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take long for his reply to come back. It felt good to know I wasn’t the only one developing a codependent relationship with my e-mail server. Then again, he could also be a workaholic who was always at his desk. I knew about that too.
To: [email protected]
I guess it’s better to say I work with the Forest Service rather than for them. I’m consulting on a data project they have so I’ve been on a contract with them for a few months.
To: [email protected]
So you’re not a lumberjack?
To: [email protected]
Hypothetically speaking, is a burly lumberjack or a wiry computer nerd more likely to get a date with, oh, say . . . you?
To: [email protected]
Does the computer nerd have a secret superhero outfit with a cape?
To: [email protected]
Yes?
To: [email protected]
Then I pick the lumberjack.
To: [email protected]
Ouch. My mom always said to be myself. The truth is, I don’t have a superhero costume. Sometimes I tuck a towel into my collar like a cape when I’m home alone to make me feel more important, but my only super power is amazing data analysis. Is it enough?
To: [email protected]
It’s enough. I’m more of a Clark Kent fan anyway. But I’m confused. I thought your profile said you were looking for new friends, not dates.
To: [email protected]
True, but that only applies to girls I don’t know who might be cyber stalkers.
To: [email protected]
You mean girls you don’t know . . . like me?
To: [email protected]
Of course I know you. I know your favorite color is . . . um. Wait. You love to eat . . . yeah. You like to listen to . . . huh. You’re right. I don’t know you at all. That’s gotta change. I’m going to need more of your data.
To: [email protected]
What can I tell you? Blue. Chicken enchiladas. The Arcade Fire when it’s raining, Jack Johnson when it’s not. Does that help?
To: [email protected]
I’m getting an input error. I need more data. Like a seven digit number starting with your area code.
    I burst out laughing. He was definitely funny. And unexpected.
    “Well, that’s not work. And yet it’s the computer. It must be the lumberjack,” Sandy deduced as she entered the kitchen.
    “You’re so wrong.”
    “It’s not Ben?”
    “No, it’s Ben. He’s not a lumberjack. He does computer stuff for the Forest Service.”
    “And that’s funny?”
    “Yep. Data analysis is hilarious. You have no idea.”
    “Seriously, what’s funny?”
    “He wants some data input.”
    “Why is that funny? You can tell me to mind my own business if you don’t want me to know what’s going on, you know.”
    “Will it work?”
    “No.”
    “I didn’t think so. Ben’s asking for my phone number. It’s the way he did it that was funny.”
    “Why are you talking to me then, woman? Type it in!”
    “Really? You don’t think it’s kind of soon to be giving my number out?”
    “No, I don’t. I think it’s premature to name your future mini Bens and Jessies, but I definitely don’t think it’s too soon to spill your digits.”
    “But we just met.”
    “No, you haven’t met. And you never will if you don’t give him a phone number.”
    “What if he turns out to be crazy and calls me at all hours of the night?”
    “What do I care? It’s your cell phone.” Sandy smirked when I glared. “You’re totally overthinking this. This sounds like a stable guy with a good job and a sense of humor, and he’s a Mormon. Does any of that scream stalker? Give him your number.”
    “Okay, I will. But not because you told me to.”
    “Of course not. You thought of this all by yourself.”
    “Yes, I did,” I said. “Bossy pants.”
    Sandy did not look repentant. “Sticks and stones, blah, blah. Give him the number.”
    I sent off another e-mail.
To: [email protected]
I believe in solutions too. My number is (206) 555-5683.
    “I hope you’re right,” I muttered to Sandy.
    “Who cares if I’m right? Let’s hope he’s Mr.