about the way our society obsesses about weight, and about women who maintain their unnatural thinness via Red Bull and cigarettes.

Hollywood has always gone to extremes when it comes to appearances.  This is nothing new.  Judy Garland was labeled fat as a teen star and provided with amphetamines so she could lose weight – according to her biographer.

When Jennifer Aniston showed up at some function last year with a little pooch, the ubiquitous rumors flew about a pregnancy.  Nope.  She’d been trying to quit smoking and put on a few pounds – according to her publicist.  And here all this time, I thought she kept her weight down with rigorous workouts.  No, apparently like almost everyone else in Hollywood, she keeps her appetite in check with nicotine in addition to her workouts.

You see, I get my fill of celebrity gossip whenever I get my hair cut.  I can read a People Magazine in five minutes flat, cover to cover.  Us in maybe three or four.  What is it Jeff Goldblum said in The Big Chill?  I don’t write anything longer than the average person can read during the average dump.

All right, so I’m reading about Demi Moore, who made the mistake of marrying a young man with the approximate emotional maturity of the average fifteen year old boy instead of just having a fling with him, and I read how she’s been living on cigarettes and Red Bull for months – oh yeah, and some prescription medication for ADD (for kids) which is now the appetite suppressant of choice for those in the know.  For fuck’s sake, the woman looks like a corpse.  According to the paramedics, when they arrived at her compound after a 911 call, they thought they were dealing with a terminal cancer patient.

Eating disorders aren’t news – they’ve been accurately identified by the medical establishment for at least two generations.  Don’t tell me Moore’s friends and family members failed to notice that she’s trying to starve herself to death.  This photo makes me sick to my stomach, and not just because I’m a fan of the woman Moore used to be, but because I know women who do the same thing.

Honey, I have been down this road myself.  I was a suffer-er-er.  I know how it is.  I know how it feels to weigh 86 pounds yet walk past a mirror and see a hippo looking back at you.  That’s how distorted your body image becomes when you suffer from an eating disorder.

But I worry about the influence the cult of celebrity has on our daughters.  These unrealistic expectations shape our collective gender self-image.  Yes, I’m quite aware of the obesity crisis – I’m a nurse – I deal with the consequences of obesity on a daily basis.  I can’t even begin to tell you how dangerous both of these extremes are.

Let me show you a photo.  And if you believe this model stuffs her face with pizza, kebobs, cheeseburgers, fries… as she claims to do, well then, I have this bridge in Brooklyn…

Nothing personal, no insult intended, but sorry, I ain’t buyin’ it.

Believe me, this is not schadenfreude.  This is fear about how insecure we have become about our bodies.  Either we’re slurping up those Big Gulps and giving ourselves diabetes or we’re starving ourselves into oblivion.  Get a grip, ladies.  Real women eat real food.

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Have you ever wondered about the etymology of the word “pants”?  I mean, we all say, “Let me get my pants on,” and “Pull your pants up.”  You’re really wearing a pair of pants, or are you?  I’m wearing one pants.  One plural pants.

The word pants is what’s known as the pair phenomenon.  It’s like binoculars.  It’s a pair of binoculars but it’s really just one binoculars.  I bet you’re wearing your glasses too!  Another pair.

The word pants comes from pantaloons, after Pantalone, a stock comedic character in 16th Century Italian theater always depicted as a foolish old man wearing short, baggy pants.

Here’s a very funny post about the word pants, and how it makes Star Wars better.

Gotta admit, I do love words.

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First of all, this film is very controversial.  And I know you don’t tune into a romance blog to read about controversy.  So if you don’t want controversy, feel free to tune out.

Second, I’m three things depending upon the issue.  On some issues I’m a conservative.  On others a liberal.  And on others a moderate.  I just watched Hot Coffee, a documentary titled for the infamous McDonald’s hot coffee case.  Stella Liebeck suffered severe burns after placing a cup of hot coffee between her legs while sitting in the passenger seat of a parked car.  Opening the lid to add cream and sugar, she accidentally tipped the cup over, spilling coffee over the inside of her thighs, buttocks and genital area.

Only the Snow Queen could be unsympathetic.  Mrs. Liebeck’s third degree burns were awful.  Really terrible.  She sued McDonald’s for help with her medical bills.  A jury awarded her significant punitive damages which a judge later reduced.

A fact for your consideration:  In the ten years prior to Mrs. Liebeck’s accident, McDonald’s received over seven hundred complaints about their coffee.  In that same time period, they sold around ten billion cups of coffee.

Be warned.  This is not an impartial documentary.  The film was made by a trial lawyer.

I have nothing against trial lawyers.  They aren’t related to Satan.  My father is a retired trial lawyer and he’s an upstanding guy.  Honest to a fault.  And I’m on the fence when it comes to tort reform, sometimes in favor, sometimes not.

But most big corporations aren’t related to Satan either.

Much of the film addresses Jamie Leigh Jones and her case against KBR, a subsidiary of Halliburton.  (Speaking of Halliburton, here’s what I’ve always said about Dick Cheney – at least he has a brain.  He may have an evil brain, but at least he has one.  Reminds me of Pinky and the Brain.)  If you watch Hot Coffee, consider both sides – I encourage you to read this article in Mother Jones, a liberal journal – Why Jamie Leigh Jones Lost Her KBR Rape Case.

As sympathetic as I am to victims of wrong-doing, and I’m extremely sympathetic, I’m not entirely convinced… well, let me put it this way – we want the government out of our lives,  yet at the same time we want the government to save us from our own stupidity.

A few observations and questions:

My husband bitches and moans if his coffee isn’t the temperature of molten lava, but I have to cool mine down to lukewarm before I can drink it.

Have you ever burned the roof of your mouth by taking a big bite out of a bubbling hot piece of pizza?  Did you consider filing a lawsuit because of the injury to your palate?

I’m not a fan of cigarettes, and I think parents who smoke around their children are idiots, but if you smoke and you get lung cancer or bladder cancer or emphysema, don’t come crying to me, blaming the tobacco companies.  The cigarette/cancer/emphysema connection has been common knowledge for at least two generations, maybe three.  So don’t act all surprised when you end up toting around that portable oxygen unit.

Should Mrs. Liebeck have sued the car company in addition to McDonald’s because her grandson’s car had no cup holders?

Should a restaurant cut your steak into itty-bitty baby pieces so you can’t choke on it?

Is it the doughnut’s fault you ate it?

I don’t know…

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So here’s the conversation:

“Ring.  Ring.  Ring.”

Cell phone.  Didn’t recognize the number.  Reluctant to answer, but did anyway.  Might be a kid-related emergency, never know.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Julia.”

“Hi.”  Racking brain, trying to place vaguely familiar voice.

“This is Sarah.”

Um… Sarah who?

“Oh, hi, Sarah.  How are you?”  Who are you?

“I’m fine.  Fine.  Just calling to wish you a happy New Year and let you know that if you are interested in looking at any property, now is a great time to buy.  It’s the perfect time to consider an investment property.”

Snap!  It’s Sarah, the real estate agent who sold us our home years ago.  The woman who sends us a cheap calendar every Christmas, which goes straight into the recycle bin because I have a smart phone and a computer.  The woman I have only spoken to twice since we closed on the property.  The last time was a brief encounter in the produce section of the local supermarket several years ago. 

“Oh, gosh… I…”

“I have this great little two bedroom, single bath home, just came back on the market, all remodeled, good location, under $400,000.  It would make a perfect rental.  The market is never going to be any better than it is right now, you know.”

“I, uh…”

“I figured since your kids are older now, and you two are pretty much empty-nesters, you might want to downsize or make an investment.  There’s never going to be a better time to buy.  In fact I’m getting ready to list a home we bought as an investment property.  Great kitchen, nice views.  It’s a beautiful place.  The minute I thought of listing it, I thought of you.”

Crap. Crap. Crap.  ”Well, that’s nice of you to think of us, but we’re really not interested in…”

“I know you and your husband would just love either of these homes. If you see one of them, you might change your minds.”

Shit.  She must be so desperate.  When real estate tanks in Cali, man, it tanks.  And agents have been hit hard.  Think fast.  Think fast.  “Uh, I don’t know, Sarah, we really hadn’t planned on investing in…”

“Why don’t we just set up a time to meet and I can show you a few of the new listings.  They are so cute.  I bet you’ll fall in love with one.”

Oh fuck.  What would the nice me do?  The nice me would string her along, say, sure, let’s set a date, and then immediately regret agreeing to meet with her.  The nice me would suck it up, follow her around for a day, look at homes, nod my head, say nice things, be agreeable, probably even mumble something about meeting again, all the while kicking myself.  I’d waste her time and mine.  End up resentful and pissed, mostly at myself.  And stop answering her phone calls.

My mom always told me to be nice.  Over the years, I’ve learned the hard way that being nice and being honest aren’t always same thing.  The problem is, when you aren’t honest, you end up wishing to hell you had been.

Look, it took a lot of courage for her to make this cold call, but now I had to woman up and tell her no.

“Listen, Sarah, we’re not…”

“Oh, but I could meet with you whenever you…”

“Sarah, we’re not interested in looking at property.”

“But this is a very good time to… and you might want to downsize now that the kids are…”

“No, Sarah, we don’t want to invest in property.  We have no plans to move in the foreseeable future.”

“Are you sure?  Because you can get an excellent price for…”

Criminy, woman, stop making this so hard for yourself!  “I’m sure.”

“Do you have an email address?  I can keep you up to date on new listings and my open houses if you give me your email address.”

“Sarah, I’m not interested.  I appreciate your call.  There’s no need for my email address because we do not plan to buy a house.  Thanks and I hope this year is better for you.”

“But…”

“Bye, Sarah.”

Oh gawd!  I hate encounters like that.  Hate.  Them.  When I imagine how Sarah had to swallow her pride, and call me, a woman she hadn’t seen in, I don’t know, three, four, five years, and practically beg me to buy a house… Made me so sad, yet her phone call put me in such an awkward position.  Either I play nice and make myself miserable or I give her the smack down. Doesn’t matter, the outcome is the same – no sale.

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