Witch Titties

Winter, Los Angeles, California 2012 is responsible for the worst case of witch tits I've ever had in my entire southern California charmed life.  Not to be confused with bitch tits - witch tits is a chronic condition that develops when an LA girl is forced to maintain employment, polite social interactions, and basic life functions when the atmospheric temperature consistently drops below 50 degrees Fahrenheit.

Now you East coasters, who wish to rebuke me with woes of sub-zero temps, wind chill factors, and Nor'easters - kindly go fuck yourselves. When you reside in a heat deficient, snow-affirmative locale (by doom or design), you already know what you're up against. The salt trucks, thermal undies, and snow days are a part of your reality. You deal with it.

Because I am punk, and cannot deal with it, I live in Los Angeles. There's no fucking winter in Los Angeles; it's not allowed.  70 degrees is the legal requirement, the one thing you can count on in this cultural wasteland. Why else do you think we stay? The excruciating traffic, high tax rate, gang violence, questionable politicians, police pursuits, outlandish standards of living, Venice Beach, and the paparazzi? No.

We remain because no matter how shitty life gets, you can always stroll down to Starbucks wearing only shorts, flip-flops, and a tank. Or cruise down Sunset Blvd. (in December) with the sunroof open and the windows down while taking a toke. (But only if you have a legal medical marijuana card. And we all have legal medical marijuana cards.)

So as the Mayans claimed the world would end in late 2012, it kind of did, far as I could tell.  Suddenly I found myself in a post-apocolyptic landscape where the temps plunged below 40, and the ancient heater in my house simultaneously went on the blink. Wrapped in a Snuggie and standing precariously close to a rusty space heater, I scanned CNN, wondering if the President would declare the city a disaster zone. The orange patches were iced over, for christ's sake.

One nippy Monday morning, there was some substance on my car window. My neighbor patiently explained it was some phenomenon called frost. Snow was now falling within a 20 mile radius of my home, and the sturdiest piece of clothing I owned was a blazer. Not wanting to see what else the vast Los Angeles tundra had to offer, I got back in bed and called in sick.

During the rest of the work week I donned the warmest garments I could find, which were usually a maxi-dress, said blazer, peep toe heels, and some cute but non-functional scarf. Late evenings, I'd brave the half mile distance to my car in a spastic jog, with a scarf wrapped around my face, balaclava style. The chant I used to help stave off hypothermia usually went "fucking bullshit fuck THIS fuck this FUCK you fuck YOU" until I made it to my destination. Once home, no matter how many pair of sweats I piled on or shots of rum I drank, I remained completely fucking frozen. My house was a tad warmer than a morgue.

Hence, the witch tits.

Weekends, I stayed in bed, fully clothed, beneath a menagerie of blankets, towels, quilts, and pillows. I refused to leave the house. My social life suffered. I ordered groceries online. Even backed out on a date with cute enough dude, but I just couldn't will myself to move. He tried to persuade me, but I was having none of it.

So now I was a frigid bitch with witch titties. Witch tits. Whatever.

Now it's early Janurary, and the bleakness still remains. I purchased an ill-fitting pea coat at a thrift store, in a sincere effort to adjust. I'm wholly clueless on how to shop for "winter clothes." Winter clothes have always meant a few sweaters.

Clearly, I'm not about this life.

A "warning" email circulated at work the other day. Security had received a complaint from an elderly customer who was frightened when encountering "an erratic person mumbling loudly when exiting the building."  Be aware of vagrants using the property for shelter as a result of the recent cold snap, the email reported. "Complaintant could not provide definitive description due to mask or material obstructing suspect's face."

I vaugely remember blowing off some old dude who asked me for directions one night. That vagrant had a name; it was yours truly.

Bastards.

And yeah, I'll surely be on the lookout.