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Dec 31 2013

Gal Gadot’s Breasts Are Just Fine for Wonder Woman, Thank You

By at 1:01 pm

gal

Don’t mess with Gal! The Israeli 28-year-old beauty was recently cast to play Wonder Woman in the upcoming Man of Steel sequel, and has been batting off some harsh criticism since the announcement.

Naysayers have said that Gal is not “womanly” enough or “busty” enough to play a character usually depicted with an extremely perky set of breasts.

Gal spoke to Israel’s “Good Evening With Gai Pines” show and gracefully gave the interviewer a little peace of her mind:

“I represent the Wonder Woman of the new world,” she said. “Breasts? Anyone can buy for 9,000 shekels (roughly $2,500 in U.S. dollars) and everything is fine.

“By the way, Wonder Woman is Amazonian, and historically accurate Amazonian women actually had only one breast. So, if I’d really go ‘by the book,’ it’d be problematic.”

Good going, Gal. Set ‘em straight.

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Feb 26 2013

What is the Deal with Breasts?

By at 2:23 pm

bras hanging on clotheslineI wish the song had been, “We saw your balls!”

Seth MacFarlane, an Oscars host only a 12-year-old boy could love, chose to sing a puerile (and insulting) song listing the actresses whose mammary glands he gleefully got to see this past year at the movies.

You know, I’ve had it. In today’s culture, either women’s bodies are sexualized to the point that none of us can feel sexy, or they are derided as objects of fun. In any case, enough is really more than enough. Read the rest of this entry →

Sep 8 2011

Empty Breast Syndrome

By at 12:36 pm

When I flew to Los Angeles for eight days, I took the following with me: Ten pairs of underwear, eight tanktops, six pairs of pants, four bras, and two lactating breasts.

Yes, Little Homie was still on the boob, and as I struggled with the decision to go to LA or not, the breastfeeding issue was the big pink nursing elephant (spraying milk all over the room.)

The thing is, Little Homie is 20 months – and while, like Mayim Bialik, I love the idea of child-led weaning, after 21 cases of mastitis and sleepless nights spent lying like a sow in bed next to my (not so little) nursling, I have reached the point of no return where every time he latches on, I want to bite back. Dude has molars, people. And an extensive vocabulary which includes the words “boob,” “nipple,” and “areola.”

Fortunately, we had already nixed the day nursing a long time ago when Little Homie started gan (kindergarten)¸ but that still left us with the night sessions, which most parents will agree are even harder to end because, after all, during the day, you’ve got about 10,000 distractions you can draw on if need be. But at night? Well, it’s just you, your “booboos,” and your (screaming) baby. (And a palpable awareness of your neighbors. Several blocks away.) And when your kid’s “transitional objects” are your breasts, weaning…well, sucks.

And in the week before we left, we had some rough nights: Little Homie was like a belligerent frat boy, pissed off that this beleaguered bar-wench had announced last call. But (somehow) we made it, and by the time I boarded the plane, I had effectively closed Mama’s Milk Bar.

But while Little Homie was dealing with this sobering new reality like a champ, on the other side of the world, my breasts were very confused. Because, after all, ever since that day in May of 2008 when M. corkscrewed into this world with a mighty yell, my boobs have hung (precariously and pendulously) in the balance between supply and demand. Every few hours, they would swell with milk, and one of my babies would empty them. And so it would go. From sunrise until, well, sunrise, through each passing season for three years and three months.

Lactating (and leaking) through the baby years was par for the course. Until I went to LA without taking the baby with me. The first 24 hours passed without much incident, and I figured my milk would just go quietly into the night, but on the second day of my trip, I woke up from a nightmare about fire ants crawling all over my chest. Half asleep, I tried to brush them away, but the sensation of hand-on-boob felt like getting knifed in the aerola. In my dream-daze, I looked down, and where my rolling hillocks had been the night before were mighty mountains I barely recognized as my own.

Can I get a “WTF,” people?

It was like Beyonce’s ass had landed on my chest. All firm and round and whatnot.

And it freaking HURT. Read the rest of this entry →

Jul 26 2011

Beware of the Boobies

By at 3:29 pm

A breastfeeding doll is heading to the US after making a splash in Europe.

Don’t read this if you are easily freaked out by breasts.

Apparently, people can be really freaked out by breasts. Breasts can be titillating (deliberate word choice), but can also inspire panic and fear. Admittedly, panic and fear is not generally prompted by viewing of a Girls Gone Wild: Mardi Gras New Orleans Special! No, apparently, panic and fear are natural, visceral responses to a breast’s natural and visceral use, i.e. to feed a small person.

As you’ll recall, my husband J. and I will have our first anniversary this fall, but had our first child two weeks ago (it was a blissfully efficient honeymoon). So we’re pretty fond of each other and all in that newlywed, making-other-people-kind-of-sick way. We went out last night and had a lovely time. Driving home from the movies last night (it is going to be a rude awakening when the baby nurse leaves), I said to my husband, “You know, I get the strangest feeling that lately, you’re vaguely scared of my breasts.”

“What makes you say that?” he asked. Note: no denial. After some hesitation, he said, “Well, yes…I’m a little scared that they’re going to blow.”

“Hon, they’re breasts, not hand grenades,” I told him. But I could see where he’d make that mistake. Thanks to breastfeeding, the girls have turned into full-fledged Amazon women. They are fierce ladies who don’t want to be contained by any regular bra. Instead, they’re bound up into snap-and-trap-like contraptions that could be oddly erotic, in a dominatrix-y way…except for the fact that they are SO not.

The dichotomy between hot boobs and breastfeeding boobs is a gap that is approximately as wide as the Grand Canyon. Nursing is not erotic. And if you venture the opinion that it is, I have one Medela Pump In Style Advanced Breast Pump that will prove you wrong. My 6-year-old son came downstairs after being tucked in one night, only to find the woman formerly known as his mother on the couch, with bottles and suction materials poking out from a KKK-esque bustier she was sporting, nipples poking out of the eyeholes. His eyeballs nearly fell out of their sockets. Whatever bad dream he came downstairs to address, I’m pretty sure I topped it. Read the rest of this entry →

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