If you’ve been following my carefree, girl-about-town goings-on these many months, you no doubt envision me as some sort of glamzilla with nothing to do but lounge around all day in my least soiled nightie, quaffing endless liters of Val-U-Bender chardonnay out of my Li’l Buddy Pet Crematorium souvenir wine goblet while contemplating the mysteries of the universe and that weird gas smell.
In fact, my days, like yours, are filled with the demands of modern life. This morning, for example, being keenly attuned to nature’s subtle cues, I could not help but notice upon disengaging the cat from my head and throwing it out the door that it landed not with its usual yowl of relief but with a soft whoosh into a five-foot snowbank. Indeed, winter had arrived.
While the cold weather brings with it numerous pleasures—fewer hours of nausea-inducing daylight come to mind—it also presents its share of difficulties. Baggies no longer serve as adequate footwear. The neighbors bring in their porch furniture, depriving you of an important fuel source. Figuring out where you left the car can take weeks at a time.
No matter. We are made of stern stuff, we single women. If we can withstand the rigors of eating family-sized boxes of uncooked brownie mix for dinner, we can certainly find our way to the laundry room to see if the fluff cycle has dried the phone out yet. Because if I have to shovel, someone had better deliver unto me a fresh box of wine, and I can tell by those muttering, shuffling noises that it’s not going to be any of you people. Fine.
There are very few souls in the world whom one knows so well, with whom one has shared and secretly recorded such intimate and sordid activities, that they can be extorted for favors even under the most inhospitable meteorological conditions. My exes are one of those people.
Having cried out from the depths of the basement to the likeliest of these feckless creatures, and having obtained liquor-based provisions in exchange for the sole copy of a short yet psychologically revealing video clip, I am now ready to renew my connection to the real world by digging a path to my front door for the nice 911 people to use when I call them to come reach something for me on the top shelf.
Shoveling is no joke! Not even a tired, worn-out joke that I’ve used in my last eight columns! For stamina, you’re going to need a hearty meal in your glass. Here’s one that should keep you going, or at the very least help you forget why you thought getting out of bed was such a damned good idea to begin with.
Hot Buttered Fat-tinis
Stick of butter
Tumbler of whiskey
A whole pile of sugar
Possibly a little more butter
Definitely more whiskey
- Melt stick of butter in pot on stove, gas leak be damned.
- Add sugar and stir until slightly caramelized. This part is almost like real cooking so pay attention, even if you’re getting sort of woozy.
- You know how sometimes when there’s a lot of gas around, and there’s also maybe some kind of flame or whatnot, things suddenly explode?
- Pour whiskey into glass with disgusting-looking butter mixture. Disgusting mixture will sink to bottom, thank goodness.
- Watching something explode could be kind of fun, actually.
- Drop garnish on floor for cat.
- Drink whiskey.
Is winter over yet? Guess what. You don’t care! Which is a good thing, because you might want to sleep outside tonight, what with the firemen making all that racket in the house.
Tomorrow: Putting the massacre back in Valentine’s Day!