A week ago, I decided I needed to get out more and make better choices in the dating arena. I'd polished up my profile on Match.com and aggressively sent out five emails to five hot ladies. I made the mistake of saying it out loud within earshot of my friend Kevin, who always tries to set me up and who, by the way, doesn't have a life.

He insisted that I meet Dom, short for Dominique (she pronounces it “Dum in ik” even though it’s clearly spelled “Dom in eek”), a tall, dark professional and sophisticated 29-year-old Spelman grad. She's an art broker, new to the area and has an eye for exquisite African artifacts. They met a few weeks ago when she came into the little African imports boutique where Kevin worked part time.

Now every Sunday on our ride to church, he'd go on and on about how girlfriend had it going on.

"You should get with that," he tell me.

And just like that, I broke my own golden rule: Never allow a man who has never dated a woman to pick the perfect woman for you. I decided to ask her on a date.

Enter Dom — about forty-five minutes late
Excuses started flying before she made it in the door. But I didn't hear them. I was too busy praying that the 5-foot-5, shabbily dressed super-dyke headed my way wasn't my blind date. She was. I stood up to greet her, unsure of whether I should shake her hand, extend a hug or run like hell. She flopped down and groped the menu, following each line with her index finger and reading aloud. It's a chain restaurant for goodness sake! I caught her stealing glances at me over the menu, and my hopes sunk like the Titanic.

The server came. I was repulsed by her super-machismo as she ordered for both of us. So that's where she gets the name. Yikes! I pleaded with my eyes for the waiter to rescue me.

I took a deep breath and started making small talk. She told me how she'd beat the streets looking for work and then sang her rendition of "the world owes me something” blues. It wasn’t long before I was put off by everything from her playground politics to her chauvinistic piggy views on women's rights. I excused myself to the ladies room. Coincidentally, I passed the exit door... I glanced back to our table. True to form, the porker was scarfing down food about 40-miles an hour. Thank the goddess for small favors like separate cars. I don't normally do this on the first date, but see ya!

I pulled my cell from my purse to call Kevin and really give it to him for this one. He didn't answer, so I coded in his email addy to send him an e-blasting, the next best thing. Wireless web launched and displayed my settings and connection log. There was the proof of the profile I’d placed on Match.com. I opened my email and saw those three words any girl wants to hear after a date like this: "You've got mail"!

Tired of being set up on blind dates by friends who don’t really know what you want? Use a quick search to find the date of your dreams!