Weetabix: So! Elastic Waist this week...

Anne: It was a festival of delights!

Weetabix: Brooke had a video about herb salad, which is hardly boring. And our delightful Sarah schooled us with food cures that make me laugh.

Anne: I want to get sick, just so Sarah can come cure me with chocolate and sweetness.

Weetabix: I love the random video still. She’s looking all grateful at the apple.

Anne: She’s saying: Thank you so much, man. I hate that fucking doctor.

Weetabix: Always sticking a speculum up my hoo ha.

Anne: And then you go HOO HA! That was cold!

Weetabix: Let’s change the subject, because I’m clenching. I tasted a lot of energy bars this week.

Anne: Oh my God. You poor thing.

Weetabix: They were all awful, but one was the most awful.

Anne: We rely on you to tell us these things. You are throwing yourself on the protein bar bomb for us.

Weetabix: Way to increase the stress level for me. Now I have to try more and more energy bars, all in the name of science.

Anne: At least we’re not asking you to taste test vegetable smoothies.

Weetabix: And meanwhile, over on Body of Work? You were hot.

Anne: Why, thank you! Wait, that’s not what you meant. Goddamn it.

Weetabix: Well, you’re always hot. But also, you were hot.

Anne: Fucking New York. Right now? This second? I AM STILL HOT. Also, hot.

Weetabix:: It’s early Friday morning! How could it be hot there now?

Anne: It is! I am a delicate flower!

Weetabix: Speaking of hot, Danielle talks about sweating her ass off while working on home improvement, in our One From the Vault series.

Anne: I love this series so much. It makes me happy that we can be a platform for all these web writers I dig, who have such good stuff to say.

Weetabix: We’re so fortunate that we’re all so diverse, but share this commonality.

Anne: Did you just call me common?

Weetabix: If you have to ask...

• Mario Batali
• Alton Brown
• Bobby Flay

Who is going to make you pancakes on Sunday morning? Who is going to tantalize you in 60 minutes flat? Who is going to that great Kitchen Stadium in the Sky?

Sometimes at lunchtime you feel like a farmhand coming in from a morning of hard physical work with ornery livestock and heavy machinery. You have oil smeared on your face and a farmer's tan. You are seriously hungry, and a salad will not do. Nor will soup or delicate nibbles of this and that. You need courses. A full-blown, sit-down, multi-plated affair of a lunch.

On the same token, you can't climb under your desk for a siesta, so this meal can't weigh you down like an atomic brick in your stomach. And since you were 7 years old, you've never liked the various foods on your plate to touch. Man, are you demanding. But don't worry, I can fit all your criteria.

First, you need one of these candy-bright vessels that's a twist on the classic, metal Chinese school kid lunchbox. It keeps all the components of your lunch separate, which is good if you're particular about stuff like that. You could also use one tray for your lunch, and the others for breakfast and a snack. And gosh, isn't it the happiest?

And then you can sit down with melon and prosciutto, your broiled mustard-herb fish fillets, and a big spinach salad. Totally what a super sophisticated farmhand with a girlish figure would eat. —Sarah McColl

This has been a week of New York and weddings and old friends and trying to not melt away like a pat of garlic butter on top of the most amazing, fall-apart, silky-rich streak I have ever had in the history of my life, complete with a basket of the most perfectly-salted, crunchy yet yielding frites that make you want to drop dead immediately so that you never ever have to put another thing in your mouth ever again because nothing will ever top that, not even close.

What the fuck am I talking about? Okay. Let’s start over. This was a week in New York, and now it is almost done. It was exhausting and amazing and irritating and so fucking hot I want to go off on another goddamn tangent. I have been overfull and kind of wishing for death at least three times, but importantly, and excitingly, I’ve been overjoyed a million to the power of a million more times than that. I think I might be a little loopy, too, because I am not making a whole lot of sense.

I feel fat.

Except, do I? The sentence doesn't really make sense. I feel fat. Fat is visual, not emotional. I feel happy? Yes. I feel tall? Um, ok, I can see that. I feel fat? Unless you're having a hands-on experience, it doesn't jive.

At some point, we've turned it into an emotional state that is synomous with unwanted, unaccepted and just plain wrong. Despite what YouTube thinks, it is not synonymous with ugly. It's just fat. That's all. Fat. Say it. Fat. Not that big of a deal, really. Fat. I can understand the urge to avoid judgments, to avoid saying I feel fat around our daughters and sons, except that really, it's just a word, folks. Think of the difference between the way that the idiotic girls in the beginning of "I Like Big Butts" use the word "black" and then compare it to the way Jesse Jackson uses it. Same word, two different feelings behind it.

Paris-Free Zone: Wow, drawing the line at sensationalizing Paris Hilton? Could this be a portent of the coming decline of Ms. Wonky Eye's fame? Nah.

We're Not Us Weekly: Looks like Paris managed to do some shopping while in the slammer. Hey, we don't fault a girl for needing an eyebrow pencil and maybe those blueberry muffins were the reason she's no longer as unhealthily thin.

Go Figure: Turns out coffee really is good for something...preventing a rare condition that most of us probably don't have, but whatever!

Oh Fucking Boo Hoo: Fast food joints in NYC are going to defy state rule to post nutritional information on the menus, stating that it's an eyesore. Because the inside of a Burger King is the modicum of a clean design aesthetic, of course.

Cry for Help: This sounds like an Onion headline, but apparently Amy Winehouse really did start carving shit into her stomach. Can someone get this girl some therapy?

Not Naked, Just Shopping: Britney Spears eats Special K cereal. You can exhale now.

If you pop pills for every itty-bitty ailment, give your druggist a break and try some food cures. Who knew that a bowl of popcorn could help relax you or that a juicy steak could ease your PMS?  Okay, we all sort of felt that might be true, but isn't it awesome when science has got your back? —Sarah McColl

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.

Banana? Sounds like a major bitch. Who knew?

VideoJug: Why You Should Eat Fruit

L., who I’ve known since college, has spent countless hours telling me how sexy I am. He’s one of those astrology people who, within 13 seconds, can give you your sign and your rising moon child and your setting sunblock and your beautiful cosmic flower or whatever the fuck an astrologer knows as soon as you confess your exact date of birth. He told me I was a Scorpio when I met him, because I was smoldering, and intense, and very possibly the Living Incarnation of Liquid Sex. “Okay!” I said, you fucking liar. “Seriously,” he said. “Despite the weight, you are incredibly sexy. You carry it really well. You’re a lot of woman!” And he beamed at me, and for some reason, I did not punch him in the face.

No, I was totally flattered. He could still tell that I was fat (which, at the time, was my greatest nightmare. You were not supposed to see that I am fat, because I have cleverly hid it with fans and cloths and elaborate dance moves that blur your vision when I egress from the room in a swirl of hypnotic power), but being able to tell that I was fat, that was okay! Because it was practically good fat! I was immensely pleased, and loved him immediately, and I still really have to wonder why I didn’t say, “Really? You’re incredibly short! But you totally forget about that when you’re sitting down.”

Do you know what whey is? Everyone's heard of Miss Muffet eating whey with her curds, but do you really know what it is? It's the watery liquid that's left over during the cheese-making process, when the fat and protein solids form the curds (hence, curds and whey, which essentially was just a bowl of cottage cheese).

Let's get one things straight right here: the Detour Deluxe Whey Protein Energy Bar is not your mom's protein bar. In fact, this protein bar would be more comfortable being eaten en route to Muscle Beach rather than stashed in a purse for a snack while the kids are at soccer practice. It's red. It's shiny. It's in your face. It's so testosterone-laden that it practically has a five o'clock shadow.

Two things appealled to me, however, making me venture away from my comfort zone in the protein bar arena. The bar offers lower sugar and one of my biggest qualms about most protein bars is the ridiculous amount of sugar in them. Some energy bars are so packed with sugar that they might as well be a Snickers for all the empty carbs. But this guy? 30 grams of carbs and 30 grams of protein. 30 grams! That's like, a whole shitload of protein. Pretty impressive balance. The other plus: It claims that the whey used in the bar is designer. I have no idea what that means, but the socialite in me thinks, "Ooooooh... designer!" and I'm in. Really, I think the "designer" element is only their justification for charging an outrageous $2.79 for one protein bar, but apparently the claim refers to a brand of whey, not the fact that it has received benediction from the house of Versace. I am stupid sometimes.