Steph Not Stephanie

The problem with good dates is they typically don’t result in good stories. Or at least not the kind of stories people come here to read. Luckily (for whom I don’t know), I managed to combine the two earlier this week.

I met Bogart on Tinder (where else, really?) and he’s already a reader thanks to our hyperconnected world. Tinder gives the option to connect to Instagram, and I really need potential suitors to see pictures of my food and cats, so of course I opted in. Instagram also has my URL because I need to hustle (this blog ain’t gonna promote itself). However, he showed more restraint than I ever could by deciding to get to know me in person instead of via the blog — even adorably referring to it as a ‘spoiler alert.’ There was also the super fun time when he thought I was confessing an STI over text because I compared the blog convo to that convo. I turned as red as the wine I’m currently drinking. To be fair, he was a good sport. I just wished I had a glass of wine I could crawl in.

We got together after I finished solving first world problems at my non-day job and it was warm enough for a pitcher on the patio. In. Fucking. November. Praise jebus! By the time we were ready for venue numero dos, my hands were a bit cold, so I requested that we sit inside. I know, I’m such a fucking princess. We walked in, and a guy in a black button down kind of waved. I asked him if we should just sit anywhere, he looked at me weird, said yeah, and then went up and hugged (bro-high fived? I don’t know, I was walking to a table) Bogart. Turns out he didn’t work there, he was waving hello to his co-worker, my date. Awkward, party of Steph.

Bogart introduced us, and this not-employee asked if he could join us as he pulled up a chair. Normally when I go on dates with multiple people in one night, it’s pre-arranged, but whatevs. They work at a fancy French restaurant with a name I can’t pronounce, so there was some entertaining shop talk. Shockingly, based on my numerous kitchen fails, I used to work in one, so I get it and I can commiserate. I also forgot how shitty the schedule can be until now, but that’s another story.

So my new date, whom Bogart has since dubbed Tricycle (Bogart is quite clever), had also attracted the attention of a very drunk, very basic Paris Hilton via Scarborough type. She decided to join our little threesome at some point in the evening, and all bets were off. She kept vocal-frying her way through sentences like, ‘What’s your name again? I think I really have something with your friend here, and I think I’m going to be around for a long time, so I want to be friends with his friends.’ When she eventually went to the washroom Bogart and I didn’t have to say anything before Tricycle was not only apologizing profusely, but putting shots of fancy bourbon in front of us as penance. The bourbon was wasted on me as I don’t do fire water of any form, but it’s the thought that counts. We were also the beneficiaries of his beer when he decided to pour Paris into a cab (poor girl thought they were going home together).

Eventually I realized I also have a day job (those marriages aren’t going to ruin themselves) and I should probably go home. Bogart again apologized for the crashers, and we said our goodbyes. I stumbled home — actually though, I fell in the middle of the sidewalk, clinging to a chainlink fence and laughing at my ineptitude in heels the whole time — and we have plans for a second date this coming week. Hopefully we don’t pick up an entourage this time, but if any readers are planning on joining, I’ll take red wine instead of bourbon.