(The Rack is a weekly Friday column by fit model, bartender, musician and future superstar, Tammy.)

The past month has brought a lot of change. I left my nanny gig to free up more time for music work, and traded my awful waitressing job (and its terrible, buttoned-all-the-way-up-with-a-tie uniform) for an increased focus on singing and songwriting and a bartending job just three blocks away from my apartment. My boss(es) are fair, my coworkers are awesome, the food is DELICIOUS, the money is better…and best of all, I can wear WHATEVER I WANT (as long as it’s black). I’ve used the new dress code as an excuse to buy a handful (and counting) of adorable black tops (and wraps, belts, skinny jeans, sweaters…) which conveniently double as a wardrobe for the rest of my life. A girl can never have too many sexy black things…which leads me to this week’s rant.

As you may know from earlier posts, I’ve given up on trying to hide my cleavage. High-necked styles always make me feel frumpy, and I’m pretty much the opposite of conservative…so despite the fact that I’d be more comfortable if my breasts were smaller and in proportion with my frame, I usually end up wearing things that are low cut, which means cleavage, cleavage…and more cleavage. As a nanny I suffered through many an embarrassing question and my fair share of pinches by tiny little hands, but as a bartender I’m mostly just dealing with stares, winks, smiles, increased alcohol consumption, and the amassing of tips– piles of tips. Safely behind my mahogany bar, I don’t complain about the exploitation of women, because the power to cover myself up or send an inappropriate patron on his or her way is in my hands…and so, with drinks poured, jokes told, interesting conversations had, and yes, cleavage, I’m paying off my school loans.

So what is there to rant about? The one guy in ten who has to ask the most pointless, irritating question any guy can ever ask a girl with large breasts:

…How big are they??

For as long as I live I will never understand this question. They’re big, OK? We both know you’re looking at them, and because I’m at work and because you’re a customer and because sex sells, I won’t say “My eyes are up here, buddy,” and get all irritated and militant on you. But do you really have to ask what size bra I wear? Will knowing whether they’re a DD or a DDD make any difference in your (hopeless) fantasies? Does it change how much you like or dislike me? Does it put me in the mood?


It will just make me angry. I have never, ever gotten involved with a guy who has asked me this inane question, and I never will. No guy who has ever been lucky enough to see “the rack” in “the flesh” has ever stopped to check the tag on my bra, either. So, take heed, boys. If you think you have a shred of a chance at getting anywhere near me OR my breasts, do yourself a favor and zip it. We’ve all heard the old adage of “A lady never reveals her age.” Well, today I’m proposing an amendment. “A lady never reveals her age…or her bra size.”