As my birthday present to myself, I frightened myself out of my skin by going to see "Identity." I think it is my new favorite creepy movie, as it took an episode of "Gilmore Girls" and a cuddle before I could even think about trying to fall asleep. Not only was it scary and suspenseful, but the twisty plot kept me from figuring out the killer until the very end. Then, of course, I kicked myself for overlooking all the "obvious" clues, thanks to some extremely well-placed red herrings. Of course, at the beginning I suspected him/her, but only fleetingly because the idea was so ludicrous. Anyway, this film was better than "The Sixth Sense," in my opinion, because it didn't have just one good twist, but two (three, if you count one of the red herrings). It is quite hard to talk about "Identity" without giving away the entire movie, so I am going to stop right here. All I have to say is, if you see only one movie this spring, it should be "Identity."

"Closeted Jordan"

Some people have "Queer as Folk." Others have "Will and Grace." Then there's "Crossing Jordan." Why this show doesn't have any kind of cult following is beyond me. Sure, it's not advertised as a gay show, but neither were "Xena" and "Buffy the Vampire Slayer." It doesn't change the fact that Jill Hennessey has been playing intrepid medical examiner Jordan Cavanaugh as a lesbian from day one.


Run "Crossing Jordan"+lesbian through Google and you won't come up with any fan sites saying what a great gay role model Jordan is. That's because she's supposedly not gay (as she loudly pronounced in the one episode that does show up in that search, the one about the gay talk-show host whom I suspect she'll bed in the fourth season or so) and, frankly, Jordan is a terrible role model for anybody -- gay or straight. This dysfunctional diva of dissection is the archetypical snoopy "loose cannon" who lives to piss off police by doing their jobs better than they do. She's got a history of blowing her top, and a tragic past that leaves her incapable of having healthy relationships. Basically, any macho detective-show hero, except without the "standard equipment."


The writers and producers have been pulling every cliche out of the Lesbian Stereotype Handbook (TM) to give viewers cues to the eventual gay storyline. Jordan walks gay, and she talks gay, and she acts gay (Level 6 butch, as a matter of fact). Set aside the one-night stands with random ineffectual men (filmed, I am sure, as a red herring) and you will see why Jordan is definitely a closet dyke.


1. She watches "Xena" with her best girlfriend, who is similarly unattached at the moment ("Blood Relatives").

2. She is not only a hockey fan, she can rattle off arcane stats ("Blood Relatives").

3. She says her favorite color is pink ("Pandora's Trunk Part I"), but has never been seen wearing it or decorating her spartan quarters with it. I don't think I need to tell you what innuendo-laden variant that leaves (think Aerosmith).

4. The lady did protest too much in the second season's "Scared Straight" -- and the writers left a possible opening for a gay storyline when she called the lesbian talk-show host up at the end of the episode.

All these far-too-obvious clues lead to the inevitable conclusion that the makers of "Crossing Jordan" are working hard to make Jordan seem just a wee bit Lebanese. Perhaps they are hoping that with the demise of "Xena" and now "Buffy," they can woo those shows' fans with Jordan's gay subtext. Unfortunately, until they bring in a female love interest for poor closeted Jordan, the gay storyline will stay as cold as the bodies on the tomboyish ME's slab.


But just because Jordan isn't getting any doesn't mean she's not gay (in fact, according to this interview, it just helps keep the straight audience in front of the TV). She just needs a nice talk-show host to help her out of that dark closet. People watch "Queer as Folk" for its soap-like storylines, "Xena" for the Xena-Gabrielle subtext, and "Will and Grace" for the fact that despite all the risque humor, it has nothing to do with being gay. Perhaps they should take a second look at "Jordan," whose schtick, whether NBC will spell it out or not, is that she's a huge closet case.

Today's post is devoted to my sweet Mr. Wastrel, who feted me in an extravagant fashion Saturday. In honor of my upcoming birthday (tomorrow, actually, but I will be working), this gem of a man arranged it so I would be picked up by a friend, ostensibly because she wanted to go shopping, and spirited around Edmond's shopping district whilst he and my other friends picked up some adorable lawn furniture and put together a brand-new grill. Upon returning home with a few bags of merchandise, including some sexy new chopsticks from Pier One, I nearly had a stroke when I was greeted by the aroma of BBQ ribs and my nearest and dearest friends yelling "SURPRISE!"


Now, granted, Mr. Wastrel can surprise me by putting stuff in the shopping cart without my noticing and later procuring it to my great astonishment, but this time he has truly outdone himself. He was careful to leave me no clues to his devious machinations, and apparently, he and my other friends delighted in referring to me, CIA-style, as "the package" in their furtive phone conversations. I am exceedingly glad his great capacity for deception has been used for good, rather than evil. Thank you, Mr. Wastrel!


Also, thanks to a Wastrel Friend's very odd boyfriend, I have my very own copy of "American Pimp."

Despite my deep desire as a 6-year-old to become a ballerina (along with being a surgeon, a double agent and the U.S. president, all at once), I have all the grace and poise of a drunken tree frog. Certain of my co-workers have suggested putting my desk in a moonwalk so that rather than tripping over wires, hitting my head and unplugging my computer all in one supersuave move, I will bounce harmlessly about. Little does the unnamed co-worker know that moonwalks are death traps for people with no reflexes. I would most assuredly break my neck within 15 seconds of entering my new office environment. Knowing the dangers posed by moonwalks to children under 3 and tragically clumsy wastrels, Mr. Wastrel kindly suggested a padded room instead.


A Series of Unfortunate Events

(with apologies to Lemony Snicket)


1. While attempting to brush my hair as a toddler, I lacerated my cornea.


2. As a second-grader, I was racing through my friend's house one day, and failed to notice the iron gymnastics bar that had been left in the doorway when we tired of playing Mary Lou Retton. The bar rested in two notches carved in the door frame at approximately forehead height, and I was laid up in bed for several days with a contusion. Unfortunately for my body, this did not end my gymnastics career.


3. In fifth grade, I decided to ride my new lavender BMX-style bike. All fine and well until I hit a patch of ice. During a wheelie. Mom had to pry a hunk of gravel the size of an almond out of my knee.


4. In seventh grade, my friend and I were doing backbends. Apparently, the brain damage from the contusion had erased the memories of vomiting and photosensitivity that resulted from my last tumbling-related accident. I blame said brain damage on my failure to remember that arms are an important part of the backbend-landing process. Yet another gymnastics-related head injury ensued, most likely the one that precipitated my decision years later to become a cheerleader.


5. At camp in eighth grade, I was trying to impress a boy with my kayaking skills. Unfortunately, skilled kayakers do not get onboard by stepping on the front of their crafts. My kayak did make an impressive somersault in the water, but the boy was less than dazzled with my skills, and I ended up having to save myself.


6. In ninth grade, I was riding my mom's bike because I had a flat tire. Unused to handbrakes, I slammed on my nonexistent footbrake at the end of a steep hill only to find it didn't work. In a panic, I squeezed on the front brake. Logically, I flipped over the handlebars. Illogically, I both put my arms out and locked my elbows. After a loud crack and pain, I concluded that my arm had broken. However, my dad had to be convinced to take me to the hospital, because after so many accidents, you develop a high pain threshold and cannot summon up tears at the mere break of a bone. As the X-ray man explained to my skeptical papa, the radial head (a teensy bone in the elbow) had indeed cracked completely off.


7. My freshman and sophomore year of high school, I was on the basketball team. The first year, I didn't see a lot of court time thanks to that broken arm. The second year, I was luckier. I got to have my nose nearly broken when a girl snapped her head back during a stack, have my nose nearly broken by sundry stray basketballs, have my finger broken trying to catch an impossible pass, and have knee bruises for more than a month after a teammate decided during a practice scrimmage that basketball was, indeed, a contact sport very much similar to rugby.


8. My junior year in high school, I was practicing a cheer with the flakiest girl in the world. Being a waif, I was the one who was supposed to fall back and she was supposed to catch me. Being a flake, she instead ran for cover. I barely averted a third gymnastics-related head injury by instead incurring my umpteenth gymnastics-related case of hideous elbow bruising. My cheer partner barely averted having her pompons shoved up her ass.


9. My sophomore year of college, I decided to sneak out of my college dorm room, and all would have been fine and well had I had the ninja-like coordination I fancied myself to possess. Alas, instead of landing on my feet, I landed on my left arm. And, sadly, half of said arm landed on the soft, dewy grass and the other on unforgiving concrete. I now have a this-is-where-my-bone-popped-out-of-my-skin scar in the middle of that arm to prove how seriously uncoordinated I am, in case the constant tripping and banging into things doesn't give me away.


This is not even taking into account the plethora of shoe-related injuries, the times when I have mysteriously fallen off or over furniture or merely smashed into it with my hipbones, the curling iron injuries, or the possible broken toes caused by my dropping cans on my bare feet or running into sofa legs. My gymnastics career has finally been laid to rest forever, thank goodness, but I'm sure I will find new and inventive ways of bringing grievous bodily harm upon myself.

You may wonder why I have only posted nine examples of my overwhelming inability to coordinate my limbs, when with one more anecdote I could make it a nice, round 10. Well, for one thing, I can't think off the top of my head of any more mishaps that are quite so embarrassing and/or physically painful as the nine I've put up. Secondly, perhaps it would be wise to save a spot on the list, just in case my co-workers chip in to buy me my very own moonwalk.

Introspection can be a curse and a blessing. On the Blogger site, there is a link to one woman's blog that I find particularly difficult to read. On the one hand, her essays are usually interesting, thoughtful and well-written, and I really want to like her. On the other hand, on more than one occasion she has bemoaned how few "real" people with "dreams" she comes across in the East Coast city to which she moved after living in California.


She writes about how shallow and unfufilled and suburban they are. How empty their lives are. Well, how many of those people has she had an intimate conversation with about their dreams and how empty they feel? Just because they buy their clothes at Wal-Mart, don't read Important Literature and didn't quit their high-paying corportate jobs to Follow Their Dreams of Being An Artist (and remind the world daily of that sacrifice) doesn't mean that they're not happy, fulfilled, and making a difference of their own.


Since our nameless blogger friend no doubt thinks it below her to watch reality TV, she probably has no idea that flannel-clad "Joe Millionaire" lunk Evan Marriott is living his own dream every time he slices through the dirt with his backhoe. And that those fat suburban moms may have dreamed of being fat suburban moms their entire lives, and feel that raising their cookie-cutter goth-poseur suburban kids is a noble calling. After all, without people like Evan Marriott, how would this blogger enjoy her apartment, which was built by construction crews? And if those boring suburban moms who purchase nothing more stimulating than Good Housekeeping from the bookstore where the unnamed blogger works followed their dreams of being True to Themselves, countless kids might be molested by lecherous men in their mothers' traveling theatrical groups. There are things to be said for boring, stable parents.


Oh, don't get me wrong, it's fun to bash the middle class. I take great pleasure in snickering at the suburban baby goths who frequently skip through my mall (Yes, skip. Hand in hand, but I digress.). However, to say that the bourgeois masses don't have dreams or goals, or that they are just living empty lives, is too harsh a judgment. Just because someone does not share your aspirations, doesn't mean they don't have aspirations at all.

Certainly not everyone is pursuing a dream. In fact, I'm sure there are many disappointed people in this world -- more so than fulfilled people, perhaps -- living sad, pointless existences, working toward their next coffee break. But we can't tell them from the happy individuals, for who is to say what aspirations are important, and whose lives are fullest? Some of the most fulfilled people I have known were seamstresses, stay-at-home moms, nurses, plumbers, even career Denny's waitstaff -- just as some of the most creative, interesting individuals live out lives of quiet despair, despite their outward sheen of success and happiness. I dare that blogger to tell these people that their work is less meaningful than the work of some unknown would-be artist who works for a company that puts thousands of mom-and-pop bookstores (run by fulfilled book lovers living their dreams) out of business. That their souls are not as beautiful as hers. That they're not introspective.


Nobody can look at someone and tell whether or not they are living meaningful lives, whether or not they examine their souls each day. Some of those accountants spend their weekends building Habitat Houses. Some of those food-service professionals have prevented suicides with their kind words and ready ears. I appreciate that this blogger is baring her soul, but it bothers me that she can make instant appraisals of people's spirits. Too often we think we are the only ones with a story. The only ones with fiery souls. And that our ideals are the only ones that should matter to anyone. Everyone has a story, everyone is worthwhile, and each individual must judge for herself whether her life is full.


Self-absorption is, in one way or another, the root of everything in this universe that has ever gone wrong. Cruelty, misunderstanding, murder, war, Joan Rivers, the pillaging of Alaskan oil fields. The unexamined life is not worth living, so I'm told, but we also need to be able to step outside ourselves and view the world as it really is, tearing off the prejudiced lens of self and gazing clear-eyed at the truth -- that none of us matter, and all of us matter.


Now, back to 24/7 profligacy.

Today's post is dedicated to my celebrity crushes. You will never see me on the 6 o' clock news being dragged out of Gael Garcia Bernal's house in leg irons, taser to my neck. He is my biggest celeb crush, but in terms of the big picture, that's not saying much. Any affection I feel for people I don't actually know is purely as delicious eye candy, or out of respect for their talent -- or, in Gael's case, both. I have no desire to meet them. In real life, I am sure that I would have very little in common with these people whose performances I enjoy so much. It would be a horrible letdown to find out that Mark McGrath is a shallow groupie-banger or that Brad Pitt really does stink like a goat.


For as many of the crushes born of physical attraction (such as my thing for Anthony Keidis), or out of a combination of things including sex appeal (like my adoration of Madonna and Jon Stewart), there are just as many celebrities who aren't your typical heartthrob but who, nonetheless, have become the objects of my eternal, if tepid, celebrity-love. Here are a few of the notable ones.


#1. Conan O'Brien: My hugest non-hunky celebrity crush of all time. In fact, I like him even better than Gael, now that I think of it. Cute lasts for 20 years, but funny is forever. And while a funny man is good, a silly man is better. Also, I hear he likes cheese. Despite being built like a Tinker-Toy sculpture and having no discernable eyelashes, Conan is my hunka-hunka burnin' celebrity love.


#2. Tom Petty: Sure, he's a skeevy stoner, but he's one of the best songwriters the world has ever seen. In my humble opinion. He's on the list for his spirit.


#3. MSNBC's Rick Sanchez: OK, OK, I cheated. Rick is really hot! But not being an actor, musician or athlete, he is not exactly America's heartthrob. Which only furthers my opinion that Americans are stupid sheep whose incapability of forming original thoughts extends even to who they find attractive. Well, not I! No Backstreet Boy fan, I'll take a thinking man any day. When Rick corrected another reporter's pronunciation of "chorizo," this poor grrl went all jelly-kneed!


That concludes this portion of Wastrel Crushes. Stay tuned for Wastrel Crushes II: Most Eligible Despots.

I would like to give a shout-out to my hairdresser Brenton. Thanks to his expertise, I am the happy new owner of a fabulous head of straight hair!!!! But, you ask, doesn't Wastrel Heather already have straight hair? Mon cherie, one may have hair that is not curly without having what is called straight hair. Certainly my hair looks straight to the untrained eye, but if you look very closely, you will notice that on the left side of my head, my hair curls ever so slightly inward, while on the right side it flips ever so subtly outward. So it is with great delight that I emerged, straight-haired, from Salon Provence with product in hand and the mandate to find a good ceramic flat iron and a brush with a head the size of a pingpong paddle.


Now, I am fully aware that Cosmopolitan and other such fascist publications have declared that stick-straight hair is the height of so-five-minutes-ago and that we now are required to have long, loose curls. Not having the genes for curly hair nor the patience for long hair, I maintain that -- so long as one's hair is neither trendy nor extreme -- lovely, shiny locks of any length are always in perfect taste. Besides, these are the people who want me to wear thickly-applied metallic green eyeshadow. I spit on their pronouncements! I am certain that having unfashionably straight hair is vastly preferable to being mistaken for one of Aruba's famous divi-divi trees.

Last night instead of giving my hair lovely pale-blonde highlights, I went to a seminar titled "Baby? Maybe" at a nearby hospital with a friend from work. Since Mr. Wastrel would prefer to buy a few more toys and visit a few more countries before popping out the wastrel spawn, I was the only one there who was neither pregnant nor working on it -- but sadly enough, thanks to an unfortunate incident involving Depo Provera and my entire reproductive system and possibly my pituitary, I knew more about fertility and pregnancy than some of the doctors on the panel. I learned one thing the entire night, only because it is brand-new information even to doctors. But, I did get a free chair massage, which was well worth the 30-minute wait, and two bags full of baby-related brochures, which Mr. Wastrel and I will look over tonight.


The crown jewel of the hospital's obstetrics wing is the all-in-one birthing suites, where moms-to-be labor, deliver and recover in one room. I was less than impressed. Sure, it looked cozy, with its faux-cherry Pergo floors, pretty soaps and floral bedspread, but beneath that bedspread was a rock-hard hospital bed with big-ass stirrups. There were no Jacuzzis (although I think the last thing I'd want to do is stew in my own amniotic fluid, but it would be nice to have the option), and they don't provide birthing balls or birthing chairs. I didn't ask about nurse-midwives, but I already knew that beneath the room's cozy, soft-lighting exterior lay a gleaming tribute to "modern" medicine, the kind of medicine where babies have to fight their way up the birth canal while lying atop (and thereby compressing) the very artery that supplies them with the blood and oxygen they need, and where C-sections are performed if the Pitocin-induced labor isn't progressing quickly enough for the doctor to get to his golf tournament. I don't see this place being staffed with nurse-midwives.


So, I left the seminar not nothing more than I had when I came in, except now I have a bunch of catalogs and know where I'm not having my nonexistent baby. Worse yet, I didn't get to highlight my hair.

Tonight I am going to highlight my hair. Being something of a control freak, I will not let anyone else dye my hair, with the exception of my little brother. It wasn't until last year that was I able to allow someone else to even cut my hair, and that was only because several extremely well-coiffed friends persuaded me to use Brenton. But, we will save my control issues for another day.


This story is about those strange creatures who sell us beauty products. No, I am not talking about the scary Amazon Heidi Klum, silly. (Forget, for the moment, the oft-sidelined fact that the real-life Amazons burned off their breasts in their quest to be better warriors, and if memory serves me correctly it seems Heidi Klum still has intact bosoms.) I am talking about the women who mind the counters of Edmond's fine beauty-supply establishments.


In Washington state, where I used to live, these stores were manned by surly individuals with stylish, intentionally Day-Glo locks and impeccable Halloween makeup. But, aside from their nonadherence to nature's color scheme, these salespeople were very well groomed and did not look as though they carried mange. When I picked up my Ultrablue, I left the store feeling confident that my product would leave my hair pretty and healthy.


But in Edmond, I have had the opposite experience in not one, but two stores. Now, before you conclude that Oklahomans are ugly and ill-groomed, I must correct you. Only the boys are ugly and ill-groomed. This great state is home to some of the most attractive, well-scrubbed women on earth, and most of us look fabulous. However, every time I buy a highlighting cap or a bottle of L'Oreal Preference at one of the shops near 33rd and Broadway, I leave in an absolute panic that I will look hideous after using their products. Why?


On Monday, when I checked out, I was greeted by a 6-foot tall woman. No, not Naomi Campbell. Not close! This woman was built like a pregnant man, and her arms alone were four-and-a-half feet long. I couldn't stop staring uncomfortably at the freaky arms! That would have been OK had she followed some basic guidelines readily available to all who read Cosmopolitan, or even 1950s hygeine primers. You know, wash your hair, don't slouch, cover up your undereye circles, etc. She had a good foot of roots on her shaggy, tangled cavewoman hair, and wore no makeup despite Nosferatu bags under her beady eyes and a big cold sore on her lip. It did not help that she strongly resembled a lemur. Her appearance did not inspire confidence in my purchase, needless to say.


Sadly, however, she is the "hot" one at that particular store. The other employee has waited on me several times. She wears heinous fuchsia lipstick despite a greenish cast to her skin that would be much better suited by a brown shade of lip color. Despite her 50-plus years, she has been seen with tresses in hues of dull purple and rusty-nail. There is no way her hair color is intentional. Manic Panic does not make anything close! Worse yet, the hideous hues on her stringy locks draw attention to the burnt scalp and bald patches which, I assume, are byproducts of whatever process she used to make her hair such frightening colors. She tries to give me advice on dying my hair, too. I don't take it.


There is another beauty store on the same block. The girl there is pretty cute, except for five inches of obvious roots at any given moment. Her hair and makeup don't clash, and she is just as well-groomed as any self-respecting Oklahoma gal. Until she opens her mouth to reveal rotten and missing teeth. The horror!


Now, I realize this is a $6/hour job and the managers cannot be picky about whom they hire. I also realize that these people's job is to work the cash register, not to be supermodels. But at the same time, these people are supposed to be selling me stuff that I hope will make me prettier -- not stuff that will make me look like a lemur in drag. Their frightening abuse of beauty products is antithetical to the mission of their workplace, and it definitely does not inspire confidence.

The Sunday Night Movie Club and I are looking forward very much to the theatrical release of Bruce Almighty, a film wherein Bruce (Jim Carrey) is granted God's powers for three days. He uses said power to accomplish such noble feats as giving his roommate a holy boob job and toilet-training his dog. I fully intend to savor the first half of this movie -- the half where he abuses his fabulous gift in sacrilegous frivolities, rather than the half where he lundoubtedly will learn a Very Important Lesson and become a Changed Man (and thereby get the girl). I already know exactly how I would squander my power if I were God for a few days.


1. Give my gerbils the ability to speak.


2. Change my college transcript to include the math prerequisites for med school. Or give myself the knowledge to challenge the classes. I really, really am not looking forward to them.


3. Smite a few enemies with hideous boils.


4. Make my lawn green, kill all the weeds, and resurrect my begonias.


5. My coup de grace: I would swoop down in the middle of a White House press conference in all my power and glory (pausing to wipe the smug look off Ari Fleischer's face and zap some brains into that scarecrow Dubya) and announce in my Godly voice that imperialism sucks. Then I would tell the religious right that stealing violates my eighth commandment, and that they need to return the presidency. Then, I would go smite Saddam Hussein, wherever he might be hiding, since as God punishing the wicked would be my job, not some politician's.

Since I can't cook, it is unlikely that I will ever start my own restaurant, but the other day when I was thinking about war, I had the best idea for a restaurant. Now, before you accuse me of being a sicko, it's not a tartare joint called Hamburger Hill. Although now that you mention it, I came up with that idea too, but only to provide a contrast to my actual, very civilized, restaurant concept.



My business would be a fusion restaurant called Axis. Why Axis, you ask? Because it would be Italian, German and Japanese. We could serve up such delights as Mussolini Sashimi, Spatzle with Mushroom Sauce, and Blackshirt Forest Cake. Perhaps one night a week, the restaurant could offer free champagne and call the event Cristal Nacht. Our beverages could have snappy monikers such as the Kamikaze and the Screaming Nazi. Although now that I think of it, those names have already been taken. Well, there's still the Fascist Martini, made with eight parts gin, one part vermouth and a pitted green olive -- and if you ask for anything else, you take a shot.

So it seems the Laci Peterson case may finally be broken. I have been following it avidly on Loretta's fabulous blog. If the bodies indeed belong to Laci and Connor, it won't be long before the perpetrator (we all know who I'm talking about) is taking it from behind from his roommate Bubba. Not much consolation when you consider the heartless, atrocious nature of his crimes, however. I normally don't follow what some people call "true crime," but I think any woman can relate on a very visceral level to this case.



For those of us who have waited several years into a long-term relationship to have children, and especially those of us who have struggled with infertility, when there finally is a baby after all those years, it is not just a new life or a special creation, but kind of a symbol of the growth of that relationship to "the next level," and a declaration of trust in the marriage and in our spouse. It is an issue we wrangle over with our partners (sometimes for several years, if they are very stubborn!) and the task of producing and raising that child is not taken lightly by either party. Sometimes it seems just as important for the male partner to retain his "freedom" as it is for the female to answer the insistent call of her biological clock. Several of my friends and I are in various stages right now of talking our partners into starting our own little families. So when an eight-months pregnant suburban woman in her twenties, in a seemingly happy marriage, is murdered and her husband is Suspect No. 1, we can't help but think, "There but for the grace of God go I."



Sure, we're not married to narcissistic sociopaths. But as humans and especially as women who not so long ago made it through the social minefield that is junior high (and for some of us, the office that reminded us of junior high!), we do find it hard to trust others. The act that killed Laci and Connor (if Scott did it, and I think we will find that he did!) was the ultimate betrayal of love and trust. We don't know if Laci was a battered wife or if the couple was quietly having problems, but it is striking that by all accounts, they were happy and the baby was planned. Did Laci feel the way about Scott Peterson that my friends and I do about our husbands? Did he seem to her like a loving spouse? Would we, the regular Janes of the world, know if our partners were plotting to brutally kill us and our babies?



Since Scott is unlikely to be forthcoming with law enforcement, I doubt we will ever know the exact circumstances of this heart-rending crime. But it illustrates the fragility of human relationships and certainly makes us more aware that we can never really know anyone's heart. I don't pray, but my heart goes out to Laci's family and friends, and to her and Connor. My heart also goes out to all those people in the world who have placed their trust and love in people who will betray those feelings -- whether by breaking their hearts or breaking their bodies. If any of my friends winds up in Laci's situation, I will hunt the guy down like a cockroach and squash him.

I arose early today and worked out from 6:45 to 7:15 as part of my own small-scale study into this so-called all-day energy boost (the kind aging, sporty ad-industry people might describe as "Xtreme."). So far, my a.m.-exercise-induced, all-day energy boost has manifested itself in an Xtreme Nap. The two caffeinated beverages I consumed lowered my intense napping energy to the point where I was fatigued enough to quit my Xtreme Yawning and get to work. I guess I will never know how Xtremely boosted my nap would have been without the detrimental side effects of those two Cokes. I owe it to my tummy fat to keep going to the gym in the morning, but I am Xtremely skeptical about the all-day energy boost.

The Question of the Day club (QOTD) began when my friend Amy would email a group of her friends, all 20-something media and PR professionals, with a question such as "What five rock stars do you think are hottest?" or "Scarves: Retro-cool or Dorky?" Some of us were well-acquainted with each other, but in the beginning a few of us didn't know each other very well. That was soon to change. Through our Question of the Day and Hottie of the Week responses, the QOTDers got to know each other just as well as many real-life friends do.



Since we enjoyed each other's company so much in our daily email exchanges and occasional parties (for those of us not exiled in Kansas), the natural thing, we thought, would be to take a weekend trip to Tahlequah, a very tiny, very redneck college town in Eastern Oklahoma where a QOTDer's brother lived and went to school. Tahlequah is unremarkable in many ways, but it does have one thing that the greater Oklahoma City metropolitan area does not have. No, silly, not a good Asian fusion restaurant. A shallow, rock-laden, murky river dotted with canoes, rubber rafts and inner tubes carrying fat, sunburned men in their forties on a lazy 2-mile voyage.



Yes, dear readers, I am talking about the Illinois and Arkansas rivers ! While there are no Class III boxcar rapids or anything remotely exciting, it is dirt cheap, nearby, and does not involve Texas drivers. Thus, the perfect weekend trip! Having stocked up on swimwear and booze, we proceeded to drive to Tahlequah, where we had reserved two hotel rooms.



Most of us arrived the night before and decided to go check out Tahlequah's nightlife. Unlike Oklahoma City, which has several decent clubs and many, many crappy ones, Tahlequah had exactly three clubs. One was a pool hall furnished with folding tables and cheap stackable chairs, one was basically a pair of converted doublewides in the middle of nowhere with Christmas lights and a bar, and the other one was a bona fide bar with stools, tables and chairs, and even a small dance floor. It had a decent assortment of retro early-90s rap and dance music, thanks to some benevolent DJs hailing from the nearby college, who undoubtedly donated said tunes from their personal CD discard piles. We were very pleased to learn of their recent aquisition of Sir Mixalot's "Baby Got Back," which several of our number claim as their theme song. We only discovered this gem among Tahlequah destinations after having a few drinks, several come-ons and two handkiss-rapes by an octegenarian at the pool hall.



One thing about Tahlequah is that it is full of very old men, and they are all drunken and lecherous. Whether they are locals or imports, I cannot say for certain. Perhaps there is an online community of dirty old men, and they got together for Lechfest 2001 in Tahlequah the same weekend the QOTD club had their girls' weekend. At any rate, if we had a dollar for every time we got leered at, hit on, or mooned (YES! MOONED!) by old men during our scant three days in Tahlequah, we would have been able to fund our next trip.



The excursion itself was fun, if you forget about the geriatric Lotharios accosting us every two minutes. Although no alcohol is allowed on the river, there were lots of old dudes fueling their outrageous lechery with Budweiser, so we figured nobody would mind our Margarita-flavored Gatorade and the things that looked like beer cans under the sandwiches in our mysteriously large and heavy cooler. After safely navigating our way past the drug-sniffing dogs, who apparently can't detect alchohol -- I mean, electrolyte beverages -- we floated off into a sea of lobster-colored men, who immediately began ogling us (hotties that we are). So much so, in fact, that when someone yelled "The girl in the pink is hot" (despite the fact that three of us wore pink, but then, the river is 90 percent beer by my estimates), I yelled "Fuck off!" without looking first. When I did look, I realized I had yelled at the only raft full of hot, not-collecting-Medicare men that would ever be seen on that river. Fortunately, since we were the only raft full of cute, not-selling-ourselves-for-meth-and-aging-badly women on the river, they were not easily deterred. Thanks to that, my forgiving companions let me live to tell this story.



After discovering that waterproof sunscreen washes off in minutes and that alcohol accelerates sunburn (and, for me, that water erodes sunless tan and makes boy bikinis ride up like a mother), we limped back to our hotel and took a dip in the pool, where a crimson elderly gentleman flashed our underwater camera and then dropped his shorts as he made his way out of the pool. We thanked him for the lovely view, which you don't see enough in Tahlequah, and repaired to our rooms to laugh our asses off.


There are many other highlights of our trip, but these are the most memorable ones. Yep, the old men and the podunk bars. Why are we going back? I don't know. The drinking and rafting and togetherness outweigh the nasty feeling of being sized up by melanomaed geezers in a pool hall outfitted with folding tables, I suppose.

I need to start going back to the gym. It is not that I want to lose weight, although, like any good narcissist, I would desperately like to tone up a bit before the QOTD club (more on that later) has its semi-yearly float trip on the Arkansas River. Having no swimsuits that cover my midriff, it is imperative that I reverse the tummy flab that resulted from not using my abdominal muscles whatsoever for a month after I had my appendix out. I can accept the bootie fat, but not the scary flaccid abs.



Body image issues aside, mainly I need to work out because NOT working out has resulted in insomnia and fatigue. You would think that the fatigue could be fixed by sleeping, but noooooooo, I have boundless energy at 12:30 a.m. The precious slumber that I so desire is reserved for morning, when I am supposed to be up and on my way to work. Oh, cursed, cursed circadian rhythm! I can fix it all by going back to the gym, but I have decided to do it in the mornings rather than the evenings, so as to give myself an energy boost that is supposed to last all day. The only problem is, when I am three-quarters asleep and the alarm goes off, what do you think I am going to choose? A boost that lasts all day, or an extra 90 minutes of sleep? Such is the vicious cycle I have been battling since January, when I resolved to start going to the gym before work. Number of times I have gone to the gym in 2003 = 0. But the tummy flab has insisted; I really will start this weekend.

Welcome to my 9,673rd attempt at journaling. I have decided that, unlike my other picks, Wastrel is a relevant and gripping name for my blog. Well, maybe it's not gripping, but my news background requires me to use "gripping" anytime the word "relevant" is used. In that vein, let me just add that the government funding allocated for my blog is woefully inadequate.


All I have to say today is, TGIF! With my workweek's last gasp a mere 3.5 hours away, I can look forward to a glorious evening of playing SSX Tricky on the old Xbox before the game is due back at one of our fine local video-rental establishments. I am so buying that game! Perhaps I will do that when I go shopping over the weekend. Since last weekend, when I fell prey to the siren song of Tricky, I have had trouble eating, sleeping, gardening, playing The Sims and even -- the horror! -- shopping! Yes, I am but a preoccupied shell of my former self. If someone were to ask me if I wanted to go to my home away from home for a night of booze-and-art-enhanced fun, I would politely decline, choosing instead to cuddle up with my NBF, Tricky SSX. It truly is sweeter than candy, baby!