Friday, February 8, 2013

Nothing Says Love Like a Chocolate Boob

Do you ever come across an idea and think, “Oh, my gosh, this is SO awesome!” and “Why didn’t I think of that?” Yea, but, then it doesn’t turn out so awesome (and, you’re kinda glad it wasn’t your idea?). I had one of those things happen today. I don’t know where I got the idea, so sorry that I can’t give proper credit. It was either in a long-distance relationship ideas article or maybe a romantic ideas article. Anyway, it struck me as super cool so I jotted it down. It said, “Mold a chocolate body part.” I’m thinking, chocolate and boob. Wow! Doesn’t get much better than that! You would think.

So, Valentine’s Day is right around the corner. Five Eleven still lives 2400 miles away and we can’t be together. A blizzard is bearing down on us here in New England. If I’m going to get this out in time for her to get it by the 14th, it needs to be in the mail today.

After barely sleeping because of a headache, I grab a cup of coffee and take a quick shower. After all, if I’m going to put chocolate on my boob for her consumption, it should be a clean boob.

Maybe I should Google how to do this? No. Can’t be that hard. I went to art school. Melt some chocolate. Don’t make it so hot that I burn my nipple off. Slather it on fairly thick. Let it harden. Pop it off. Wrap it up. Voila! Valentine’s Day gift is ready to mail.

If only chocolate boobs were that easy. I’m afraid to say that is not how my chocolate boob adventure went. It started off like that…somewhat.

So, here I am wearing jeans and a zip up sweatshirt, fresh out of the shower. It’s too cold to be totally topless. I melt some nice 60% Ghiradelli chips down; add a touch of Grand Marnier…ready to go. I get a towel and some paper towels because I know me. Grace is not my middle name. Made a note to grab a hand mirror but forgot to. Lay down on the couch, bare my right breast and spoon on some warm chocolate. Hope I have the edges looking good. Can’t see because I forgot the mirror. Nice.

The fateful ingredients.

Flip on one of those morning shows that I never watch figuring it’ll only take a few minutes. Touch the edge. Still liquidy. Lick my finger. Hmm… Try to sip my coffee. I am not in a comfortable position. Hope this doesn’t take too long.

Test it again. Not even close. Lick my fingers. I shift to get more comfortable. The inside of the sweatshirt now has chocolate on it. The sun starts shining in through the window directly on my breast. Well, that balmy stream won’t help it. The furnace is running non-stop, too, since I turned it on. Should have left it at the 53 degrees like it was in here when I woke up. So, I carefully get up, turn the furnace down and reposition out of the sun. Of course, I get more chocolate on my fingers. Lick it off.

A half hour of morning show dribble goes by. Touch the chocolate. Dang! Not even close to solidifying. Lick my finger. It must be too warm in here along with my warm body temperature. So, I go to my side door, crouch down and open it up. I’m hoping the air that can now seep in around the ill-fitting storm door is cool enough to harden my chocolate boob. As I’m crouched on the floor, I can see movement at my neighbor’s. Oh my god, I think they can totally see me! They see everything I do anyway. No, wait, the window is fogging up. I’m good. Why is there so much glass on this storm door? I lean back against the inside door hoping to blend in, just in case.

The cool air comes in. Nothing is happening. So, I lift the storm window to let more cool air in. Did I mention that it’s 18 degrees out? Yes. One. Eight. So, now, my other nipple is totally erect and the chocolate is not getting any harder. Somehow, I manage to bump it with half my hand. I lick it off.

Okay, now I’m desperate. I need to get really cold. I grab the key to the shed. Cover the non-chocolate boob, hold my sweatshirt out like a wing to shield the chocolate boob so I don’t freak out my neighbors and I make a dash for the shed.

I close the door behind me. I can see my breath. It’s freaking cold in here. I start shivering. I can see goose bumps all over my stomach and chest. Both my nipples can now cut glass. The right one will drill itself out of its chocolate sheath if this takes too long. I test the chocolate. What the heck?! Lick my finger. I’ll bend over. Maybe if my boob is hanging away from my body, it’ll finally harden. So there I am. Bent over two Ziploc baggies full of smelly shells from beach walks and a five gallon tank of gas. Wow. This is a romantic gift in the making.

Hey, my boob looks like it’ll be a good shape though. Perky and round. I’m starting to feel hypothermic. I test the chocolate. Barely firm but I swear I feel it pulling away from my skin. It must be time. Maybe, just maybe it’ll work? I try to pop off my chocolate boob.

The chocolate in the bowl hardened up just fine.
Instead of a nice chocolate cup that I was envisioning (ooh, to fill with ice cream?), I get a handful of thick, mushy chocolate. I jam it into my mouth. Scrape off another handful. This is breakfast. Way past breakfast time. I wipe my hands off on some of those manly blue paper towels I keep in the shed, pull my sweatshirt closed and run back into the house.

Strip off the sweatshirt and jeans and jump in the shower. Again. Sadly, the rest of the chocolate boob goes down the drain. I still had to go to the post office to mail other things. Just not a chocolate boob. So, sorry, Five Eleven. You’ll be getting a nice Valentine’s Day card from me anyway. But, wait. Did I mention that I took pictures of this whole adventure? Just for you. Nothing says love like pictures of a chocolate boob.


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