Tits Magee is on vacation. (Or so she wishes)

So I was just tooling around on Etsy and found a listing for a candlestick made out of a beer bottle. Better yet, if you buy it, you get a pair of slippers for free.
 
Because those two things definitely go together.
 
You wanna know what else definitely goes together, just like that?
 
Boobs and cold weather.
 
In my great state, we've been experiencing some …let’s say “erratic” weather patterns this year.(Weather, you are drunk.) This means that not only have I had a cold for 3 months now but I must wear at least 4 layers to work so that I can accommodate the fact that it will be 30 degrees when I walk to work, 75 degrees when I leave for lunch, and 23 degrees below zero when I go home at night.
 
But as Carter and I are forgoing turning on our heat this year and have been using, instead, our Dyson space heater, life with drunk weather is pretty interesting. First of all, when showering without heat in an apartment with single-clad windows from the 40’s, if the space heater isn’t directly positioned in the doorway of the bathroom, I will literally freeze my lady bits off. Yes. “Literally.” And “off.” And even though it’s the safest appliance in our entire building, I’m sure, I still have these fears that one day it will get pissed at me and jump into the shower, which will have the same effect as if Carter tossed me the toaster while I was mid deep conditioning treatment.
 
Second of all, one learns to be very good at getting what Carter and I refer to as “snug.” As in, “Are you all snug, bird?” And “This is apartment is cold as balls. Let’s go be snug.”
 
I know, I know. We’re f*cking adorable.
 
And for all my bitching and moaning (and yes, there is a lot of it), it’s really not horrible.
 
(Note: for all of you who are concerned parents, let me assure you that my parents have tried to blackmail and bribe us into turning on the heat.  At the beginning of the winter, I tried to bribe and blackmail Carter into letting me. But now it’s kind of become my Into the Wild experience. Sure, I’m not going out into the Alaskan wilderness in my Volkswagon Van with nothing but my wits, a Kerouac novel, and a bear rifle but getting naked in an apartment that’s 45 degrees is just as ballsy as attempting to make moose jerky with a moose that you didn't so much kill but annoy to death with all of your beatnik poetry and ideals.)
 
(Addendum to note: If you couldn't tell, I f*cking loved Into the Wild. And no, that’s not sarcasm. You can tell because it got its own addendum.)

(Addendum to Addendum to Note: Ok, so that’s not entirely true…. or at all true. I’m sarcastic in my addenda. But I really did love it and you should read it and now I’m going to actually get back to the post because this is getting a little ridiculous, don’t you think?)
 
So, on the bright side, I am thought to be   batshit crazy       a hardcore badass   really, really poor  by my friends and coworkers. And, for the most part, it’s fine.
 
But there is the whole boob thing that I alluded to earlier. And here is where it sucks to not have heat.
 
My bras are really, really cold in the morning.
 
I know, #FirstWorldProblems, right? Not necessarily.
 
 I don’t mean, cold like the flipped side of a pillow. I mean cold like “geez, mother*cker’s so cold that my nips are gonna freeze right off my body!!!”
 
And, because I know you’re wondering, that is exactly what I scream every morning when I go to put my bra on. Carter doesn’t get it.
 
I think it’s because Carter, like most, if not all, heterosexual males, think of boobs as being these mystical, amazing she-accessories that are fun to play with and look at and could never be cumbersome to anyone. This makes me wish that one of two things happen to him: 1. That he gets enormous manboobs so that he’ll finally understand; 2. That one day our baby will latch for realsies onto one of his milkless nipples and not let go. (And if our baby won’t listen to me and do that, I’ll just be sure to set an alarm for the middle of the night and give him the biggest nurple the world has ever seen.)
 
(For ye pure folk, Urban Dictionary’s example of a nurple is as follows: “Popping out of the shadows, he deftly clamped his thumb and forefinger down upon Dave’s nipple. A nurple had been administered.” I know – I’m gross. The exit is in the upper right hand corner of your screen. I won’t hold it against you. ….Ok, I totally will. But it won’t take up that much of your time.)
 
But until either of those things happen, I’m stuck in the land where I cannot say anything negative about my boobs.
 
ME: My boobs are too big. They’re everywhere all the time.
CARTER: You shut your mouth! Don’t you ever speak such vile slander again!
 
 
ME: OMG, maybe I’ll just get a reduction.
CARTER: That’s like slapping God in the face for giving you an amazing gift!
 
 
ME: Sometimes I worry that when I get older and try to run that my boobs will bounce up and break my nose.
CARTER:  [stunned into silence by the visualization of that much bounce]
 
 
Ok, fine. I made that last one up. But I do worry about that. It’s why I avoid trampolines of all kinds.
 
He really doesn't get it. A 45 degree bra is no picnic for the ta-tas, let me assure you.  So, one morning, after shrieking “geez, mother*cker’s so cold that my nips are gonna freeze right off my body!!!” like always, I then yelled at Carter that he should invent a bra warmer.
 
He thought it was ridiculous and that it would never catch on, which goes to show a few things: 1. Carter clearly doesn't have boobs; 2. Carter clearly has never put on an ice cold bra; 3. Carter has no sympathy for my plight; 4. Carter has never done research about how nipples can actually andliterally fall off; 5. Carter clearly doesn't have boobs. (I can’t emphasize that enough.)
 
I think he’s wrong. Ladies – who wouldn't want to strap the girls back in the winter months with a bra that has been pre-warmed, giving the ol’ sweater-puppets a sense of comfort and serenity, providing an all-over warm feeling that sets up the day on a high note? After all, what could go wrong? Your boobs are warm!
 
Consider this my official dibs on this idea. If any of you readers are engineers, hit me with your best shot on a prototype that won’t scorch fabric or lead to burned-down houses or breasts. Our aim is to warm, not scald. We’ll be rich, you and I. I would invent it myself, but I’m a writer, you see, which renders me completely useless with anything involving math, engineering, or general assembly.(Unless it's pre-fab furniture. When it comes to pre-fab furniture a la IKEA and Target, I may as well have my own cult following. Yes - I'm just that good.)
 
I write amazing copy, though.
 
So today, I hope your breasts warm and your hearts full.
 
(Note: we want warm, not sweaty. Apparently when your boobs are sweaty for long periods of time, you can get yeast infections under and between them. Yea, I didn’t know that either until this year. This is bad news for the nasty people who sweat like pigs at the gym and then come home and sleep in their gym clothes. ...Like me.)
 
Happy Wednesday, y’all!
 

 

Katie

Nested

www.thenestedblog.com

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