By Gina Angostura
Columnist

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Dating! Woohoo! Who wouldn’t want to spend $100 on a new outfit just to go out with someone you don’t know, make small talk about things you don’t care about, listen to some guy tell you about his mother issues and feel as uncomfortable as you did at your first junior high dance.

Sign me up for that.

And what fun it is to sit through a two-hour monologue about some guy’s recent trip to wine country and the advantages of a 1994 Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon Reserve over a 1995 Opus One, while your eyes glaze over and you wonder what you’re missing on The Weather Channel.

Then there was the man who told me how much his antique car was worth, how much he’d paid for his son’s college tuition and how much his lake house was going to cost once he builds it – all in the space of a 30-minute coffee date at Barnes and Noble. I couldn’t tell whether he was trying to impress me or warn me that he didn’t have that much left after all that, so I’d better keep my grubby hands off his money.

These stories are not just hyperbole for the sake of humor – exaggeration is not necessary. They are actual dating horrors I’ve experienced. Every one of them unreel in my mind like a movie called “The First Date That Wouldn’t Die No Matter How Hard You Beat It With A Shovel.”

Now, to be honest, I’ve had some perfectly lovely first dates with some wonderful, intelligent men. Those two guys I’ll remember fondly forever.

But those rare great times can’t take away the memory of a first date that gives me shudders every time I recall it.

I can’t remember his actual name – that’s long since been replaced by the moniker he’s come to be known by: Sweaty Resin Guy.

It was the first meeting with a man after my divorce. It had been a long time since I’d dated anyone, and I thought, at first, that I should give anyone who seemed interested a shot. Little did I know I’d soon be afraid of being the victim of an actual shooting.

I met him online on a singles site. And not one of the reputable ones like Yahoo or Match; this was some offprice site where all the photos look like fun-house mirror images or FBI mug shots. I don’t want to hear it from anybody – I know better now. Chalk it up to newbie naivete.

He contacted me, wrote me a few times. I was not wowed by his writing, but I figured not everyone is a writer.

At one point, he admitted in an e-mail that he thought I was “sweat.” Well, not everyone is a speller, either. Then he told me worked for a company that made paper.

“I work with the resin,” he said, cryptically.

Hence the nickname.

So a time was set up to meet for coffee, as the dating sites all advise. It’s easier than dinner; you can escape more quickly if things don’t work out. Do you sense a little foreshadowing here?

As we sat talking about our dreams of the future, he said he’d like to open a bed and breakfast someday.

“Do you have any money at all,” he asked.

After assuring me half-heartedly that he was only joking, the conversation turned to his ex-wife. He was visibly upset that she’d left him, adding with a rueful smile that he “stalked her a little” after the divorce.

Apparently he didn’t read the online dating advice about not revealing your arrest record until the third date.

I’m pretty sure I saw those Roadrunner cartoon dust swirls billowing after me as I tore out of the parking lot, making a mental note to change my phone number and e-mail address.

But I’ve learned my lesson and follow better safety guidlines these days. Now I don’t date anyone who doesn’t cough up a complete resume, medical and driving records and credit report.

A girl can’t be too careful as she wends her way through the briar patch of weenies, weirdos and wack jobs looking for the rose of companionship.

– After sharing her thoughts with readers every week, Gina Angostura would like to hear from you. E-mail questions to editor@yourneighborhoodnews.com, with Single Cynic in the subject line.