By WINDA BENEDETTI SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER REPORTER
Cyberdating is like a fishing expedition. You blindly cast your hook into a vast expanse. And although you may feel a tug on the other end, you never know what you've got until you come face-to-face.
When I set out on this, my first technodating excursion, I feared I would reel in a carp. Or, perhaps, a moldy shoe. But I'd committed myself to this venture and I was going to plunge in with an open mind. So I did what any good fisherman would do: I cast a wide net.
I cruised two sites (seattlepersonals.com and singlesinseattle.com), trolling for suitable victims ... er ... guys.
There was the hopeless romantic in search of a wife -- no thanks.
The vocalist for a local trip-hop band -- right on.
The workaholic with only enough time for sex -- you gotta be kidding.
The snowboarder who dug live music -- you betcha.
I sent e-mails to the seven most promising matches, submitted my own personal ad to both Web sites, then waited for someone to take the bait.
Things got off to a lousy start when only one of the seven wrote back. But then one morning I turned on my computer to find five e-mails. Four days later a dozen men had written.
Suddenly I was feeling very popular. I had more e-mails than I could respond to. My ego ballooned accordingly. You love me! You really love me!
I exchanged messages with the most promising. I knew I'd found the right guy when I nearly blew coffee out my nose laughing at his e-mail. His name was Adam, and not only was his personal ad funny, but his e-mails displayed a superb sense of sarcastic wit.
I'm a total sucker for a good sense of humor.
Over a series of e-mails (and later phone calls), Adam and I bonded over our appreciation for the band Morcheeba, the joys of mocking stupid people and the benefits of super powers. ("I want the power to make people in other cars hear my voice when I swear at them," he said.)
He described his friends as "sarcastic, potty-mouthed miscreants." They sounded like my friends. I told him my favorite dumb joke ("So this fish walks into a bar . . .") and he actually laughed.
When I told him I was a reporter, he wrote back, "You are in soooo much trouble," chastising me for what he considered an implicit deception.
I turned pale with guilt, but I'd sunk my single-girl hooks into him and there was no escape. He agreed to meet me and my Love Bytes compadre, D. Parvaz, for a double dinner date. He even selected the locale -- the super swank Lush Life (the P-I was footing the bill after all). We agreed to meet Friday at 7 p.m.
The pre-date anxiety began wrapping its claws around my stomach by 10:30 Friday morning. What if he thinks I'm funny lookin'. Wait, I don't care what he thinks. Yes I do. No I don't. Will you look at my hair! It's too long! I look like I have wings on the sides of my head!
D. listened to my ridiculous litany. She suggested Valium.
By 6:15 p.m. the panic had peaked. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror in my skivvies, a heap of discarded clothes at my feet, sweat on my brow and the telephone in my hand. "Uh, D., I can't decide what to wear."
I finally settled on a red skirt, form-fitting shirt and high heels -- an outfit that is the wardrobe equivalent of a baldfaced lie.
The truth is, I wear skirts perhaps three times a year. The heels were specially bought for the occasion. In short, I don't do dress-up unless I'm attending a funeral, posing for a newspaper photo or trying to impress a blind date.
By no small miracle, I managed to get D. and myself to the restaurant on time. Her date met us at the door. When I spotted the guy I thought was Adam -- cute, blond and headed in our direction -- my face turned sunburn red. I considered bolting for the bathroom. For crying out loud, I'd turned into a self-conscious teenager.
It was Adam, and fortunately he had more confidence than I did and introduced himself. I did my best imitation of composure as we settled into our table. We promptly leapt into the kind of intense get-to-know-you conversation that makes concentrating on the menu a difficult task.
I peppered Adam with a laundry list of questions, as though I was a detective interviewing a prime suspect. "Have you ever met anyone online before? What's your family like? Ever spent time in prison? Do you kick small dogs?" The only thing missing was the blinding spotlight.
Inside voice: You're talking too fast. You sound nervous. Shut up, I don't sound nervous. Yes you do. No I don't.
Outside voice: Can I have another vodka, please?
Inside voice: Make it a double.
I tried to eat with a measure of grace. Alas, the Italian in me is prone to speaking with extravagant hand gestures. In a spastic jerk of my arm, I smacked my fork and sent it somersaulting through the air. I caught it on its plummet earthward, but not before a chunk of mahi-mahi landed on my breast, leaving an embarrassing stain that I still can't get out of the shirt.
Adam was more than gracious, answering my questions and asking me about myself (imagine!). He even regaled me with a story about the time he tried to take a swig of his drink in front of a cute girl and accidentally jammed the stirring straw up his nose.
Good food, good conversation and a few vodkas -- I gradually eased into a semblance of relaxation.
After dinner, the four of us headed to Shorty's across the street to play video games. In an earlier e-mail, I had bragged to Adam that I would happily thump him in a round of Area 51 (a video game in which two participants try to shoot as many man-eating extraterrestrials as possible).
As we readied our plastic guns for battle, he revealed that, in a previous job, he'd been paid to play video games all day. He then cheerfully thumped me at my game and several rounds of pinball to boot.
These days Adam and I exchange e-mails, we go to movies, eat good food and swill vodka. I'm still hoping to redeem myself in an Area 51 rematch. In short, we still hang out.
