Designer Vaginas
During a lunch with her gal pals Starshine gets an earful about vaginal reconstruction.
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During a lunch with her gal pals Starshine gets an earful about vaginal reconstruction.
That Disneyland glow masks a world of lies.
On the very same day that scientists announced an alarming number of the country’s honeybees had gone missing, I found them. Not the scientists; the bees. They were in my garage.
Starshine questions how the shootings at Virginia Tech could have happened on a college campus when such places should be bastions of freedom and idealism.
The floor is littered with apple cores, road maps, and someone’s discarded socks. The smell of cattle overtakes me from time to time. And after the third hour, my butt begins to ache.
Last weekend, like all weekends before it, I was confronted with a barrage of shame-inducing images: Fleshless twenty-somethings flitting along downtown sidewalks in jeans tighter than the skin on grapes. Itty bitty bikinis dangling in department store windows, looking more like polka dot rubber bands than something that might actually cover my ba-donk-a-donk.
Hot breath and warm bellies. Wide eyes and feet softer than feet have a right to be. Critters don’t get much cuter than puppies and babies. But it’s not their cuteness I wish to discuss here. It’s the vexing chaos they cause.
t takes a divine sort of woman to be a domestic goddess, and I’m not her.
I’m no stranger to sedation.
As a teen, whenever the storm of adolescence would shudder through my soul and come surging out of my face in the form of sobs and tears, my mother would offer me Valium.
Americans have an odd relationship with corporal punishment. On the one hand, we are an enlightened country that professes civil rights for all citizens. We don’t allow business owners to beat their workers. We no longer tolerate husbands who wallop their wives.