted for about fifteen minutes. By the end of the conversation, Terrence asked if I’d join him for lunch the following day. I told him I would and we exchanged phone numbers.

Terrence chose Landmarc, a restaurant in Time Warner Center. I’d heard good things and was looking forward to the experience.

I got dressed in my cropped Gap “Sexy Boyfriend” jeans (cause that’s what I want), a Yummie Tummie shape wear tank and a BCBG MaxAzria jacket that I saw in the store window during my wine bar trek with Chloe and had to have. All I needed were shoes.

Hmmm, practical flats or sexy heels?

Short and stubby versus long and lean?

 

Vanity thy name is Heels.

Occasionally I’m, um, clumsy.

During my final date with Bernhard I twice dropped a fork and dropped and broke a champagne glass that I discreetly pushed under the table with my foot. The server was already annoyed with the replacement utensils she’d delivered.

Jeez, do you think that’s why he never asked me out again?

During my first date with Scott I set the menu on fire (yeah, you read that right). I was attempting to use a candle to read the very small print. Where’s the handy waiter flashlight when you need it? I also dropped a fork, but who’s counting.

I met Terrence outside the restaurant and we walked inside. The place was packed—it was lunchtime after all and I was happy to know we had a reservation and could immediately be seated.

Here’s what it looked like:

Terrence followed the hostess as she briskly walked to our table and I struggled to keep up.

I’ve been told that I glide into a room—my head high, shoulders back like I own the place and that statement is sometimes followed with, “then you eat shit better than anyone.”

Eat shit.

OK, it has happened a time or two.

All it takes is a little water or an errant lime wedge on the floor and it’s Show Time!

Like a perfectly choreographed three-step dance number, I became the lunchtime entertainment.

Cue the music.

Fosse couldn’t have done better.

Step 1—The Rockette (please note the requisite Jazz Hands) and imagine the loud “WHOA!!!”

Step 2–a backward slam to The Dead Cockroach (not for the neophyte hoofer) with the always appropriate, “SHIT!!!”

And, because I breakdance, I flipped into the Pièce de résistance, the big finish: The Cousin It.

I paused for a moment, took a deep breath and tossed my hair back. The once noisy place was silent and here’s what I saw:

Horror faces courtesy of Mark and Karen

Also this:

Laughing at me courtesy of Mark and Karen

Now, I know what you’re thinking. I got up, walked to the table, laughed it off and had a great meal, right?

NOT A CHANCE IN HELL.

I did my best to stand with as much grace as possible turned and used the same stride I entered with to propel myself out of there. Once outside I limped towards the escalator (my fucking hip was throbbing) and knew I was headed home where an icepack was waiting. Terrence, be damned!

Actually I’d forgotten about him until I heard my name being called behind me.

“Melani, are you OK?” He said while trying not to laugh. “Where are you going?”

“I’m fine. I’ve gotta get out of here. I’m humiliated, I can’t go back in that place.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Jesus Christ, Terrence, did you just see that? Of course I’m fucking serious.”

“OK, OK, no problem, come with me, I have another place we can go.”

We walked outside the Time Warner building and down the street to another restaurant (no clue of the name) and were seated immediately. Terrence laughed about the incident and I joined in. What else was there to do? It was quickly forgotten and he began what I thought was going to be a shared “getting to know each other” conversation.

It was a monologue.

He talked about his childhood in Baltimore and I nodded.

He went into his first marriage and the birth of his now grown son. I nodded some more.

He described his second marriage and why it broke up. I wondered if he realized his food was getting cold but my head bobbed up and down and I made the noises one does to show interest.

Terrence talked and talked and I kept pretending to care while my mind drifted to how much my ass was hurting and that I was going to spring for a taxi back to my apartment. The subway or walking was OUT.

Finally, the date ended. Terrence went in for a kiss and I shoved my hand towards him and said thank you for lunch. He said he’d call and the next day he did.

Here’s how the conversation went:

“I had a great time at lunch, really enjoyed your company,” Terrence said.

“What did you enjoy most about it?”

He better not mention that flippin’ pratfall.

“Just getting to know you. You’re a special woman.”

“What do you think makes me special?”

“Oh, lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“Too many to name.”

“Name one.”

He laughed nervously.

“Terrence, what’s my last name?”

“Um…”

“How about where I grew up?”

“Or how many children I have?”

“The color of my eyes? Do you know that?”

“Um, you want me to tell you the color of your eyes?”

Well played, Terrence. The trick of repeating the question when trying to come up with the answer. I do it all the time. 

“Yeah, the color of my eyes and if that’s too hard then just tell me if they’re light or dark.”

“Weeeell, hmmm, I think they’re dark, but I could be wrong.”

“You are wrong. Green. My eyes are green. You talked for ninety minutes without asking one thing about me. You didn’t seem to care and yet I know everything about you. Where you grew up, your marriages, your son, your job, where you’ve lived. Everything.”

“Weeellll, I know you have a much younger body than most 50 year olds. How about we get together again and you do all the talking?” He said with a chuckle.

“No thanks, but I wish you the best.”

And I do wish him the best. In spite of the fact that he had absolutely no interest in truly getting to know me, I am grateful that he wanted to see me again after witnessing my Lucy impersonation.

“Once in his life, every man is entitled to fall madly in love with a gorgeous redhead.” Lucille Ball

DSCN0042

A Love Story

This is not another tale of the perils of online dating. This is a love story—one of the purest I’ve every told.

After the experience last night I feel it is necessary to pay homage to two big loves of mine–NYC and Kate.

A person has to really want to live in the City. It tests even the most tenacious. Nothing is easy. Absolutely nothing. It’s freakishly expensive, crowded and dirty. People are harried, lines are long and privacy is nonexistent. There’s little time for the niceties that might accompany a life in other locales—sometimes manners are forgotten. That’s why visitors often get the impression that New Yorkers are a cold and offensive bunch. I know I felt that way when I first arrived.

To me it was kill or be killed.

Slowly I’ve learned to understand the place. There’s a rhythm, a modus to the madness of living here. I’m now one in this huddled mass. Finally I move like I belong. I’ve also experienced the kindness of strangers more times than I can count. Over and over I’ve witnessed people helping others when it would’ve been easier to just keep moving.

Last night was the perfect example.

Now on to Kate.

I adopted her just after my husband (Neal) and I were married. She was a puppy mill rescue—a designer dog hybrid mix of Papillion and Toy American Eskimo. The last thing we needed was a pet at a time when we were determined to live the least complicated life possible. He’d had one round of one of the worst types of cancer and knew his life would be shortened. We wanted to enjoy our newfound freedom and felt we’d earned it. Our four children were either independent or very close to that place.

BUT, there was something about her that I couldn’t resist. She sat quietly on the side of the pen while the other puppies of various breeds rolled around doing what baby dogs do. She studied their antics inquisitively but without any interest in participating. When I held her she was timid and shaking. She wouldn’t make eye contact. Lord knows what experiences she’d already had with a start in the horrible place she was born. I took her home, named her Kate and prepared for the reaction from Neal.

My dogs had always slept on my bed. Neal abhorred dog hair and bought lint brushes in bulk. Here were the things I told his disapproving face:

Kate will sleep in her kennel.

I will take full responsibility for her care.

I will train her so that she is the most well behaved dog on the planet.

I love her and she’s damaged. I want to give her a life where she doesn’t have to be afraid.

It was the last statement that got to him.

The first night she whimpered in her crate. Neal was a light sleeper—I apologized and told him to ignore it. She’d become accustomed to her kennel, I assured him. I could sleep through a building implosion and drifted off immediately. In the morning I awoke to a furry ball next to me.

“It was cruel to let her cry. She’s in a strange place and scared,” Neal said with a judgmental tone. I had morphed into Cruella de Vil and Kate slept with us from that night on.

When Neal accepted a position in Russia, Kate went too. She didn’t make a sound in the cabin on that flight. Her eyes never left me as she rested in her carrier. I was her Person.

“Where I go, you go.” I told her for the first of many times.

Russia had a horrible stray dog problem. On the first morning, Neal took Kate outside on her leash and a pack of strays (living outside our apartment) attacked her. He had to kick them off and thankfully she was unharmed.

“THOSE FUCKING DOGS ATTACKED HER,” Neal bellowed, his face ashen (and he rarely used the F-word). “Don’t unpack, I may’ve bitten off more than I can chew in this hellhole.”

He was serious. We were in over our heads—it was cry or laugh. I suppressed a giggle as I watched him roughly rub the scuffmarks from his Tod’s loafers.

Don’t mess with Neal’s family or his clothing.

Kate was fearful every time we exited the building. She looked at me for reassurance as we got in the elevator each morning.

“You’re alright, Kate. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I made friends with the wild dogs through food and Kate was never attacked again.

When Neal’s cancer returned after 18 months in Russia we came back to the States for what would be his final months.

After his death, well, I grieved.

I wanted to die so the pain would stop. I was virtually a shut in and spent two years writing a memoir, a love story, about my time with Neal.

The sounds a person makes when grieving are primal and scary. I know Kate was afraid but she never left my side.

I was her Person and it was time to help me.

When I’d completed the manuscript I had to do whatever I could to get it published. It was the last thing I could do for Neal.  I figured if I immersed myself in the literary world I’d learn the ropes. Kate and I drove cross-country from Las Vegas to the Big Apple on my mission. We hit a stretch of torrential rain like I’ve never experienced in Illinois and she was terrified—her eyes glued to me as I attempted to keep the car on the road.

“You’re OK, Kate.” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster.

Fast-forward three years.

Kate is now a city dog. The sounds of the streets—horns, jackhammers, sirens that once panicked her are now routine as we make our way to Central Park each morning. The dogs are allowed to be off leash until 9 am. We trek through the bramble they run and sniff and do what dogs should do. It’s their hour of freedom in the concrete jungle. A year ago I adopted Nigel, a Norwich Terrier rescue. When I got Wonder Boy he was obese and neglected. We’re a pack of three now and Nigel is trim, and happy. He looks at me with so much love it’s palpable.

Yesterday was Mother’s Day. I started with brunch at Sarabeth’s with my glorious daughters, my NYC surrogate mother Karen, and her husband Mark (he’s the famous face in my blog post The Politician). Here’s a photo of my “Mama” and me.

The afternoon was filled with the stuff my girls and I do on the weekend. They brought their laundry over and we went to Trader’s Joes. They even helped me pick up a new coffee table I’d ordered—circling the block in my car until I came out dragging the huge box. One of those Pain In The Ass NYC experiences that makes one wonder, why do it? I gave them my old coffee table and when it was time to leave (they share an apartment in Midtown) we propped my apartment door open and made several trips to the elevator. I told Kate and Nigel to stay in the apartment and didn’t give it another thought as we struggled with large laundry bags, groceries and a coffee table. I hugged them goodbye, the elevator doors slid shut and I had peace. It was around 8 pm.

I closed the apartment door, stretched out on the sofa and called a friend. After thirty minutes a call beeped in from the front desk.

“Melani, Kate is in the elevator,” said Pedro. There’s a camera in the elevator and the doormen monitor activity on the computer screen. “She’s coming down with a delivery guy.”

“What? I’ll be right down.”

I ran to the elevator and called Pedro again. “Do you have her?”

“No, she just ran out. I should’ve closed the door. I’ll try to catch her.”

I was frantic as I rode down the 15 floors. A dog running free on the city streets was going to die. I ran out of the building and looked for Pedro. He wasn’t in sight. I started screaming Kate’s name as I ran down my block.

Pedro called and was panting as he said, “I tried to catch her but she crossed Broadway and Amsterdam and ran up 72nd past Gray’s Papaya. She’s headed towards the park.”

It was impossible. My dog had crossed those streets and survived? The traffic is brutal and people are hit regularly at that intersection. How did she do it?

I raced to 72nd screaming her name and yelling at anyone who passed, “DID YOU SEE A BLACK AND WHITE DOG?”

Most said no but one guy yelled at me as I ran, “She’s ran down Columbus and crossed over at 71st and is heading towards Central Park. Nobody could catch her, she was really moving.”

I called my daughters as I ran. I was hysterical and hyperventilating. “GET HERE NOW, KATE GOT OUT AND SHE’S IN CENTRAL PARK. GET IN A CAB. MEET ME AT THE PARK.”

Once in the park I continued to call her and ask people if they’d seen a little black and white dog. Most had not but one woman told me that two guys on bikes were trying to catch her. That was not good news. I knew she’d keep running if bikes were in pursuit.

My daughters arrived and we did what we do in a crisis—worked as a team. They went one way and I the other calling for Kate. A NYC Parks employee, Jamie Warren, stopped me and volunteered to radio other employees to keep an eye out.

“Tell them if they see her to be calm and call her to them. If they try to grab her she’ll be gone.”

“Would she come to your voice even from a car?” Jamie asked, and I told her Kate would.

She was done working for the day but instead of wishing me luck and leaving she volunteered to drive me around the park so I could yell from her car—we’d cover more area that way, she explained.

“I’m a dog lover, I’ll do anything to help.”

We went the opposite way that my daughters had gone. Jamie drove as I yelled Kate’s name from the window. We stopped and asked every person we passed. Each one said they’d stay in the park and help in the search. One man named Richard was on a bike. He told us he’d talked to my daughters when he was walking his dog. Once he learned of the situation he took his dog home, grabbed his bike and flashlight and came back to the park to help in the search.

An hour later we still hadn’t found her and at that point I didn’t know what to do. Kate was micro-chipped and had a tag on her collar. I prayed that someone would find her and call.

I thought we would continue on foot through the more remote areas of the park. The girls had already been through the bramble around the lake near 72nd. Jamie told us it was not a safe thing to do.

“You can’t do that at night. It’s too dangerous. I’ll drive you around as long as you want, but don’t go on foot. She’s in the best city in the world for lost dogs. Someone will find her. They’ll call. New Yorkers love their pets.”

I was going to do it anyway and then my phone rang.

The magic words were spoken.

“We have your dog.”

“This is Kevin from The Plaza Hotel. She just ran up and I caught her.”

Where else would MY dog go but The Plaza Hotel?

Is this a New York City story or what?

The amazing Jamie Warren drove us to The Plaza where we found Kate inside the doorman booth, curled up on a cushy dog bed (as one would expect) with a large bowl of kibble and another of water in pristine silver bowls.

She was terrified and exhausted but safe.

I knew then why she’d made her way there. When we were moving the stuff to the elevator she slipped out. She likes to go down the hallway and sniff around my neighbors’ doors. I didn’t notice that she’d gotten out and all she knew was we were loading things into the elevator and my daughters were leaving. Once she heard the elevator close she must’ve thought I was in it as well. Meanwhile I was in my apartment on the phone and hadn’t realized she wasn’t around. When a delivery guy brought food to one of my neighbors she went to find me. She rode the elevator down and hesitated for a moment when Pedro called her. He said she looked at him and then the open door and took off. She knew exactly where she was going: to my daughters’ Midtown apartment where she thought I was. When we walk to my daughters’ we cut through the park and come out at the hotel near Fifth Avenue and Central Park South. We walk past the hotel and cut over on 58th.

I’ve walked this route dozens of time with Kate. She knows it well.

Once I had her in my arms, much to the annoyance of my girls I became a reporter. I knew this was going to be my blog post today. It was too good to pass up even when the subject matter had nothing to do with online dating.

I pulled out my phone and shot a photo of my hero, Kevin.

The girls rolled their eyes and snickered. Everything was back to normal.

They told me that while they were searching they had their game faces on as they saw the outlines of people stirring in the brush.

“Bring it on, motherfucker,” said my youngest with her fists clenched, “You have no idea what you’ll be facing with my sister and me.”

“That’s right, we’re on a mission,” replied my oldest (I told you in the last post, we know how to pull together when times get tough).

Jamie, Parks Employee Extraordinaire drove me back to the apartment with Kate in my lap. I couldn’t thank her enough but she wouldn’t hear it.

“It’s no big deal,” she said matter of factly as I hugged her and said goodbye.

Pedro greeted me with “THANK GOD” as I came into my building. He told me the story from his end. He’d come within inches of being hit by a taxi while chasing Kate.  His knee buckled as he bolted after her.

What a guy.

Last night I saw an example of the best in people—strangers and those I know.

My seriously fierce daughters who searched the park because they love her too but also know that losing Kate would be something I wouldn’t recover from. There’s only so much loss a person can take.

The strangers on the street who tried to rescue a loose dog from what would be a sure death.

Richard, the man who went home and got his bike and flashlight.

Pedro, the best doorman in the city.

The guys on their bikes who chased her.

The people in the park walking their dogs who said they’d stay and keep looking.

Kevin, from The Plaza who finally caught her.

AND the best Parks employee in the world–the incredible, Jamie.

Kate crossed some of the busiest streets in the city: Amsterdam, Broadway, Columbus, Central Park West and Central Park South. She crossed the park from west to east and possibly came out on Fifth Avenue. How did she survive?

I may spend lots of time on my blog complaining about the idiosyncrasies of New York City, I might gripe about the single men that I’ve met here, but there’s no better place to live. It really is the greatest city in the world and I’m head over heels, smitten to my toes, in complete and utter love with my new hometown.

“If you can only have one great love, then the city just may be mine. And I don’t want nobody talkin’ shit about my boyfriend.” Carrie Bradshaw

One final note: Pedro, Kevin and Jamie will receive the maître d’s handshake because as much as I consider myself a New Yorker there’s still some Vegas in me and that’s how we say thanks.

The Benefit of Friends With Benefits

I met Scott a month prior to starting the blog. He had a great profile, was handsome and fit. I knew he was fit because he had body shots of himself at the beach. I was a little surprised at his age. He said he was 50 but appeared to be older—55ish but did have the body of a much younger man.

We met the first time for dinner at The Lion (very cool place in The Village).

He was an extremely fashionable guy—his clothes were sophisticated, yet hip. I loved his style. It was a great date. Scott was funny, interesting, well traveled and had an exciting job in the entertainment industry. After dinner he took me to a bar in his neighborhood. He was greeted like the mayor. After a round of drinks or two he showed me his apartment and rooftop deck. We had a steamy session of kissing and clothed touching. I knew if I didn’t leave I’d be doing the Walk of Shame the next morning. Scott was rather pouty when I told him we wouldn’t be having sex.

We had three additional dates and things, well, progressed. I liked Scott and although it wasn’t the epic love I was seeking (that indefinable chemistry wasn’t there for either of us), it was a good arrangement.

I sleep with one man at a time and (in the past) only in a committed relationship. Patty Stanger used to be proud. I didn’t want to be in an exclusive relationship with Scott. He wasn’t The One, but I did make it clear that I wasn’t sleeping with any other men. Scott understood that I was dating others and I assumed he was as well. He agreed that sex with one person at a time was the way he rolled.

Then the blog was born.

At least the concept was and I knew that I wanted to launch on January 5, 2012. If you don’t know why I chose that specific date then click here.

My daughters and I always were (and in lots of ways still are) a team. Our life was never about waiting for someone to help or hiring it done.

Christmas lights on our house? Sure, grab the ladder.

We’re moving by ourselves? Yep, I borrowed a truck. We can lift that armoire.

You want to be a pitcher? OK, let me put on the catcher’s gear and become a really good target.

Mom, you want me to hang the chandelier? Read the directions. What’s a little electrical work for a smart chick like you? (My youngest is an evil genius with power tools).

You want a wilderness vacation? Shit, but OK. I know how to camp.

So, it seemed logical that the three of us could design a website in two weeks.

How hard could it be?

“Fidel, this is more than we can handle.” My oldest calls me that often with the deepest affection. What mother’s heart wouldn’t swell when being compared to a brutal and ruthless Stalinist dictator?

“Oh bullshit, [snotty daughter’s name]. We can do it.”

Photo courtesy of Brian O'Connor

During the website creation I was stressed and distracted and saw Scott infrequently but when we got together it was a lovely reprieve from the pressure I was feeling. He wasn’t exactly thrilled with the blog concept. It was an “in your face” confirmation that our relationship would not progress beyond what it was. I even showed him the rough drafts of a few posts I’d written in advance of the launch. He said it was way too much information to be sharing with the world.

Scott asked me out for New Year’s Eve. He had tickets to a very swanky event and I was looking forward to it. By December 30th the blog was still under construction and I was freaked out—the launch date was only symbolic, but critical to me.

I finally agreed with my daughters. We needed help and through some frantic online research I found Jami Howard. It was a miracle that she was able to get it all together, but within a few hours Jami had taken the reins and could meet my January 5th deadline.

Then a second miracle–the girls called me Mom. The eye rolling and their statements that included words like: psycho, lunatic, and insane had ended.

I realized it had been several days since I’d heard from Scott. With the holidays it seemed like no big deal and I figured he’d contact me with the details of our fancy date. I began to put an outfit together.

By the morning of New Year’s Eve I had still not heard from him. I knew we weren’t going out and I didn’t need to call for confirmation. I spent the evening with Dick Clark, Ryan Seacrest,

and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot Rose.

I got a text from Scott at 11:45 pm:

Happy New Year!

By then I’d finished the bottle and was doing a brilliant impersonation of Dan Aykroyd’s character  (the Santa scene) in Trading Places.

“Ssswwuck you,” I slurred as I stumbled into bed.

It was January 5th and the blog was up. I got an email message from Scott apologizing for his lack of communication and congratulating me on my new endeavor. I was caught up in the excitement, but told him that his disappearance and lack of communication was rude. He apologized profusely and said it wouldn’t happen again.

We resumed our, um, relationship.  I thought it was perfect.

And then it wasn’t.

Scott went into hiding again. He didn’t respond to my text or phone call. This time I was done.

 Then a funny thing happened.

I got an email message through the blog from a woman who thought I might’ve dated Scott. I responded to her first and then had the following exchange with my Dance Away Lover:

Hi Scott,

I have no idea why you’ve disappeared again, but the reason isn’t important. If seeing me isn’t something you want to do anymore then a quick email or text would’ve been respectful. 

I got an email yesterday from a woman named [redacted]. She wanted to let me know she’s enjoying the blog and heard about it from a guy she met online and is dating. I emailed her back and asked who the man was. Well, you know the rest. I told her you were a great guy and an excellent father–gave you a glowing recommendation. I hope if you decide you don’t want to see her anymore you’ll at least show her a little respect and tell her without just disappearing. 

I do think you’re a great guy and it is puzzling as to why you continue to behave this way. No matter how busy your schedule has been with work a simple text is the least you should’ve done.

I hope you find happiness and love.

Best,

Melani

Scott’s response:

You are right and I apologize.  Seemed to me the connection wasn’t there and figured you felt it as well.  That coupled with a lot going on surrounding work made it a little crazy – but that is no excuse and you are right.

I find it strange [redacted woman’s name] reached out to you.  I tell EVERYONE about the blog because i think it is great.  I met her 1 time last week in NYC for drinks, that is it so dating might be a little strong but whatever.

Anyway, I do apologize and will consider this in the future.

My response:

I did feel the lack of a connection. I enjoyed your company–the sex was great–and I thought it would naturally transition into friendship when one of us met the right person. You’re a grown up guy, Scott, and ignoring my text this week as well as the phone call was a frat boy move and beneath you. 

I’m annoyed now, but in a few weeks I’d like to be friends.

Done. No big deal and I hoped we could be friends.

Three months into the blog I got another email message, this time from Chloe, a woman who’d dated Scott briefly and he disappeared. She’d begun following the blog on Scott’s recommendation and was enjoying it immensely. We exchanged a few messages and found we had lots in common. We decided to meet for brunch to commiserate over our online dating experiences and I liked her immediately–I don’t like easily.

She went on one date with Scott and thought they had a great connection. He talked about all the things he wanted to share with her such as barbeques on his rooftop deck this summer. The following week she invited him to a black tie event she was attending. I told her that I knew he must’ve looked great in a tuxedo. She said he did that night as well as a few days later when she saw that he’d posted a new photo on his dating profile that she’d taken of him.

We admired his gall.

I was tickled when she told me he’d listed his age as 48 on the dating site.

She said that he followed up with a lovely email message after the event thanking her for a great night. She replied that she looked forward to seeing him again.

Then it was crickets.

Chloe and I went out for wine a week later. We started at Eataly, progressed to Vin Sur Vingt 20 and then finished with Terroir. Neither of us are big drinkers but we were having far too much fun. The blisters on my feet are still healing from our wine bar crawl.

We thought it was only fair to let Scott know of our new friendship. After all, he brought us together. I sent the photo below to him and our text exchange follows:

Hi from your ladies. Don’t ya wish you were out with us? xx

Would’ve loved to see his expression.

Here’s his response:

Clearly my promotion of your blog knows no bounds

Me:

Yep. You could say that. Does this story qualify as blog-worthy?

Scott:

No comment. Lol

I decided it qualified. Thanks, Scott. Keep up the good work. I’m hoping for lots of new girlfriends. You have excellent taste in women.

“Nobody ever said it was simple to be a man. If it were, more guys would try it.” Hugh O’Neill

I’ve added something new to the sidebar called, “Things I’m CRAZY About.” These are not paid advertising, but things I love. I will add more when I have time–blog, blog, blog.

Cheap or Evolved?

I met Daniel after several email exchanges and a phone call. It was during our conversation that he shared his love of seafood and I told him of my recently acquired taste for raw oysters. You couldn’t have paid me a million dollars to try them in the past.

Daniel was an interesting guy. He had an exciting job at a major television network and the stories he told during our initial conversation were riveting. He worked with celebrities and had the inside scoop on what they were really like.

Yes, I read The New Yorker, but I also find a juicy People irresistible.

Oh shut up, we all have guilty pleasures. Love you, Bethenny.

Daniel picked Grand Central Oyster Bar  for our first date. I’ve been told it has the best oysters in the city so I was pleased with his choice. We met at the clock and Daniel did not disappoint in looks or dress. Tall, handsome and stylish—the trifecta of first impressions.

The restaurant was not what I expected. Crowded, noisy and ambiance that was more diner than dining. A surly host seated us and a brusque waiter took our drink and then dinner order.

I guess when there’s a captive audience of hungry travelers a welcoming staff isn’t a priority.

Although the atmosphere did little to set the stage, there was a palpable attraction between us. A sexual undercurrent that made the restaurant bathroom scene in Unfaithful seem almost like a logical alternative.

Except it was Grand Central.

The chance of a homeless person bathing in the washroom sink was a distinct possibility—might be a buzz kill.

Once we finished our meal (oysters were amazing), Daniel suggested we get a drink at The Campbell Apartment,  a cool bar with an interesting past.

He asked our sullen waiter for the bill and then immediately excused himself to the men’s room before it had arrived.

That’s weird.

I looked at the check on the table.

Does he expect me to pony up? Did he walk away so I’d look at it?

I was not going to pay. Daniel asked me out, it was a first date and I’ve never paid a bill or even a portion of one in my life on any date, first or otherwise. I disregarded the timing of his departure and when he returned he handled the check.

On to The Campbell Apartment.

 

Again, big sexual chemistry and we openly flirted. Then Daniel kissed me. It was a great kiss but we were moving too fast. One more cocktail and I would be looking for a dark corner for a heavy make out session.

Don’t judge. You’ve been there too.

I called it a night before hands were victorious over brain. Daniel asked for the check and then excused himself—AGAIN.

What the fuck? Seriously? On a first date?

It was waiting for him when he returned and he paid without hesitation. We kissed goodnight—excellent again—and he said he looked forward to our next date.

Maybe I was wrong?

A week later he invited me to Cleopatra’s Needle,  a bar on 92nd and Broadway that featured live jazz–a favorite of the NYC jazz community. The place was packed and had a cool vibe.

 

There seems to be an organic “cool” to every jazz lover I’ve known and Daniel was no exception.

We cozied up to the bar and each other, had a couple of drinks and listened to the music. Another great evening with huge sexual undertones—then Daniel asked for the bill.

AND HE DID IT AGAIN.

For confirmation I decided to test his exitus opportunus.  I pulled out my credit card and when he returned I put it on bill.

“I thought I’d pay this time.” I said, and studied his face.

“Are you sure?”

Not the response I was hoping for so I upped the ante.

“Well, I’ve never paid for a date in…my…life, but I’ve been thinking it’s only fair. You got the last one, it’s my turn. So how do you feel about that?” There was plenty of emphasis on “feel” as I hoped that he’d understand that  feeling strongly one way or the other was expected.

“I like an independent woman and love to be the first at anything,” he said with a wry smile as he squeezed my upper thigh. I think he was even more into me than before.

Ew.

With that reply, Daniel left his Sexy in the bathroom.

A quick peck and I was headed home. We wouldn’t go out again, I decided as I strode towards my street. It wasn’t so much that he let me pay on the second date; it was that it confirmed that he’d expected me to pay some portion on the first.

Daniel followed up with nice texts over the next few days. I ignored them. He called. I didn’t answer. Finally he left a message and I could hear that he was hurt. He asked if he’d done something wrong and would I please let him know why I’d pulled away. I called him back and explained. I told him I was struggling with my “men always pay” dating mindset. That I’d even written a post about it, and as much as I like to think of myself as an independent woman, it bothered me that he didn’t protest. I even mentioned his strategically timed potty breaks.

Daniel calmly explained that he went to the bathroom because he had a long trip back to the Upper East Side where he lived and we had been drinking. He explained that after dating for 30 years in NYC he’d met many independent women who insisted on paying. He’d actually had heated arguments with some and didn’t want to experience that again.

Cheap or evolved?

“I’ve learned that when a woman wants to pay, let her. I’m done fighting over the bill.”

It made sense, but I still needed some time to decide if I believed him. I asked that he give me some space so I could process everything.

The “space to process” is one of the lamest things I’ve ever said. If a guy said that to me, imagine how much fun I’d have on this blog lambasting the use of that tired old cliché.

The truth? I liked Daniel and it was rare–almost nonexistent–to feel sexual attraction to any of the men I’d met online. I was trying to figure out if I could be with a guy who expected me to pay on a first date.

A week later he sent me a text: I’d like you be my guest sometime this week. I miss your smile.

He missed my smile? Aww.  Of course I accepted.

We met for a movie on Friday evening at a theatre close to my apartment. Daniel was waiting in the lobby with the tickets. Whew, I was afraid we’d be standing in line and nature would call.

We went to see The Raven. It wouldn’t have been my movie of choice but I was his guest. We passed the snack bar and Daniel didn’t ask if I wanted anything.

I always want something.

Once inside the theatre he inquired. He was going to get a bottle of water for himself. I asked for a Diet Coke, but told him no worries if the line was too long.

The line should never be too long.

Ever.

No matter what.

And he said it was.

Hmm, cheap or evolved?

Daniel sat next to me, took my hand and smiled.

“You know, with the amount of commercials they show before a movie you’d think the ticket prices would go down.”

 Yep, cheap.

“He’s so cheap, he’s got the first nickel he every made.” Something my grandmother, Aili Bennett, said regularly about anyone she suspected might be cheap. It’s genetic.

Happy Anniversary Questions

I’m one-third of the way through my year of blogging about online dating. I took some time today and looked back at the comments I received in the beginning. Honestly, most of them were from friends or friends of friends.  Thanks, mis amigos.

Since the Brazilian wax Huffington Post piece a lot has changed. The weekend after the article was published the blog received 23,500 hits. I now have a regular following of, well, strangers. People I’ve never met, except it doesn’t seem that way. There are those who leave comments and I think of them as new confidants. It’s strange to have those feelings, but I do. I also get lots of email messages and the tone is generally very familiar—as if the sender knows me. In a way that’s true considering what I share. I enjoy every message and always write back.

I love that the blog conversation continues on the Facebook page. I laugh every day at the hilarious comments people share. The first thing I do in the morning after walking the dogs in Central Park is log on to the page to see the new remarks.

 I also enjoy the tweets: @Melani_Robinson.

There are questions that I’m asked regularly as new readers find the site and read the archived posts. I thought I’d celebrate my 1/3 anniversary by answering the FAQs.

Q: Did the little person ever contact you? (Blog post: The Biggest Man in the Room)

A: No, but he didn’t know about the blog. I’m still hoping that somehow he might          stumble upon it and reach out. I’d love to know more about him.

Q: Do you ever have normal dates?

A: Yes, lots of them. Average dates with nice guys that I feel no connection with are not very interesting. I could write about them but they wouldn’t be much fun to read. As long as I continue to have crazy experiences, I’ll avoid writing about the mundane. The guy I wrote about in The Patient was an average date, until his scrotum showed up.

Q: What is happening with Sebastian? (Blog post: Deal Breakers)

A: I went on three dates with Sebastian. By the third we both knew it wasn’t going to work. There was nothing horrible about him. He was one of those normal dates. The only difference is we had an amazing connection via email messaging. It didn’t transfer to the real world.

Q: Do you have a Spring/Summer uniform? (Blog post: The Uniform)

A: Not yet, but I’m working on it. Doing my best to get my body summer-ready and then I’ll figure out the duds. NYC is hot and humid in the summer so shape wear is OUT. I’m thinking perhaps a wrap dress or two might be ideal.

Q: Has Hot Yoga Guy every shown up again? (Blog post: Insane Courage)

A: No, and I am hopeful every time I enter the yoga studio. I won’t be a chicken this time because he had me at “motherfucker.”

Q: Have any of the men you’ve written about contacted you?

A: No, and it’s kind of a relief. I am not writing to hurt anyone’s feelings. I change enough of the details so nobody would recognize them, but they can certainly identify themselves.

Q: What ever happened to Bernhard? (Blog post: Dude Looks Like A Lady)

A: Hate this question. We met to discuss our shared post (he wrote his version of our time together), but Bernhard was just not that into me, on or off The Juice. The final humiliation was a drunk text I sent him after too many Mojitos. The incredibly profound: Why can’t you be crazy about me?  My 27-year-old daughter deleted his number from my phone—thank God someone acts like a grown up in our family.

Q: Do you think you’re too picky?

A: Probably. I know the things I can’t handle and I feel no need to settle. I’ll meet him when I’m supposed to IF I’m supposed to.

Q: Do you date any men you meet the normal way?

A: Not recently. The online sites have been my focus. I am open to meeting men offline and I’ve had some interesting guys reach out to me because they’ve read the blog. Unfortunately, all of them live in other areas of the country. If you’ve got someone you think might be a match, I’d love to meet him. If he’s worried about becoming “blog fodder” (as one guy told me), you can put his mind at ease. I only write about men I meet through online dating. I am doing something crazy on Friday–going out with a girlfriend. I haven’t spent any time with friends since starting the blog and we’re going to hit a wine bar or two in the city.

Thanks for indulging my Third Of The Way Through Post and especially thank you for cheering me on, sharing your stories and following along for a year with me. Whew, two-thirds to go.

I’ll be back on Monday with a dating story. I’m also working on another Huffington Post piece that I researched this week at Babeland in Soho. If you don’t know what they sell, check it out.

“Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, ‘What! You too? I thought I was the only one.”  C.S. Lewis

The Situation

One quick email exchange, a phone call and I had a date with Yoni for dinner at Pomodoro Rossa, an Italian restaurant on the Upper West Side near my apartment. He chose the place as he too lived in the neighborhood. Having been there many times I was happy with his selection. The staff is friendly and accommodating and the fresh pasta is delicious.

I was five minutes late as I’d stopped to get a manicure before dinner and it took longer than expected. I hate to be delayed and had sent Yoni a text prior to polishing to let him know. I’ve been told that 20 minutes in NYC is still considered acceptable with traffic delays or subway issues but even five minutes makes me feel awful.

Yoni was already seated at a table and as I approached he stood, grabbed my hands and went in for a cheek kiss.

“My nails are wet,” I said as I pulled my hands back. Too late. It was as if he didn’t hear me and the polish was smudged a few minutes after leaving the nail salon.

Didn’t I just text him to say I was running late with a manicure? Did he not think that included polish? I was a little miffed, but it really wasn’t his fault.

Yoni shrugged it off with a “no big deal” gesture and facial expression.

His indifference was bothersome, but the culpability was my own. I’d come to a date with wet nails, after all. He was also shorter than his profile stated (5’10”). I like to wear heels—impractical when walking in the city—but I’ve still got a little Vegas in me. I was at least an inch taller than he. With my 3-inch wedges I was 5’9”. On his most upright day, Yoni was 5’7”.

We got comfortable, I ordered a glass of wine and we made small talk. I asked about how long he’d lived in the neighborhood and about his children. His youngest boy was 13–younger than I had hoped for. He mentioned that his son was about to have his bar mitzvah celebration. I asked about the party. That seemed to be a sore spot with Yoni and he spent a fair amount of time lamenting how much it was costing him.  He mentioned that his ex-wife had extravagant taste and was spending his money like crazy. During his mini-rant he said that his half was more than most people spent on the entire event.

“So you’re spitting the cost with your ex-wife, not paying for it all?”

He had implied that he was footing the bill.

“Well, yes, that’s what she says, but who knows, she could be inflating my part.”

Kind of like your inflated stature? I thought but kept to myself.

Eventually the server took our order and the conversation became more interesting. Yoni was well traveled and had many interesting stories to share about obscure places he’d visited. I enjoyed his vivid descriptions of the exotic locales and after a second glass of wine he had become quite charming. Wine does that to me. He wasn’t handsome, but he had a pleasant face, trim physique and told a great story.

Twice during the conversation he mentioned driving to pick up his children for their weekly time with him. He’d told me his children lived on the UWS just as he did so it didn’t make sense. When questioned he gave the reasonable explanation that he’d been working outside the city on a project and picked them up on his way home.

I’ve eaten at Pomodoro many times and always order the Fettuccine Pomodoro E Basilico.  It is delicious and the portion is huge. The place is a checkered-tablecloth  neighborhood restaurant and the servers seem to expect that leftovers will be taken home. Generally they don’t ask, just box up what’s left and bring it to the table. Yoni had finished all of his entrée, but they brought mine in a takeout container.

New York Magazine

“We don’t want that,” Yoni said with disdain.

“I want it,” I replied quickly and the waiter set it down.

“You want to take leftovers home?” Yoni asked. His tone left no doubt it was déclassé.

“This isn’t exactly Per Se. I don’t like to waste food.”

“As you wish,” his mouth said, but his face was profoundly disappointed.

Yoni paid the bill, we exited and I was prepared to say goodbye. He suggested we go for an after dinner drink. I declined. He persisted and told me he’d take me to a secret place on the Upper West Side that few people knew of. That was intriguing and I agreed to one quick drink.

Yoni suggested we put my leftovers in his car. It was parked just outside the restaurant.

Strange that the car is parked here since he lives in the 80s.

Then I noticed the New Jersey license plate and pressed.

Yep, Yoni was living in The Dirty.

He claimed it was only temporary—the divorce wiped him out and he planned to move back to the city within a couple of months.

Was every motherfucker on the site a goddamn liar?

I was seething, but also opportunistic. I wanted to know the Secret Place location.

Yoni tried to hold my hand as we walked one block to 70th Street and Columbus. I pulled away and told him it was far too soon to hold hands as if we were a couple.

“Why? You don’t want your other boyfriends to see you with me?” He said, smirking.

I wanted to give it to him. I was itching to, but learning the location kept me quiet.

I’d walked down that street many times and never noticed Shalel, a Moroccan themed lounge. You had to know what you were looking for. The obscure sign and dimly lit stairs that led down to the basement were not eye catching.

The steps were peppered with votive candles and rose petals. Yoni leered as he told me that everyone calls it: The Sexy Bar.

Take it down a notch, Napoleon.

Once inside it was even sexier. Lots of hidden nooks, candles, rose petals on the floor, and pillows piled on every seat—it was sultry. The sort of place that makes you want to be naughty.

Garrett Ziegler

EXCEPT, I was on a date with Pinocchio.

We sat down and ordered a drink and before it arrived, Yoni made a move. He reached out and put his hand on my side and pulled me towards him.

“Hey, what are you doing? I grabbed his hand and pushed it away. “Knock it off.”

“We should leave. I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

It wasn’t exactly a den of iniquity but Yoni obviously thought we’d be getting freaky.

“Fine by me,” I said rapidly.

We exited, I said a quick goodbye and headed towards my apartment. My cell rang and I saw it was George Washington. I let it go to voicemail.

His message said, “You left the food in my car. I knew you weren’t interested in a second date when you took the leftovers. No woman who wants to impress a man would do that.”

That might’ve been the truest statement Yoni made that night.

“History is a set of lies agreed upon.” Napoleon Bonaparte

He Said Dungarees

I canceled my membership on the 50-plus dating site. The average age of the men who contacted me was somewhere between Qualifies for Social Security and Do Not Resuscitate.

big daddy rugby

Am I being delusional to want someone close to my age?

Here’s the truth. As a widow I want to try to narrow the chances of that happening again. I know, I know, death can come at any age, but having clawed my way back from grief, I’m trying to stack the odds in my favor.

I want a man who’s close to my age, but there’s another caveat.

He has to be cool.

My adult daughters (24 and 27) have made it their mission to ensure I am shamed into coolness and kept current. This applies to clothes, music, technology, make-up, hair and pop culture.  I’ve often felt this is in retaliation for forcing them (ages 6 and 9) to listen to Earth, Wind & Fire on a road trip. And, if I’m being honest, the occasional Neil Diamond cassette tape. The girls can sing every word to EWF greatest hits album, and do a mean “Sweet Caroline.”

Yep, I said cassette. I drove a Volvo, OK?

I know I’ve crossed over into a place that no 50-year-old, with any pride in their once  That’s Right I’m Cool status, wants to go, when I hear, “Seriously, Mom?” This is said for a multitude of blunders such as: something I’m wearing or what’s on my iPod. It can even apply to hair spray. Who knew a tiny spritz of spray to keep the front of one’s hair in place was soooooo 80s?

Ruthless offspring.

I’ve got a couple of canisters I’d be happy to send to anyone with children who love them just as they are.

After exchanging a couple of email messages with Roy, a phone conversation seemed like the logical next step. Roy’s profile was just the right amount of information, but his photo was taken from a distance. I couldn’t see exactly what he looked liked, but he appeared to be handsome and his messages were well written and interesting.

We had a lengthy talk and the conversation flowed. I liked his voice and also the way he spoke of his adult son and their relationship. We agreed to meet the following Saturday on the corner of Central Park West and Central Park South where the park ends. Roy wanted to take me to a Mexican restaurant in the area that he said was amazing. I’m a big fan of Mexican food and NYC has let me down. Roy assured me his place would be a winner. As we wrapped up our conversation I asked about attire. Was the place casual?

“Very casual. Wear dungarees.”

Dungarees. There it was. One word that told me that Roy’s cool card had expired. He might as well of said things like:

 Geez Louise

Holy cow

Stoned fox

Can you dig it

Da bomb

C’ya later alligator

Jive turkey

Far out

Cool cat

My 79-year-old father calls them jeans.

When I got to our designated meeting place I looked around for Roy. I didn’t see him. I waited a few minutes and then decided to call. He answered and told me he was across the street directly opposite from me.

“I see you,” he said enthusiastically.

“I don’t see you,” I replied as I scanned the crowded corner.

“I’m right in front of you.”

“What are you wearing?” Was I trying to torture myself?

“A white shirt and dungarees.”

I scanned the crowd again and saw nobody who even slightly resembled the Roy I had in my mind. No one.

“I’m right here, see, I’m waving at you,” he said with exuberance.

Across the street was a man with his free arm in the air flailing like those balloon people that fill up with air and then deflate to draw attention to a business. That couldn’t possibly be Roy and I whipped my head back and forth looking for even the slightest hand flutter from any other man on the street. I began to panic. There was NO WAY the guy with the undulating appendage was my date. How old was that photo?

I considered running as I knew there was no way he could catch me.

Roy was old–and rotund. I’m not sure if he lied about his age (53) or if he was just one of those guys who hadn’t aged well, but he didn’t look a day younger than 65.

I crossed the street and he told me I looked exactly like my photos. I hoped he wasn’t expecting me to say the same.

I wanted to get it over with quickly and said, “Well, shall we walk to the restaurant?”

Roy suggested we walk through Central Park and he chatted incessantly during our stroll—loudly. People in the park stared but he didn’t notice. Then he suggested we sit for a few minutes on a bench.

I think he was winded.

I had avoided looking at him during our walk but once we sat down with the sun on his face I saw what had to be the result of getting older, poor eyesight, an elderly barber and no woman in his life.

Roy was a hair growing machine.

It was hard to imagine that hair could grow to that length from his ears, one eyebrow and nostrils. He had trimmed the other eyebrow but must’ve forgotten to finish the job (perhaps his scissors broke from the task). His nose hair protruded and rested on the top of his upper lip and the hair from his ears looked like tufts of grass on the day the lawn guy was due.

I was mesmerized by the way the nasal hair moved as he breathed. He was inhaling deeply from our 30-yard walk. It seemed alive like those eels on the Discovery Channel darting in and out of a dark hole.

BUT, a person can only gawk at that for so long. I suggested we get to the restaurant and assumed we’d be going through the park.

“Oh no, it’s back the way we came. I planned to sit here for a while and get to know each other.”

I knew Roy well enough. He was seriously overweight, looked nothing like his photo and had ear hair that could be flat-ironed. All he needed to do to gross me out further was pass gas. If he exerted himself any more it just might happen.

Once in the restaurant he raved about the food. To be honest, it seemed about as authentic as the Mexican pizza at Taco Bell. Roy talked and talked. Several times he alluded to how much he could make people laugh.

I nodded, almost comatose.

Then to prove what a side splitter he was he gave me his best stuff. He imitated the actors in a Japanese monster movie. He said a line–in what I assumed was fake Japanese–and paused. Then he moved his mouth and contorted his face in horror, silently. Roy was his own best audience. He laughed long and loudly, eventually wiping tears from his eyes while still chuckling.

I stared at him with a blank look.

He didn’t notice.

Our food arrived and it was the worst Mexican food I’ve had in the city, and I’ve had some subpar grub. Roy gobbled down his burrito as I picked at mine. He asked if I wanted to take my leftovers home and I declined. He took them.

After our lunch we paused briefly outside the restaurant. He came in for a kiss but I implemented the necessary ninja maneuvers. Those nose locks would’ve exfoliated my upper lip.

“Thanks again,” I called over my shoulder as I retreated briskly and held myself back from a full-on sprint.

“I’ll call you,” shouted Roy, and I kept walking.

The next day I received an email message:

Melani,

There didn’t seem to be any chemistry between us on our date from either end. Sometimes it takes a second date for that to develop. I think we should see each other again. These things can take time.

Roy

From either end? Puh-leeze.

I replied:

Roy,

Thank you again for lunch. I agree, there was no chemistry. Unfortunately, it is either there for me or not and won’t develop with time.

I think you are a very nice man and I wish you the best in finding the right person.

Thanks again,

Melani

He replied:

Melani,

Maybe we could get together as friends? Everyone could use more friends. I’d love to see you again—strictly platonic. Give me a call.

Roy

I did not respond. It was suspect that he wanted to be just friends.  I guess as his pal I could’ve told him about his grooming issues, but that’s the sort of thing that should come from family.

If Roy had been my daughters’ father they would’ve requested emancipation.

“Beware of the young doctor and the old barber.” Benjamin Franklin

A Little Bit of Gay

I’m attracted to gay men. There. I said it. It’s not that I actively seek men whom I know are gay, but when I see an attractive man on the street—a double-take-worthy guy—I can almost bet if he thought of sleeping with me it would be because we were seated next to each other on an overnight flight to Milan and simultaneously took an Ambien.

I have horrific Gaydar. I am completely unaware that the handsome man I’m checking out would rather have a cavity filled than do the deed with me. I recently had a gay friend of mine tell me, “Honey, you’re always barking up the wrong tree.” He said this after I pointed to a gorgeous man seated near us in a restaurant. I somehow failed to notice he only had eyes for the equally impressive younger male seated next to him.

OK, I thought it might be his son.

Yes, I saw the mascara.

This is nothing new. I was STUNNED to find out Boy George was gay. I grooved to “Karma Chameleon” in 1983 and imagined dating him. Finally, someone who understood the importance of eyeliner! Yes, he wore dresses, but only the most confident man would.

I was even worse with George Michael. I had a huge fight with my late husband over George’s sexuality. A girl wants to believe those tight white jeans and “Choose Life” shirt are worn for her.  I choose a life with you, George, I thought, the first time I saw him gyrate to “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go.” Then there was the men’s restroom incident and, well, I let it go go.

I don’t want to stereotype but most of the best-dressed men I’ve met are gay. It was also a gay man who made me weak in the knees just from his scent. He understood the significance of layering fragrances. I’ve never smelled anyone so delicious.

The dating site I’m on provides potential matches based on a number of shared interests and characteristics. One recent match caught my attention right away because of his photos. I went to those first. One was a close-up of his face. There was no doubt he exfoliated and moisturized. His skin glowed. He also had perfect eyebrows and his teeth were white and straight. Teeth don’t get that straight on their own–they screamed Invisalign. The second photo was taken in what I am sure was his living room. It was so tastefully done that Nate Berkus would be jealous. The third was a shot in the kitchen. He was preparing something and the plates were colorfully decorated for a lovely presentation.

He was my kind of guy and I read his profile.

I’m bi. I’ve had great, intimate and lasting relationships with men and women. I am especially interested in meeting open-minded and compatible women through this site, and am open to the possibility of things evolving into a deeper or longer-term relationship.

OH MY GOD. How did they know?

A little further down he described his favorite things books, movies, etc.

Shows (Broadway)

Book of Mormon

Hairspray

Shows (TV)

Oz

The Big C

Modern Family

Cut it out. I like all those too.

I guess what I’m saying is I like a well-groomed man. Not a fan of the term, but Metrosexual is probably right. I’m hoping for a guy who doesn’t mind the occasional pedicure. Who would eliminate the unibrow. A man who uses hair products and a lint brush.

A straight guy with a little bit of gay.

Sebastian Update: We met for drinks. It was slightly awkward at first—we both came into the date with high expectations. Once we relaxed the evening was delightful. He was charming, funny and interesting. We plan to see each other again. Oh, and his accent rocks.

“Gay men are clean, well-dressed, have impeccable taste and smell good. If it weren’t for the sex, I could be gay.” Neal

 

The Chameleon

There were two highly coveted jobs to have post high school in Las Vegas, where big money could be made immediately with virtually no experience. If you told people you were working one of them it was likely the next question would be, “How’d you get it?” Most of the time it was because you knew someone—you got juiced in. Those hot occupations? Valet parking and cocktails.

I considered myself very lucky to spend a summer working cocktails at the Western Village Casino. I made a lot of cash—usually $75-$100 a day. It was 1983 and that was huge money. The uniform was a take on the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders outfit: short skirt, cropped, fringed vest, white cowboy boots. There wasn’t much of me that remained a mystery, but having lost my Freshman Fifteen I felt comfortable enough. It was physically the toughest job I’ve ever had. Carrying those trays of drinks—loading them up to avoid multiple trips. Walking for miles around the casino floor in uncomfortable shoes while using a sing-songy voice to repeat, “Cocktails?” A permanent carefree smile was required even as the feet throbbed. Putting up with the Friday night drunks who came to cash their paychecks and listen to live country/western music in the lounge was simply part of the job. There was a massive level of coordination necessary to balance a full tray of glasses and bottles without spilling, while maneuvering a crowded bar and sidestepping a nightly grope–or five. There were always those who would grab the brand of beer they’d ordered from the tray without realizing the weight was strategically resting on my palm.

Don’t ever take anything from a server’s tray.

That job taught me what I didn’t want to do for the rest of my life but also made me forever respectful of the hard work of servers–and certainly some of the indignities they experience.

costumecraze

I met Ira for a drink on our first date–tall, nice looking, an Ivy League law degree and a hugely successful practice. He was a litigator for big award lawsuits and proud of his lucrative career and all the accouterments of a rich attorney’s life. He was brilliant and had a sarcastic sense of humor that was self-effacing.

It was a quick first date, but I felt a bit of chemistry brewing—enough to warrant a second one.

He’s a nice guy, I thought after that first night.

We met for dinner a few days later at Alouette, a French bistro in my neighborhood. It was a charming restaurant with a relaxed ambiance and excellent food. The wait staff was warm and efficient and I settled in as we shared a bottle of wine and light conversation.

Eventseekr

The evening was just getting started.

On our first date I’d told Ira about the blog. Eventually our casual chat became a bit more serious as he brought up my writing. I tensed up, as I always do. I’ve learned to accept criticism as part of the process, but it is never easy and my defenses are always on high alert.

It’s a funny thing that everyone’s an expert when it comes to writing.

He talked about how much he’d enjoyed reading my posts and that he thought I was an excellent at what I did. I felt my insides relax a little. I’m sure it showed on my face. The server approached the table and unobtrusively poured more wine and then paused, I believe to take our order.  Ira waved him away without glancing in his direction. I didn’t like that and thanked the waiter for the wine and asked that he give us a few more minutes.

Ira continued to wax poetic about my mad writing skills. I felt myself relaxing into his words. Music to a novice writer’s ear, and my annoyance at his pompous treatment of our waiter began to fade. Shamefully, professional flattery is my Kryptonite. The server waited about fifteen minutes and then approached again. Ira was in the middle of a story and he continued to talk while the waiter stood patiently waiting. I interrupted Ira and told him we should order.

We’d had plenty of time to look at the menu. We had even discussed what we were ordering yet Ira, once again, dismissively told the waiter to come back as he’d not decided. At that point we had been at the table for 30 minutes and I told Ira that I was hungry and asked that he choose quickly.

Finally, we ordered.

Ira continued to monopolize the conversation and a funny thing happened. His face changed and he delivered the first verbal punch.

“I find some of the things you’ve written to be distasteful—inappropriate.”

I asked for an example.

“I don’t want to read about the sex you had with your husband when he was undergoing chemo.”

He was referring to the blog post, The Fun Factor.

“That was important. I wanted the reader to understand my relationship with my husband. How much fun we had even when he was sick. I wanted them to know the history of my life with Neal—why it will be hard to replace him—the stuff I’m looking for again.”

“I was embarrassed for you.”

“Well, you’re one reader. Many others loved that part of the post. Whatever.”

Ira didn’t like that I dismissed his opinion.

He raised his voice slightly and told me again how inappropriate it was to share. Other patrons glanced in our direction and I saw our waiter watching from the side of the room.

“Don’t you raise your voice to me. I write what I want to write. If you don’t like it, don’t read it but you’re not going to bully me. Something tells me you can be a bully.”

Ira confirmed that he was used to having his opinion respected and that he was sometimes a tad rude in his delivery. “An occupational hazard when you’re the best at what you do,” he replied.

I should’ve left. I don’t know why I didn’t but the rest of the meal was filled with several tense moments where he shared an opinion on a topic, I disagreed and he got angry but then caught himself and adjusted his behavior, but inside I could tell he was seething.

After dinner, Ira suggested dessert. I didn’t want to spend another moment with him and declined. He ordered it anyway and asked for two forks. He also ordered an espresso. By that time we were one of the few occupied tables in the restaurant.

The server brought our dessert and Ira let it sit on the table untouched for at least fifteen minutes. I could see our server watching and waiting patiently. We were now the only occupied table.

“They’re trying to close the place. We should finish dessert and let them.” I told him quietly.

He ignored me and continued to sip his coffee. I had a few bites of dessert to prompt him to do the same and finally, our meal was over. I expected Ira to ask for the bill. He had other plans.

He ordered another espresso.

I don’t know if he was intentionally screwing with the server or me or if he was trying to drag out the date since he knew that I wanted to get away from him. I could see a look cross our waiter’s face when Ira ordered the second coffee, but he respectfully said, “Of course.” I told him he could bring the bill when he brought the coffee.

Ira took forever to finish, but FINALLY the bill was paid and we made our way towards the exit.

“Excuse me, excuse me,” I heard behind us as we’d almost reached the door. Ira and I turned to see our waiter behind us.

“Yes?” I said.

“Did I do something wrong? Were you unhappy with the food or my service?”

“No, the food was wonderful and your service was perfect. Why?” I said, shocked by his question.

“Because of this,” he said as he showed me the bill.

Ira was defensive. “I paid the bill.”

“Sir, it wasn’t the bill, but my tip.”

I glanced at the tip he’d left and felt instantly sick to my stomach. Our bill came to $149 and Ira had left a $7 tip.

“What were you thinking?” I said. His service was impeccable. “Don’t worry,” I said to the waiter, “You’ll be given the right tip. Either he’s going to do it or I will.”

“Pay him.” I said to Ira in a tone that left no alternative.

Ira pulled out his money clip and peeled off a ten-dollar bill and threw it on the tray with the check.

“No, that’s not enough.”

“It’s a seventeen dollar tip!” Ira said incredulously.

“On a hundred and fifty dollar bill not even close to being enough. Give him more, a twenty.”

Ira sheepishly pulled a twenty-dollar bill from the wad and threw it on the tray along with the ten. “There, are you happy now?” He asked, with an indignant tone.

“I’m so sorry. Your service was wonderful,” I told the waiter as I made a beeline for the door.

Once outside I turned to Ira and my monologue began. “What were you thinking? Don’t you understand that he works for tips? He’s making minimum wage and survives in New York City on those tips. Are you so removed from the real world that you don’t get that? I’ve never been more humiliated in my life.”

Ira tried to justify his shitty tip. Mentioning things like in Europe tips aren’t required, etc. I wasn’t having it. He finished with this, “Well, now he’s rich. He won’t have to pay taxes on that tip since it was cash.”

I walked away from that stupid remark and began searching the street for a cab. I also started to cry. I think it was a combination of being mortified and the realization that I was on a date with a monster.

Sometimes the hopelessness of this online dating experience gets to me.

Ira asked why I was crying and I told him that I found his cruelty to our server throughout dinner disgusting and then the tip he left was the final insult. I explained that I’d been a cocktail server in college and understood how hard the work was.

“You were a cocktail server?” Ira said, in a tone that implied I’d just told him I was a crack whore. “And where did you go to college, by the way?” Ira knew I went to the University of Nevada/Reno. I’d told him that on our first date. In typical lawyer fashion Ira was asking a question he already knew the answer to. And he was doing it to put me in my place.

“Don’t you dare pull that snobbish bullshit with me. You know exactly where I went to school and you’re not going to fuck with me that way,” I said calmly, no more crying. “You’re so transparent.”

I'm the brunette on the right with the junk in the trunk.

A cab arrived and I got in. Ira got in the other side, which was a shock. “I’ll see you home, and maybe we can talk about this some more. I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“We have nothing to say. I don’t want to talk to you and you’re not coming inside my apartment.”

We rode in silence for a few blocks and the driver stopped at a red light. Ira opened the door and got out. “See ya,” he said, just before slamming the door.

I got an email message from him the next day apologizing for his behavior and filled with regret that we wouldn’t be seeing each other again. I think this was Ira’s boilerplate response to many women he’s met on the site.

I did not reply.

“Only the little people pay taxes.” Leona Helmsley

Deal Breakers

Everyone who’s dating has his or her own No Can Do Items with a potential partner. Those things that are impossible to overlook. Sure, there are many less than desirable traits that one might be able to get beyond or work through, but I’m not talking about those. For instance, I am weird about shoes. I look at footwear on a first date. If a guy’s wearing Crocs, it might be a problem, but that’s easily remedied if the relationship continues. Unless he’s Mario Batali and if that’s the case I can disregard those orange plastic atrocities because he will feed me–in a way no man has ever done. Mario, Babbo, you and me? You have my soul.

foodfashionista.com

BUT, I do have my deal breakers.

The things that I’m unwilling to compromise on, and here are mine.

1. Cheapness. Even a whiff of it and please don’t cover it up with terms like: frugal, thrifty, conservative, and my all time favorite–understated. People who are legitimately understated never mention it. You’re cheap. Own it.

2. A lack of grooming. If a guy has tufts of hair growing from his ears, I can’t do it.

3. Young children. I love children, but mine are raised. I was a good mother and gave it my all. I don’t have anything more to give in that area and it would be unfair to a potential partner to have zero interest in helping with his offspring. I couldn’t care less that your child lost his first tooth and the Tooth Fairy might visit that night. Should you rent ponies or the bouncy castle for a birthday party? Don’t ask me. I think attending kids’ birthday parties would be a bigger deterrent to crime than lethal injection. I know I’d think twice about murder if the punishment entailed attending a party each day for the rest of my life. If I had to help with a science fair project (shoot me now), or even look at a volcano in the works on my kitchen counter, I’d scream, “NOOOOOO.” This is a problem in Manhattan. Many guys my age waited until late in life to have babies. One can never assume it is Grandpa pushing a stroller even if he has a cane.

4. Separated, but not divorced. There’s a level of completely-screwed-up that accompanies all divorces. Just no getting around it. Even the most amicable dissolution creates a period of time where the person should be treated as if they spit when they speak.

Just when I think I’ve got it all figured out and am comfortable with the terms I’m willing to accept, the universe does what it will do, and a most awkward position is created: I might need to take out the chisel and make corrections to those items listed above that were whittled in rock.

Below is the email exchange that could potentially change my stance:

Apr 4, 2012 – 8:35am 

So here’s my problem…not only are you absolutely gorgeous but you are smart and settled and evolved and all grown up in the ways that are a totally great thing…so what’s the problem? I can only suppose that you have been flooded with about a trillion messages from hopefuls…how to cut through the clutter? Well I’ve started with whimsical flattery (but absolute truth not mere flattery (more flattery?) (yikes my brackets are getting out of control)) In the hopes that might catch your eye…I’m a 49 Englishman long time in NYC, which I also adore (another point in my favor; please count!)…Two teen girls who I love to bits and am very involved with…my last hope is that my attached recent photo if not pleasing is at least not totally repellent! Hey gotta start somewhere! Fingers crossed I hear from you…Sebastian

Apr 7, 2012 – 10:36am 

Hi Sebastian, 

You caught my attention with the shameless flattery. Or maybe I’m the shameless one for liking it! 

I read your profile and you seem very interesting. My problem is that you are separated and not divorced. When your divorce is final I hope you’ll contact me again. I liked your message very much. 

Best, 

Melanie 

Reminder: I use the spelling Melanie instead of Melani just in case my first name is Googled–as it was in my post, Busted.

Apr 7, 2012 – 3:37pm 

Melanie (my favorite name in the whole world. Ok now I’m just making stuff up!). Glad my message caught your attention. Appropriately boundaried. But of course you are. It makes me like you more and more. So here’s my problem, with one daughter starting high school and one college in the fall although I’ve been separated for a couple of years, I have no plans to divorce at this time. Just because there’s no urgent need right now. So…(please picture me on both knees, hands together, begging) please don’t hold that against me. I’m the most fantastic catch (well I would say that wouldn’t I) and I feel that you owe it to yourself to have a beverage with me. How about it? Extremely pretty please…? Sebastian 

Apr 9, 2012 – 12:06pm 

Sebastian, 

Loved your email. Seriously, it was great. Unfortunately, I’m not sure I understand the reasoning behind being separated for two years without any plans to divorce. I’m not judging, but it just doesn’t work for me. 

You seem delightful and I’m sure it’s my loss not to meet you, but there are deal breakers for me and dating someone who’s married (even separated) is one of them. 

Again, I thought your message was brilliant and I’m sure there are many women on this site who would be thrilled to have the pleasure of your company. 

Best, 

Melanie 

Apr 9, 2012 – 12:17pm 

Hi Melanie: Got it. Divorced not separated. Please expect a large freezer arriving at your home shortly. I am arranging for you to be put on ice until my divorce is final. I will DVR anything good on TV while you’re on Pause. 

Suggest you pre-pay your bills for three months and prepare yourself for a wonderful Fall with yours truly. Until then…Sebastian 

Apr 9, 2012 – 2:04pm 

Pay bills for 3 months–check 

Notify doorman of freezer deliver–check 

DVR-Real Housewives and Jersey Shore–check 

Buy new Fall wardrobe since I’ll be extra svelte–check 

OK, things are handled from my end. Bring it on. 

Apr 9, 2012 – 7:23pm 

First great great work there Melanie. Well handled. 

Second great great news. I have an appointment tonight at Night Court. 

“Night Court is an American television situation comedy that aired on NBC from January 4, 1984 to May 31, 1992. The setting was the night shift of a Manhattan court, presided over by the young, unorthodox Judge Harold T. “Harry” Stone (played by Harry Anderson). It was created by comedy writer Reinhold Weege, who had previously worked on Barney Miller in the 1970s and early 1980s.” 

They are specially reconvening for me (I have that kind of pull). Fully expect my divorce to be finalized by the morning. However… 

Do pay bills for 3 months…maybe we’ll run away to sea. 

Do notify doorman of freezer delivery…your diet idea is a winner. 

Do DVR those TV shows. I’ve never seen them. Just think how much fun it would be to introduce me to The Situation, Snooki et al. 

Don’t buy new Fall wardrobe. Let’s shop together. Can I say Fashion Show. 

Over to you… 

Apr 10, 2012 – 11:25am 

OK, I’ll stand by. I’ve handled all I can from my end. Let me know the results of your appearance in Night Court. If the divorce is final then I’ll forgo the freezer. If not, I’ll be climbing in today. What does one wear to be frozen for 3 months? Now that’s a tough fashion decision. I guess something that doesn’t wrinkle easily. Silk is out of the question. 

Apr 10, 2012 – 2:06pm 

Magnificent news! Twenty-two minutes. A few commercial breaks. Some laughs. But most importantly I got what I came for. Night Court divorce final. 

The thought of you, teeth chattering, lips blue with cold, swathed in a down coat was more than I could bear. Keep the freezer. It’s built for two. Could come in handy if we ever decide to go on a joint diet (not that we need to but Hey You Never Know). Meet me this Thursday at 6 at the W Hotel at Union Square for a celebratory drink. Wear silk (because you can). 

Apr 11, 2012 – 10:18am 

Now you know I won’t be there on Thursday but I’ve enjoyed our banter. You also know the drill. If you get divorced and I’m still on this silly site, I hope you’ll look me up. You have made me laugh many times with your messages. I think we would enjoy each other.

To make the next message clear, he references parts of my profile where I’ve written about my love of the book “Say Her Name” and also my appalling iPod with everything from Classical to Notorious B.I.G.

Apr 11, 2012 – 10:08pm

Melanie: Banter aside.

I have obviously had to ask myself: Self Why Are You Pursuing A No? Are you doing that silly man thing of trying to attain the unattainable? I have searched my soul and believe the answer is no. Here’s why. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a million times: you are absolutely gorgeous. Beautiful. And I sense you are that way inside and out. Banter. We connected. Smart. Funny. Sharp. Hard to find, don’t lose it when you do.

Say Her Name: there was a long piece in The New Yorker that I believe lead to the book, maybe the other way round. Although I’m not crazy about 47 year old man with 25 year old wife (pick on someone your own age), what a story.

Everyone’s IPOD is appalling. That’s the point. But you know that.

Finally you have lived here three years only. New friends are always a force for good. And if they have a little crush on you, there’s worse crimes.

So…Don’t Date Me (never thought I’d be writing that on this site!). Really. Don’t. Date. Me.

But don’t discard me either. Let’s stay in touch. Be friends. When the time is right, meet for some non-date friend activity. I want to be in your life.

Here is my email address: [redacted]

I hope to hear from you.

Sebastian

Apr 12, 2012 – 6:48pm

I’m thinking. Do you still have the conversation thread of our banter? I deleted it and would love to read it again. 

The problem is I like you. I’m happy to see a new message. I don’t want to be with a married man. Even if he’s separated. The friendship thing was a brilliant try. I don’t buy it and neither do you. Sounded good though. 

I need to think about this.

Apr 12, 2012 – 8:49pm

Melanie: There’s no fooling you is there? I appreciate you appreciating The Friendship Thing. Truth is I really believed it. 

I saw me as the “gay” friend to you in that movie where the “gay” friend is English and funny and handsome…except I’m not gay of course. 

I saw us in a bromance except I’m the bro and you’re the bra… 

I swear Melanie I really meant it but you’re probably right; 

just a brilliant try. 

Think on…and while you think, please find our banter below. 

Good thing one of us is not just going around throwing Delete Buttons 

when they feel like it. 

Enjoy…Sebastian 

Apr 13, 2012 – 9:58am

Hi Sebastian,

I hope you won’t mind a few questions.

1. Do you live in a separate home from your wife?

2. Do your friends and family know you’re separated and dating?

3. Do your daughters know?

4. If yes on 3, have you ever introduced your daughters to someone you’re seeing?

5. Your friends?

6. Do you plan to divorce eventually? If yes, is there a specific event that you’re waiting for, i.e. your youngest daughter’s HS graduation?

7. Do you have an amicable relationship with your wife and does she realize that the marriage is over and you’ve moved on?

All this silly back and forth and in the end (if we meet) it could end up being one of those dates where we both feel no connection and quickly finish our drink while thinking, “I was giving my A-Game in those email exchanges for this?”

Melanie

 Apr 13, 2012 – 4:04pm

OMG Melanie. I was so thinking exactly what you said. What after all this we’re not fireworks but a damp squib?! All that great material for nada (I need some love for I’m A Bro You’re A Bra). I’m having the worst performance anxiety just thinking about meeting you at this point. If we ever do meet, we’ll have to incredibly low-key it. We are in danger of becoming that movie/book/restaurant everyone raves about that when you get to it you go What Was All The Fuss About?!

Your Questions:

1 Yes. Separate homes.

2 Yes. Friends and family know.

3 Yes. Girls know separated. My dating not something I feel the need to discuss with them at this point.

4 and 5 answered in 2 and 3.

6 and 7 definitely plan to divorce. Sooner rather than later. Just getting to the end of junior/senior years HS and 7th/8th grades. Stressful years as you know. We have an amicable relationship as we have the girls’ best interests very much in mind. We both know and accept our marriage is over and have moved on.

Apr 13, 2012 – 4:19pm

Sebastian,

I’ve been holding my breath today waiting for your response. Talk about showing my hand–but I had to tell you.

OK, let’s meet for a low key something or other. I promise to be entirely nonchalant and even yawn at least once during our time together. I’ve had my silver fillings from childhood replaced with white so it will be a pretty yawn.

I may even glance around the room distractedly, check my phone and call you the wrong name. I’ll become one of those typical New Yorkers who, no matter how spectacular something is, say, “That’s, um, nice I guess.”

I’m free any day next week except Tuesday or Thursday. Let me know. Unless you want to talk first and see if I have one of those squeaky or nasally voices? I will be scrutinizing yours as well and don’t try to work the sexy accent. I’m a sucker for those, but I’ve got my game face on.

Melanie 

Apr 13, 2012 – 4:39pm

Melanie: I’ve got to reveal my hand too. Your last was quite simply the best message I have received…Evah! I was bowled over by the sweetness of your holding your breath. Laughed so much at the rest. Hysterical. I am available to meet tonight, tomorrow night, the next night and the night after that. I would urge the sooner the better. I have no cable or Internet right now. It’s a measure of my enthusiasm that I have tapped out today’s missives on my Blackberry. [redacted cell number] is my number but let’s chat after Cable Guy departs. I’m going for Masterpiece Theatre (sic) not The Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Sebastian

Any one of the answers to my questions might’ve been a deal breaker. I was holding my breath. That sort of conversation, albeit electronic, doesn’t happen often. Actually it’s never happened to me.  So, with that final exchange, I can easily write: to be continued…

What are your deal breakers? I’d love it if you’d share in the Comments section.

You can Like the blog on Facebook and follow me on Twitter: @Melani_Robinson if you are so inclined. Be inclined, OK?

“I often quote myself. It adds spice to my conversation.” George Bernard Shaw