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"  Speaking of fat asses, I&amp;#039;m having mine electrocuted as I write. Imagine that you are watching TV jetlagged in the middle of the night in a hotel in Milan and somewhere near the porno channels you&amp;#039;ve paid 20 euros to watch, there is a commercial of a slightly seedy looking brunette in a bathing suit lying on a couch, smoking a cigarette, eating potato chips, and flipping through a magazine while watching TV and using a channel changer. At first you think it&amp;#039;s porn but then you realize she has all these white circular pads on her thighs, ass, and tummy (she&amp;#039;s lying on her side of course trying to look sexy) with all these electrodes attached to the pads. Porn with electrodes? But no, it&amp;#039;s an ad for some crazy cellulite-deleting, muscle-toning machine.  Whenever I saw those commercials I&amp;#039;d scream, &amp;quot;Sign me up!&amp;quot; But alas, I could never find them in the States, even in SkyMall magazines on planes. But thanks to a gift certificate to Exhale, my dream of having my ass electrocuted has finally come true.  The Exhale Power Body Detox by Ionithermie, from a French company no less (At last, other than fashion, a useful contemporary contribution from France since the depressed rants of the amphetamine-addicted existentialists!). It promises a loss of eight inches per treatment. I&amp;#039;m not sure that&amp;#039;s true but a lesbian did tell me my ass looked small yesterday so maybe it is! But despite my Frankenbutt treatments (I&amp;#039;ve had five, one more to go) I still can&amp;#039;t fit into half the clothes in my closet. Granted, I need to lose another 20 lbs to achieve that. Obviously, I have a problem. I buy clothes, and I mean thousands and thousands of dollars worth of designer labels in sizes too small as motivation to get fit. Okay, maybe I&amp;#039;m deranged, but there&amp;#039;s this one navy satin Lanvin peaked-seamed skirt I am hell-bent on getting into at the shows in Paris. So I&amp;#039;m back on the Jill Pettijohn fast to give my ass electrocutions a boost.   But lately, I&amp;#039;ve also been reading about how all these pet psychics have been in touch with the lost show dog whippet, Vivi, who escaped from the runway at JFK a few years ago, and they say Vivi is safe and sound but no longer wants to compete. She just wants to be a companion. Maybe I should call my phone psychic in Florida, Gitanda Moda, and ask her about what my ass wants to be.  &amp;quot;Wait a second Anne. Okay, I&amp;#039;ve got it up on screen. It says your ass no longer wants to be fat. It just wants to be complimented. But you are putting entirely too much pressure on it. It keeps saying, `Free me! Free me!&amp;#039; Oh, and by the way, did you know you were connected to the universal field? All you have to do is ask for what you want.&amp;quot;  She actually did tell me that once and I asked for a Maybach and ended up with a Ford Taurus\u2014so much for bending the universe to my will. And I&amp;#039;m sure my butt wants a companion too, but on that note you can&amp;#039;t do much better than going to the Marc Jacobs after-party with Philip Lorca diCorcia and Juergen Teller. They&amp;#039;ve both made bare-ass history with their photography in the art world. Perhaps I should ask them to do the before and after pics of mine. My crack could become the new Mona Lisa&amp;#039;s smile and sell at Sotheby&amp;#039;s someday for millions of dollars! Not to mention how I was shaking it to Rihanna, Alicia Keys and Timbaland&amp;#039;s performance with all these celebs in a borrowed Derek Lam sequined boxing robe (sadly returned) at the Madonna/Gucci Malawi benefit. When I walked in through the metal detector, which surprisingly didn&amp;#039;t go off from all my bling, Ed Filipowski from KCD said, &amp;quot;Wow Anne, you look great!&amp;quot; I said, &amp;quot;Have you ever?&amp;quot; And quick-witted Ed responded, &amp;quot;No never.&amp;quot; (To note: I&amp;#039;ve never worn sequins before except in the pre-euro days when my friend Alix Browne mis-converted lire to dollars and convinced me to buy a Prada sequin skirt because it was &amp;quot;ONLY 300 DOLLARS!&amp;quot; (Uh, make that 3,000, Alix).  But, what the heck? All I have to do for my derriere to be happy is moon people and scream, &amp;quot;Free your ass?&amp;quot; Sorry, butt psychic. I am electrocuting the hell out of it at Exhale, scrunching and bumping it at Physique 57, and doing another week of juice fasting with Jill Petitjohn. Putting my ass&amp;#039;s happiness before my desire for a svelte silhouette is just ass-backwards. Ten days and counting...I&amp;#039;m getting into that Lanvin skirt, even if it means I can&amp;#039;t bend at the waist and need two goons hauling me around by the arms around like a rusted Tin Man. To hell with my repressed ass, it&amp;#039;s Lanvin or bust. But my breasts, alas, are a whole other story. But I&amp;#039;m down 13 pounds in a month! Yeah!!!  Post script: I am three ass-inches and two waist-inches away from being a Narciso Rodriquez sample size. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
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