I am no longer Che-Che Woman.

When I started this diet, I did not want to believe that dieting meant I was going to relinquish one of my favorite monikers.

I was Goddess-only-knows how big when I was nursing my daughter. Since then, for 15 years, I have been a DD.

I am comfortable in my skin, but that shelf that big breasted women carry around meant that no matter how careful I was, when I wore my nicest blouse on a date I was sure to get something on it. As my friend Karey would say, “I feed and care for them regularly.”

At two-hundred-eighty-two pounds and two ounces my cup size is D.

Ray, my partner in most things, including the diet, says loving things to me all the time, but I did feel the need to tease him: “You are one of the few men in America who is paying for his girlfriend’s boobs to get smaller.”

I feel that shared laughter is important for staying sane, especially when one is changing a lifetime of eating a bag of cold, crunchy Cheetos in a day to four cups of vegetable per day. I like cucumbers, especially the “English” variety.

Ray doesn’t.

Must be a guy thing.

I told two male friends that I had another ninety pounds to lose and had to check my hearing when I heard their feedback. Mike told me I would “waste away to nothing,” and Wayne told me that I only needed to lose that much if I felt I needed to lose that much.

I think that is proof that if a woman thinks she is sexy, she is; the amount of weight doesn’t matter.

Of course, losing weight means new clothes, new lingerie, and a new body to get to know. Even though I was born without the shopping gene, I can surely see the fun in all of that.

Knockers – noun, describing female anatomy, specifically breasts. Synonym of bags, boobs, boobies, bosom, breasts, bust, chest, chesty, jugs, mammaries, teats, tits, titties, funbags, sweater muffins, kittens, snuggle-bunnies, brumskis, tittle-bitties.

"Jennifer Love-Hewitt's knockers are so glorious, they should be sanctified."

(Nok-ers)

Knockers is a term used to describe breasts large enough to collide with one another when in motion. For all you guys out there dating A-cups, sorry… those aren’t knockers… just teats. Now, if your honey has swayin’, swingin’, slappin’ boobies, you’ve got grade-A knockers on your hands, and in an ideal world, in your hands as well.

"These superb, and likely fake, knockers are well worth further investigation."

While boobs come in a variety of shapes, consistencies, sizes and weights knockers share one invariable condition: they stand out in every circumstance. If she’s wearing a 5″ thick sweater made of burlap and wool and you still see those mothers popping out, she’s got Knockers. If she’s wearing that skimpy 2-piece you like and there’s so much breast that you can’t see the material, you should count yourself amongst the lucky few enjoying substantial knockers.

It feels awkward when I, a 34 year-old, married, male college student, talk with young, single, female college students about their breasts. For me, It isn’t a daily conversation piece, even with other male college students, but the topic does arise occasionally.

At first, I was a little hesitant to write about this for fear of being a little too risque, but what the hell.  Here goes.

In one of my PR classes, we were divided into groups. My group consists of myself and three young females. For our group project, we launched a fund raising campaign for a charity that is holding an event at GMU this weekend.

For our campaign, we got a booth at the JC and tried to sell cookies to raise money. We picked a bad time (4-6 pm) and we weren’t getting many donations.

I don’t remember how the topic of breasts came up, but it did. (I’m quite sure I didn’t bring it up). Anyway, THEY, were talking about breast reductions and I added my two cents by telling them I have a friend who had two of them. One when she was a teenager and another when she was in her mid-twenty’s.

Next thing you know, they began talking about their mammary (or rather, memory) of how their breasts have changed. One female, all of whom will remain nameless, told us that when she was 18 she was a C-cup. Now, in her early 20’s, she’s a D-cup (links are G-rated).

At this point in the conversation, I don’t have anything remotely resembling a significant contribution to the discussion. So, I sat silent, for fear of sounding like a dirty old man.

The admission by the female that her breasts have recently changed, led the other two females to contribute their own personal experiences about their breasts.  For some reason, I don’t know exactly why, I began to to feel a little awkward.  Maybe it was because I didn’t have anything to add, at least nothing appropriate.

Oh yeah, now I remember how the topic of breasts came up. Originally we were talking about marriage and having children. That lead to breast feeding, which somehow led to the topic of breast reduction, which led to the topic of their breasts. I don’t remember why we were talking about marriage, but I don’t think that really matters.  Back to the breasts.

So, as they continued telling stories about their boobs (I got tired of continually writing the word “breasts”), I began to feel more and more awkward. Just about the time my personal feeling of awkwardness had reached its peak (somehow they must have known – probably because I wasn’t contributing any mammary memories) one of them looked at me and said, “Brian probably doesn’t want to hear about our boobies.“

Without even thinking, it just came out, I said, “I love hearing about boobies.“  What?!  What did I just say?!  I love hearing about boobies?!  So much for not sounding like a dirty old man!

I think I half-heartedly meant it as a joke. I’m not really sure, because I obviously wasn’t thinking when I blurted it out.  Thankfully, they took it as a joke. I could tell because they laughed. Not that fake, ha ha laugh, but a genuine laugh.

I was glad they laughed. It helped to dissipate my feeling of awkwardness about the situation and my ill-timed comment. It is nice to know they are comfortable enough with me to talk about these issues in front of me. Or, maybe they would talk about these issues in front of any male, regardless of age or marital status. I don’t know and I’m not going to ask, for fear of sounding like a dirty old man – again.

Yup. I’m up two more bras for Christmas. Thanks, mom!

I think maybe, once upon a time, I’d asked my mom for a bra for Christmas. A SPORTS bra. I forget which Christmas, but I didn’t get one. I got the usual…white, seven hooks in back, bullet shaped cups, lined, no underwires, heavy duty shoulder straps. In duplicate. No, maybe one was flesh colored. The Goodwill usually makes out where I don’t, in this area.

My mother had to tell me it was time for a bra. I think I must have been nine or ten. We were in Caldor’s and she says (in a voice loud enough to be heard all the way to Georgia, and we lived in Connecticut) “Why aren’t you wearing a bra? If you don’t start wearing one, they’ll be down to your knees by the time you’re twelve.” I never had a trainer; I just woke up one AM to find that my nightgown wasn’t fitting across my chest anymore (OK, so I’m a little clueless) and went straight to the big leagues. My family isn’t known for its flat chested women.

When I was a teenager, sexy lingerie became popular. You’d think, as she used putting away my laundry for me as an excuse to snoop, my mom would have figured I liked cute and lacy underthings as opposed to practical. But no dice. I hit college and still, every Christmas, I’d get granny panties up to my chin and a heavy duty bullet bra. I had a longtime boyfriend; I don’t know if the underwear was to deter the inevitable and act as birth control of whether it was punishment for being young and sexually active. Not that the boyfriend was a particular sex machine, but still.

I began to suspect something when my best friend from college became my sister in law and I still got granny panties and she got bikinis. I confronted my mother. 

“No granny panties for Jen? No bullet bra? What gives?”

“Well,” my mother responded enigmatically, “Jennifer doesn’t wear a bra.” 

Grumble, grumble, grumble.

So now I’ve been married ten years and have a child and this Christmas, I still got the bullet bra. After having and nursing a child, I have nothing left to PUT in the bra, but she apparently hasn’t noticed.

But I did finally get my sports bra. Even if it does have “CHILL OUT” embroidered on it. My mother confesses that she, too, feels the sports bras are more comfortable to wear than the sexy ones. Nothing like an underwire digging in to your ribcage as your bra deteriorates and the wire works its way through. I never hand wash my bras anyway. I do try and keep them hooked in the washer but often they hook on the edge of the washing machine and get bent and twisted out of shape, the hooks irretreivably damaged. I used to wear a 32 D. You’d think they’d see “D cup” and ditch the padding, but they must get confused by the 32. Padding doesn’t fare well in the machine but it does keep the men around me from telling me it’s cold in the room based on tricks of my anatomy.

So, off I go. Time to drop the white bra in the Goodwill box…

A Different Kind Of Little Bird

My buddy D-Cup at PoliTits has a great post called Little Bird up today (trying to determine the mathematical probability that two Jews would be shopping at the same Publix in rural Georgia looking for the same customary candles… her hubby, MathMan is the perfect solutions-provider for that**See Note).

The other part was sharing about gifts that she and her family received in the mail… which is the perfect entrée into sharing about the Christmas gifts that we have received in the mail this year (especially since a couple of them came from regular visitors to this blog).

So here’s the deal: I sell equipment for various companies and a couple send me a Christmas gift every year.

This is a regular gift from the same company the last three or four years and is probably the best peanut brittle I ever ate. I am torn, because they used to send a gift package that included different chocolate covered delights (pretzels that were divine) from a Sarris Candies in Pennsylvania (that link takes you to the old gift package and you see the new below… I’m just sayin’. Agreed, that is some good peanut brittle, but compared to the Sarris stuff… let’s just say that the economy is apparently hurting many of us).

LOL

Below are two gifts from the same company (Italian that has a sales office in the US). The first is a can of flat biscotti (which is truly excellent and, no, I don’t read Italian) and the second is a bottle of fine extra virgin olive oil blogged about here. Perhaps someone (like my friend, Kelso’s Nuts) may have some recipe suggestions. The most exquisite cooking oil I ever used was peanut oil to fry catfish in (and I make some of the best you will ever eat, as a matter of fact). So, any help is appreciated.

As you all know, I am a redneck and the people who sent the Italian stuff knows this.

So, I responded with an email that said:

Thanks for the gift package, but I think the wine is ruined. BuelahLady and I drank the whole thing last night (it tasted awful) and I have the runs real bad this morning. Oh yeah, I never did get a buzz.

On another note, the frisbees you sent break very easily, so we can’t use them as you intended.

But it’s the thought that counts…

** I’m jealous that I cannot get my better half to blog (either here or her own place)

My second most favorite pair threw down her life story in a favorite albums tag. As usual with her (we think a lot alike), I don’t get into the tag stuff, but I do like the idea of sharing a bit about oneself this way (and NOOOO, I did NOT EVER get into Cyndi Lauper…. rolling eyes).

In my case, I go way back because as a small child my whole world revolved around music (my earliest album I can remember was Whipped Cream by Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass). My dad was a trumpet player and I began tooting one around 4 (1965).

Even at that age I could appreciate good music (and album covers).

As my little sister and I grew up, we inherited my older cousins’ albums as they graduated to newer forms of music. They were rich and always had the swinging parties and the kids were doing the twist (they were 5 and 8 years older than I), which moved on to “harder stuff”.

Some of the most memorable are really strange in most people’s eyes, however, if you had seen me in Tokyo one night after leaving what is known as the “Playboy’s Club” with the president of the company I worked for at the time… doing my Elvis impression at a Karaoke bar with several beautiful Japanese women swooning at my every move…

you might understand…

Click the pics for selections from the movie. I bet I sang into a hairbrush 10,000 times on those two albums and now, 40+ years later STILL know every word of every song. It fine tuned a decent Elvis impersonation, too.

But alas, like the King, I too had my fall. By the time I was around 10 (1971), my cousins had me hooked. They gave me this album and swore they would never give me another if I didn’t hide it from my mother:

It wasn’t because of the title song, either. It was because it had the words, “God Damn, The Pusher Man.” (They loved their pusher… just kidding) Oh, and the fact it talks about “smoke a lotta grass and popped a lotta pills”.

Those two did me right and fed my Rock and Roll hunger early on.

Let me tell you something. This was radical for a punk kid who had been forced to listen to country music  most of the time (or sneak my transistor radio into the closet at night to listen to WGN out of Chicago).

This album was the first I ever bought with my money (circa 1972 maybe).

And the one that ruined me forever (which coincidentally matches the time I started getting high as a crazy youth.

Click this prism (do NOT be high when you do it).

I know its cheep – but it is much easier than writing on philosophy.

Driving traffic to a Blog is like “Herding Cats” (a metaphor to an Impossible mission).
Herding is the act of bringing individual animals together into a group (herd), maintaining the group and moving the group from place to place—or any combination of those (Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia).
O.K – Now think of Cats… Get it ???

Trip N’ Burn presents : a photo by Someone who deserves a credit ©
I don’t want to be accused of plagiarism – but I really don’t remember where I got it from.

So, I said it before – I’ve noticed that for some obscure reasons, any post with the Term “TITS” in its title and Tag, is bringing in visitors “Like bees to honey” – or, as they say in our places: “Like flies to shit”…
And, once again I have to get a boost of “Posts views” (for the sole reason of beating my feminist friend in the race for higher stats’ score).

As I see it – I’m giving you the Treat of clicking on a post titled with a Promise for some thing, I have no intension of Delivering… I know what you wished for – and it ain’t what you got !!!

* Technique is a procedure used to accomplish a specific activity or task (thanks, Wiki).

Hot Wildlife chicken breast Roasted with love -
Cutting Edge Art that will give you a Heartbreak…

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The segment/commercial that explains this new entry into the bra marketplace is pretty wonderful.  I would write more however I’m pretty exhausted from a long day, but I just wanted to share this with you because I care.  And in a little world called “courtesy” that I grew up in, I was taught that that sharing IS caring.

Safed (pronounced Tzfat in Hebrew) is a city in the Northern District of Israel and it is one of Judaism’s Four Holy Cities, along with Jerusalem, Tiberias and Hebron. Safed is the birth town of Kabbalah (Jewish mysticism) and still is a center for Kabbalah students and followers. The Jewish community of Safed started growing in the 15^th century and Rabbi Issac Luria (“HaAri” – the lion) – Kabbalah’s foremost advocate – came to live and teach here in 1569. Another famous Jewish scholar who lived here is Rabbi Joseph Caro, author of the “Shulchan Aruch”, and in the local synagogue named after him you will find over 400 years old Torah scrolls.   

Located in the mountains of the Galilee, Safed is the highest city in Israel (850 m) and thus enjoys a spectacular view of the Lower Galilee, Meiron Mountain, the Hermon Mountain and the Sea of Galilee. If not for anything else – the vista – is a good enough reason to stop by Safed. 

Safed is known for its relaxing mountainous atmosphere and for its artists’ quarter. Walking through the narrow alleyways of the artist’s district is a special experience – the galleries are small and intimate and the local population is kindhearted and inviting. It seems that the people of Safed live in a time zone of their own. They somehow find the time to have tea or coffee in the garden with perfect strangers touring through their town, and they find pleasure in getting to know their guests.

Safed offers a perfect escape from the intensive and material rat-race, it is so peaceful and calming that one can very easily find herself wanting to meditate…

Spiritual Safed is all about Relaxing, Meditating, Landscape and Kabbalah

• Travel Israel: Guide, Travel Tips, Photos and Videos
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• Israeli Fashion and Designers
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Nicht, dass ich jetzt zur allgemeinen Unbildung aufrufen möchte, indem ich dem Bildungsbürger seinen Stern ausrede, nein, Amica hat das erkannt, was mir schon seit geraumer Zeit auf den Keks geht.

Unendlich riesige Dekolletées.

Es gibt sie wirklich, die Ausschnitte, aus denen alles herauszufallen droht. Gefährlich wankt es, schwappt und man meint, die Glocken läuten zu hören wann immer sie ihr Schritttempo erhöhen. Hätte ich es nicht mit eigenen Augen gesehen, ich hätte es für eine Mär aus dem Jerry Springer – Universum gehalten.

Was man diesen Frauen mal sagen sollte, ist, dass Männer das in der Form garnicht sehen wollen. “Kannst du nicht mal zu Xy gehen und ihr sagen, dass sie nicht immer so enge/ausgeschnittene/betonte Oberteile anziehen soll? Mir ist das peinlich wenn ich da hinkucke…” war sicher nicht die Reaktion, die frau mit ihren Rundungen provozieren wollte. Jetzt bin ich ja vor der Hütte nicht so massv beholzt, dass ich mich diesem Problem je hätte stellen müssen, aber ich mach das Gedankenspiel mal mit.

Aus Sicht der Frau gibt es eine Reihe guter Gründe, seine Auslage offen vor sich her zu tragen. Die Männer gucken hin, weniger begüterte Frauen sind womöglich neidisch, man kann mit den hinguckenden Männern das ein oder andere Spielchen spielen (“Sieh dir an was du nieeeee kriegen wirst!!!”), alles im Sinne des eigenen Selbstbewusstseins, was einen Push(up) erfahren dürfte.

Aus Sicht eines Mannes…

Also da haben wir natürlich einerseits die sabbernden Deppen die sich direkt drankletten und sofort vom Geläut betäubt nur noch an das mammale Wohlgefühl von Früher denken…
Und wir haben die, die sich von der geballten Weiblichkeit ein bisschen überfordert fühlen. Brüste. Schön. Darf ich meinen Fokus jetz woanders hin verle….nein? ok… *resignier*

Männer kucken da nunmal hin. Und es ist ihnen unter Umständen garnicht mal so angenehm, wie man vielleicht meint. Manche schämen sich richtig dafür und werden so hilflos, dass sie andere Frauen bitten, “das”"wegzumachen”.

Und das dürfte das letzte sein, was frau eigentlich mit ihrem Outfit bewirken wollte.
Eigentlich ist das… offen gestanden… ziemlich ziemlich peinlich.

Schon allein deshalb weil man aus dieser Halluzination, der Mann an sich wolle das eigene Milchgeschäft auf Teufelkommraus sehen, aufgeweckt wird. Will er nämlich nicht.
In seiner eigenen Weiblichkeit so zurückgewiesen zu werden, ist ultra bitter.

Aber!

Die Brustpartie an sich ist ja jetzt nicht so abstoßend, dass man sie verstecken müsste, auch wenn sie vielleicht über dem Durchschnitt liegt in Sachen Größe.

Da kommt jetzt mein Plädoyer für die Amica ins Spiel. Die hat nämlich ausgesprochen, was ich im Puncto Verpackungskunst oberhalb des Bauchnabels denke.

“Nichts mögen Männer aber weniger, als zwangsweise in Peeping-Toms verwandelt zu werden. Zudem gilt der Anblick sekundärer Geschlechtsmerkmale als Privileg einer Partnerschaft und wird daher auch ungern geteilt.” schreibt’s.

Und bitte, nehmt’s euch zu Herzen.

Auf dass sowas hier der Vergangenheit angehören möge:

“Sagen Sie mal, haben Sie Haare auf der Brust?”

“Nein!!”

“Dann ist Ihr Kleid wohl zu tief ausgeschnitten…”

My Theories and Ideas regarding Art and Photography…

I’m not only about Burning Man and Burning Man Festival – I am also about ART.
I said it once and will say it again – I am an Exhibitionists.
I dream of one day making an Exhibition of only Me – With lots of Ego-Trippin etc.
My Philosophy of Art is that every thing you put in context of an Art Place -
Is ART.

Take a look at this photo for example -
It is a model of a venue I want to install:

Trip N’ Burn presents : ” Art vs. Bob ” made by The Plucked Rat © – Click for more…

I had this Dream about an Art Project I make in the future -
It is of an Art Palace full of Video Art installations of My Self -
On Big Screens and in Close-Ups… (the-big-ego-trip),
And in this Fun Event I’ll combine Low Art with Mighty Fine Art.
Make a full of the spectators and lure them to believe they see Art -
When in fact all they see is merely Bob…

You enter this Random Art Exhibition as if you entered a Candy Shop -
An Eye Candy shop… Full of Cool Things that’ll give you a culture-shock.
Pink – Blue – Green – Yellow… That sort of shit -
You know – STUFF…

Note: I am a Wannabie Artist – for sell – and god dam it – the demand now a days is very low for the crap I’m selling – so obviously, the prices went down – and if you ask me – now is the time to buy… buy… buy…

If you think crazy Video Performances can be good shit -
Wait till the smoke goes away – Then the Rat goes loose…

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Here is a nice photo 4 U guys (of 4 pairs of tits) – Were else, but in Burning Man.

Amazing Fact: Sex Still Sells !!!
Because I saw how much you loved the “Critical Tits Bicycle Ride” post,
I decided to give you some more of the same dish…

So here’s three pairs of tits on the roof of an RV with a lucky bastard -
That only god knows, what the fuck is he holding between his legs…

Trip N’ Burn presents : a photo by Alon Truman ©

If anyone has a notion of what this yellow thing is -
Comment below and let us all know…
It all looks as something from the 1990s…
No Fucking Bullshit, it is a Heartbreak form of Art – Look and Weep…
And Remember – You don’t need Visas to go there !!!

Hot Topless playa chicks on a Hot RV roof top – It is no Art, But they are Nude in a Parking Lot (even if in Black Rock)…

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Critical Mass Rides are non-commercial, non-competitive and usually not as Fun.

First of all I hardly ride my bicycle – I ride a scooter !!!
Second – It is almost suicide to ride them – one could get run over by a truck or so…
But, talking about a Day Trip in Black Rock City – Enter this to your Shopping List :
When Going to Burning Man Festival – Do Not Forget to bring Your Bikes !!!

Trip N’ Burn presents : a photo taken by Tzur Noy ©

If anyone wonders what this photo is taking the piss of -
“Critical Mass is an event ( typically held on the last Friday of every month in cities around the world ) where bicyclists and other self-propelled commuters, take to the streets. The ride was originally founded with the idea of drawing attention to how unfriendly the city was to bicyclists…” (text from Wikipedia).

In Burning Man Festival – on Friday afternoon – There is a huge Ride of Top-Less gorges hot women of all ages. It was originally founded with the idea of drawing attention to how unfriendly the gravity was to their titis… Say what ??? Now don’t you start talking of corporate take over and shit… man…

And naturally, I consider this an act of Psychedelic Performance Art -
And a good one as well – a Fluxus Fun Event of Urban Public Nude Art -
It is Cutting Edge… Seriously – - -
Imagen you are surrounded by 360 Topless Artists – ain’t it a Wildlife… Extraterrestial !

Hot Topless Playa Chick: when in Burning Man Festival -
Get on a Bicycle, and don’t miss on the Critical Tits Ride !

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Common Bra Myths Revealed

• A B cup is always a B cup; a D cup is always a D cup: The cup size is actually proportionate to the band size, when you go down in band size you should increase the cup size and vice versa, so a 38B is the same amount of cup as a 34D.

• Underwire is always uncomfortable: The underwire is designed to give support but if worn in the wrong place it can be very painful. The answer is not always.

• Lace is itchy: Many women have been burned by discount fabrics but quality lace should feel soft and comfortable. When it comes to lace you get what you pay for, look for reputable brands and natural fibers with just a little bit of stretch. 

• They don’t make anything (pretty) in my size: Major Bra Brands like Chantelle and Le Mystere design fashionable bras for a variety of sizes (up to an H cup) and the UK’s Eveden Corporation makes bras up to a JJ cup and bands from 28-56.  Other quality bra makers are following suit, expanding their size ranges every season.