Stupid Cupid : Fixing People Up Can Be Like Playing With Matches

SOME folks can’t resist a hot tip on a racehorse. I can’t resist matchmaking. Even though I know it can get me into trouble.

Recently, I went to an engagement party. I happened to overhear my third cousin-in-law Marty complain, “It’s impossible to find a good-looking woman with brains.” Automatically, I began flipping through my mental Rolodex of available females.

Perhaps this is what comes from having a Jewish mother. Mom, like Yente the matchmaker in “Fiddler on the Roof,” believes that people should be paired up like the animals on Noah’s Ark--whether they want to be or not. “I’m always fixing people up,” she tells me. “I don’t like any strays. It’s a comforting feeling to see all the chickadees together.”

I don’t believe that every chickadee would be happier with a soul mate. But, in my experience, a lonely chickadee’s favorite (and often only) topic of conversation is the dearth of available chickadees in this city. Monday mornings, they call me with tearful, faux-pas-by-faux-pas accounts of the weekend’s amorous fiasco--usually starring some passive-aggressive, noncommittal, workaholic, and / or two-timing heartbreaker whom they met through the personal ads or at an Executive Chickadee Dance and Networking Party. Then I feel like it’s my responsibility to save them from the Singles Scene.

I only want to help. But my help isn’t really needed. In addition to video dating, computer mating, 976 party lines, the “Love Connection” and mail-order Asian bride operations, there are many amateur shadchan like me who are more than willing to supply Ms. or Mr. Right. In fact, recently The Times reported that “almost everyone who’s single seems to know at least one” self-appointed matchmaker eager for a “chance to show that they’re good enough at matchmaking to make a date work at least through dessert.”

So why do I bother? Successful fixer-uppers are much more aggressive than I would ever dream of being. My friend Lynn, for example, was married after her sister locked her and her designated mate in a room with a king-size water bed and wouldn’t let them out.

Maybe I should get tougher. I don’t have any marriages to my credit. I seem to be best at arranging six-week passionate interludes. Last month, I fixed up my friends Annie and Michael, two light spirits who had just struck out with dark-spirited mates. The overnight reviews were raves. “I never thought there was such a thing as a good blind date,” Michael marveled.

“He’s sensitive, and honest--and so cute!” Annie gushed.

For a week, maybe even two, I reveled in the satisfaction that comes from being right. Then I began receiving ominous reports from the romantic front. “Did Annie tell you about the other night?” Michael began tersely.

“I know he’s your friend but . . . “ Annie said with a sigh.

Oh well. No good deed goes unpunished.

My mother is aware of the dangers. “The worst is when people ask me to set them up and I don’t know anyone who would possibly like them,” she reports. “They’re ugly and boring and dumb. That’s three for three.” What does she do? Mother says, “I usually tell them, ‘You’re very special and I haven’t met anyone special enough.’ ”

Even so, matchmaking can be risky business. There’s an old wives’ tale that says that matchmakers are rewarded in heaven. I hope so. Because we often take a licking on earth.

Some lovebirds, for example, assume that your romantic introduction comes with an 800 help number and a lifetime guarantee. For years, I was proud of my first fix-up--a junior prom date arranged between Mr. School Store Manager and Ms. Class Treasurer that led to a long-term relationship. I unfortunately know exactly how long term: The day it ended, I received a transcontinental collect call from Ms. Treasurer (whom I hadn’t heard from in years), berating me for ruining her life.

Maybe my friend Wendy is right. She maintains that God is the only matchmaker anyone needs. “When people ask me if I want to meet someone, I say, ‘No way,’ ” Wendy says. “The beauty of a real match is the magic of how you meet. And there’s no magic if you both have a little notebook on each other.”

My mother would argue that half the matches made in heaven wind up in divorce. So what’s the harm in trying?

But lately, playing Cupid seems downright stupid. Not long ago, a man I was interviewing over the phone happened to mention that he hadn’t been on a date in months. He asked if I knew any bright, vivacious women. Don’t get involved, warned an inner voice.

But as chance would have it, an hour later a bright, vivacious female friend of my husband’s called and asked if we happened to know any sane, secure single men. It was a long shot. Still, I couldn’t resist.

“I’ve never actually seen this guy but he sounds really nice on the phone,” I carefully explained. (I believe that if you distort the facts or gloss over imperfections with adjectives such as zaftig, high-strung, hedonistic, or late bloomer, you’re asking for trouble.) To my astonishment (usually people won’t let you fix them up unless you’ve made actual visual contact), Ms. Bachelorette instructed me to go ahead and give Mr. Available her phone number.

“It can’t hurt to talk to him,” she said, adding that he couldn’t be worse than her last blind date--with a channeller. “Every time I did something, he said, ‘I knew that was going to happen,’ ” Ms. Bachelorette explained.

That was a few weeks ago. Eager to end this column with a romantic triumph, I call Ms. Bachelorette for a follow-up report. The good news: Mr. Available phoned. They had a pleasant conversation, and he asked her out. The bad news: They went out. And they have no plans to go out ever again.

Maybe I’ll give up matchmaking and go to the races.