Help Wanted

I'm convinced that people are mixing us up. I spend the first minute of all my dates writing my name and number out slowly and carefully --Beck-y three-thir-teen.

Later, someone tells me that I sounded like a foreigner learning how to count in English.

The first person I talk to is a doctor who just moved here from India. American customs are still foreign to him. One of his first questions: How much money do you make?

I meet a med student who's easy to talk to, but doesn't drink. After downing my third Red Bull and vodka, I decide that this is a deal-breaker.

There's also a cute Italian consultant with an engaging smile. But he tells me he's been to three of these events. I decide he's desperate.

During the break, I run into a shy, affable guy named Matt.

Matt's cute in an outdoorsy, Lands' End sort of way, with a grizzly beard, big callused hands, and a wide smile. I feel my pulse quicken, but blame it on the Red Bull.

"Becky, right?"

Talking with Matt is easy. He's intelligent, without sounding show-offy. He's a tax consultant, but insists he's ambivalent about math. He's 29, an Illinois native, and a Case grad. He's also GD -- geographically desirable. He lives less than a mile from my apartment.

At the end of the night, Matt seeks me out to say goodbye. His drink on the rocks contains only rocks, but he seems hesitant to leave. I think he wants to ask for my phone number, but that's totally against the 8minuteDating rules. Instead, he sticks his hands in his pockets, says he really enjoyed meeting me, and leaves.

On the way back, Jared and I assure each other that we were the hottest people there. Everyone needs honest friends like that.

The next day I write Matt down as a match, Matt writes me down as a match, and 8minuteDating writes each of us to let us know we have a connection.

I bask in the glow of my wantedness.

We meet at La Cave du Vin, a cozy wine bar on Coventry. Matt instantly wins my affection by professing his love for overly sweet beverages. He tells the waiter he wants the wine that tastes the least like wine. I believe I've met my soul mate.

We talk for three hours about life, love, and the fact that my supercute suede boots will now be permanently ruined by the snowstorm raging outside. He empathizes. I worry: Is he gay?

Then he makes a random comment about bar mitzvahs. My ears perk up. He's Jewish yet!

Houston, we have liftoff.

---

Internet Dating
My newly engaged friend Meredith insists that the days of match.com are so over and that Yahoo! Personals are the future. Her friend met five dates online, and they were all great!

If they were all so great, I wonder fleetingly, why'd she need five of them? But I decide to trust her.

One problem: Going online means writing about yourself, which I should enjoy, being a narcissist and all. But translating vanity is much harder than you think. I thought. Does mentioning how great my hair is make me sound stuck-up? Is being a Pilates addict a good thing or a bad thing? How many c's are in cappuccino?

So I ask my friend Joe to write my profile. Joe is funny. Joe is witty. His profile elicits 90 responses. (Joe is also single, ladies. Call Joe at 216-802-7210.)

After paying my $24.95 fee, I eagerly click on the first response.

"I love your profile," writes Steve.

"You're so funny," writes Mike.

An unanticipated problem arises. These people aren't attracted to me; they're attracted to Joe.

"You're so witty," writes Jon, an engaging engineer from Medina. "How long did it take you to write your profile?"

Biting my M.A.C.-chintz-covered lips, I ponder how to respond. Do I a) confess, and risk rejection for being exposed as the unfunny person I am, or b) take the slimy way out?

"It took me no time at all to write," I type in my next e-mail, which is slimy, yet technically true.

Jon and I exchange e-mails for a week, confessing everything about our lives. I learn about his ex-fiancée and his affection for no-interest financing. I tell him that I once got kicked out of a high school soccer game because my nails were too long -- which was actually good, because I was late for my manicurist appointment.

All this communicating is strictly against internet-dating etiquette. You're supposed to e-mail twice, then agree to meet for drinks, my friends lecture.

But I don't care. How could I not like a guy who, at the end of his profile, asks everyone to write back with feedback, since he's "trying to narrow down the reasons why I am single (mainly so I have an answer for my mom/sisters/friends when they ask)"? We agree to meet for dinner in Tremont.