So, you came out of the weight-loss surgery closet. Good for you. Do you feel relieved? Do you feel like a psychic weight has been lifted off of your shoulders? Awesome. Now I have one question for you.

What the fuck took you so long?

Seriously, Star Jones (sorry for the odd formality, but for some reason I can’t call you “Star” because in my head, your name is simply “Starjones”), what was the purpose for waiting so blessedly long? I mean, you’re like the David Hyde Pierce of weight-loss surgery. By making this a big deal, this did she or didn’t she? thing, you’re giving the prospect of weight-loss surgery so much more power than it needs to have.

When our building buddies down on the fifth floor put out a special issue of recipes, we were not expecting to find filet mignon dinners and six pages of desserts. But that is exactly what's inside Self Dishes, with nary a sad little chicken breast in sight. This antioxidant-rich, fiber-rich dessert is also just rich, and the no-bake almond-date crust makes it perfect for a summer party. —Sarah McColl

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Fine—I am not fat any more, where it counts to the outside world. I am still a fat girl in my heart, but here where everyone can see me and judge me, I am not, by any objective standard outside of Hollywood or mental illness, fat. I am maybe chubby, a little fluffy, not skinny, or, medically speaking, overweight. But I am not fat. I spent a good 25 years of my life fat, and now that is not me any more, goddamn it. Now what the fuck am I supposed to do?

I recede back into that vocabulary, when I'm feeling uncomfortable—I feel fat, I look fat, I am fat, all used in a negative way, with negative connotations. It's not simply and elegantly a marker of size, the way it should be and needs to be, but instead it's a put-down in the old-fashioned, needs-to-be-obsolete sense. I'm insulting myself with these words I have no right to use any more. I'm feeling a way that is completely at odds with the space I take in the world, and the shape of that space, and it is harder than I thought to shake out of it. I am starting to believe in my size; yes, I am, quite literally, about half the size I used to be, and yes I will fit in that chair or between those two columns or in this pair of pants that still, for an instant, look much too small but I can see how it will work. I've adjusted in a lot of ways, and my head's caught up with my body in a lot of ways, but sometimes I am not sure my body has caught up.

Who knows if it's growing older, or a change in eating habits that alters our tastes, or if it's the evolution of the very buds themselves, but our sense of what we like best to eat really does change with time. What was once odious to my palette is now awe-inspiring (raw onions, blue cheese). Which leads me to the roasted red pepper and its friend, the cheese of a goat.

Not so very long ago I was not so much a fan of either. I asked for roasted red peppers to be taken off a lamb sandwich once and the chef looked at me incredulously. He had every right, bien sur. Likewise, I used to think goat cheese was overused and overrated and too sweet. Do not ask me what was wrong with me, as these previous, staunchly held perceptions seem positively insane-o to me, now that I am in the full rapturous throes of a love affair with the two.

It started with a sandwich that I ate in the park one sunny day on a blanket. I probably could have fallen in love with sawdust, so ripe was the setting for romance, but it was this red pepper and goat cheese sandwich that did me in. I was so distracted, so much a goner, that my attention was completely stolen from whom the bell was about to toll. And then I just laid in the shade, hand on contented belly. 

Back in my kitchen on a Sunday night, standing corrected, it was time to make the next day's lunch.  Salad was up at bat, and I believe there is a triumvirate of ingredients for perfect salads. Take a fruit or a vegetable; add a sprinkling of complementary cheese; top with a handful of toasted seeds or nuts (while this formula works, it need not be strictly adhered to). So with my goat cheese and roasted red pepper in confirmed seats on this lunchtime flight to Deliciousville, there was only one thing to add: toasted pecans. Believe me when I tell you there were no delays or turbulence before reaching our destination.  —Sarah McColl

The comments want to know what foods you once hated but now live for.

Unemployment Line: We're somewhat relieved that Paris and Nicole are officially out of work. The fat kids of the world can rest easy, knowing that they won't be receiving enemas from heiresses any time soon.

Brotha, Can You Spare a Dime? Starbucks is about to raise their prices by about 9 cents to cover rising dairy costs. We want to know why that also affects things like iced tea.

Take That, Felicity: Jaime Pressley owns the new wonder stomach. More proof that a nanny, personal chef, trainer, and working out six hours a day will give you fantastic results. Actually, we're pretty sure that she employed a stunt-double uterus to give birth a neat eight weeks ago.

Let's Get Physical: If you worry about spinning class causing you to have a heart attack, don't. A study has found that there is very little risk for women under the age of 40 having heart attacks caused by moderate to intense exercise.

Once Upon a Time: Fat girls were in style. Sort of.

Weekly Posh Tidbit: Because we can't let five days go by without filling you in on the exact zeitgeist of the Poshiverse, most beautiful person Eric Mabius (aka Daniel Mead) thinks everyone should just leave Vicks alone. She let you look at her boobs, didn't she, Eric?

Nicole, Maybe? The comments want to know your guesses as to blind items #2 and #3.

Photo Credit: Jamie McCarthy/Wire Image

On Friday morning, Sarah and I met each other (for the first time ever! Squee!) and headed over to Navy Pier to attend BlogHer 2007. We were both very excited to go to the Our Bodies, Our Blogs panel, featuring Laurie Toby Edison, Wendy McClure and Yvonne Marie, moderated by Jenny Lauck.

Laurie Toby Edison is a crazily-talented photographer and activist. I had noticed her walking around during lunch, looking for a place to sit down and almost asked her to join us, since Sarah, Wendy and I had an empty table all to ourselves, and I am kicking myself that I didn't, because I could pretty much listen to her talk all day long. She came of age in the Sixties, so she is filled with some of the political fervor that is so rare in pessimistic Generation X, which grew up under the shadow of an impending mushroom cloud. She reminds me of the hippies who used to sit around our kitchen table when I was growing up, planning rallies and discussing Greenpeace fundraising efforts and planning what would eventually become the local food bank that today feeds a thousand people every day. I loved Laurie’s contention that Fat vs. Thin has become the new class system, because that’s all there is left and her discourse on the circle of blame. Laurie says that she concentrates on making the invisible visible, mentioned that men have eating disorders too but the interesting aspect is that men aren’t really talking about it, are they? They are just freaking out in silence, or starving themselves to get that V down by their groin that only occurs around 2 percentage body fat.

If you were able to track the course of size acceptance on the Internet, you'd see that Mopie was one of the pioneers of the movement with her blog Big Fat Deal, and hers was the first weight-loss blog I ever read. She's also one of the people who inspires me and is probably the only person that I'd sing horrible duets with in public. —Weetabix

To some, we are mythical creatures, much like unicorns or hippogriffs: fat girls who work out. But we do exist—I'm living, breathing, huffing, puffing, sweating, hyperventilating proof. In my quest for size acceptance, I've been preaching the gospel of health at any size. In my own life I'd gotten the "any size" part down, but I was struggling with the "health" bit. Sure I eat my fruits and veggies, but the most exercise I got on any given day was multiple trips to Starbucks. And sex, which totally counts. But anyway, for long-term cardiovascular health and in an effort to stop feeling like kind of a hypocrite, I decided to give this exercise thing a shot.

Today, my first day on the job, I am supposed to be there at 9:30 a.m., sharp and on the dot. To do that, I'd have to get up around 8:00, maybe a little after, be finished getting ready around 8:30-ish, and out the door by no later than 8:45. Last night, I stayed up a little later than I ordinarily would have, partly because of all the millions of hours of sleep I was going to get, seeing as how I didn't have to be up until practically awesome o'clock and that is so much beauty rest I wouldn't even need because all the super coolness of my excellently easy commute was already combining forces to make me so gorgeous. It was going to be such a good day!

I got up at 3:00. And then 4:00. And then, 4:10, 4:30, 5:00, and finally I gave up at 6:00 and staggered out of bed, and went down the street to go get a latte and then came back, ready to accomplish important things and face serious issues and make the world such a good place and my house such a clean place, and my outfit for my first day such an excellent outfit, except I fell asleep on the couch until 7:15, and now my latte is all watery and so too are my eyes, and why is it so early in the morning? This is uncool, and my stomach is in knots, and I remember this feeling, from way back in the day, the first-day-of-school feeling where every choice you make will determine your brand new future, because that is what this is—a pause, a breath, at the doorway to the rest of your life. No pressure.

The Osbourne Supremacy: Our girl Kelly Osbourne looks uber cute with the parasol. Apparently, she is going to be taking the role of Matron "Momma" Morton in the London staging of the musical Chicago (reprising the role played by Queen Latifah in the movie). A case of miscasting, if you ask us. She's totally a Roxie.

The Other Kelly: Was posing as Mandy Moore on this month's Elle cover, but refreshingly like herself (not fat!) on the upcoming cover of Self. Also, she's already thinking toward her 2008 album.

The Science of Bigotry: Looks like there might actually be an evolutionary basis for fat prejudice. Or someone's trying to justify the fact that they're an asshole. It's a better reason than these random generalizations about why weight should be a factor in determining a person's ability to be a good parent.

Absolutely Nuts: We're not going to have a screaming pointless freakout about it or anything (summary: ads tend to overstate the potential impact of their product) but rather, isn't food emotional enough? Et tu, peanut farmers?

Method Acting: Matt Damon admits that it was totally not a good idea to get down to heroin-chic weight for a role, because it made him shaky and weird. It makes you wonder how half of Hollywood is able to walk in a straight line, doesn't it?

Aren't You Sweet? Sugar gets a bad rep all the time, but it's not always bad.

Manhands: We know it's just a trick of perspective, but the way this photo makes it look like Amy Winehouse is holding a gigantic lollipop with a freakishly large ape hand is sort of entertaining. (Of course, TMZ wants to pretend that it's all she's eating. Whatevs.)

Photo Credit:  Jemal Countess/Wire Image