Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Stool Pigeons? Nope. They Didn’t Squeal, But The Truth Leaked Out Anyway

I never know what headline is going to attract my attention in my daily stroll for something to write about. It might anger me, intrigue me, or make me laugh out loud.

The latter would be the case in today’s find.

While I am a certified newshound, voraciously reading everything out there, and conversant in all subjects from pop culture to political vultures, I admit that in the humor department, I tend to be a bit of an 8 year old boy.

So, understandably, the word “laxative” in a news headline made me giggle and click through to see what the poop was, figuratively speaking, of course.

TWO WOMEN INDICTED OVER LAXATIVE PRANK

Not only laxatives, but a prank too? Oh goodie!

Well, as it turns out - not so much.

It seems Lisa Kilburn, 27, and Kim Congleton, 30, both certified nursing assistants (and wannabe fratboys) at Irvine Health and Rehabilitation Center in Irvine, Kentucky, don’t have enough to keep them occupied during their shifts.

In what (I’m sure) seemed like a harmless practical joke at the time, Lisa and Kim decided to slip laxative suppositories to all the patients in their care. These carefully timed, yet unnecessary butt bombs, were to detonate during the next shift, thus making life miserable for the other nursing assistants coming on doody, er sorry, duty.

The plan worked smoothly - or as smoothly as a plan can work when it involves slipping wax bullets into eight infirm, medically fragile, older patients' rear ends - until several of them began to complain of pain and rectal bleeding.

Then the shit, both literal and figurative, really hit the fan.

The nursing home reported the incident to state and local authorities, and both women were terminated. Glenn Cox, the nursing home administrator released the statement, "The behavior displayed by these two employees was completely deplorable and unacceptable."

(I agree. I'm laughing about something totally unrelated - Really...)

Attorney General Greg Stumbo went even further, stating the conduct was "an outrage to human decency and dignity." and filing criminal charges against both women.

(An outrage to human decency and dignity? No argument from me, but then I guess it Depends on each person's definition of outrage.)

They were indicted Tuesday on two counts each of second-degree criminal abuse and complicity in criminal abuse. Each count carries a potential penalty of one to five years in prison and a fine of up to $10,000.

So let this be a lesson to all you boys and girls out there: Poop is no laughing matter. It is a personal and private thing and in the wrong hands, it can even be illegal. So ask yourself every night, Do you know where your poop is?

Wipe that shit eating grin off your faces right now.

(I am SO going to hell for this one...)

Age Before Beauty: Donald Trumps Demi in Headlines

If the fact that Kevin Federline is propagating his gene pool at a truly alarming rate isn’t enough to convince you that there truly should be a law, or at the very least, a test one has to pass before conceiving or spreading their fertilizer, perhaps this will do it for you.

The Donald, the man with the ego as poofy as the pompadour on his head, is going to be a Daddy again.

To paraphrase his Apprentice tagline, “Yes, Donald, you’ve sired.”

Married since earlier this year to Melania Knauss, the 35 year old Polish cover model - who incidentally would not give this man the time of day were he a pompadoured garbage collector from Hoboken - Donald (59) is gearing up for baby #5.

And the world is patting him on the back. “Kudos!” “Way to go!” “You stud!”

Words identical to those echoed when he and his millions snagged Melania to begin with.

And that’s all well and good - best wishes to all four of them - The Donald, The Model, The Baby and The Hair.

What I find more than a little off putting about today’s pregnancy news, however, is that it comes one day after the announcement that May-December couple Demi Moore (42) and Ashton Kutcher (27) finally tied the knot over the weekend.

All articles and quotes about Demi-Ashton (Ashi? Demton?) focused squarely on their age difference and included many snide remarks and predictions as to how long the union will actually last.

Help me out here. Donald marries a girl who, at 24 years his junior, could easily be his own daughter, and is heralded as a superstud. Demi marries a boy, 15 years younger,who could easily be her son (in Appalachia and many after school specials) and she is derided for robbing the cradle?

Give me a break.

At least I can see what Ashton sees in Demi. She’s gorgeous, secure, confident and comfortable in her own skin. Compare her to any of the Hollywood embryos he could have hooked up with and it’s a no brainer.  He's one lucky SOB.

But as for the whole Donald-Melania (Delania? Melnald?) union? Aside from the gaudy gold plated penthouse, jet, helicopters, Mar-a-Lago and money - what in the world does she see in him? His soul is as starched as his hair. His appeal as flat as Martha Stewart’s Apprentice ratings.

And what will be said when Demi gets knocked up? Headlines will ridicule her. Morning talk shows will devote entire segments to doctors detailing all the risks in pregnancy at “her age”. And People Magazine will immediately calculate how old she will be when the child graduates Kindergarten, high school, college.

I have yet to see anyone chronicle those numbers for The Donald.

That’s ok though. I’m much more interested in the numbers detailing just how many of his millions Melania takes with her when she dumps his ass for someone younger, like, oh, I don’t know - Kevin Federline?

Surely he'll be looking to knock someone up again by this time next year.

Rolling Through Life Stoned Gathers No Favor For Moss

I know it was touted as some big coup for the media when actual photos surfaced in a London rag last week showing Kate Moss tooting more than her horn, as it were. For years, rumor had swirled that she was either addicted to, or at the very least, had turned her body into a recreational vehicle for, any number of drugs.

And so, the media did what it does so well. Set out to catch her in the act, because after all, we unwashed masses eat that kind of stuff for breakfast. Or so they think.

Quite frankly, we out here in unwashed mass land couldn’t care less if we tried. And I doubt that a single one of us lost sleep or even so much as blinked at the revelation.

A supermodel on drugs? WHOA. Never seen that before.

Yeah, right.

And boo hoo. She lost three modeling contracts worth millions? Quite frankly, how she got one is beyond me. With a figure that makes Mary Kate Olsen look zaftig and a perpetual look more vacant than a French Quarter strip club, the girl is simply hard to stomach. That she is best known for a look described as “heroin chic” isn’t just funny, it’s pretty damned ironic too.

So this bid to make us care, ooo, ahh and whisper about her self inflicted downfall? Sorry, no one cares outside the crowd she runs with and even those model friends are secretly happy she got caught because now there are more jobs to go around.

Moss was dropped by Burberry, Chanel and Swedish clothing giant H&M. The British cosmetics company Rimmel London said Thursday it was "reviewing" her $2.3 million contract.

“Reviewing”; translation: She’ll be fired before the next coat of mascara dries on her clumped lashes.

In as much as I truly don’t care that ubermodel Kate finally got caught with more snow under her nose than Kris Kringle in a blizzard, I do have something to say in regard to that outpouring of support from the modeling community.

Watch the flashbulbs, darlings. Thou dost protest too much methinks, and those very same paparrazzi are watching you.

Icelandic fashion designer Helga Vjornsson stated, "It's really unfair. She may be a product but she's a human being, too. The media are responsible for her loss of success or work."

Um, no Helga, they’re not. They snapped the picture, they did not force her to look like a Got Milk ad with all that white clinging to her upper lip.

Famed French actress and model Catherine Deneuve, a former face of Chanel No. 5, said Moss' private life should be kept private. "She's a great model. If she's ruining her personal life, that belongs to her. What she does in her private life is very private. I find it unbearable that maybe someone shot her (picture), stole the photos then sold them."

Unbearable? My dear froglet, she makes a living by people taking her picture and staring at her. When you choose celebrity, you voluntarily give up a large chunk of your privacy in exchange for a large chunk of our money. What is unbearable are her poor choices.

And Vincenzo Liberato, who handles fashion casting for the Italian magazine Amica whined, “It is just a bad moment for her. Media attack and tear down anything they want and they go especially against those who have made such a clear mistake."

A bad moment. Um - sure. But how many bad moments preceeded the one when she actually got caught snorting the coke? And what of the three year old child she is raising? How many bad moments has she been subjected to? Moss’s own contrite statement drips of the kind of apology you hear when someone is not sorry they did something, but only sorry they got caught.

Think Martha Stewart.

But maybe that’s exactly why young Kate should take heart. One crime, five months, and one poncho later, old Madge has not one, but two TV shows bearing her name and is being built back up by the media with as much vigor as they displayed in tearing her down.

Then again, I guess it is easier to forgive and re-embrace someone whose lifework revolves around showing us how to enhance our lives and make snowglobes, not how to enhance our lives by making lines of snow all over the globe.

For while it is true that a rolling stone gathers no moss, we are surely seeing how the career of a stoned Moss certainly stops rolling.

Got Milk? (Or Common Sense?)

As Rita continues her high stepping line dance towards the mainland, and the people of southeast Texas continue their mind numbingly slow escape up the interstates, I have observed a strange phenomenon taking place in my city - Frisco, Texas - a suburb just north of Dallas.

I began to notice it last evening while doing my Thursday night ankle grabber of a carpool - five kids, three different activities, three different places - two solid hours of hustling from A to B to Z back to A to D to...well, you get the picture, I basically get to see the city from all sides. It was while covering all these miles that I stared open mouthed as 1975 come to life right before my eyes.

Every gas station had a line. Not a little line either. We’re talking Jimmy-Carter-watch-the-peanuts-grow-you’d-better-have-peed-before-you-left-your-house kind of lines.

So, a little panic at the pumps. Fine. I get that. We live right above the petroleum Disneyland of America and it looks to be in line for a good ass whipping from Rita. Even closing down a refinery endangers supply, as it takes a full two weeks to safely start one up again.

I admit I even filled up yesterday morning, but that was because prices are going to go nowhere but up, not because I was afraid there wouldn’t be any gas left.

Well, this morning, after dropping the kids at school, I stopped by the grocery store to pick up snacks for a weekend soccer game. It was then that I was finally forced to face a truth about the fine people of my state: That underneath these ten gallons hats, are some empty ten gallon spaces where our brains should normally live.

You see, Hurricane Rita and the land she is targeting sits a full 300 miles to the southeast of this city, yet the grocery store had been picked clean. You would have thought the Apocalypse was surely nigh, or that we lived on the outskirts of Houston, the way that store looked.

I must pause to ask people, if in fact the Apocalypse is upon us, what do you plan to do with all that Spam and milk? Throw it at the sky?

It was an amazing sight. I can only surmise that the people in my area have been watching CNN and are scared by the horde of Houstonians advancing on our city. Surely, they are coming to drink all our milk! Siphon all our gas!!

I have prepared in advance of a hurricane before - I get that. But I was actually in the path of the hurricane. And even then, I didn’t buy MILK.

Seriously, what is the rush on cow juice about? If a storm that severe comes through here, one that leaves us all locked into our own little house fortresses for a week, it seems to me the power is probably as AWOL as the phones, the toilets, the gas.

So, there you sit, in the dark, drinking 15 gallons of MILK before it spoils. And you're probably lactose intolerant to begin with. You couldn’t even give it away because every one of your neighbors bought a whole damned herd too. So you all decide to caravan to the town dump (after all, our cars are all full of gas) to throw all your milk away before it spoils and stinks up your waterlogged, shredded home. (As if it could possibly smell worse than it does with all that lactose induced diarrhea in the toilets that can't flush.)

And as for the Spam and water that has been ripped from the store shelves? I daresay the majority of those people hardly ever touch water to begin with, choosing a daily beverage containing bubbles, caffeine and fizz. And that they have no idea what exactly constitutes Spam - only that it was in a can and had a picture of meat on the front.

That includes my own husband.

He would have to be so close to starving to death that he is seeing visions and a bright light, before he would crack open a can of Spam and wash it down with a bottle of Dasani.

But I digress, I guess my point is that it’s amazing how little perspective, or map reading ability, people seem to have in the face of emotions. Dallas and Frisco are in no danger of being flooded or ripped apart by the remnants of Rita. Sure, we’ll get some rain, a soccer game or two will be canceled, but we’ll be fine. 

And quite frankly, if the tidal surge from the Gulf is big enough to reach Dallas?  I think it would be time to take the hint that God is really pissed off and that someone in Iowa had better start building a pretty damned big ark in a pretty damned big hurry.

Now you’ll have to excuse me, but I need to download some recipes for Kumquats before my electricity goes out.

Come on, I had to buy something to eat with all this milk.

Runnin' From 'Rita

And so the march north has begun. As I type, the highways to the south of me are filled to capacity and slowed to a crawl by the people evacuating ahead of Hurricane Rita. At one point earlier today, the crunch was so bad, traffic was slowed to 2 miles per hour around Houston.

TWO MILES PER HOUR.

Try that drive with three kids in the backseat going “Are we there yet?”

Now that Texas Governor Prick Rerry - oops sorry, I mean Rick Perry (sue me, there is just something decidely slick Willy about the man) has opened up all eight lanes for northbound traffic only, for 125 miles out of Houston, things should be a bit better. But we’re still talking about 1.4 million people who have been told to get the hell out of Dodge. Now.

Fortunately, traffic jams aside, the majority of that number are heeding the warnings. Even those who normally would have chosen to "macho" through it are bugging out, having learned by watching Katrina’s devastation.

But then, of course, there are those who refuse to budge, choosing to ride it out instead. I certainly hope they have their board waxed up because if Rita is anything like they are predicting, surfing will be the only way to "ride out" of this one.

A Category 5 storm, with plenty of fuel left to exploit as it churns through the warm Gulf waters, Rita is not to be taken lightly. Currently packing 170 mph winds, the latest estimates are that she will bring with her a 30-50 foot storm surge. And satellite models, depicting what the land masses will look like after she hits, essentially wipe Galveston off the map and seriously obscure the lower right portion of Texas.

Yet people stay.

You know, if it’s true that ignorance is bliss, these must currently be the happiest people on the planet.

People are even refusing to evacuate in New Orleans, where a mere 5 inches of rain is all it will take to re-flood the city and strain the limits of an already compromised levee system.

Pardon my callousness, but I’ll be the one to say what needs to be said to all these people: If you choose to ignore the orders to evacuate, you deserve whatever happens to you. And if that is death, then we can only hope that your last thought as your lungs fill up with water or your head is smacked with flying debris is this: “Man, I’m such a dumbshit.“

In fact, we'll etch that on your gravestone - if we can even find your dumbshit body, that is.

I have said it before - Mother Nature is not to be gambled with. She holds all the cards, she has all the chips and she will fold you like a paper doll if you don’t get the hell out of her way.

Now, you’ll have to excuse me. We are expecting company from Galveston and I thought it would be nice to welcome them with a Rita - a Margarita, that is.

You didn‘t think I’d be gauche enough to make Hurricanes, did you? How tacky.

Real Life “Face Off”

Back in 1997, John Travolta teamed up with Nicolas Cage for the action film, Face Off. It was one of those “suspend reality” type pictures where you just have to give up what you know to be total crap and go along for the ride.

(Personally, I loved the picture and even watch it on DVD several times a year. And yes, I realize I have just totally blown this image you people have of me watching Elizabethan films all starring Gywneth Paltrow. Snore. Give me a good Die Hard movie any day of the week.)

But I digress...

In the film, Cage plays a terrorist for hire hunted down by Travolta’s FBI agent. Through a twist of events, Cage ends up in a vegetarian state - as in mental cabbage - and doctors convince Travolta that they can swap his face with the felon’s so that Travolta may infiltrate Cage’s inner circle and thwart an imminent bombing.

Swap. His. Face.

I told you - suspend, suspend...

The doctors perform the surgery - as totally cool as it is gross - and with the help of super healing drugs, vocal implants, liposuction and hair removal (suspend, suspend) are able to turn him into the terrorist.

Well, as full of crap as that storyline seemed in 1997, apparently doctors are on the cusp of actually performing the world’s first face transplant.

Dr. Maria Siemionow, of Cleveland, OH, a highly respected surgeon who trained in Poland and has performed thousands of surgeries in the past 30 years, has cleared one of the three hurdles necessary to advance to the actual surgery itself. It took over a year, but she has won approval from the 13-member Institutional Review Board, gatekeepers of research at the clinic where she operates.

Now she just needs a volunteer.

Oh, and a deceased person. The face has to come from somewhere.

The donor may actually be the easier of the two to find.

The screening process for volunteers, yes there are currently seven women and five men, will be rigorous. Psychological concerns abound and even the consent form acknowledges that the surgery is so novel and its risks so unknown that doctors don't think informed consent is even possible.

But before I detail the possible complications, you need to know that this surgery is not being entered into frivolously by the good doctor. This is not just a “see if I can do it” endeavor. The goal is to be able to provide a viable option for people who have already had their identities ripped from their faces, be it by accidents, like fires, or by attacks, from animals, etc.

Knowing this detail actually turned the tide on how I was initially feeling about the operation.

Think about it. We totally take our faces for granted, seeing them every morning in the mirror, certain about how a particular “look”, flirt, or roll of the eyes appears on our countenances. We bitch about wrinkles, crows feet and sun damage, but at the end of the day, we identify ourselves by, and can count on, the facial landscape we know so well.

What if that was all suddenly taken away from you?

Sure, we all like to spout niceties like, “It’s what’s on the inside that counts”, but if our faces were to be tragically altered in a fire, how much bullshit would that statement be? What if your child were mutilated by a pit bull? How hard would you grieve daily over the way the world sees him/her, knowing that your love, no matter how deep, cannot protect them from what others see and say?

So the facial transplant may offer a chance for some semblance of normalcy, some shred of restored self esteem. And it is not as it was in the movie Face Off. What is going to be undertaken is basically a full facial skin graft, that will do what your own skin does, adhere to and lie over the topography of your bone structure and muscles.

You will not look just like the deceased person from whose face the skin is removed.

It sounds like a dramatic advance, a wonderful option for patients who have lost their identities. An avenue that would decrease the need for the hundreds of tedious inch by inch skin grafts patients currently suffer through, only to come out looking like a patchwork quilt.

But back to the consent form and possible complications:

Infections that could turn the new face black and require a second transplant or reconstruction with skin grafts.

Drugs to prevent rejection will be needed lifelong, and they raise the risk of kidney damage and cancer.

Post-transplant, the patient might feel remorse, disappointment, or grief or even guilt toward the donor.

And the biggee: The clinic will try to shield the patient’s identity, but the press likely will discover it.

And if any statement is true, it is that one. There will be a decidedly Frankensteinian slant afforded the person by the media. They will be hounded and tabloids will pay insane amounts of money for photographs.

I would say that last one is enough to make me say “no way”, but then I still have my own face.

My own face.

The one I completely take for granted.

I think tonight, when I take my make-up off and begin the nightly examination of it, for the first time in my life, I will count my blessings and every beautiful wrinkle I see.

Not Enough Hours In The Day by Culley Sharp

(My oldest daughter Culley, an aspiring actress/model/writer, has recently begun writing a teen column for a regional parenting publication in Oregon.  So what is a proud Mom to do?  Share it with the world, of course.  Enjoy her teen perspective on life as I enjoy a day off from blogging...)

I had decided a month ago that I wanted to write an article about how busy we teens are these days, how many activities take up our hours, days, weeks and months, how over-scheduled we all seem to be. 

I almost didn't have the time.

I‘m not kidding.

I'm only thirteen and I often find myself feeling as stressed out as the grown ups I see running from place to place, project to project.  There just doesn't seem to be enough time to do everything I want to do.  Sometimes, there's not even enough to do the things I have to do.

My friends feel the same way.  Our activities and interests may be different, but the stress is still the same.  There's schoolwork - which I do agree needs to come first - and sports, clubs, jobs and family.  My best friend juggles daily afternoon baby-sitting with Choir, school Theater, community Theater, church and volunteering in the community.  I currently juggle the balls of being in a school play, assistant directing a community theater production, baby-sitting, volunteering and advance level classes. 

It's a wonder she and I ever manage to do anything fun together.  Between her schedule and my schedule, sometimes the best we can do is partner up on the same class project and just do homework together!

Here's a question for you to gauge how hectic and over-scheduled your life is right now:  When was the last time you actually watched a favorite TV show when it was on?  NOT on TiVo five days later at midnight?

Not that TV is the most important thing in the world, but it is a universally accepted form of relaxation.  And whether you're into The O.C. or a fan of reality TV - watching does make you stop for 30-60 minutes and rest.  There is something to be said about vegging out for a few.

I can only imagine how much more difficult and stressful my life will be when I'm old enough to get a part-time job.  I see older kids trying to "do it all"  - sports, family, job, dating, clubs ... and I wonder if any of us ever stop to ask ourselves one simple question, "Am I happy?"

I think that’s the key.  And maybe if your answer is "not really", perhaps you should seriously think about cutting back.  Maybe one club instead of two.  Maybe take a season off and commit to a single sport.  Maybe take only one baby-sitting job per weekend instead of two.  Or maybe simple organization will make the difference for you.

I have already learned a lot of that last one from my Mom.  You haven't seen busy till you watch her go.  She writes for 60 websites, over 30 magazines, owns a website where she has 30 people who write for her, has a popular blog she writes on everyday, is Lead Room Parent for my little sister, Team Mom for two soccer teams, volunteers at school, does public speaking, helps with homework and projects, drives carpool everywhere, exercises daily and still manages to make us all feel like we're #1.

Her secret?  No, she is not the most organized neat freak in the world - you should see her desk.  At least I think there's a desk under all those piles.  No, her secret is really simple.  She just makes the most of every minute of the day.  If she puts something in the microwave for two minutes, she doesn't just stand there waiting.  She cleans a counter, returns an email or throws a load of laundry into the washer.   Even with 30 seconds to spare, she will find something that she can get done in that amount of time.

Sounds simple, but it totally works.  Give it a try.

Life isn't going to get any easier as we get older and I imagine we will all be even more driven to squeeze 61 minutes out of an hour, but remember, part of any goal is the journey.

So be sure you slow down every now and then and actually enjoy the ride.

The Apocalypse Is Nigh...

I'll keep this brief, as hell has frozen over and I expect frogs to begin raining from the heavens any moment now...

Everyone's favorite fallen pop princess, Britney Spears, and everyone's favorite human punchline, Kevin Federline, became the proud parents of a baby boy earlier today.

The child was delivered by C-section - done not out of medical necessity, but out of Britney's irrational fear of childbirth pain. 

I feel the need to comment on this briefly. 

Dearest Britney, we did not exactly look up to you in recent years as you barefooted and Cheetoed your classless way through the tabloids.  Taking the chickenshit way out of giving birth doesn't exactly win you any kudos.  Pain is part of the package and if you can't tough that out, God help you with the actual experience of mothering.

Personally, I had heard all my mother's horror stories too and had planned on the maximum-allowed-by-law level of painkillers.  What did I get?  Nothing. Nada.  Push, bitch, push. 

So to hear that Britney opted for a scheduled c-section simply to avoid the experience?  Well, let that be a lesson to all of you who still don't believe Elvis died from a drug overdose of over prescribed, unnecessary pills. Celebrities can get anything they want just because they are celebrities.

One could argue that perhaps, just perhaps, becoming a mother will finally make Britney grow up.  That having a child will make her rethink how she lives her life.  That the bonding she experi ....

Shit.  I can't finish typing that. I'm laughing too hard.

I would say we should just all pray for the child born of these two Mensa members, but as I am reasonably certain this is the first sign of the Apocalypse, I won't waste my breath.

Now excuse me, I think I just heard the first "Ribbit".

The Biggest Loser Is Back And Bigger Than Ever!

Last night saw the season two premiere of one of my favorite shows from last year‘s line-up: NBC’s The Biggest Loser.

Yes, I admit, I looked sideways at this show when it was first being promo-ed way back when. A reality show about fat people?

First of all, reality shows don’t have a good rep. They are always far less reality than they look, some even being scripted and they are always heavily edited for maximum shock value.

Second, the only word that kept coming to mind was “exploitation”. These people, who unfortunately are not exactly viewed in a good light to begin with, were going to be paraded like circus freaks for public amusement.

But after watching only one episode, I realized I was as wrong as I was hooked.

Of course I was startled at the immensity of some of the people as they had their initial weigh-in. I mean there is fat, and then there is FAT. Remember Mo from season one? You could have cloned me four times and still not have had enough weight to balance a scale with him on the other side. But God love him, he stood there in front of millions of American viewers, flab hanging every different direction, a set of manboobs to rival Pamela Anderson’s silicone set, and a determination to get his life back.

Last night’s weigh-in again showcased just as many rolls and manboobs, and just as many ladies who fall under that tired saying about fat women, “She has such a pretty face.“ But just like Mo and the gang from the first season, they all shared the determination to win not only the $250,000 prize, but to win back some quality of life.

And that is what this show is really about.

We all know that weighing 250 - 400 pounds is not good for anybody. But so many overweight and obese people simply have either lost the will to do something about it or are lost in the maze of propaganda about how to lose the weight effectively and forever. This program manages to show viewers that there is no magic bullet, no overnight fix. It all comes down to what I have told people for years when asked how I manage to stay in shape after three children:

You simply have to chew LESS and move MORE.

Oh yeah, you also have to make the choice to DO IT.

As so many of the participants stated last night, they have finally made the choice to lose this weight once and for all. And that is wonderful, but what people need to acknowledge first is that they have also actively made the choice to get to their current weight. No one has held a cannoli to their heads - they have done it to themselves. The choice to be big is just as real as the choice to do something about it.

And while the fourteen people on the show were lucky enough to beat out the other 150,000 who applied, and have not only two personal trainers but 24 hour access to the latest in high tech work out equipment - those other 150,000 people should not just go back to their homes and give up. They were willing to try to get on the show to lose weight - they need to be just as willing to work along with the show and do it.

I like that they also emphasize to the home viewers that these people are working out every day, for HOURS each day, and that in normal life, a person with a job and family and normal demands on their time cannot expect to lose 28 pounds in one week.  That in real life the weight loss is possible, but it will take longer.

Perhaps what I enjoy most about The Biggest Loser is that it humanizes these people. Face it, even though a huge chunk of our society is obese - 25% - the other 75% tend to look right through these people. Or if we do actually pay attention, it is accompanied by snide thoughts or verbal slams. Being obese doesn't exactly win you fans and if people are staring, it's not because they are PHAT, but because they are FAT.

On The Biggest Loser we get to know them. We get to see them struggle, we get to see their highs and lows (literally as much as figuratively) and we get to celebrate with them each week as they step on that scale and begin to dissolve right before our eyes. Admit it, there is something awe inspiring about watching someone lose the equivalent of a two year old every seven days.

Sure there are inane “challenges” each week between the two groups. Last night’s being a vomit inducing flight that allowed them to experience weightlessness as their plane nosedived towards earth while they attempted to collect floating ping pong balls. And of course, there is the highly dramatic dining room table where the losing team must vote off one of their teammates by lifting the silver lid off a serving tray. The vote culminates with Who Wants To Be A Millionaire music, dun, dun DUN!, and the light going off in the “refrigerator” that bears the person’s name.

OK, ok, THAT is really hokey.

But in the end, the silliness is overshadowed by the ass kicking these people get put through by their trainers. They work to lose this weight. They sweat, they cry, they swear and then they rejoice as they realize that they are slowly reclaiming ownership of their bodies.

I’ll be watching as this new group endeavors to inspire a nation full of people who look just like them. And I hope those people are watching. They need to be watching.

I bust my ass every, single day already and if these folks can inspire me - at 100 pounds - surely they can give hope to the 25% of our population who truly need the motivation...

Those ignored, ridiculed people who are all too often thought of as nothing but big losers can make the choice to ultimately be life’s biggest winners.

Hey America! Over Here!

So here we are, two weeks removed from Hurricane Katrina and the media are still acting like hardcore Mardi Gras partiers, intent on staying in New Orleans until the last bead is thrown.

The town is slowly being drained of its toxic porridge (getting a bit thick to still be called a soup), the residents - save for the diehards who refuse to budge - are all gone, leaving behind only National Guardsmen, police and sundry other officials. Some electricity has been restored, and the hot news item of the day is that a sewage treatment facility was to be up and running.

Woo hoo! Or would that be Woo poo!?

Long periods of news coverage today were spent showing clean up teams with push brooms, bulldozers and hardhats. More minutes showed NBA players visiting the Astrodome over the weekend and holding a charity b-ball game to raise money.

Then Bush went to the French Quarter for a photo op and the cameras followed. The French Quarter. A place that really was never under water to begin with and even has a few bars that have remained open all along for God’s sake. But to NO he went. Then later today, Mike Brown was burned in effigy, resigning from his FEMA director post as if that will atone for the Katrina problems thusfar.

Anyway, I am getting to something here. My point is, even today, two weeks+ after the fact, if you only went by percentage of news coverage and level of controversy, Hurricane Katrina only struck New Orleans.

It doesn’t matter that the words “90,000 square miles of devastation” are out there - the cameras have remained pretty stationary and the reporters have essentially grown roots, as if they want to make sure they get great seats for the next Mardi Gras parade. Senators are calling for investigations, fingers are being pointed, people are having their heads paraded on sticks - but this relief operation is FAR from over, in fact, it truly has just begun.

So on behalf of the other 87,000 square miles, I would like to say, “Hey America! Over here!”

I have a friend, Vicki, in Pascagoula, Mississippi - a place chewed up and spit out by Katrina - who is still waiting for FEMA to show up and help her family. Her life has been turned upside down, her young children torn from all routine and structure - their schools are not even estimated to open until possibly late October - her home, a waterlogged, damaged shell.

Vicki and her family heeded the advance warnings and evacuated ahead of the storm. They ended up in Florida at the mercy of total strangers who helped them find temporary shelter on a military base. When they finally made their way back to Pascagoula last week, they found devastation everywhere they turned. Their home, many blocks away from the beach, has a 7 1/2 foot water line inside.

Draw that line on your own wall and mentally throw away everything beneath it, including the carpet, tile and paint.

Since then, they have done what all the other residents of their town have done, have had no choice but to do - helped each other and waited for someone out here in this big country to turn a TV camera on their plight.

They have dug in, dug out and physically exhausted themselves in the clean-up effort being mounted by their neighbors. They have been tearing up carpet, ripping out tile, watching their ruined belongings added to the growing piles of debris along the roadsides.

They have used their own money to buy a tent to sleep in those first days back when the shell of the house was too wet and smelly to even sleep in upstairs. Today Vicki text messaged me to say that even though there are National Guard troops around, two days ago they ran out of MREs (Meals Ready to Eat) to give to the townspeople to eat.

Two days ago.

And allow me to just say, for the record, to all those who still have their panties in a wad thinking that the relief effort in New Orleans was racially discriminatory - VICKI IS WHITE AND MIDDLE CLASS AND NO ONE IS CHARTERING PRIVATE JETS TO HELP HER. NO ONE IS SHOUTING INTO A CNN CAMERA THAT THE RELIEF EFFORT IS DISCRIMINATORY AGAINST WHITE PEOPLE.

So Kanye, maybe it wasn’t that Bush hates black people. Maybe he just hates cajun food and jazz?

Vicki doesn’t have a truly habitable home anymore. She lost her candle business and the thousands of dollars of tools, supplies and equipment she has amassed through the years. Her children have lost their treasures to the water, things like Spongebob collections and Harry Potter books, losing others like bicycles to looting prior to their return.

Vicki spends her day working with her neighbors and trying to get a straight answer out of FEMA, when she can get them to answer the phone, that is.

She also spends her days wondering about her future, her family’s future. How to rebuild. Can they rebuild? Has her government, her country forgotten her? Forgotten her town? She also worries that if no attention is being paid to Pascagoula, God help the people in the smaller towns farther on down the coast.

Through this though, Vicki has managed to hold onto the most important thing: She knows that as unlucky as she and her family were, they are still alive, and that’s enough to start with. In another text message today, as we chatted about the hurricane and its effects - she touched on what got wiped clean in the storm. She texted that, sure, homes were wiped away, coastlines were redefined, but mostly ...

“Katrina cleansed us of apathy, complacency and our isolation from humanity.”

I texted back, "That was beautiful and deep ......are you drunk?"

Seriously, I was humbled by her statement, by her positive attitude, because Vicki, like my family after our hurricane on Kauai, has truly never been more isolated in her life. 

But somehow, she understands the wait, echoes what her Governor, Haley Barbour said days ago, "This calamity overwhelmed the system. It's just as simple as that. We're making a little progress every day, and we're going to keep a little progress every day.

So these people hold on.  What choice do they have?  Jesse Jackson could care less about their plight.  Kanye West doesn't even know they exist.  No one is handing out debit cards and Oprah hasn't been around either.

As the days go by and America does what it always does - get bored with a story and move on - I ask that you please remember that Vicki is only one of the tens of thousands out there who still desperately need our help. 

And until CNN pulls into Pascagoula; Four Points, Alabama; Delacroix and Ysclosley, Louisiana and all those small towns scattered and battered in between, I’ll continue to shout for her and everyone else who wasn’t lucky enough to live in New Orleans and get all the attention: “Hey America!! Over here!!  People still need help!  They need food, FEMA, electricity, water, soap .... oh, and when you do finally get to Pascagoula, please check on my friend Vicki - Ithink she may be really drunk."