Stoli or Not, I'm Done with This Winter Thing

Work outside the house today was a clusterfuck of ridiculous proportions. The debit machine died twice, and then the receipt printer died, and then our regular printer stopped communicating with the computer, and then eleventy billion customers rampaged through the store while we painstakingly wrote out paper receipts and explained that their debit cards were no good here, and then I pinched a nerve in my hip while I was scaling shelves, and then I threw up my hands and yelled Man, am I elderly!, and then the Palinode came and took me away to have drinks with friends. My addled brain was so thrilled with him that I couldn't stop taking pictures of him.

Palinode Palinode
Palinode Palinode

In the courtyard of the place where we went for drinks, there was an ice bar, as in A BAR MADE OF ICE. I asked how long it had been there, thinking that they had just constructed it for some special event, but, no. This ice bar was built back in November. This ice bar has been alive and well and architecturally intact for four months without any artificial cold technology.

I hate this climate I live in.

ice bar

One thing in this ice bar's favour, though, is that they gave me a shot of Stoli vodka, which made me care far less about what a crappy climate I live in. The Russians know what they're doing. 40% alcohol content warms the innards and makes ice bars look extra sparkly.

I would like spring now, please.

ice bar

Just so you don't think I missed out on the beauty of the sparkly ice bar, I didn't. I thought it was very pretty and spent some time picking out the proper settings on my iPhone's Hipstamatic app so that I could show it to you. All that pretty pales, though, when you have been submerged in temperatures that regularly dip below -40°F for months on end.

PS. I really wanted to lick the ice bar just to see of they slipped any flavour into the water they used to make it, but then I thought about how many other people might have had that same idea, and then I wondered how much of the surface of that ice bar was now actually made up of layers of other people's spit, and so I didn't lick the ice bar. Now I will never know if it tastes sweet or if it tastes like how other people's post-bar breath smells. Bummer.
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