Next up in the book club: Jen Lancaster, blogger of famousness and known for her memoir Bitter is the New Black, has recently released another book: Such a Pretty Fat: One Narcissist's Quest To Discover if Her Life Makes Her Ass Look Big, Or Why Pie is Not The Answer. The title: a little confusing; however, the writer: funny and the topic: topical. Pick it up this weekend, and we'll start talking about it next Friday!


You may be aware that Ellie Krieger has written a book called The Food You Crave, and also that it is what we are talking about. As I flip through it, marking off recipes with enthusiasm after my successful sloppy joe experiment (it is cause for rejoicing, because cookbooks do not usually work out very well for me at all) it occurs to me to wonder: how does Ellie Krieger know, exactly, what it is I crave? Does she think has some kind of secret insight into my psyche, and should I be offended by her suggestion that I am a slave to my baser urges?

She's not wrong--and she's got me pretty nailed. I regularly crave pancakes, grilled cheese sandwiches, macaroni and cheese, chicken pot pie. On a regular basis, the levels of garlic fries, cheesy risotto and fried chicken get low and need to be replenished. My general way of thinking is that when you crave something, only what you crave is going to satisfy you, so eat it already. Substitutions aren't fooling anyone, especially you.

The last few days, my spirit was willing but my flesh was weak, as the very day that I was all roaring to get on my treadmill, I was slammed with a killer migraine of epic proportions that lasted for 36 hours. 36 hours! That's against the Geneva Convention, I'm pretty sure. Needless to say, no miles were completed and quite honestly, I feel really dismal about that, but then, last night, you'd think I would have gotten up on that horse and taken down some spreadsheet cells, right? Right? I did not. I got home from my day job at 8 p.m. (is it really a day job when you're working during the evening too?), threw some dinner together and then got totally swept up by the Democratic National Convention coverage. Change! Woo! And also, whoops, I think at one point there was a Michelle Obama upskirt. Seriously, nice legs.

But tonight! Tonight I am back in the saddle, triathlon-wise. I swear. I guess I shouldn't beat myself up that much. It's again the All Or Nothing mentality, creeping into my broken noggin, and I have been doing well with the rest of my goals (even the sleep goal, helped mostly by the fact that I spent about 20 of those migraine hours in a darkened room, fighting the urge to vom whenever the neighbor let his backdoor slam) and the entire point of a Lazy Man Triathlon is that you can participate on your own timeline. I have to remember that. Or write it in big letters on my bathroom mirror so that I don't forget.

The election--is it filling you with shivers? Are you terrified of the outcome this November, excited, anticipatory, a little terrorized, really hopeful, totally despairing? Whatever you feel, are you totally engaged? This, right here, right now is the time to get interested, get excited, get involved. Here's a baby step--Stila, one of my favorite cosmetic companies, has hooked up with Rock the Vote to put out an awesome Rock-the-Vote lipstick in the perfect shade of red that I covet. I adore a bright, no-holds-barred red lipstick--it is amazing how it makes you feel visible, powerful, gorgeous and unstoppable--they're a powerful statement.

This particular red is on sale now, and a chunk of the proceeds go to Rock the Vote, the incredibly important campaign dedicated to revving up young, voting-age kids and getting them to get their asses registered and then out to the polls--could you ask for a better way to make the world a better place? It feels as damn fine as you look.

One great thing about the return of autumn is that we'll finally have an end to this rerun purgatory that has seemingly been happening since spring 2006. I've mentioned before how much I love Pushing Daisies. It's often on those bulleted lists of Awesome Shows You're Not Watching (alongside Mad Men) and it is, quite frankly, brilliantly clever and fun and told in this fairy tale sense that is absolutely charming but also filled with lots of angst to sink my teeth into (the main characters are in love but if they ever touch, the girl will die). By the creators of my current summer DVD obsession, Dead Like Me, there are a million reasons that I love Pushing Daisies: a) a vaguely stuffy and sardonic narrator b) Kristin Chenowith, who is the original Glinda from Wicked and also, awesome c) they've somehow scored Stephen Root (aka the "Where's my stapler" guy from Office Space) d) the use of sexual double entendre (case in point: Beaver Boy) and e) a million other reasons.

It was a serious casualty to last year's WGA strike, but it's determined to come back strong, kicking off September by rerunning all of the episodes of Season 1 (which only 25 people were watching anyway), followed immediately by the start of Season 2 on October 1. What's more, they are doing it up, Pushing Daisies-style, by touring the country to give out pie and prizes across this great land of ours. The Daisymobile will make stops in 10 major cities and install pop-up versions of the show's sets, and give away prizes and also pie.

That's right. PIE.

So I spend a lot of time complaining that I don't write, and I ought to write, and I feel like I really should be writing except I can't write and woe, and swoon, and sorrow. And then I mope around because I feel guilty, I feel like I'm wasting so much time and so much of my life and what's the point, really, and why me, and I might as well just lounge around wearing a slip and drinking tumblers of gin and smoking entire packs of Benson & Hedges menthol 100s in under an hour while I watch my soaps and clear my throat and cough, right? I will accomplish just as much, but that much more authentically.

I have lots of big projects, and I stall and hedge and make dashes at it and run crying all the way home, soundly thrashed and very embarrassed, the way I am sucking with all the suck. And then I stall and hedge some more and don't even make half-hearted feints and then I am looking for a glass to pour my gin into and ordering cable television because Soap Net won't broadcast itself. It's a pattern. It's an endless pattern. It's a pattern that was established at the beginning of time, and as time winds down and the sun starts to cool and the end of days comes upon is, there will that pattern be, as bright and cheerful and inevitable as ever.

It seems that despite all my best intentions, all the months of really smart eating and being truly proud of my choices, the last few weeks have been Gorge Fest 2008. Perhaps it's because it's the end of summer, perhaps its because of the up-tick in my dating life (seriously dating is the most fattening activity ever!), perhaps it's a total lack of control, but whatever the reason, I'm eating way too much. 

This is not a manifesto on the joys of dieting; I don't really believe in that. I believe in health first, and feeling good about food--but I'm eating more than makes me comfortable. The rational side of my brain just says stop, but when the majority of your social life revolves around a table, reason doesn't always get to speak up. And at the end of the night, I see myself saying very diet-like things to myself, things that I've worked very hard over the years to never say to myself again.

"Perhaps I should try a fast," was the first thought that popped into my mind this morning. I don't believe in fasts, and I've only fasted once in my life and that was for a religious holiday that required it. One go at that and I decided that if there's a god they would prefer me well-fed and not a cranky monster spewing evil to all those around me. But right now, I don't remember what it's like to feel hungry, all my internal cues are screwed up. While my body feels bloated, my ego is feeling quite a bit deflated.

We are fans, here at Elastic Waist, of grilling. Possibly some of us (me) more than others. Did you know it doesn't have to be summer to grill? That as Labor Day approaches and the hot months draw to a close, that the magic doesn't have to end? It's true! There are indoor grills, which let you cook the fast and easy, low-in-fat, high-in-flavor style that grilling is famous for, all winter long. Flavorful grilled vegetables, juicy Portobello mushroom burgers, ridiculously moist grilled chicken, the happiness that is a grilled hot dog, even in January? It almost makes up for the loss of bare knees and smelling like coconuts.

Photo via MySpace

When Ashlee Freaking Simpson is the voice of reason, you know that the sick fascination with celebrities' weight has gotten out of control. It seems that Ms. Simpson (er... Mrs. Simpson-Wentz) stumbled upon some false rumors on a blog that indicated that Ashlee was freaking out about her recent weight gain (caused by the human hitchhiking in her uterus) and had some kind of size 0 shopping therapy to deal with the mental anguish. I'm going to quote the entire thing so that you'll spare your eyes from the horror of her MySpace page.

Today I read on a blog that I went to the doctor and he said I was overweight and I cried and went to Planet Blue (because I was blue) and bought 6 pair of size 0 jeans. Now it is ridiculous to read such nonsense about oneself so I thought I would address this one...
1. My doctor says I am right on target with my weight gain
2. Have not been to Planet Blue in at least two years
3. Love my maternity jeans...they have stretchy tops it is awesome!
4. My closet full of size 0's are being worn by Pete right now and he looks hot in them :)
So now that I have cleared that up let me tell you...carrying a child is the most inspiring, emotional, amazing experience of my life. My weight and my pant size are the absolute last thing I am concerned about. I am only concerned with having a healthy pregnancy and a healthy baby. People who talk and judge pregnant women's weight need to get a life!!!
Peace and Love,
Ashlee

So there. Stop being haterz, y'all. And now go try to scrub the image of Pete Wentz wearing Ashlee's jeans out of your brain.

I'm pretty convinced that the overuse of antibiotics and antibacterial hand gel is what is going to lead to the eventual apocalypse when the drug-resistant superbug finally mutates into a Godzilla-sized rampaging beast that destroys us all. But I also am not a fan of the awful, stinking pink soap you find in public restrooms that cracks and dries your hands and leaves you smelling funny all day, or the weird, sad bar of soap covered in dirty, dry foam you sometimes find sitting on the edge of an (usually broken) sink.

How do you stay sanitary, unstinky, and not contribute to the eventual downfall of the human race? Soap leaves are the best solution I've found, and I'm particularly fond of these lavender-flavored ones from Crabtree and Evelyn. They're brilliantly portable, lather up easily, smell wonderful and leave your hands very soft, and completely clean--in all senses of the word.

The end of August can be such a drag.  We're winding down the lazy days of summer, but we haven't yet gotten into the seriousness of fall with its boots and burgundy.  Before the leaves starting changing, let's try and get ourselves hyped for the impending autumn as we would for swimsuit season, SELF has some great tips that can help us do just that.