In case any of you are curious what I did about my very important whisk(e)y dilemma, I took the advice of the Internets (as per usual) and bought a bottle of Maker's Mark. And I would like to say that move made all the difference and my Manhattans and Old Fashioneds were suddenly tasty enough to make me the kind of classy, refined girl who says, "Barkeep, I'll have a Manhattan, please," but in reality, between the Sidecar and the Tom Collins and the White Russian and whatever I poured myself afterwards that put me entirely and unexpectedly over the edge, I never did try a Manhattan at my basement christening event. About 1/4 of the bottle was gone, however, so someone must have sampled the Maker's Mark. When I can look at alcohol again without having flashbacks to my entire day spent horizontal on my couch, perhaps I'll give the Maker's Mark a try.
That said, I think with that little party, my basement rec room has successfully been reclaimed. The bar was fully stocked and surrounded by friends for presumably the first time since the Ford administration, and after spending so many hours getting the space into party-presentable form, I hope it's safe to say it was only the first of many gathering in the newly refurbished rumpus room. 'Twould be a damn shame to do all that work just to gaze at it on my way to do my laundry. Toga party next fall, perhaps?
Incidentally, since I've not yet posted a recent "After" picture, perhaps I should do so now. Again, this is what my basement looked like before I decided it was time to use that space for something other than storage of old lopsided Christmas trees, moving boxes, and furniture and workout equipment the previous owners left behind...
And here's what it looks like now.
Unfortunately, while the mess in my basement is gone, the duct tape in my shower is not. No, the shower is still more ghetto-tastic than it's ever been, but my concern about party guests snooping behind the curtain and being horrified by the sight turned out to be an interesting social experiment. I decided to address the dilemma with a note after all, but I thought that as long as I was doing so, I might as well have a little fun with it.
As it turns out, it was a good move, as I am $22 richer as a result.
$22! I still can't believe someone gave me a twenty. I am trying to decide if one of my friends with more expendable income than I decided to take pity on my obviously sad, slum-living self, or if one of my friends was so fuzzy-eyed from the Manhattans that he or she thought she was giving me a five and dropped in a twenty instead. My guess is that if the anonymous benefactor was focused and lucid enough to snoop behind my shower and find and read the note, he or she was with-it enough to read the number on a bill, but I'll admit I feel a bit strange about keeping that generous donation anyway.
In absolutely unrelated news, my date last week was a bit of a bust. He was perfectly nice, but it felt a bit like having drinks with a work-related acquaintance: we had polite conversation, but the wall of formality never fell down, and while we had plenty of on-the-surface things in common, I realized when we parted ways that I did not care if I ever saw the man again. I already have friends to go to concerts with and friends to swap book recommendations between. A mutual appreciation for The Current is lovely, but it's not enough to build a relationship upon.
Speaking of dating, I'm amused by a recent crop of singles-related spam to arrive in my Junk Mail folder with the subject line "Professional Singles." Not "Single Professionals," mind you, but "Professional Singles." I don't know that I actually consider myself a Professional Single just yet. I mean, sure, I'm pretty good at this being single thing. I get search engine hits every week from people looking for reasons to enjoy being single, so apparently I'm an Internet authority of sorts on the topic. But Professional? I'm not so sure I want that title. I was sort of planning on maintaining my amateur status so I can date in the Olympics.
In my car on the way to my date the other night, I momentarily forgot the name of the guy I was meeting there. For a full thirty seconds, I blanked on it. Jeff? Joe? John? I knew it was a common "J" name, but for more than a moment, I forgot just which name. Is this a rookie mistake that confirms I'm an amateur, or does the casual way I stepped out the door without even stopping to think much about where I was going just confirm I've been doing this too damn long?