Gentlemen, you may want to bypass this little satirical essay on dating, as it is entirely from a woman's perspective. I say, read at your own risk, and understand that it does not cover the normal experience one occasionally has when dating. The 'paranormal' is more like it, I'm afraid.

A single woman's worst nightmare is navigating the perilous waters of the dating pool. It is as treacherous as diving off a five-story platform into a wet sponge and about as fruitful. I personally would rather have impacted wisdom teeth pulled without the benefit of anesthetic than to join the ranks of women of all ages in this blasted ritual known as dating. If Buddhist monks would accept women in their order, I would shave my head and join tomorrow.

I am certain if you are not presently involved in this social ritual, the memories are still very fresh in your mind (especially if you tend to suffer residual flashbacks at 3:00 a.m.). Personally, I am going on memory at this time, but it is amazing how much total recall I have in this particular area (funny how traumatic events seem to stick with us).

Walk with me ladies as we travel back in time to a very unique and colorful decade in the last century, the 70's. While my dating experience spans across several decades, my first foray into the dating experience harkens back to the time when 'polyester' ruled the day. Not only is polyester the wonder material that reached its peak usage in the mid to late 70's, it is also an attitude.

During this era, men were experimenting with colors (this is when the "Rainbow Coalition" had an entirely different connotation).They were wearing shirts unbuttoned to expose their chests and tons of gold chains. Polyester at that time took on a sheen or luster especially in the discos and nightclubs. Some of these guys had images of themselves that could not have possibly matched the ones reflected in their mirrors.

Picture this, a short, balding man in a maroon polyester suit and a hot pink and orange paisley shirt open to the waist. He has accessorized with a white belt, white boots and at least twelve gold chains around his neck. To top it off, his chest has dropped about a foot and is being worn like an inner-tube. This cross between Buddha and an Aztec god heads straight for your table, and as he approaches, you get a whiff of his cologne. The stuff is so strong you figure he must have soaked himself in it longer than it takes your Aunt Meg's fruitcake to suck up rum in order to reek from every pore in his body. He actually expects you to get out of your seat and dance with him. I have to ask myself, what does this guy see in his mirror that I don't see?

When he finally finds some poor woman who hasn't learned to say no yet, you see him making a five-star spectacle of himself on the dance floor. He is doing outrageous moves to some beat that only he can hear, because it is certainly not to the music being played. (We named this type of guy 'disco duck')

It's at these particular moments that you ask yourself quietly, what the hell am I doing here? You spend hours bathing, fussing and making sure you look just so; donning a new dress, evening shoes and just the right accessories. All so you can go out and meet 'Plastic Man'. He is one hundred percent polyurethane, guaranteed to come up with the most unoriginal lines of 'Toro caca' ever invented. "Hi there, haven't we met in a past life?" - "Say, what's your sign?" And, of course, the real mentally impaired cretin that decides to throw caution to the wind and become a census taker, by asking straight out how old you are. My comeback was something like, that's a question Roy asks Trigger, and since I'm not a palomino, I don't have to answer, or I threw a shoe while racing at Hollywood Park today, so I can't stomp it out for you. Most of this off-the-cuff, one-sided repartee usually went flying right over their heads. However, if I was lucky, they tended to get the message and leave, more by the tone of voice used rather than what was said. I personally didn't care, as long as they just went away.

These are blatant examples of 'back in the day' characters. After all, someone who glows in the dark and leaves cologne vapor trails is pretty hard to miss, as is the obnoxious moron who approaches a woman as if he is squeezing produce in the local supermarket. I'm certain that these jokers have modern day counterparts.

However, there are men who are much more subtle in their appearance and can actually attract your attention, which can be deceiving. They dress trendy, but in an appealing sort of way. They don't overdo on accessories and the cologne is within normal range. Their manner is smooth, and even when they ask you to dance, it's done in a polite way, so it just seems natural to say yes. After dancing for a while, they move you off the floor, and ask if they might sit with you and talk. You say yes and this is where the perfect situation comes to an abrupt end. The illusion these men create is marvelous until they open their mouths and begin to speak. It is readily apparent that they are spoken for. They are already involved in a deep love affair. They are madly in love with themselves - oozing with narcissism (you are tempted to point them toward the nearest lake, so they can gaze at their reflections and leave you alone) to the point of nausea. You sit there for an eternity listening to them talk about themselves until you want to scream. Finally, you manage to get a word in and you give them the first excuse that comes to mind in order to escape. Sometimes you hear yourself saying the most unbelievable things, such as, "I just received a telepathic message from my mother saying she is very ill and I have to rush home." I mean desperation can really make you say some outrageous things.

I haven't decided which is worse, to be cornered by the guy having a one-on-one love affair with himself or the guy who is in town for a company convention. He usually works in some very boring and obscure industry, but to him it is his life's blood. After a few drinks, he decides he wants to share this marvelous occupation with you in detail. You come away with all you ever wanted to know from conception to end on how to produce a high quality wing-nut. He is absolutely orgasmic in his enthusiasm to share all of this with you and impress you with his knowledge.

On such occasions I sit there pondering what it was I did in a past life to be the brunt of such excruciating punishment now. As I shred the last piece of cocktail napkin, I politely excuse myself to the restroom and am never seen again. I head for the front door at warp speed with my ears still ringing from the sound of his voice. That night I usually have an alcohol-induced dream about a giant wing-nut chasing me across an assembly line asking me test questions on all I was just told. If I fail, I get bolted to a Volvo as a hood-ornament.

The alternative to these random and potentially hazardous forays into nightclubs is being fixed up by well-meaning friends. God bless their little do-gooder souls! They are under this marvelous illusion that they are doing you a favor. I think they subscribe to the "warm body" theory of dating. If the guy can fog up a mirror with his breath, he qualifies as a date. Just let him appear to be a living organism, and they give him my telephone number.

My answering machine is now on twenty-four hours a day and I screen calls by making the message sound as if the caller has reached a Chinese takeout joint. I tell them Chang Lee is busy in the kitchen, but leave their order, and he'll get back with them. I throw in names of a couple of specials of the day to make it seem real. This usually weeds out the lower primates referred to me by my "friends."

I have to say, though, with all its pitfalls, meeting men through friends tends to be the best way. I have had some extremely good experiences and enjoyable relationships from these types of introductions. It's just all that toad-kissing to find an occasional prince gets to be a royal pain in the posterior.

I hate first dates, especially blind ones. No matter how hard you try, they always get off to an awkward start. The initial introductions followed by how the weather was that day take about five minutes to get through, and then you still have the rest of the evening looming in front of you. Now, if you are fortunate and the guy has some personality, the conversation might begin to flow and that helps things along. However, if you have my special brand of good fortune, this guy will have the personality of lint, and you may as well be speaking two different languages. He either doesn't have a sense of humor at all, or it's so basic that it consists of a dribble glass and a whoopee cushion. Oh great, animal house revisited. Somebody who's into 'physical' comedy, that's my kind of guy. If things are really going well, he may do his imitation of an elephant drinking a martini and suck an olive up his nose right in the middle of the restaurant.

You know it's really bad when at the end of a date you have to call the FBI and beg to be put in the witness protection program so that this guy can never find you again. I don't know how you feel about it, but after having ten different name changes and moving to twelve new cities in one year, I'm more than a little tired of chance dating. I think I'll wait to start this process again when some guarantees have been developed. I mean, we can put astronauts on the moon and invent miracle drugs, surely something can be done to insure us against dating mutants. (Who says there are no such things as UFO's, I have dated the contents of one more than once I'm sure).

Since my own built-in guidance system seems to be more than a tad bent when it comes to the natural selection process, I am ready to yield to a higher power. I'm fairly confident that no one could screw up worse than I have, but of course one never knows.