As we have discussed, we go to the gym to feel healthy and robust, to keep our minds in shape and our moods in line, and to feel flat-out good about ourselves and just plain sexy--but have we ever once considered that maybe the gym is also a place to actually have a whole lot of dirty, dirty sex? You mean it's never once crossed your mind, the idea of throwing down that sweaty young thing grunting under the weights and making wild, passionate, aerobic love while the techno muzak throbs around you? You must be very seriously reading The Economist on the treadmill, and are a less distractible, dirty-minded person than me.

When Anne told me that she was having the duodenal switch, I didn't have an opinion on the subject, other than to know that it wasn't for me. To be frank, I was kind of horrified that my amazing and beautiful friend would put herself through it and I believe I used the phrase, "Cutting out her guts and hauling them away in a bucket," but I supported her decision once it was made and have loved being a part of her weight-loss surgery journey, to use a sappy WLS blog term. However, because I was concerned for her health and because I wanted to understand what my friend would be going through, I did extensive research on the subject and the surgery in general. Culturally, I was amazed by the obvious double standard: if someone were to exist on 500 calories per day for an extended period of time without having had a surgery, they would be considered an anorexic and doctors would tell them to seek treatment...but if they had weight-loss surgery, then suddenly they are making a "decision to improve their health."

The lack of solid statistical analysis on the long-term effects and the efficacy of the surgeries was kind of shocking, but what was more shocking was the willful blinders worn by post-op patients on forums--they would talk about the debilitating side effects, they would post memorials to people who died during or of complications from the surgery at ratios that were much MUCH higher than described on the surgeons' websites. (Folks, I work with statistics for a living and there are SO many ways that you can justify manipulating data to look like it's reasonable, you would not believe it. One word: outlier.) And then they would insist that they were reborn the moment they woke up from the anesthesia and started dropping poundage. In some ways, it reminded me of the Christian concept of the mortification of the flesh, a physical apology and paying back for the hedonism of weight gain.

Self's August issue contains a very though-provoking article titled, "The Weight Loss Miracle That Isn't." The whole thing is gold, but here's a bit that gave me pause:

"Try one!" my boyfriend's roommate said, holding out a bag. "They're awesome." I was very suspicious, especially when "they" turned out to be a bag of all-natural, practically health-food-style snacking crackers, marketed under the brand "Food Should Taste Good." I suggested that they couldn't be awesome enough to overcome their condescending company brand, but bravely soldiered on.

I pulled out one of the pleasingly robust, crispy- and nutty-looking crackers and examined it carefully. Then, I dipped it into a vat of hummus, took a mighty bite, and was startled by the salty, slightly sweet and nutty crunchy whole-grain--and yes, there it is. Awesomeness. Plus, honest-to-god no preservatives or artificial things, made with soy and flax and sunflower seeds and sesame and a whole bunch of other wholesome things, a totally reasonable nutrition label, and tastes pretty brilliant with hummus. My boyfriend's roommate prevails!

No cracker is ever going to take the place of, say, spinach and steel-cut oats and an apple, but if you need to snack on something, this is not only delicious, but one of the best deals, nutritionally speaking, that I've ever come across. Crunch.

Because I'm an ancient old lady now (apparently my body has decided that it's time to prep for retirement at the tender age of 37), I have to make a very conscious effort to eat foods with fiber. Lots of fiber. Because if I don't...wow, does it suck when I don't eat fiber. And since I've been avoiding my usual granola cereal and 12-grain breads in an effort to reduce my carb intake, my dietary fiber has gotten lost in the mix. If I don't pointedly make myself eat celery or a crunchy romaine salad or something fibery every day, I'm going to be moaning and resorting to a tablespoon of Benefiber dissolved into my sugar-free tropical punch Kool Aid. In this endeavor, I've been trying some of the prepackaged foods that are marketed to the Baby Boomers. I learned that Activia should be renamed Asstivia; I really like Motts Plus Calcium applesauce; and Fiber One peanut butter bars are really truly delicious. In fact, I started keeping Fibre One bars in my drawer at work because it's a tasty snack and it helps me be regular and I can't believe I just wrote that sentence, my God, I used to be cool once, I swear.

I've been snacking on them this week, one every day after a particularly gruesome daily conference call. Last night, while cozying up to Esteban on the couch, suddenly my gut just started orating, blurbling and bubbling like it heartily approved of the plot twist on the Bones rerun we were watching. Then there was a very unladylike noise. And then another one.

Esteban, a man of many gastrointestinal operas himself, sneered at me. "Wow, are you done?"

I blushed. "Er... yes?"

Yesterday was the very last session of the creative writing workshop I had been dreading and fearing and regretting ever signing up for, and of course I am very sad and blue and wish it had never, ever ended because every Tuesday nights, it was it was raining unicorn flower puppies made of peace and self-esteem. I had a good time, in other words. In case I had not made myself totally and completely clear.

There was the roomful of writers, most of whom were a little nuts and whose talent veered wildly up and down the spectrum, but all of whom were wonderful because they were there as writers, people who love making shit up and writing it down and telling stories and more stories and all the stories that are in their heads. This is what made me fall in love with each of them--they were readers who loved books, and writers who loved to talk about character and scene and point of view and what happens next, and next, and next. I think that is what I like best, about people who write: that they are always thinking about why something happened, and they are always thinking, "Okay, now what next?"

The instructor remained so cool and enthusiastic and smart, and J. (who took the class with me) and I are still arguing over who gets to be her best friend; then, another instructor came in to field the session on plotting, and I found that I wanted to have two best friends, and go out for group picnics and ride a bicycle made for three and bowl and eat cheese sandwiches and laugh and laugh and laugh, for that is what we will do, when we are all three of us best friends in the world. He was smart, and cool, and enthusiastic and articulate and I think he might be teaching the next workshop J. and I are taking, which is about writing flash fiction. I was overcome with relief, when I realized that this was our last class, but the flash fiction class starts next week.

I've been down on fast food since Taco Bell did away with their chili cheese burrito. You can't take away a girl's $0.89 meaty, cheesy, little roll-up of heaven, do you hear that Taco Bell? Shame on you. Okay, I've always sort of been down on fast food, even though now and then I need anything Checkers deems me worthy to ingest. Deep down I know it's bad for me. So when Los Angeles instituted a one-year ban on the construction of new fast food restaurants in low-income areas I was all fist-wavingly psyched--one point for public health! Then a friend of mine pointed out that all those fast-food restaurants in those areas provide jobs for people who may not necessarily have the access to adequate transportation to find similar or higher paying jobs elsewhere. Well, gosh, now I feel, really bad about all this.

Lawmakers say that the ban is just opening up retail space where healthier restaurants can move in, so residents in those areas have access to better food choices. Okay, but I think we've established, that even the healthiest of menu items aren't always so healthy, and eating well is friggin' expensive. So what is this law really doing? And do the so-called healthful restaurants want to take up shop in poor neighborhoods? In an ideal world the answer would be yes, but we all know things aren't fair.

Photo via The Stranger

At Blogher, the adorable Mocha Momma talked about those moments that she has with her bffs, where they see some fashion tragedy walking down the street and they say, "Oh, she must not have any friends, because if she did, there's no way they'd let her go out looking like that mess." It got a pretty decent laugh at Laurie Toby Edison's panel on body image, but really, I love the assumption behind the statement. Clearly, it's not the fashion victim's fault, someone's just not looking out for her.

Waisters, I wish I could say that this person doesn't have any friends, but you can't tell me that they gave themselves this trainwreck of a manicure. I mean, seriously, I don't get it. Why advertise a bunch of syrupy, HFCS- and trans-fat-laden garbage directly on your person? What do you think? Cute or not?

You try to be a shining light in a naughty world--you recycle, you compost, you bike or take the bus instead of driving, you buy carbon offsets, always turn off the lights when you leave the room, and have a collection of reusable grocery bags under your counter that you bring with you every single time you shop. You already have a ton, but might want to consider adding at least one more to your collection: the FEED bag, which comes from a collaboration between FEED Projects and Whole Foods, as part of the United Nations School Feeding Program. Each bag is made from organic cotton and burlap, and is produced by well-paid, fairly-treated workers in a safe environment. Because the purchase of just one bag provides a lunch for 100 Rwandan kids, you'd pick one up even if it were made of sandpaper and kind of lumpy, I'm sure. But luckily it is, in fact, pretty chic and slick-looking, and zips up into a cunning little graphic pouch that will remind you of what a good person you are, every time you tuck it into your shoulder bag. Grab one the next time you hit your local Whole Foods.

The thing is, I just don't trust calorie counts on anything, but especially at restaurants; that's because I come from a long line of restaurateurs and have done my time behind those swinging kitchen doors. The secret to making things taste good? Butter. Lots and lots of butter. I worked at a pizza place that actually even put a huge amount of trans-fatty butter substitute actually in the mix for its pizza crusts, as well as lubing up the pans with the stuff. And the easiest way to make a patron happy is to give them a hyoooge portion and you'd rather put too much cheese on something than not enough. But I had no idea that the so-called calorie conscious items were being fudged way worse than I even suspected.

An independent lab recently tested numerous items from popular chains and what they found is going to make you clutch your pearls, darlings, so brace yourselves. You know Chili's Guiltless Salmon? They've absolved you of guilt by telling you that the dish only has 14 grams of fat in it, but there's really 35 grams and about 50 percent more calories. Taco Bell's beloved Fresco menu contains my favorite grilled steak soft taco ever, except I thought I was getting 4.5 grams of fat, not 19.6! But that's hardly a drop in the bucket, considering Macaroni Grill's supposedly Skinny Chicken, advertised as having 500 calories and 6 measly grams of fat. Too good to be true? In reality, the lab found that the Skinny Chicken's got 49 grams of fat and over a thousand calories. I know, it's hard to believe but read it and weep (pdf). Sure, the restaurants have issued official regretful statements and apologies, but man, kind of makes you wish you had ordered cheesecake instead. Who cares if restaurants are required by law to list their caloric contents on the menu? You can't believe it anyway.

Forget the chicken or the egg, the age old question is sunrise or sunset...regarding exercise, that is. If I didn't have to be a productive member of society, I would say that early afternoon is the most optimal time to exercise, but since the world at large does things during the day I am bound by societal pressure to be a sheep--baaaahhh.  Therefore I must choose ass-crack of dawn, or social-life crushing evening. If only typing were considered exercise.

The experts say that a.m. workouts are beneficial because people are more likely to stick to a routine that won't be sidelined by social plans. Old wives' tales say that you burn more fat in the morning because you (theoretically) haven't eaten yet. Talking heads also say that evening workouts are more effective because your body is already warmed up, your muscles can work harder and you can last longer. You know what, enough of other peoples opinions on the workout conundrum, here's my beef: