In the Redundant Information Department, I have just proved my mettle as a grammarian in a fun online quiz.

[take the test] - [by krystaljungle.com]

Ironically, I found a grammar error in the little graphic thingie that I get to put on my blog to show everyone what a grammar whore I am. Since the second independent clause begins with a coordinating conjunction ("for"), a comma is required after the word "whore" in order to separate the two clauses.

Over the weekend, I watched two very different movies, both of which were enjoyable enough but, somehow, vaguely disappointing. First we have "Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle." I'm in the minority that enjoyed the goofy, unprepossessing first movie. The new version was a fun ride, don't get me wrong. Any film that features that many wardrobe changes can't be all bad. But the baffling decision to cast Bernie Mac as Bosley, the ludicrously improbable stunts, and the many gratuitous closeups of Cameron Diaz's bootie detracted from the quality of the comedic bliss that is Diaz, Barrymore and Liu.

The second vaguely disappointing film I took in this weekend was "28 Days Later." This is not, as some of the filmgoers who left 10 minutes into the movie may have assumed, a sequel to Sandra Bullock's supercheesy rehab chick flick "28 Days." It is a zombie movie, although I'm not sure which one. It was so busy paying homage to every other zombie flick ever made that it forgot to have an original idea. But it was wonderfully filmed and included British accents, which are my very favourite of all the accents (did you notice my British spelling? I love the way they spell favourite! If I ever become a pretentious, overrated author, I will use only colourful British spellings).

Anyway, both movies suffered -- one from terrible overdirecting, the other from lack of originality. But I have a solution! Yes I do!

Enter "Charlie's Zombies." Instead of the enemy being some lameass Irish mafia, the villain of "Charlie's Zombies" would be, as is the tradition in films featuring undead flesh-eaters (and to a lesser extent, "Full Throttle"), ourselves. You see, before Natalie came to work for Charlie, she labored at a dairy farm that doubled as a laboratory where experiments were done on cows. The bovine subjects were infused with all the rage and evil of humanity, and when they escaped, a devastating virus was unleashed. This killer case of pinkeye is accompanied by impulses to devour others, but it really just symbolizes the worst of human nature.

And instead of the overdone ragtag-band-of-misfits-who-somehow-overcome-hordes-of-zombies-despite-overwhelming-odds premise, "Charlie's Zombies" would feature winsome, magnificently dressed heroines who initially flee the also-well-dressed zombies on sleek, color-coordinated speedboats and later, after having faced their inner demons and made a few quips and girlie in-jokes, defeat the flesh-eating throng using well-choreographed, Matrix-like martial arts moves (but grainily shot, to serve the double purpose of looking retro-zombie-flick-arty and camouflaging the CGI work). And instead of a happy ending, which is never quite as satisfying as is a cruel twist, the Angels could vanquish the teeming crowd of twitchy undead, only to open the door to Demi Moore, who, instead of lifelessly playing an ex-Angel, could lifelessly play a zombified ex-Angel. The Angels, being so enamored of the legendary crimefighter that they don't notice the wicked case of bloodshot eyes, open the door and let death in. Or rather, undeath. Thus, the human race would implode on itself, as should happen in every good zombie movie, and the Angels movie wouldn't be ruined by McG. Perfect!

In case anyone was wondering what my weirdest search-engine referral has been, as of tonight it is "bikini girls in backbends." C'mon, peeps, I said I enjoyed "Jackass," not "The Man Show"!

Much ado has been made about the Little Rascals' He-Man Woman-Haters' Club, and, for those of us in the working world, the Old Boys' Club. But much less publicized is the Female Bonding Club, a universal network that includes everyone with two X chromosomes in the world, except me.

No, I didn't start out as a man. I'm definitely not a guy. I can check again if you really want, but I'm pretty sure. What I am talking about is that weird, sorority-like sisterhood that is girlkind. You know what I'm talking about. How, immediately upon meeting each other, women are sharing their deepest, darkest secrets, and more significantly, their cutest shoes. Like they have some kind of sonar that allows them to seek out kindred spirits and communicate in their secret, nonverbal girl language. I am not part of that club.

It's not that I don't want to be part of the club. I would never pass up an opportunity to expand my shoe-wearing options. And while Cosmo is a great place to learn about the latest lip gloss, women are more likely to tell me the honest truth about whether it really does last 18 hours.

But that same mysterious sonar that clues women in on who is part of their club also beeps very loudly when they sense an intruder. And for whatever reasons, despite my subscription to Ms., I'm an intruder.

Maybe it's because I don't enjoy talking about emotions and relationships and personal drama for three hours on end. Maybe it's because I've always hung out mostly with guys and follow baseball and have my own hockey gear and enjoyed "Jackass: The Movie" exponentially more than I did "Steel Magnolias," and they pick up on my inner frat-boy. Maybe I send off some threatening vibe that says "I will steal your men and devour your babies." Whatever it is, other women instinctively ignore me. It's been that way since I can remember.

Occasionally the Female Bonding Club experiences a security system glitch, and I make friends with a person whose boobs aren't the byproduct of too much McDonald's and not enough bench presses. And honestly, they are very good friends. We talk about fashion, guys, feminist theory and home decorating, and together we team up and make the men in our lives sit through movies featuring Renee Zellweger or Reese Witherspoon, but the true stars of which are actually named Andre Courreges and Jimmy Choo.

I really like these friends, of which there are an unheard of four at the moment, but when I am part of a large group of women, my identity as a club outsider becomes apparent. Throw a group of strange female people together, and they will immediately cohere as a group. There will be loose alliances, bitter nemeses and bosom buddies. Then there's me. Invariably, in the midst of all that frenzied bonding, I'm the one standing in the corner by myself, a little stunned, like a deer in the headlights. Even among my own very close girlfriends, when we all get together I have trouble finding a place. In the Female Bonding Club application process, I haven't even got the brochure.

As a kid, I blamed it on my brothers. In my teens, I thought it was because I was too fat. But now I realize I just don't fit into large groups of women, and I never will. I can hold my own with the guys most of the time, and that will have to be enough for me. Because it's more likely I'll get into the Old Boys' Club than the mysterious, heavily guarded Women's Club.

Woo-hoo! Looks like my favorite information minister made it through the war, after all. Now is the time to get your "God will roast their stomachs in hell" barbecue apron, if you haven't already.

Today's post is dedicated to Mr. Wastrel, whose hard work was recently recognized by Uncle Sam.

Being a modest person, Mr. Wastrel did not bother to tell me that the dinner we were going to included awards and commendations for his team. But being a very immodest person myself, I have no compunction about bragging on Mr. Wastrel, who, by the way, is the best darn C++ programmer ever, in addition to kicking ass in many other facets of software development.

So, honey, in addition to the piece of paper commemorating your team's victorious national trouncing of all of this year's other innovations, which will probably get buried in the filing cabinet with all your other awards, you now have the imperishable Wastrel Commendation, which is given on an irregular basis to people I am impressed with. This award, alas, cannot be shoved in a drawer or hidden. It will shine in incandescent glory on this blog forever and ever, a constant reminder of your effulgent genius.

To Mr. Wastrel! Long may his brilliance be recognized!

Last night I participated in MoveOn.org's history-making Internet primary. MoveOn has been catching a lot of flack from the media because Zack Exley, the organization's organizing director, took time off work to help former Vermont Gov. Howard Dean set up software on his campaign Web site (an offer that MoveOn also extended to other candidates, who didn't take them up on it).

The mainstream media has been frothing at the mouth with allegations of "vote rigging" and skewed results (like the New Hampshire primary represents everybody in the nation? Give me a break!). Apparently, we voters can't think for ourselves and will be unduly influenced by the perceived leanings of the people who run MoveOn (now, skewed results because every Freeper in the country has heard about the vote thanks to aforementioned critical mainstream media are another thing).

Well, I for one think it was a great idea. Despite the menacing 3 a.m. phone call telling me to vote for Dean or I'd be sleeping with the fishes, I voted for my own candidate. In fact, I had picked my candidate months ago, even before the MoveOn straw poll, as I'm sure did everyone else who give enough of a shit about this election to sign up for an online primary. Finding out who we really want, after all, was the whole point of the primary.

Now, whether any Democrat candidate is electible is another story. I think Hillary would have been electable, or even Gore, but they're not running. John Edwards is most likely to get the Southern Democrat votes in a presidential election, which is crucial, but he doesn't have a lot of mainstream Democratic support. I doubt he will do well in the primaries. Kerry has some buzz going, but if I were a betting grrl, I'd put my chips on Howard Dean. He's personable, he's got a conservative stance on gun control which may help with crossover votes (although not with mine), and the Democrats seem very likely to give him the primaries. But most importantly, MoveOn told me I'd be wearing concrete shoes if I didn't say that Howard Dean rocks the free world. There you go, Zack. Please call off the dogs now. I love MoveOn!

I have come to realize that there are very few satisfying beverages that are actually good for you. Recently, I have given up soft drinks, other than the sips that I steal from Mr. Wastrel's glass when he's not looking, because I am Vanilla Coke's bitch.

Sure, there is fruit juice, but it's still sugary. You can drink tea, but it has caffeine (and since this is the South, it usually contains more sugar than actual tea). Then there's milk, but that's got all the problems endemic to animal products. Basically, all you're really left with is water.

Not wanting to give up all of these yummy drinks, and especially not wanting to drink water, I have been weaning myself off harmful beverages one step at a time. The first step, since I am already at risk for osteoporosis, was cutting out carbonation. But that is easier said than done.

Most restaurants have unlimited soft drinks, but if you get fruit juice, you have to pay for refill after refill. Many fast-food places serve nothing but soft drinks. Yesterday, I was forced to consume Powerade with my Caesar salad because it is the only thing you can get besides pop at McDonald's. Unless you are willing to pay $1 for a tiny, nonrefillable glass of nasty aluminum-can-tasting O.J., which I am not.

People, would it be so difficult to have some grape juice or Sobe or unsweetened green tea on tap?

The impressive row of spigots at the average restaurant may make it seem as if you are offered many choices. The brutal reality is that your only choice lies in what form of sugary, phosphorus-laden, caffeinated death you would like to sip from your frosty glass. Or aspartame-laden, if you're into the diet cola thing (although, according to the holistic community, it may do more harm than good to your weight).

So, try as I might to seek out healthy alternatives to delicious, bubbly, kidney-rotting devil juice, I seem destined to occasionally crawl back to my harsh mistress, Vanilla Coke.

If I actually smoked...

PARLIAMENTS


What variety of cigarette are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Quizilla tests are fun, if inaccurate. Apparently my Steve Madden-wearing, desk-sitting ways are outweighed by my tastes in music and tendency to flip people off a lot. I would hate to see what they consider a non-hardcore punk rocker. Of course, in my opinion, punk died when the first Hot Topic opened. But that is a topic for another day.

When Southerners try to improve on Northern foods, there is but one solution: Drop it in a vat of oil and fry it up. (Normally, this results in revolting entrees such as fried okra). From Florida's recently retired Old Sparky to the culinary disaster that is fried Moon Pies, the South does whatever it takes to keep its reputation as the frying capitol of the world.

Thus was born a uniquely Southern concoction, fried cheesecake. Yup, you heard me. No longer is regular cheesecake enough, it seems. So El Paso B-B-Que (yes, that is how they spell it) has taken your average cheesecake, wrapped it in some kind of tortilla and boiled it in oil until it's a crispy, oily mess.

I have no idea why someone would take a rich dessert and make it three times as greasy and fattening, but I had to try it. So I ordered the fried cheesecake, and found out that it is actually quite delicious. Hot, sugary tortilla on the outside, cool, creamy cheesecake on the inside. These are the things addictions are made of!

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And speaking of addictions, my Weekend O' Barbecue went fine. I enjoyed a half-rack of baby back ribs along with my fried cheesecake, which should have been enough food for a week. But yesterday, I managed to gobble down three swordfish and salmon kabobs, thus quelling any naysaying about my ability to devour as much barbecue as is humanly possible by a grrl of diminutive proportions. Is there such a thing as too much BBQ? I have two words for you: "More, please!"

Living in Oklahoma is much easier if you like to eat things that are barbecued. Luckily for me, I do.

But this weekend, my love for things made on a grill and basted in delicious marinades will be put to the test. This trial by fire will include not only a belly-busting birthday lunch for Mr. Wastrel's mom at a Tulsa barbecue joint tomorrow, but also the following day when Shark-B-Q 2003 commences. I have enjoyed my grill all spring, and on Sunday we and a small assortment of friends will partake of an array of fish, steak and other grilled confections in the Wastrel backyard.

One might think such a lot of barbecued food over a single weekend might put me off of grilled things forever. That might be true if I were having hamburgers. But an afternoon of gobbling up succulent ribs followed by a day of ingesting swordfish saturated with a citrus glaze sounds like sheer heaven to me.

But, we will see on Monday.

People who say Attention Deficit Disorder is a bogus, catch-all diagnosis made up as an excuse for people's bad behavior and laziness are full of crap. I only wish I could turn it on and off to my advantage. ADD manages to thwart my best efforts. My sieve-like memory undermines my best-laid plans at every turn.

For example, today we were supposed to dress up at Work No. 1. I had planned to wear black pants, an office-appropriate yet kicky diagonally striped top, and a black lightweight cardigan. I planned this all out meticulously last night and went to sleep happily, knowing I'd be stylin' for the office dress-up day (actually, we are supposed to wear business casual Mondays through Thursdays, but tell that to a bunch of geeks).

When I awoke this morning, I had no idea what to wear. I rushed around like a drunken squirrel monkey, and quickly settled on some slightly wrinkled pinstripe slacks that had fallen off their hanger, and a long-sleeved shirt which may have been weather-appropriate three months ago but is certainly not something one wears in Oklahoma in June without a bit of discomfort.

Now one could say this is because I am stupid and lazy, but if there is one thing that I am willing to pour my thoughts and energy into, it is clothing. And although I initially went into the university shrink's office for a diagnosis to get out of the daily chapter-and-verse quizzes in my Bible class, for which I was studying three hours nightly because I cannot memorize sequences of numbers, ultimately I brought that grade up to an 'A' by writing a kickass research paper. And I never did tell that professor about my ADD. I don't think it's lazy to not want to struggle with a learning disability, but even if it is, I made up for it without special treatment.

Ironically, I am not being treated for ADD because after the diagnosis, my university health center scheduled me to come in the next week for therapy and a prescription. But on the day of the appointment, I got sidetracked and forgot about it until it was too late. I meant to call and reschedule, but it has been four years now.

Last night I watched "America's Next Top Model" again. As you may know, the girl I predicted would win was the third to be eliminated. So there you have it. I would make a horrible modeling scout. Sue me.

Fuller-figured, 26-year-old Robin has stayed in the running, which would have delighted me when I started watching the show. However, she has developed a bit of an attitude problem. First she picked on Elyse for being an atheist. Then she picked on Ebony for being a lesbian. This week, Elyse got a second helping of Robin's smug condescension for having (or not having, depending on whom you believe) an eating disorder. Not to mention that, either for religious reasons or because she thinks her butt is big, Robin refuses to wear revealing clothing. Did I mention that this is a modeling show?

Talented Jason Mewes clone Adrienne did a remarkable impersonation of Anna Nicole Smith in last night's episode, crying and slurring her speech. I think I saw this reality show before. Wasn't it called "Gia"? If the contestants really want to pick on someone's personal problems, maybe they should look for Adrienne's stash instead of putting their ears up to the door when Elyse is in the bathroom.

Who do I think will be the next to be eliminated? It doesn't matter. See first paragraph of today's bloggings. I suck at predicting this show, so I'm not going to give my opinion. Cough, cough, Robin, cough.

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A special thanks to fellow Okie girl, Madpony Kristin, for posting about Vicky's Semi-Annual Sale. The down side of taping your favorite shows and fast-forwarding through commercials is that you are tragically underinformed when it comes to great deals on pretty underthings. But now I have the information, and I have my Mastercard! Guess where I'm going tomorrow ... ?

There must be something in the birdseed. The avian members of Edmond's population have all been a bit crazy the last few weeks. It started a couple weekends ago when Mr. Wastrel and I were driving to a local fast-food establishment. As we were motoring down Pennsylvania, a bird floated disorientedly toward our car. Alas, hitting the featherbrained fowl was unavoidable. And while we were brokenhearted for other reasons, there is nothing that ruins your appetite for a Crispy Chicken sandwich like picking feathers out of your grille.

Since that sad incident, our feathered friends have been walking in front of our moving car, swooping from the sky in threatened kamikaze attacks, floating across the highway dangerously close to traffic, and just generally flirting with horrible demise via vehicular birdslaughter.

Why, little birds, why? Is it that you just can't go on living, and Mr. Wastrel's speedy driving looks like a good way to take yourself out of this cold, cruel world? Or is this some kind of last-ditch avian avenger campaign?

Let me set the record straight, birdies. I like you guys a lot. You're very cute, and I understand that all the pooping is not your fault, because you have no anal sphincters. I would never intentionally hurt a bird, and neither would Mr. Wastrel. We did not mean to hit your little friend. He clearly needed professional help -- help that the system was unable to give him. We mourn his tragic loss and hope his story will help raise awareness about mental illness among pigeons.

My little feathered friends, the kamikaze attacks must stop. Nothing you can do will bring your pal back to you. You cannot join him by committing suicide on our car. Sorry to tell you this, but birds do not have an afterlife. Your broken bodies will simply be mangled by curious dogs. As your friend's tragedy illustrates so keenly, life is short and fragile -- too short and fragile to waste on petty grievances. Fly free, little birdies, and enjoy each day as if it were your last.

Some celebs are a little too political. Others get a little too personal. Then there are the people who just aren't right in the head.

No silly, not Howard Hughes. He was just demented. I am talking, of course, about that prince of all playa hatas, Lars Ulrich.

We all remember how the domineering drummer was the driving force behind Metallica's lawsuit against Napster. But our dear Lars, not content with basking in the hatred only of file-sharing aficionados, moved last week to cement his title as King of the Killjoys by alienating the U.S. Army, Iraqi prisoners, and fans of Norwegian death metal.

In an unparallelled display of both arrogance and humorlessness, Lars whined about the fact that the Army played Metallica songs during interrogations in Iraq. Not because he disagrees with the way the Iraqis were being interrogated. No, in this dark time of war and terrorism, Lars is more concerned that his band is getting some bad PR. A petulant Lars grumbled that the Army should have used music by the group Venom or some Norwegian death metal instead.

Whatever, Lars. I'm sure the Iraqis would have preferred that, too.

A small addendum to today's bloggings: Wastrel friend Eric, who along with Mr. Wastrel is on the Official Wastrel 30-Minute Shit List right now for the comment I am about to quote, said that Lars' behavior would be easier to rationalize if the drummer had boobs. That is true. If Lars had boobs, we would all feel pity rather than contempt for this man whose mental problems obviously run deep enough for him to have silicone balloons forced into his chest in order to better resemble Rosie O'Donnell.

   

No, really, don't they look remarkably similar? The bored visages, the uninspiring wardrobe choices, the affinity for dark glasses? Just imagine him with a chest full of saline. You know you see it!

As I was going through my pics from Vegas, I found one that jogged my memory. I must have forgotten that crazy, drunken night I spent with Brad Pitt in Vegas. It looks like we had fun. Yeah, I know he seems to be kind of scowling, but that's just the way he looks after he's hit the bong a few times. As I recall, we talked philosophy for hours and he kept mispronouncing Sartre's name. But he's still dreamy.

Wastrel and Her Boy Toy, Brad ... Mmmmm

I watched "8 Women" on DVD last week. If you are able to overlook its unapologetic and uniquely French misogyny, it is a delightful motion picture for several reasons. Period costumes! Quirky songs in French! A star-studded cast! A murder mystery!

And the crucial element of any good film: Makeover porn!

From "Pygmalion" to "Pretty Woman," the entertainment industry has used this classic device (naughty, catchy name courtesy of moi) to strike a chord deep in the heart of every female -- the belief that if we were beautiful, our lives would suddenly be vastly improved. And that beauty is a mere makeover away.

By exploiting our deepest insecurities and our most irrational optimisms, authors and filmmakers have stumbled upon a marvelous thing. Who doesn't enjoy watching the cinder girl turn into the beautiful princess? Who isn't dazzled by the bookish shrew whose makeover not only transforms her appearance, but softens her entire personality? And who can resist enjoying the story of that queen of Pygmalion porn, Eliza Doolittle, whose benefactor changes not only her looks but her voice, the way she carries herself and, ultimately, her entire lifestyle?

Isabelle Huppert's makeover in "8 Women" changes her, in a matter of minutes, from a hypochondriac spinster to a vampy vixen. True to "makeover porn" form, it is an act of freedom from a prison of one's own making. Miserable? Well, take your hair out of that dowdy bun and put on some lipstick and a figure-flattering gown! The transformation transcends the physical and becomes psychological, and, when others' perceptions are changed, even social. Makeover porn makes it seem as if escaping oneself really were that easy.

And who should escape herself? Women who aren't feminine are easy targets. Teens are especially vulnerable. Rachael Leigh Cook in "She's All That," Julia Stiles in "10 Things I Hate About You," Anne Hathaway in "The Princess Diaries," Brittany Murphy in "Clueless," and just about any movie made in the 1980s.

But that late-20s/early-30s identity crisis is also an ideal time to flee one's former self and fly off into a new life on still-damp butterfly wings, like Nia Vardalos in "My Big Fat Greek Wedding," Janine Garofalo in "Romy and Michele's High School Reunion," Julia Roberts in "Pretty Woman," Sandra Bullock in "Miss Congeniality," Drew Barrymore in "Never Been Kissed," Monica Potter in "Head Over Heels," and most recently, Renee Zellweger in "Down With Love."

While there are a few exceptions, such as "Drive Me Crazy," "Spiderman," and "The Shape of Things," makeover porn mainly centers on women. Is it because we have fewer options when it comes to improving our lives, and more when it comes to improving our looks? Is it because beauty and youth are our social currency? Or are makeovers a manifestation of our culture's hunger for instant gratification, a simple and quick way to make everything seem good? Or, perhaps we all just love a good makeover.

Whatever the reasons, I'm sure that just as our forebears enjoyed "The Taming of the Shrew" and "Cinderella," so will those who come after us. Even reality TV has begun touting that time-worn truism that happiness is as booking a salon appointment (or a few surgeries).

However, before you head off to the MAC counter, heed the lessons from "Josie and the Pussycats," where despite Parker Posey's and Alan Cumming's new looks, underneath they were still ugly, mean people who, in the end, were revealed for what they were -- losers whose lisps and pigmentation issues that symbolized the ugliness within. Yea verily, as Hollywood giveth, so Hollywood taketh away.

Yay! Of all the pages on the Internet that come up when you search for "Tahlequah" and "lechery," the Wastrel blog is considered the very most relevant by Webcrawler. Now I realize that the Tahlequah debriefing (pun intended) was a good one. But considering the not-insignificant amount of lechery that goes on in Tahlequah, I am quite impressed with Webcrawler's ability to direct its users to the very best cautionary tale offered to those who like to avoid sexual advances and gratuitous nudity from drunken, sunburnt octagenarians.

Today's post is dedicated to that disgraced doyenne of domesticity, Martha Stewart. Martha's unpopularity has made her the perfect whipping girl for a public fed up with corporate scandal. Never mind that her alleged crime is far less serious than those of the other shady execs who have skipped away with mere slaps on the wrist. Martha's firm, almost masculine hands, the agonizingly rigid cadences of her voice, her frighteningly obsessive attention to detail, and powerful position on Wall Street have angered the powers that be. And now that they've got something on her, Martha's got to go.

I for one, will be sorry to see that happen. Sure, I hate to cook. Sure, I have never done a single project featured on her show. But I will miss those gruff instructions spoken through gritted teeth. Those hands that deftly pull the guts out of hapless waterfowl and brutally chop endive with glistening kitchen knives. Martha, you are a priceless symbol of '90s pop culture. I'll never forget you.

And now, in honor of my favorite home-and-garden harridan, I have compiled my very own list of Good Things.

Aplets and Cotlets
Vinyl gloves (use for everything from cleaning to hair-dyeing to applying sunless tanner)
Chateau Ste. Michelle Riesling, 2001
Biscoff cookies
tea tree oil
Super Target's incredibly cheap sushi
Vanilla Coke
Noritake Colorwave dinnerware
Juicy J's in Negril, Jamaica
Origins' Underwear for Lids
gingerbread with orange sauce
Mrs. T's pierogies
this dinnerware
Cotton Buds' toilet-seat cover and cotton swab travel packs
Healthy Choice frozen dinners
Batch No. 6 green apple soda

No matter how far women advance in the workplace, it seems as if one problem will always remain: The choice between children and career. Some people argue that a woman can have both, pointing out successful CEOs and celebrities with gaggles of kids. But those youngsters, by and large, are reared by nannies. I suspect that their mothers feel that, even though they "have it all," they are missing out on a lot of their children's lives. Then there are the stay-at-home moms who argue that being a mom is a career. That's ridiculous. It may involve a lot of long hours and dirt and drama, but parenting requires absolutely no qualifications other than evading the scrutiny of the DHS, and you can't just apply someplace to be a stay-at-home mom. It's work, and noble work at that, but it's more like a volunteer position.

The vast majority of us have to make do with lower-paying but more flexible jobs that maybe aren't our life's dream. We take them because they will fit into our plans to work and have children. If we want to pursue our dream jobs, if they have anything to do with extra education or long hours, we have three choices: Do the hard work before having kids, and risk having to use fertility drugs when we're ready to start a family; start our career in earnest when the hatchlings have left the nest, by which time we'll be old and have less energy; or pursue our dreams while our children are still at home, and worry to no end that we aren't paying them enough attention.

I'm choosing the first option, mainly because Mr. Wastrel isn't ready for kids right now, and I feel like I'm wasting time in two jobs that are respectable and interesting, but ultimately unfulfilling (and not very lucrative). I'll be cutting it close. If you take the fact that I'm 26, factor in 2 years of taking med-school prerequisites part-time while working, then four years of medical school and a four-year residency, I will be 36 by the time I'm ready to practice. That puts me squarely in high-risk pregnancy territory. However, this schooling is not something I want to undertake while I've got little ones at home, or when I'm 50 and arthritic.

I've consciously made my choice: If I had to choose one or the other, I'd rather be a doctor than a mom. Although I want both very badly, I don't think I'm the kind of person who would be able, at 80, to look back on my life and not regret forgoing my dreams just because I felt compelled to follow some weird vestigial urge to keep my DNA in the gene pool. I am not OK with sacrificing my need for self-actualization.

It's a tough choice, and although I wanted to have it all, I realize that almost nobody, male or female, gets more than 75 percent when it comes to kids vs. career. Perhaps by the time I finish med school, when I'm 32, Mr. Wastrel will be consulting from home and be able to care for the Wastrel spawn. Perhaps in a few years, I'll be OK with having a nanny look after the kneebiters while I continue my studies. Or perhaps I will choose not to bring more consumers into this already-crowded planet. Maybe I'll adopt when I'm 45. Whatever I choose, I know that I'm not having kids anytime soon, as I had once hoped. The plan was to have children after five years of marriage. That date passed in December. But the plan was also to be in a job I loved, and right now I feel pretty lukewarm about both of mine, and even colder about my prospects of ever being happy in them. Having no kids and two jobs I dislike won't cut it. If I can't have it all, I at least want 75 percent.

I discovered last night that I narrowly escaped being a statistic this spring. You see, a few months ago my hairdresser Brenton told me his sister had the best pet in the world -- a cute little prairie dog. As a rodent lover, I was intrigued to hear of a fat-cheeked, bucktoothed pet that was extremely social, big enough to cuddle properly, easy to crate train, and had a lifespan of up to 10 years, rather than the usual three or four. A cute, curious prairie dog seemed the perfect animal companion. I researched the animals, and even picked a distributor, Phil's Pocket Pets. Alas, Mr. Wastrel was not keen on the idea of opening our home to yet another rodent. Thus, unwittingly, he spared me from involvement in the Great Monkeypox Plague of '03.

As I was reading the news last night, I came upon a story about an outbreak of the virus in the Midwest. "Serves those dumbasses right for buying exotic monkeys," I thought, imagining a scenario not unlike Peter Jackson's cult horror classic "Dead Alive." Then I read that the disease had been spread by prairie dogs. "Sucks to be a game warden," I thought, blithely assuming that only those intrepid individuals who work at nature preserves had been affected.

Then, I read that the outbreak had probably originated with a large Gambian rat at a Chicago-area prairie dog distributor. Which one? Phil's Pocket Pets. Finally, the lightbulb came on above my head. (And here we all thought the power was out -- who knew?) Yes, thanks to Mr. Wastrel's exotic-rodent aversion, I have narrowly escaped the dreaded monkeypox virus, and the accompanying 2-10 percent chance of gruesome death.

I don't really like paying for stuff. Don't get me wrong, the only thing I've ever shoplifted in my life was a Red Delicious apple when I was four, and only because I really didn't understand our economy then in the depth I do today. I mean, I never had to pay for the ones in the basket on our counter, so why at the store? But I got the spanking of a lifetime, and my reluctance to part with my well-earned greenbacks no longer extends to petty crime.

But I am a bit of a cheapskate when it comes to downloads. If I can find free objects for The Sims, I will search far and wide using a variety of search engines rather than paying $6 for two months' access to a convenient, searchable site such as The Sims Resource or my personal favorite, the Well Dressed Sim. The Google search is how I have found many adequate, if not droolworthy, objects with which to augment my full-time job, er, hobby.

But no more! I have finally broken down and subscribed to TSR, and I am also going to subscribe to WDS. It was bad enough not having access to Well Dressed Sim's Platinum downloads, especially the swimwear, and the scrumptious objects on 7 Deadly Sims. I nearly wept when TSR started charging for downloads. But the straw that broke the camel's back was the Superstar expansion pack.

It is impossible to keep that little diva, Madeleine Starlet, happy. If she's rested and fed, she's got bladder and fun issues. If she's fed, pottied, bathed and entertained, it's time for bed. Now how is she supposed to model swimwear if her motives are in the red? The only solution was to download Homeslice's rejuvenator spa thingy. But alas! It was a pay object on The Sims Resource!

Loving Madeleine and her pixelated pals as I do, I did what any good mother would. I bought a subscription to TSR. Now, I can have her work out and play piano for hours. Then, instead of a nap and a soak in the hot tub, I can simply send her to the rejuvenator for half an hour and she's ready to hit Studio Town and knock 'em dead. After a grueling day modeling, she can rejuvenate again and pal around with the stars, making lots of friends and signing autographs. It's like mother's little helpers, without the crash. Madeleine hasn't slept in Sim-weeks, and she is most grateful. For now, her name appears daily in the tabloid, and she hobnobs with all the big names. And, thanks to Homeslice, she still has time for the little people.

I won't even get into all the new furniture I've downloaded. I just want to say that, for my Sims, the price of fame used to be perpetual fatigue and giving up their noncelebrity friends. Now, thanks to The Sims Resource, the price of fame is about $3 a month. Even I can deal with that.

Holy Enron! Some GOP heavy-hitters have been named in an energy-company bribery scandal, and it goes as high as Tom DeLay! Am I smug and gleeful? Maybe just a little. OK, maybe a whole friggin' lot. I am, after all, only human. And I did, after all, put up with a lot of conjured-up crap the Republicans passed off for scandals during the Clinton years. Tom DeLay is goin' dooooooooooooooown, baby, and I won't miss his Chicken Hawk ass! Stick that in your pipe and smoke it, FOX "News"!

Outback Steakhouse, may you rot in hell.

Last night I had the crappiest dinner of my life. After a long day of work and driving in ugly rainy weather with crazy Okie drivers (God love 'em, but Oklahomans cannot drive in rain), I opted to eat out. Perhaps it would cheer me up.

After a 10 minute wait, which is not standard on a weeknight, we were seated and ignored. I wasn't really annoyed, because I was decompressing from work and enjoying the luxury of stretching my legs within a nice comfy booth. Until I stretched my legs right into a giant glob of butter. Yes, apparently the booth's last occupants had amused themselves by heaping butter underneath the table. Not just a pat of butter, mind you, but what looked to be several ramicans' worth of greasy, globby congealed dairy product.

So, there I sat, freaking out because my shoes were covered in slick, nasty mess, but did anyone come by? Not for a good 5 minutes, they didn't. I had to wait until our server brought our drinks. She spent another 5 minutes fetching exactly three paper napkins. That's the equivalent of providing a bottle of OxyClean and a bath towel for the Exxon Valdez cleanup, people!

With my shoes still looking like competitors in an oil-wrestling competition and feeling just as ho'baggy, I sat back to enjoy my now well-needed alcoholic beverage. Which tasted suspiciously like plain club soda. And guess what? It was club soda. Apparently the server forgot entirely to put anything but fizzy water in my $7.50 beverage.

After ruining my shoes and serving me a Wootini minus 90 percent of its ingredients, one would think my waitress would apologize profusely. And one would be mistaken. This waitress said nothing beyond "Sure, I'll get you some napkins" and a cheerful "Oops, sorry! I'll remake it!" (Damn straight you will, blondie!) Meanwhile, the people at the very next table got the red carpet rolled out and had management fawning at their table and giving them comps because someone's salad came right before their entree did. Umm, I'm sorry, did I miss something? You get a comp for eating your salad with your meal, but not for having your favorite pair of bowling shoes ruined and very nearly buying the world's priciest glass of cheap seltzer water?

So, my dear friends at Outback, you saved $10 by not comping my dessert, or even the drink you fucked up. But you are losing hundreds ultimately, because I will never eat your hokey, overpriced hog slop again. And I also finished wiping my poor ruined shoes on your cloth napkins while your stupid server was ignoring my table, which probably means that nobody else who was at Outback around 8:50 last night will ever eat there again, either.

Last night I watched "I'm With Lucy," about a woman who goes on a bunch of blind dates and marries one of them. I usually avoid such movies, but this one was special. This one featured Gael Garcia Bernal.

!!!SPOILER ALERT!!!

I have seen a lot of implausible plot lines in my day, but this one takes the cake. Apparently our Lucy dumps the gorgeous Gael because he is a sex machine. Now, this is an excellent reason for dumping Danny DeVito. It is even a plausible reason for dumping a moderately hot man such as Pierce Brosnan, Hugh Grant or Hayden Christensen. It might be a stretch to dump Orlando Bloom because one's relationship with him is purely physical, but hey, it could happen (although I must confess my first reason probably would be the Harley-Davidson shirt rather than the nookie).

But, producers of "I'm With Lucy," please! Have you seen Gael?

Too much sex with that man is not possible. Dumping him would never happen in real life. He's artistic, has a sexy accent, soulful eyes, kissable lips, yummy shoulder contours, and is successful in life. Not just the actor, but the character he plays -- which makes the fact that she walks out for groceries, never to be seen again, all the more incredible. Yes, I've seen implausible plotlines. Heroines running up the stairs instead of down in horror movies. Jet Li kicking 100 ninjas' asses singlehandedly. Winona Ryder falling for Richard Gere. But dumping Gael because he's too sexual, well, that's less believable than Keanu Reeves as Hamlet.

Three cheers for a.m. workouts!! I stepped on the scale this morning and am a full 5 pounds lighter than I was a month ago. This, while adding muscle, and on a grrl whose weight usually fluctuates neither up nor down very easily. Granted, I am still eight pounds heavier than my baseline weight was before the Depo Provera Tragedy of 1997, the Great Tumor of 2001-02, and the Appendicitis Plague of '02 (and, to a lesser extent, the Shoe Massacre of '03), but it is a definite improvement. Especially for not dieting.

Now, this may seem frivolous, but I am superhappy that I can once again look in the mirror and say hello my beloved triceps. And that my abs look splendid, and that my bootie will no longer frighten small beachgoing children. Today, I put on my olive hiphuggers that three weeks ago had been obscenely snug. They fit beautifully now.

Am I vain? Sure I am! If the weight thing didn't clue you in, perhaps you would like to check out the hair, clothing, tanning and shoe entries. And, although I hadn't mentioned it before, I am also addicted to Origins' Underwear for Lids -- so much so that I have been known to help new employees at Dillards locate it behind the counter. Yes, I, Wastrel Heather, am a beauty junkie! But at least I know my weakness.

I also know that I'm a fabulous person on the inside, no matter what the outside looks like. And that I never was at an unhealthy weight to begin with. I want to keep my body, skin and hair in the best possible shape, because they're something I take pride in, not because I am ashamed of them. The weight loss is great, but more importantly my asthma has all but disappeared (except around smokers and people who bathe in cheap cologne) and my blood pressure is lower, thanks to the daily 20 minutes of cardio. The weight training came in handy when I was toting my luggage about Las Vegas. And, the other week, the ab crunches helped me compensate for the back muscles I couldn't use. Now, I'm still looking forward to having great calf muscles and a six-pack again, but even if I stay at my current weight, I'm doing a lot better than I was before the morning workouts. This is something I'm happy to wake up at 6 every day in order to achieve.

For all my reckless spontaneity, I am not a particularly courageous person in the true sense of the word. The primary tenet of the Wastrel Creed is, "first do no math." I hate math, and while I have a knack for it, the concrete nature of its rules intimidates me. That irrational fear, although not the only reason, is a big factor in why I majored in journalism and minored in political science. Unfortunately, while I enjoy both of those fields, my heart isn't in either.

Working in the science and health professions runs in the family and since I was little, I wanted to be a doctor. However, when people in the field told me, "if you can feel fulfilled doing anything else, don't be a doctor," I took that to heart and gave the media thing the old college try. By senior year I knew I'd made a huge mistake. I'm good at it, but I don't love it, and I certainly don't feel I'm making anyone's life better by writing snappy headlines.

I've decided to go back to college part-time and finish my prerequisites for med school, so that I can be a reconstructive surgeon or, if I suck at cutting people up, an obstetrician. Naturally, those prerequisites include courses in my archnemesis, math. Not only will I have to take two semesters of physics with labs, but since I took the bare minimum of math in college (less, even, because I tested out), I will have to take (cue creepy organ dirge) ... calculus. O, the sacrifices I must make to attain my life's dream!

So now I am researching local universities' undergrad programs. It will take quite a few years and a lot of math, but I'll finally be doing what I've always meant to do, if only I'd had the courage.

If Europe is one giant museum and Jamaica is one giant reggae festival, then Las Vegas is one giant mall. I was expecting a loathesome melange of baccarat tables, lavish buffets, glitter-bedecked showgirls and enormous drinks heavily mixed by leather-skinned, chain-smoking broads. Instead, I found a million and one ways to spend my money, in an extremely clean city where you never have to walk outside. Yes, my friends, Las Vegas is the bastard child of a cheap regional theme park and Mall of America.

Don't get me wrong, it was still a tacky den of stale cigatte smoke and gratuitous toplessness. I have never seen so many senior citizens wearing spandex in my life, and I still can't get the horrible ringing of the slot machines out of my ears. I am still baffled that people would be excited to float down phony Venetian canals or be awed by a poor replica of the Eiffel tower, or that the Bellagio is considered by some to be "classy" instead of "artificial and excessive." I found Vegas about as awe-inspiring as the Denver, Colo., Casa Bonita. And most of the free shows couldn't hold a candle to the Black Bart shootout. But the restrooms were spotless, the shows enjoyable, and the shopping was better than anything I've experienced between the East and West coasts, including the numerous and lovely malls of Dallas.

Having tragically lost $13 to the nickel slots and video blackjack machines before regaining it all in one fell swoop on my last day there when I put a dollar in the big slot machine at the Luxor so Mr. Wastrel could photograph me playing, I found I am not a gambler. Nope. Money is for shoes, not for pouring into machines which may or may not give it back. I also don't like buffets, even good ones, because the food, no matter how delicious, would always be better made fresh and served promptly by polite waitstaff. But I suppose those who enjoy gambling with money also enjoy gambling with food poisoning.

I did enjoy Blue Man Group and Cirque de Soleil, and to a lesser extent "Mamma Mia," a musical that for whatever reason is composed entirely of ABBA music. As someone who adores fluffy Swedish pop music but despises Broadway, I wasn't sure whether to love it or hate it. I would prefer not to speak at all about the Tournament of Kings. As they say in Monty Python's "Holy Grail," let's not go to Camelot. It is a silly place. With horrible voiceovers and a villain who borrowed his costume (and accompanying pyrotechnics) from KISS' Gene Simmons.

Although I hated Las Vegas, I must admit I would have liked to have gone shopping. Alas, not having budgeted for Prada, Gucci or Tiffany's and what with Mr. Wastrel's five-minute tolerance limit for the Sephora store, the only purchases I made were a tube of toothpaste and a picture of us at Madame Tussaud's, molesting Sarah Michelle Gellar. Which is the one thing you can buy in Vegas, but not at the mall.