LIARS, PSYCHOS AND CASANOVAS, OH MY!

Byline: Gail Tzipporah Saunders

ACCORDING to a recent census poll, 31.6 percent of all adults in the U.S. are single, which is one of the highest percentages ever, outside of a group of nuns in a convent. Yet down through the ages, there have been a plethora of ways to yoke people together. At one time, there were dances and religious socials. Now there is the Internet and hanging out at grocery stores and coffee shops while pretending not to hang out and look.

But for me the whole thing is moot as long as I keep meeting some of the men I have been meeting lately. Basically, they fall into three categories: The Liar, the Psycho and the Casanova.

The Liar is the smoothest of the three. This may be because of his ability to concoct a story that can only rival that of a seasoned fiction novelist. His main downfall, however, is that at some point, his memory will often short-circuit, and he will forget just about anything he has said before.

Seor Leadbelly is a classic example of a liar. In order to make things easier when I was moving, he offered his home as a temporary refuge until I got settled. Even though he said he'd be out with the boys the night of my move, he welcomed me to stay at his place anyway.

That night, I decided to take him up on his offer and called his cell phone a couple of times to say I'd be by, but when the seor was nowhere to be found, I left some messages. I then drove over and let myself into what turned out to be an empty house. When he had not come back by 10:30 p.m., I went to sleep in a spare bedroom. All was quiet on the western front at 3 a.m., too. I called again at 7 the next morning, knowing that if he hadn't been kidnapped by a band of wayward gypsies, then he'd probably be at work. This time he answered.

I had gotten out little more than a ``Hello, I tried calling you last night,'' when his inner-fiction novelist kicked in, and he launched into a story about how he had fallen asleep at home at 7 o'clock last night and how soundly he had slept through the night.

When I told him I was at his house but hadn't seen him, he launched into another version of events followed by an e-mail a few days later with an update.

I had known we just weren't right for each other. That nagging little voice does not nag for nothing. Goodbye, Liar. It was nice knowing you. Hello Fiction Writer's Club of America.

The Psycho differs from the Liar in that his reactions will read like a Richter during an earthquake. There is no telling what is going to set the Psycho off, only that something will.

Seor Mount Vesuvius is an example of a Psycho. We met on the Internet when he introduced himself with a nice, normal note. Shortly thereafter, he called and asked me out. I accepted, and he cut me off. This was when his brain waves must have started to change.

I didn't hear from him the week of the date, but the following one instead when he left messages claiming to be an old friend. He finally caught me off guard, and I picked up my phone.

I asked him what happened, he denied ever having the conversation, apologized for offending me, and then hung up, thereby clearing the path for a complete and uninterrupted Psycho landing.

Neither group, however, is like the Casanova, who believes his sex appeal is so great that any woman, comatose or not, cannot resist him. This type will translate a simple question like, ``How are you?'' as ``Come to mama, hot stuff.''

My most recent encounter with this type came when I hired a handyman to install some floors in my condo. Somewhere between ``Pergo floors are easier to install than hardwood ones'' and ``You owe me $500'' came comments about my body followed by a proposition that sounded like some line from an X-rated movie. He had told me that he often meets women in bars, and after a while, it was easy to see why. He would only look good under dim lights to a woman who had been drinking.

And it is experiences such as these that almost make a can of microwaveable spaghetti seem like a pleasant way to pass the time.