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

	I was unsure of whether I should shake her hand, extend a hug or run like hell.

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 tells 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

I was repulsed by her super-machismo as she ordered for both of us.

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 typed in his email address to send him an e-blasting, the next best thing. Online, there was the proof of the profile I’d placed on russellgrant.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!” Hooray for new dating options!

This article appears courtesy of the dating experts at Match.com.