Starla talks about the pressures women face about being thin, versus the pressure men feel about being in shape. We laugh hollowly. And then pay more for our dry cleaning.

Have you ever been trying to get yourself fit, and healthy, and stay in shape, and then had to deal with evil without escape coming at you from every direction and trying to steal your soul? We might have identified a little too much with Marla's story of visiting her pie-pushing in-laws.

It's so easy to give up on trying to be healthy. But Erin has such a good point when she notes that it's not just a chore, it's a responsibility.

Nicole is a grown-up at the pool (which we love, too) and showing off her assets, to boot(y). (Sorry. We are tragically helpless in the face of puns that ripe for the picking. So to speak.)

Sonya has reached a turning point, and her renewed energy is inspiring.

This is an embarrassing story. But I'm going to tell it anyway, because I swore I'd always tell all the things that happen, good, bad, and slightly humiliating because they expose parts of myself that I would really rather keep hidden away, and keep you thinking I am a nice girl with a pleasant personality who can really dance, possibly like a motherfucker.

So I went to the dentist this morning. I am not an early riser. The morning and I, we were never best friends, and we never will be. The appointment was at 8:00 a.m., and I had to get up at 6:30 a.m., except I got up at 7:15 a.m., and I was very late. These are the excuses I have for you, for not really thinking about what I was wearing first to a dentist appointment, and then to work for 8 hours, and then to another doctor's appointment because I am extremely high-maintenance. What I wore, see, was a dress I like to wear out to bars, and parties, and clubs, and the whorehouse. It's a blue babydoll dress, and it is cut pretty much down to my navel. Okay, not my navel. But close enough. It is a dress that is not appropriate for the dentist's office, work, or the doctor's office. It is--how you say?--boobalicious. Boobtacular. I got a lot of tits in this dress.

Do you have a stash of fugly panties that you keep around for five not-so-special days of the month? Why do we do that? As if we don't already feel gross enough. Just say no to baggy period panties and invest in half a dozen truly adorable, quality panties in black that are so luxurious that you think about wearing them even when it's not your princess time. Dude, you're totally worth it.

No Fatties Allowed: Nicole Richie's party invitation warns female guests that their weight better not be triple digits or they won't be allowed in. Oh, wait, that's her attempt at humor. Except it's only funny if it's not true, Nicole darling.

Techno Maki: If you're like us, then you love to people watch at restaurants. Check out this footage shot by placing a camera on the conveyor belt at a sushi restaurant.  Damn, now we're craving unagi.

Respect the Pigs Feet: Aretha Franklin is the latest celeb to call Jenny Craig, but complains that Jenny is being stingy with the pigs feet. No, we are not making that up.

Clean Plate Club: If you read the Washington Post, you already know that Sally Squires is a total nut job, but the idea of family dinners lowering the risk of kids with fucked up eating habits? Makes perfect sense to us.

Hogs and Heifers: Which is cooler, this gigantic hog recently discovered in Georgia? Or the cow that gives skim milk, which makes a form of butter that is soft even when it's cold. Hmmm...no more ripped toast or a truckload of bacon? We know Aretha Franklin's vote, but these are hard decisions, y'all.

Such a Fucking Rock Star: Beth Ditto is on the cover of the latest issue of NME. And she's NEKKID!!! From the interview: "You can't hate a person for dieting, and you can't blame a person for feeling shit about themselves. You have to blame the machine that feeds it, the thing that makes people feel like that. There are lots of things that are part of that machine, and it's too easy to lay the blame at the feet of women--men don't know what it feels like to be a woman and be expected to look a particular way all the time." LOVE HER! (Check back here tomorrow for a Rant on Beth's interview)

Photo Credit:  Kevin Mazur/Wire Image

Quittin' time and you want a plate of something savory, a sip something cool. Skip the fatty bar food and beer and breeze into the twilight hours with our belle's guilt-free butterbean crostini. Pour a crisp rosé for your guests and they just might declare,"Perfect--it's as light as a white with the body of a red!" Just make sure to pre-open those bottles and serve the same wine throughout. After all, when it's happy hour, the livin' should be easy. --Brooke Parkhurst

Vlog Your Blog:  Grab the Elastic Waist videos you like and run them on your blog by clicking the "Get Code" button on the player.

So, it's canned fruit in light syrup and the brand is "Cock O'The Walk", but this is one of the first commercials we've found with truly large people in it, and from the 1950s, no less. We can only surmise that in an effort to distract everyone from giggling over the name, they've got two very voluptuous ladies in gigantic bouffants dancing around and making silly faces, all the while a vaguely creepy looking guy slurps peaches right out of the can. Are they saying, "Watch out, or you'll get fat like these here fatties?" Or are they saying, "Look at how energetic these fatties are after they eat our light fruit?" Or maybe, "Hey, this guy is eating peaches. And here are two ladies with giant hair. And then the peaches again, going into his mouth. Hair. Peaches. Get it? Get it?"

We give up. We still secretly think that John Waters made this and threw it onto YouTube, because there really wasn't a brand called "Cock O'The Walk" was there? What does that even mean?

Kristina has got the cure for what ails ya. We would like an order of one through seven, inclusive, please.

More Beth Ditto, please! On Big Fat Deal, mo pie talks about Ditto's sassy naked cover, and got hooked up with a link to the band's awesome music for free, legal download. Sweet.

Fitness Fixation takes all the diet-and-exercise news we feel like we're supposed to be slogging through, and gets to talk about blowing out your ass in the recap. That's our kind of news reportage.

Want to know a little bit more about gastric bypass surgery? C has an excellent FAQ for you, with questions you might not have even thought to ask.

Sarah's got an exercise for you. Go, now.

So, Chicago. Chicago was a picture-happy city. Well, it's the city where my friends were extremely picture-happy, which is a quality I like in my friends, since I am not so much a picture-taking person. I used to think I was a picture-taking genius. Except that my photos come in three basic categories: Boring Scenery; Someone Making a Stupid Face; and Weird Blur. A photo of a brown turtle hidden up to its neck in the brown water, and a photo of a brown tree hidden by other brown trees against the setting sun, and a big red smear that might be the Golden Gate Bridge, but also could have be a dog, a homeless man or my butt, though probably not, because I do not like to have my picture taken, because I always look fat, stupid, ridiculous, bloated, ugly and weird in photographs.

Chicago--the place of a thousand cameras, this weekend in which I just relaxed to the fact that there were a thousand cameras and I couldn't stay under the table or behind a bush for the whole vacation, the 72 hours I spent appearing in photos more times than I have, possibly, in my entire life--was filled with photo-taking geniuses. There is no other explanation for the fact that not a single one of the photos that started to appear all over Flickr made me wince, or cry, or wince, cry and slowly die inside and then throw myself off a bridge into a tanker full of pudding.

Hate remembering to slather on the sunscreen while playing in the surf (or your kid's wading pool)? Try a surfer's rash guard. It sounds like something you'd put on before sex, not swimming, but really, it's just a UV-resistant breathable shirt that protects hardcore boarders from getting sand burns during a heinous wipe out. You might not be scoring massive tubes but throw a rash guard over your suit and you'll look uber cute and dare we say it, a little bit like a jock. Not only does it keep off the rays, but you also don't have to worry about any unfortunate nipple slippage shocking the neighbors. So much more chic than a baggy white tee!