|No funny fishes here. Frown.|
I was genuinely excited that he'd have a some kind of home bar set up. I thought, where on earth did this guy get a bar? Did he inherit it? Did he win it on the Price is Right? Did he salvage it from a sidewalk sale? I pushed those questions aside and happily schlepped to his house with visions of exotic mixers dancing in my head.
I hoped he would have something a cool uncle would have tucked into the corner of his den. I expected shticky barware and an array of shiny strainers and bottle openers. Maybe there'd be tiny umbrellas to perch on the rim. Maybe there'd be a wooden stool so I could cross my legs and flash him a smile while he shook out a few martinis. Maybe there'd be that novelty singing fish mounted on the wall like Tony Soprano had. Maybe there'd be a tikki cocktail mixer like Mrs. Robinson used in the Graduate. I couldn't wait to see it.
But, sadly, no. None of these things were present. My bar dreams were DASHED as soon as he opened the cabinet door under his sink: "Here it is!" he proclaimed boldly. My face couldn't hide my disappointment. WHAT A ROUSE!
"So, what's your poison? I can make whatever you want on the rocks. Haha." Yup, laugh it up. There weren't even any mixers! Sorry, but ice doesn't count as a mixer.
The only bar here is my bar for dating guys without a bar, and I refuse to lower it. His "bar" gets an F and we all know that spells BARF, which is frankly, what I wanna do when he asked if I wanted a drink from under his shitty sink.