Fifty Shades of Grey: Whipped Into Reality

Hello friends and followers! This will be my last blog post on It was good while it lasted but time to move on to other things. My one year reign is up! So here is one last rant for you all to read while you’re looking for something to peruse as you waste time at work.

Fifty Shades of Grey: Whipped Into Reality

Pardon me, but I HATED this book and if you did too, read along. This one’s for you…


When the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy first came out, a friend of mine told me I’d loooooove it because it was, *mommy porn*. (Just Google that term and the first thing that comes up is, surprise, surprise, Fifty Shades of Grey). I was a bit confused. I’m not a mom and I’m not into porn… of that kind. I’ll admit, the only reason I read it was to see what all the hype was about. I had heard such mixed reviews all the way from my literary genius friends to my non-reader acquaintances who hadn’t read a book in twenty years and chose this of all books, to pick up. So I kept my expectations low, and needless to say, they were met. When I walked up to the counter at Chapters over two years ago to buy the book and asked the male cashier what he thought of it, he gave me two words, “Pure shite”. Poor guy was probably forced to read it for his job, knowing thousands of eager females would be coming into the store to ask about it. I should’ve stopped right there, put the book back on the shelf and sent myself over to Starbucks for a Venti Frappuccino instead. But no, I wasted $15 of my hard earned money on, Pure Shite. The first chapter in, I knew right away this was, Pure Shite. I mean, a plain looking, naïve girl working in a hardware store somehow manages to entice a millionaire playboy who is supposed to be the hottest guy in literary history? Seriously? Who out there actually bought that? Who are these gullible people?


I also soon discovered that the writing was, Pure Shite. And for future reference EL James, no woman in history, I’m sure, ever said, “Oh my!” after an orgasm. The fact that you beat us over the head with it every time little Hardware Annie and Mr. Grey brought out the whips and chains just made me cringe. We scream, we gasp, we moan and occasionally cause a flesh wound in the throws of passion, but we do not say, “Oh my!”. Ever. Unless of course you’re Dick Enberg. Oh and can we talk about the main character’s name – Anastasia Steele? Well at least you got one thing right in the mommy porn genre, a ridiculous name, also cringe worthy.


What further shocked me was finding out a few of my male friends were also reading it. Just to, “see what all the hype was about” and to see if they could, “learn something”. You can guarantee the fellas weren’t reading this book in public on the subway or on the treadmill at the gym. Did they learn anything from this book? Nope. And if they think they did, someone better hit them upside the head with a dose of reality and set them all straight. Cinderella, Snow White and even that story about the little mermaid turning into a human and marrying a prince are far more believable than what went on in Fifty Shades of Grey. Believe me, turning a pumpkin into a gold coach is far more plausible than meeting a millionaire ass smacker, bemused by your job at the hardware store.

Little Mermaid

It’s hard to stomach that EL James is laughing all the way to the bank on this. We were all duped into plopping down our cash for this trash when we all could’ve watched a few re-enactments on youporn for free. Luckily, one book was enough for me, and I will definitely NOT be reading the next two in the trilogy nor going to the movie. Yes, I know thousands of women will be flocking to the cinema, hoping Christian Grey will leap off the pages and into their underpants with his mesmerizing arsenal of BDSM but I certainly won’t be. Not even my slight curiosity can lead me to the trough on this one. And what’s worse, we’ll have to sit through the ever revolving publicity wheel for two more of these things. Oh and here’s the kicker, release date for the movie… Valentine’s Day 2015. Well, I’m thinking next year, the chocolates and bouquets just aren’t gonna cut it.

To all the ladies (and spattering of gents) that feel the same way as I do about this over hyped book and movie, rest assured, like a bad decision, this too shall pass.

And that’s it! It’s been fun… Hangin’ up my end now.

xo AM

To Mute or Not To Mute: The Ongoing Saga of Maria Sharapova’s Octave Range

(Considering it’s U.S. Open Tennis time and considering my sporty roots, figured it was time to blog about something sporty)

To Mute or Not To Mute: The Ongoing Saga of Maria Sharapova’s Octave Range

Oh Maria, how we love your statuesque beauty, your ferociousness on the court and your ability to whomp a forehand winner down the line. But one thing I simply cannot stomach is the non-stop shrieking that accompanies every shot. Maria Sharapova may be the sole reason the mute button was invented. Must you shriek with every single shot as though you’ve just confronted a fresh zombie from The Walking Dead? When did this become the norm in women’s tennis?


As a devout tennis fan and fan of Sharapova, I find this endless shrieking off putting and downright intolerable. Many of my male friend tennis fans will simply not watch her matches… without The Mute. What coach teaches his little protégé to shriek on EVERY FRICKIN’ SHOT? As an athlete myself, I fully understand that letting out the odd yelp or grunt can muster that extra ounce of adrenalin, maybe even give you an edge. But as a fan who has to sit through it, shot after shot after shot, I simply can’t do it. Sharapova’s display of remarkable athleticism is so often over shadowed by her high shrieking side show. It’s bad enough on television, imagine how bad it is live on court. And what’s worse than Sharapova’s shriek riddled play… when she faces off against Victoria Azarenka. One shrieker playing another shrieker. Excruciating.


You don’t see the likes of Eugenie Bouchard, Caroline Wozniacki or Serena Williams subjecting us to an arsenal of bad opera. I often wonder how the umpire can tolerate it. Maybe there should be a noise meter out there on court, if Sharapova gets above a certain decibel, a point to her opponent!

Could you imagine if Tiger Woods’ swing was accompanied by a loud yelp or vocal outburst every time he hit a shot? And no, I’m not talking about the jackass that has to yell, “Get in the hole!”, before he’s even finished his backswing.


Golf and tennis may be two very different sports but just imagine. In no other sport, is this level of vocal display a part of the game. It would be laughable. And so is the ear splitting antics of Sharapova and her fellow shriekers. Maybe it helps her hit the big shots, maybe it’s an effective tactic to distract her opponent. But as a fan, please stop. Please. Just stop. I do not want to be forced to watch the future of Sharapova with Closed Captioning, although I’m sure even it wouldn’t be able to tolerate this… “eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”

xo AM

How To Have A Kardashian Wedding

How To Have A Kardashian Wedding

Yes, you really can. Just follow these 15 easy steps to the best day of your life…

1. First and foremost, get yourself a reality TV show. You will need to attract leeches/followers first or else no one will actually care about your wedding. A webcam and daily postings on YouTube will suffice.


2. Start dating/stalking anyone from the hip hop, basketball or Millionaire Boys Club community. No exceptions.

3. Make sure the proposal is MAJOR so that SNL will do a skit about it. Then Instagram the hell out of it and give it the hashtags #mostfamousproposalever #likever

4. Have a baby FIRST before walking down the aisle. This is important. It will ensure that the community member of your choice (see above) will still give you millions after the marriage falls apart.

5. Do not even think about looking on Pinterest for ideas. Remember, your wedding cannot pull from anyone else’s ideas other than your over-priced wedding planner or detract from your own warped sense of budget.

6. Alert People, US, Hello, National Enquirer, The Tattler and any other *reputable* editorial that you will be getting married. Confuse them by telling them you’ll be getting married at Point A then actually get married at Point B. It will make you feel so important when they still manage to find you.

7. Botox and inject fillers into EVERYTHING that will not be covered by your dress. Once your lips are plumped up to the size of your ass, you’re good to go.

8. Don’t panic if your Kardashian-like wedding doesn’t go off without a hitch… or last. Just remind yourself, this is just a practice run. You have ninety days to null and void and can then move onto even bigger and better wedding #2. Or #3. Or #4.

9. Remember, third time’s a charm for everything in life. Even bums get it right after the third time in the slammer and realize enough is enough.

10. Don’t invite anyone from your B-List, even if your A-List guests can’t make it. If they can’t afford your registry at Neil Lane and Tiffany’s, they weren’t your friends to begin with.

11. Ensure your wedding dress is one of a kind and totally costs more than your neighbor’s house. The same goes for your Reception Dress, your Pre-Cocktail Dress, your After Party Dress and your Leaving The Wedding Dress.

12. Discourage guests from buying you wedding gifts from your own Kardashian store because let’s face it, even the Kardashians know it’s all shit.

13. Only serve alcohol that starts with a “C”. And no, I do not mean Coors Light, Captain Morgan, CC or Courvoisier. (Think, rhymes with pis-tāl)


14. Forget about a groom’s cake. This day is all about YOU and only YOU. I repeat, this day is all about YOU.

15. Do not provide party favors. Your guests should be told to consider themselves lucky just for being invited.

And that everyone, is how a fairy tale wedding is done. Good luck.

xo AM


Selfie: The Art of Looking Ridiculous

Selfie: The Art of Looking Ridiculous

I love my iPhone. I love the pictures it can take and I love selfies. I love how they add a little humor to an otherwise arbitrary moment in our lives, simply because we have taken a photo of ourselves. Can you imagine our parents trying to take selfies back in the eighties with a Polaroid camera? What I don’t love, is the shameless, attention seeking, half-naked selfie that tells the world, you are so special you’re going to take a picture of yourself, (half naked) because hey, you’re so special you don’t need anyone else to take your picture for you. But let’s be honest, you are taking a picture of yourself in the first place (with no clothes on) because no true friend would take a picture for you posing like the girl in the Guess ads. Selfies are fun and spontaneous and if the citizens of the social media world would just stick to that, we could all be spared pictures of Kim Kardashian’s giant ass popping up on our laptops or the D-List celebutante trying to showcase her supermodel body to the world in the hopes she’ll start trending on Twitter.


I really, really love selfies and I’ve been involved in dozens of them. Every time I do something slightly questionable with my friends (usually involving vodka), I have to admit, a selfie usually follows. But never have I posed in anything short of a full wardrobe or with a facial expression that doesn’t naturally occur on a human. Social media and the selfie have taken the art of looking ridiculous to a whole new level. How many iron pumping, gym selfies do we need to see? I mean, really. Keep them spontaneous. Keep them fun. KEEP. YOUR. CLOTHES. ON.

How awesome was Ellen Degeneres’ record setting Oscar selfie with a slew of A-List stars? Even President Obama is akin to posting a selfie. It’s fun taking a picture of yourself (with your clothes on) or with your friends just being silly but turning your selfie into your come-hither, super sexy face just seems a bit, ‘Mirror, mirror on the wall’, to me. Please stop. For the good of mankind.

And if there is one thing that must be addressed in the world of selfie etiquette it is this… girls of the world, PLEASE. STOP. DOING. DUCKFACE. I’m not sure how this rabid phenomenon ever came about – I suspect it had something to do with a Kardashian – but it’s oh so unattractive and to say the least, flat out bizarre. Puckering up your lips to try and create the illusion of bee stung proportions just makes you look like you’re TRYING to make your lips look like bee stung proportions. No one’s buying it. Just like no one’s buying your Wonder Bra under your T-shirt.

To plead my case, here is a list of duckface selfies we should all try really, really hard to banish so that we can all go back to making selfies fun again.

Demure Duckface  Well, I guess this is the point of duckface in general. Trying to hollow in those cheekbones and puff up your smacker to entice the male species. Unless you’ve had a fresh hit of collagen plumping those babies up, please go back to your normal smile and let your lips fall where they may.


Drunk & Sloppy Duckface – It always seems like a good idea when you’ve had way too many wobbly pops but why add insult to injury? You already look like shit, don’t frame it in a nice little filter for the rest of us to see.

Drunk Girl

Subtle Duckface – I’ve been known to try this one on occasion, just to see if I look *natural*. But really, no matter how subtle you go, the flared nostrils will always give you away. Trust me, you can’t do duckface without flaring your nostrils. It’s like trying to keep your eyes open when you sneeze. Impossible. Mary Kate Olsen has perfected this look over the years. The original subtle duckface girl.


I Think I’m Marilyn Monroe Duckface – Should only be done if you are actually Marilyn Monroe. Yes, the duckface goes back to the Golden Age of Hollywood. But she knew how to do it without even trying.


The Self-Obsessed, Vain Woman Duckface – Always accompanied with wardrobe of trashy lingerie or one-piece white bathing suit with giant ass. (Scroll back up to top for full effect).

Sexy Selfie

J-Lo Duckface – Does she ever pose any other way? Eyes slightly squinting, of course to portray the inner sex goddess, lower lip slightly open, like you just wanna beckon that man walking by to, “Come ‘ere!”. Who is J-Lo always squinting at anyway?


And guys… one for you. Take note:

The Posing In Front Of The Mirror Shirtless At The Gym Selfie – Yeah, dudes, just don’t. Really, just don’t. We know you’re proud of your body and all your hard work, but this kind of selfie screams audition for Ron Jeremy.

Gym Selfie

So just remember, we all appreciate you taking the time to take a picture of yourself, but if you just can’t without exposing more of yourself than the world is willing to see, just know that we will all be embarrassed for you… And you will be embarrassed when you’re eighty.

Horse Selfie

The Original Selfie Guru

xo AM







The Best & Worst of the Sochi Olympics… well, some of it.

(From A Canadian Perspective…)


The Best

The Olympic Flame. Every single time, its arrival brings a chill up your spine. And always one of the most moving and emotional parts of the closing ceremonies when it’s extinguished.

Opening ceremonies. The illuminated doves were exquisite. Never mind that one of the snowflakes didn’t open up into the fifth Olympic ring, the ceremonies were spectacular. And lest we forget, this isn’t the first time there’s been a hitch. Remember poor Catriona LeMay Doan in Vancouver 2010, standing in the stadium for those long, awkward seconds, waiting for the arm to come down so she could light it. It never did. There’s already a T-shirt with the faulty Olympic ring. That guy will be a millionaire.


Dufour-Lapointe sisters from Canada winning gold and silver in the women’s moguls. When Justine cried, we all cried too.


Canadian men’s curling physiques. No words necessary, just look at the picture below.


Ski jumping, slopestyle and aerial skiing – those are some crazy muthas.

Snow boarder interviews. Full of ‘yeah man’s, ‘cool dude’s and ‘right on’s.  Can these guys be any more laid back? Refreshing.

Canadian cross country skiing coach replacing a Russian skier’s broken ski so that he could finish the race. Gilmore Junio giving up his spot in speed skating to allow Denny Morrison to compete. Denny won silver. Junio won the world. Olympic spirit at its finest.


‘Thanks for the Moms’ commercials. Makes me tear up every time.

Canada’s come from behind win against the Americans in women’s hockey. Astonishing.

Canada winning the gold medal in men’s hockey.

Canada Gold

The Worst (Or just plain odd)

The finish line in cross country skiing. Give these gals some cookies!

Finish Line

The lady knitting at the starting area of the slopestyle. WTF???


Weirdest prop – the giant Russian Matryoshka doll in the middle of the slope style hill. Complete with goggles to protect her from the snow glare. Oh and the palm tree at the base of ski jump. Meant to portray the tropical origins of ski jumping no doubt?


Norway’s curling pants. Thomas Ulsrud you are a gorgeous man. Do not try to ruin that. (To get the full effect of the picture below, please put on your 3D glasses, now.)


The aptly named ‘Carnage Corner’ in cross country skiing. Wipe outs galore!

Corrupt figure skating judges. Say what you will about who won what but it was pretty obvious to even the feeblest of fans that something wasn’t right. Will we ever see a skating world without pre-determined results?

White colored men’s bobsled and speed skating uniforms. A little water on the crotch area and the whole world got to see *everything*. Stick with black in aforementioned area for now on. Please.


All in all, a pretty darn amazing games. Now about that Putin….

xo AM



The Thirtysomething Gal’s Survival Guide For Shopping In Forever 21

The Thirtysomething Gal’s Survival Guide For Shopping In Forever 21 

(Yes, you still can)  

1. First and foremost, accept that in this world, you will be an XL, even if you are a size four. If you can get your arm all the way through the arm hole, call it a success. The only thing that will actually fit is if it says, One Size Fits All – and it will be a scarf. And do not be intimidated by the slew of young whippersnappers trying on gold leggings, torso-less shirts and pleather underwear. Their goal is to look ridiculous. Let them.

Forever 21 Store

2. If you spot a cute, little neon crop top with Hello Kitty on it that you secretly love, exclaim, “Oh my niece would love this!” and make sure someone hears you say it. Whatever you do, do not try it on in the store. Take it home, save yourself the look from the snotty little change room girl who just bought the same top in a different color.

Kitty Crop

3. Seek out the other thirtysomething gal in the store and give her the proverbial nod. You two are in this together, hoping the younger patrons won’t point at you as the older gals shopping in their store.

Polka Dot Panties

4. Stay away from the *5 for $10* bins. They are full of polka dots, bows, little pink animals and jelly-made jewelry. Although every woman loves a bargain, this is one area you must remind yourself you are over thirty. Do not buy from the bins. Not even for your niece. Polka dots only look chic if worn by Kate Middleton the day after giving birth. And I doubt she bought that cute, little dress from Forever 21.


5. Keep your head up high.  Twenty one is just a number. And be proud of yourself when some young teenaged girl compliments you on your gold stacked bangles. No one has to know you spent $2.99 on them to look like a million bucks.

Forever 21

xo AM

Will You Accept This Ruse? The Reality of The Bachelor

Will You Accept This Ruse?

In light of the new Bachelor season starting up Monday night with, Juan Pablum, er, Juan Don, I mean, something that rhymes with Gellato, here are five good reasons why I would NEVER apply to be on this show.


Size Matters: I haven’t been a size zero since I was twelve. So my chances of having a money shot in a hot tub died in the late 80’s. I don’t look bad in a bikini, I just don’t look like a model in a bikini. An obvious requirement for this show… unless you want everyone on Twitter to call you Thunder Thighs or Bouncing Betty which they cruelly do. All it takes is one unflattering camera angle and social media users will give you a nick name whether you like it or not. If you’re bigger than a size six, make sure you’re never in a shot beside the skinniest girl on the show. Ever.

Looking Into The Camera Monologues: I only do monologues into a hand held mirror at home, when I’m trying to like myself, or when I’m really drunk and forgot to turn off the Facetime on my iPhone. Doing them in front of America, crying your mascara off because, “I’m totally in love with this guy whom I’ve only gone out with twice and I thought we’d continue this incredible journey and I can’t believe how fast I’m falling for him on this journey but I’m so upset he was kissing Sally on this journey and made out with Jenny after he told me he really, really likes me… blah, blah, blah… on this special journey” will not do you any favors. No one wants to hear that. No one. Or the word journey. We all know the viewers are sitting at home labelling you as the Psycho, the Flake, the Skank or the Supremely Deluded. And having an on-screen heart to heart with Chris Harrison won’t save you. Be warned, this show is ALL about the editing. You might be the sweetest apple pie girl-next-door, but the crafty producers can make even you look like the Psycho.


Odds Are Forever Not In Your Favor: You might find love on a TV show but you won’t make it last. Only a few couples in the history of this show have. Once the free trips to Belize and the wardrobe allowance runs out and he starts taking you for wings at Billy Bob’s or on coffee dates at Free Latte Tuesdays at Starbucks, reality will suck and so will your hopes for a paradise future. If it’s a fairytale you’re looking for, stick to the little books that come with the Disney logo.


The Rose Ceremony: This alone is enough to kill the *dream*. Standing in front of a strange boy, asking him to love you and, Pick me! amongst twenty other girls, all standing there with longing, desperate looks on their faces, no thanks. I only do desperate and longing when I’m begging the department store cashier to give me an extra 10% off. I’ve always found the rose ceremony to be degrading… and the sole reason red roses have been ruined for me. Forever. Not to mention the humiliation you must endure if you’re not given a rose. But then that’s probably because you were either the Psycho, the Flake or the Supremely Deluded.

Dead Rose

My Age: Well I’m screwed on that one. If you’re over thirty, you don’t have a hope in hell. No girl over the age of twenty eight has ever won… except for Mary Delgado but she got herself arrested… a few times. If you’re at least a decade older than the youngest contestant and make it past the first night, you will most likely get another nickname added to your social media presence – The Cougar. Let’s face it, the twenty two year olds on this show are merciless to anyone over thirty. If you even sprout one grey hair while filming, you might as well send yourself home along with your aging eggs. Besides, the producers aren’t interested in casting girls whose laugh lines they can’t hide with good lighting.

But for those of you who’ve made it your mission to get onto The Bachelor, if you suspect you’re the next one getting sent home, go on – be that Psycho girl, be that Flake, be that Drunk Girl and threaten humanity in your last monologue. You may not have won The Bachelor, but at the very least, someone will make a Twitter spoof account of you and you will achieve what you really came on this show to do… YOU WILL BE FAMOUS!

xo AM

Wax On, Wax Off

First Entry for the Virgin Vignettes: A First Time For Everything Series

(The following excerpt is FICTIONAL and told from a first person account of a FICTIONAL character)… but I’m sure this is 100% how it goes…

I could feel my body start to tremble when I saw the neon sign. La Touche. Probably used a French name to make it sound more up-scale. Not that wax salons were a dirty little secret. They simply hovered on the side of unglamorous maintenance. The salon looked unassuming in the strip mall, tucked in between Quan’s Noodle House and some trendy, little maternity shop. I walked in, hoping to God I wouldn’t hear some poor soul screaming from a back room while some evil woman pulled a strip of hot wax from, down there.

“Hello. I’m here for my ba-bikini waxing,” I managed to stammer out before taking a deep breath.

“Oh. Have you had a waxing before?” the nice little receptionist asked.  The fact that her face showed no trace of unwanted hair, I immediately felt put at ease. Bet they can make you as smooth as a baby’s bum here.

“Um, no,” I replied and watched the welcoming smile wipe right off her face. Christ, even she knew I was in for it.

“Alrighty. Well, what’s your name?”

“It’s… (Scared Shitless)… Uh, it’s Sally.”

“Follow me then, Sally.”

A few minutes later I found myself on my back on a bed, waiting for my wax connoisseur, Magda. After she introduced herself, told me she had been doing this for years and promised me *minimal* pain, I wondered how many beavers Magda had seen. Probably a lot. I suddenly felt embarrassed that she was going to see mine in its untamed glory.

“I-I meant to trim it before I came,” I suddenly blurted out. She just gave me a knowing smile, like everyone probably says that. I quickly realized I was going to have to put full trust in this stranger and leave my ladyhood in her capable hands. Much like you do when you go to the medi-clinic doctor whom doesn’t know you from a hole in the ground but is about to get real personal with you. Magda was like that – my Crotch Doctor.

She pulled out an album and handed it to me.

“Pick which design you’d like.” Design? Er, what? I wasn’t going for an Andy Warhol knock off for chrissake, I just wanted a cleaner look, a little off the sides. The album was like those catalogs you look through at the tattoo parlor to pick out a tribal design. Only this one was full of muff shots, hand sketched with precise detail. I had the choice of Triangle, Swirl, Razor Stripes, Half-Moon, Martini Glass, Postage Stamp, Brazilian or the popular yet simplistic, Landing Strip. I suddenly felt like I did when I was ten years old about to get my ears pierced. This smelled suspiciously of the same trick – pick out something pretty, followed by excruciating pain. When she realized I was blushing, she took the album from me and nodded.

Landing Strip (640x480)

“I will do something nice,” she offered. I wondered what that meant. Could she secretly pick out what would look best on me? Like those gals at the make-up counter do? I bet with her experience, Magda could pick out your muff art to match your personality… or your designer handbag.

“What about… Brazilian?” I asked. She gave me a look. That look that someone gives you when they’re really, really scared for you.

“You sure?” she asked. I nodded.

“Well, if I’m gonna run with the Brazilians, might as well go all the way, right?” I said nervously.  I only half heard what she told me. Something that sounded like, hold still, breathe and no screaming.

Then the moment of truth arrived. Magda slapped on the wax, a little too close for comfort. To the point I was sure she was going to nick one of my fallopian tubes.

“Just relax, sweetie.” That had to be the warning shot. I clenched the pillow and repeated her instructions in my head. I knew a girl once who permanently lost her eyebrow when she had it waxed. I just hoped I wasn’t about to lose a labia.

Hold still.  Hold still.  Hold fucking still!


“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuckkkkkkkkkkk!” I didn’t know if that came out of my mouth or hers. I opened my eyes. Magda didn’t flinch. Must’ve been mine. She didn’t even give me a chance to get my wits about me. Another glop of wax was slapped onto the other side. I suddenly fell into a pattern of breathing that was somewhere on the scale of giving birth and hyperventilating, trying to ready myself for another round of torture.

Hold.  Fucking.  Still.


“EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” Why did I pick the goddamn Brazilian!? The baldest of the bunch!

Six more agonizing strips and it was over. The snap of Magda’s latex gloves was a relief. It meant her time down there was done. I lifted my head off the pillow, scared to look, but I had to.

Ho-ly shit.

I was hairless. For the first time since middle school. What had I just done?

Magda seemed quite pleased with her work and held up a little hand mirror so that I could take a closer look. I just nodded and bit my lip hard enough to draw blood, trying to supress the lingering pain. I was not going to cry in front of the Crotch Doctor. The proof of my puberty would grow back and thank God, the only thing that was missing was the hair.

“We’ll see you again in three weeks,” Magda said. Oh fuck. I would have to do this again if I wanted to maintain my new look.

And that was the tipping point.

Nope. I was done. The Brazilians could keep their gift to beach going women. I for one would accept the ridicule of an unkempt pasture and gladly leave the pain and torture to someone else.

xo AM

Brazil (640x638)