Server of Satan

My laptop at home has been giving me attitude. It's sullen, it flashes me error messages and it's slow to do what I want, if it does anything at all.

I've been making repeated calls to my personal tech support who in turn, has been ignoring me just like technical support people do even when they're not your best friends and have never seen you snarf an entire bottle of champagne just because it was Tuesday.

My tech support finally called me back and left a message assuring he understood exactly what I need help with. According to my tech support I need some help with my laptop, but more importantly I need help finding a date, and I need help getting laid.

This was the entirety of his message. That and he was stoned, had a wonderful time at a conference, there was nothing on TV at the moment and I better not be not answering the phone because I was doing something really lame, like laundry.

I was in fact, doing laundry when he called.

In my defense, I was doing laundry in preparation for a date that I was hoping would solve problems two and three, although not necessarily on the same night.

After taking my online dating profile down, I've put it back up again to typically underwhelming response. I was bored without the promise of mortification and rejection, and if I was bored I'm sure my reader fan-base (hello both of you!) would be bored too.

I thought I had an edge this time around, because I didn't think I cared. When I send messages to guys and get no response back, I shrug my shoulders instead of wondering why they don't write back. When my inbox stays empty, I yawn with contempt. I'm not bothered. I have become a cynical, cold, hard shell. Obviously I'm ready for dating.

This was just tempting the universe though. By swearing I could handle any rejection and ridiculousness sitting across the table from me, the universe was forced to get creative. After all, I've already dealt with outright lies and that one weirdo with the vitamins.

I've sacrificed a sweater to a dying bird and endured one more discussion about cornbread than anybody ever needs, and nobody ever needs a discussion about cornbread.

My quest to find a man who will simply call when he says he will call has taken me to some new depths - but for the first time last night I found myself truly disrespected and offended, and I'm embarrassed at how I handled it.

Dave looked like he belonged on the cover of a men's magazine or that article in Cosmo revealing why men who appear able to fight fires, hunt grizzly with one hand and hoist you on to his lap with the other are sexy.

He was sharp, funny and he called me when he said he would call. This alone, made me want to break out the fancy panties.

Our first phone conversation lasted an hour and a half and he asked me...he asked me questions about myself. Like he actually cared. Thoughtful questions, about what I do and who I am. So far, he was unprecedented. Completely unprecedented.

We agreed to meet for a drink.

He chose a very new, trendy, lounge-like place that was so new and trendy we were the only customers. No seriously - we were the only two people there. He gave me the option of going some place else, and in hindsight that might have been the smartest choice I could have made but I thought it would be a trip to have an entire posh lounge to ourselves so we took our white pleather sofas and started to chat.

He wasn't as pretty in person as in his photographs, but still probably prettier than me. And so was the waitress -- Erika.

Dave and Erika were deep in conversation when I arrived, and I assumed he picked the place just because he had friends there. It turns out the owner is also a friend and I was happy to help him support his buddy in getting his business off the ground.

It stands to reason that being the only customers in a lounge that could host 200 would garner some attentive service. I was fully expecting to not have to catch Erika's eye when my wine glass ran out, but I wasn't banking on not being able to get rid of her.

Every six minutes like clockwork, Erika would come by our table. She wasn't checking on our drinks, she was bored. I know this, because she said so. Then she was just hanging out, then she admitted she was lurking and then she was seeing what we were up to and then she was just saying hello and then she was checking on us and then she was just wanting to chat and then she was just trying to pass the time.

Every six minutes, Erika would drop by and stay for eight minutes. It was just like an overly-attentive waiter comedy sketch, only more absurd. At one point it actually crossed my mind to look around for a hidden camera.

Don't think I didn't try to dissuade her. Women have looks that can only be perceived and therefore lethal to other women. I was giving this bitch looks that could have dropped a commercial airliner out of the sky. My eyeballs actually re-gelled into samurai swords, and still she came.

For his part, Dave invited her. She would walk up and Dave would stop whatever he was saying to me in mid-sentence, turn his body toward her and offer a joke or a question to get her talking.

They shared stories about mutual friends, places they had worked - it was a grand old time...if you weren't the extra chick molded to a white pleather sofa.

When she did leave, I would have to think hard to remind Dave where he had left in his conversation with me, and that was an effort. That's how much time passed while our server shared our date.

I wanted to say something, but I couldn't think of how to phrase it without somehow insulting his friend and making myself out to be a catty bitch. We would settle back into some interesting conversation, and Erika would show up again. Dave would turn to her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and get her talking. And I said nothing.

Suddenly Dave was ready to go. We had been there two hours, with approximately 40 minutes spent hanging out with the waitress. Dave went up to the bar to pay, and I overheard the waitress and my date exchanging names.

"I'm Dave by the way."

"I'm Erika - it's great to meet you Dave!"

Are you fucking kidding me?? All that time, I had assumed they were buddies. I thought so because they were talking when I showed up, I thought so because they both knew some common people and I thought so because I'm an idiot.

I said nothing while my date proceeded to use our date to date somebody else, and treat me like the interruption. I said nothing while every females nightmare of a server entertained herself on a boring shift by making me look like an ass, just because I couldn't think of what to say without coming across as "bitchy."

And I still can't. Dave and I parted ways five minutes out of the door and in case I hadn't got the hint or was profoundly brain-damaged and felt the urge to see him again, he made it clear it was not to be.

The first thing Dave had said to me when we sat down was how witty he thought I was. How very funny. Most women he met were not clever at all, and I was just the wittiest girl he'd ever met.

Apparently, having seen me in person for two hours, that was still the best and only compliment he could give me. He struck me as a guy who strives to be a gentlemen, and I assume he likes to leave his dates with a compliment. It seems I was a tough case, because he could only leave me with this heartfelt bit of flattery:

"You're a witty, witty girl. Don't ever change that."

Um. Okay.

I suppose if for some reason I did make the decision to change and or alter my essential nature, there would be nothing appealing left about me. I can't rely on my looks, so I better hope my dry wit is enough to carry me to the alter some day because I've got nothing else. Thanks Dave.

I would like to point out that for this, I missed America's Next Top Model. And that new show called "Life" I like so much about the cop who was wrongly imprisoned starring that dude from Band of Brothers who I find weirdly sexy. So thanks for that too Dave.

And thanks also, for not even giving me the basic respect you'd give...well...a waitress. I was too weak to say anything, and I'm mad at myself for that but thanks to you the next guy who so much as lets his eyes travel when I'm speaking to him will likely have a near death experience so profound he'll give up his worldly possessions and travel to Tibet with nothing but a leather bound journal and tooth floss.

I'll forgive myself though, probably while eating cheesecake and watching next week's America's Next Top Model. I love eating and watching really skinny people at the same time. It 's decadent.

I won't forgive you though. Good luck, and happy dating asshole.