Guernica’s Kristen O’Regan went undercover as a woman seeking a labiaplasty to investigate the world of vaginal rejuvenation, a field of surgery which is “relatively unregulated and frequently botched, as indicated by the staggering number of clinics that advertise discreet revisions of bungled previous surgeries.” One of her many disturbing discoveries was a that a procedure called “The Barbie”is growing in popularity:
Dr. Red Alinsod, a urogynecologist in Laguna Beach, California, claims that his most requested surgical procedure is the Barbie: a procedure that excises the entire labia minora. This results in a ‘clamshell’ aesthetic: a smooth genital area, the outer labia appearing ‘sealed’ together with no labia minora protrusion. Alinsod tells me he invented the Barbie in 2005. “I had been doing more conservative labiaplasties before then,” he says. “But I kept getting patients who wanted almost all of it off. They would come in and say, I want a ‘Barbie.’ So I developed a procedure that would give them this comfortable, athletic, petite look, safely.”
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If you noticed slightly fewer baby panda-related posts on The Frisky last week, your eyes were not deceiving you. I was out sick, or I guess I should say “in” sick, because all I did was sleep, read Gone Girl, and sleep some more.
Because I’ve been a recluse from society and have no idea what’s going on — apparently Ryan Gosling sells knives on QVC now!?!?— all I have to tell you about today is my observations on the best/worst parts of being sick. Keep reading »
When I got my period for the first time, I cried. Hard. Just a few months before, while waiting to board to the bus to head to camp for a week, I saw a girl from my class bawling her eyes out. “What’s wrong with Becky?” I asked one of my friends.
“She got her period,” my friend replied solemnly. “She has cramps. And she doesn’t want to deal with wearing pads all week.” Keep reading »
I am writing this post for the most part as a response to Amelia, whose number two New Year’s resolution was to drink more water. But also, because I am passionate about drinking water. I like to refer to myself as a water enthusiast, although I am probably more of an aquaholic. (Sometimes I drink more than the recommended eight glasses a day.)
I grew up in the Arizona desert, where the arid air gives you permanent dry mouth and the tap water is undrinkable. Or at least, I had a conspiracy theorist teacher in middle school who spent entire class periods telling us how the fluoride in the water supply would kill us all. That’s when I stopped drinking tap water. Even if it wasn’t dangerous, it tasted like rust to me. So, I got into the habit of always carrying “safe” water on my person. My dad, a serious athlete, kept massive amounts of bottled water in the house, and I got into my water habit at an early age. How hydrated I am directly correlates to how good my day is going. If I didn’t drink enough water, chances are, it was a bad day and I was all tense and running around. That is a sad day in my world. Keep reading »
When I was in college studying in Italy, I got insanely, disgustingly skinny. My host mother fed us very little. I think she requested vegetarian students because she thought vegetarians ate less. Each night, she would stir a tablespoon of canned spaghetti sauce over a 1/2 portion of pasta, cigarette in hand, and when we were done eating (she never ate — she was the size of a mouse) she’d look at us with threatening eyes, shrug and say, “What else you want?”
I was just so happy to be there, so willing to assimilate into my new lifestyle, and always a little nervous about doing new things, that I was too timid to ask for more. After a while, I didn’t even realize I was hungry. And my stomach got smaller and smaller. I weighed about 120 pounds when I got there, a healthy amount for my 5’2″ frame. After a few months in Italy, since I didn’t have a scale, I can only guess I was down to about 90 pounds. It scares me to type that number out. So much. Keep reading »
It will never get worse than this.
I’m thinking that to myself as I rock back and forth on a toilet in a noisy bar. It’s Saturday night, a table full of my friends is wondering where I ran off to, and I have a potential date/booty call in a couple of hours. I’m sweating, I’m shaking and I’m trying to figure out what did it this time.
It, of course, is another horrific bout of diarrhea, one of the charming effects of irritable bowel syndrome. I felt it coming on as we walked to the bar, and made a beeline to the gas station across the street. I had to wait while the cashier bullshitted with a cabbie, shifting weight from one foot to another while cramps amped their way up my abdomen. Keep reading »