Colder than a witch’s tit?

It was quite frigid outside today…colder than a witch’s tit, some might say.  Where do you suppose that phrase originated, anyway?  If any of you know, please enlighten me.  Please.

I would like to add that my mother used that phrase from time to time.  Hers was different.  Hers goes, ‘Colder than a witch’s tit while doing  push ups in the snow in a brass bra.’  Picture that for a moment.

I, personally, give that crazy witch credit for getting her ass out there.  I give her credit for busting out a workout despite the daunting temperatures.  Pun intended (busted out…get it? bust. Ha!)  Fitness is important.  You need arm strength to stir that giant wooden spoon in the cauldron everyday.  And she obviously needs titty support from something stronger than a regular old sports bra.  She must be busty.  I can’t help but picture a crusty green witch with scrawny little arms and giant brass covered boobs dipping her boobs in the snow piles over and over.  She wears a red, white, and blue sweatband on her forehead, under her pointy, stereotypical black witch hat.  With each upward push she exclaims, ‘Curses!!! Curses!!!’

This witch has dedication and I commend her.  All I want to do when it’s colder than her icy tit is tuck my feet under the dog.



Neither rain nor sleet nor whatever else…


I checked the mailbox when I got home, as I always do.  Inside there was a stupid recipe catalog.  Not a cool one with tasty pictures…a boring one with tiny unsavory photos. 

There was also a bank statement for my husband.  On the envelope was some handwriting.  I glanced at it, couldn’t figure out what it said, and went inside and dropped my bags, got cozy, and settled in. 

After a while, I went back to grab the envelope and put it in my husband’s pile-o-papers.  It is plentiful.  I looked at the writing again, determined to figure it out. 
The date.  Obvious.  Driveway?  Strange.  IC4?  What the fuck does that mean?  Must be a postal term for something that I don’t care about.  

No, wait…it says ICY driveway…and the date.  What the fuck?  I know it’s icy.  I didn’t shovel the driveway the other day when it snowed…and then it froze.  Whatever.  Does the post office know that my husband is out of town and I’m pulling all this family shit together by myself? 

Do they know that the garbage men also walk up the driveway and don’t leave me notes if it seems a bit slippery? 

Do they know that I’ve slipped on it too?  That I have no salt to offer them to melt the ice?  That I’m on super tight budget because, again, husband is away and I’m on single parent duty? 

I never even realized they have to walk up the driveway to deliver the mail.  I seriously only thought that I was leaving it slippery and treacherous for myself.  And now I feel bad. 

Especially since this post person took the time to pause and get out a pen and write it on the envelope in my mailbox. 

Yikes.  I should slip some leftover Valentine’s candy in there or something.