Steph Not Stephanie

If there’s a running theme in my life over the past week or so, it would be people in bars are jerks.

Last weekend was my 31st birthday (hold your applause, please), and I had a lovely evening out with some of my favourite people. Lovely, that is, until some asshole stole my entire clutch out of a friend’s bag. While I try to have a good sense of humour, standing outside at 3am trying to get my roommate to wake up and let me in isn’t exactly the birthday of every girl’s dreams. I didn’t actually get upset until dealing with the fuckwits at Rogers the next day – no, we can’t sell you a new phone in-store because your ID was stolen too, but we can verify your details over the phone and ship one to you in a few weeks. LOLWUT? Fuck Rogers so hard, and praise Jobs for the Apple Store. Five hours after I left my house, I had a new phone and felt a bit more in touch with the world. I also went back to the bar to see if my things had turned up, and they had left my clutch and keys. Enjoy the lipstick dirtbag, I’m sure the colour looks much better on you.

Last night I went out for a birthday party, and had a great time with a bunch of old friends. I met a mutual friend of the birthday boy’s, and we got on quite well. Cute, funny, flirty, ‘This is going well,’ thought I. I thought wrong. When I asked my friend for the dirt, he informed me this charmer is married. Now, I may have been a bit tipsy (perhaps from the beer he bought me?), but there were plenty of opportunities for him to mention this fact throughout the conversation. How about when we discussed my old job at Ashley Madison? No? Okay, how about when my blog came up (I believe I mentioned the phrase ‘dating failures’)? How about when you had your arm around me or when I gave you my fucking number? That would’ve been helpful. Here’s a novel idea: how about we decide on a symbol for married people, something they could maybe wear, so that when they’re hitting on us in bars we can distinguish them from someone datable, something like a fucking wedding ring perhaps? He may not have actually intended to do anything, and in that case I was just a mechanism to help him still feel marketable. Awesome. As one friend put it, ‘his life is lame, and you gave him hope. You’re a hero.’ Yes, I am. Now where’s my parade?