"The Anorexic Maison," is a coup d'etat of verbal acrobatics, about the Great Habitué of Non-eating, a 21st libertarian circus of snide effects in which the glam gals confess why they take refuge in the Maison after years of being on the diet circuit. (Excerpt from the book) "There are many hypocritical women in this house but lovely women too," says Jenny, the matron of house who wants to eat its doors and shutters. There's a mea culpa attitude in her strange effusive voice, some willingness to concede it is the hour of compassion for all women, a place where they can eat their bingo under the roofs, and kick up their yin-yang heels. "I said Anorexic Mee-sawn, pardon my French, it's fucked, like mice in the house," said Jenny, who wolfs down her Guadeloupe homey Mexican bars by the dozen and shudders in her ocean blue jeans. She admitted the whole thing was about getting even, svelte and more svelte, by the way, until you continued to persist in this fashion, not eating for whatever reason that is wholly personal. "Asian girls don't eat," by the way, she adds, "You never know when it's sneaking up on you."