The chicken piccata frozen dinner seemed like a good idea at the time. Alas, butter sauces and on-the-go dining are never a good idea.

You'd think that by now, I'd have learned my lesson regarding food and clothing. For instance, do not eat red sauce at work. Even if you make it safely to your desk, you will drop something on your shirt. Also, while it is acceptable to shake your bottled Frappucino, it is not advisable to shake your canned Double Shot espresso drink. Unless you enjoy generously spritzing yourself and your car's interior with sticky beverages.

After having exploded snack foods over myself and my desk, and having taken a less-than-refreshing mid-workday shower via a boxed juice drink, it's hard to believe I thought I could eat anything drenched in a lemon and butter sauce and come through the meal unscathed. I guess it was just my jeans' time to go. Sigh.

Things might have gone differently were the microwaves at my office not some 6 feet off the ground. Naturally, being the approximate height of an Oompa Loompa, I could not see what I was doing as I reached into the microwave to remove my steaming meal. All seemed well until I had the dish halfway out and my thumb suddenly realized it was immersed in scalding butter. As anyone with operational nerve endings would, I dropped the dish. It hovered in midair for a second, taunting me, then tumbled gleefully toward my cutest and best-fitting pair of jeans. In an unusual display of physical coordination, which probably only occurred because nobody was around to see it, I managed to catch the errant TV dinner in midair. Alas, the damage had been done. Half of the sauce sloshed out the top of the dish, spreading buttery goodness down my entire left thigh.

Now, I can get butter stains out of clothes, because I'm awesome like that. (And because otherwise I wouldn't have any clothes left.) But that is not possible at work. And after work, do I get to go home and get the stains out of my pants? No. I have four enjoyable hours in chem lab, where I can display with pride the evidence of my inability to eat without wreaking destruction. This, of course would be after the remaining six hours of workplace fun, wherein my co-workers doubtless will make helpful comments regarding my large motor skills.

But am I bitter? No. The bright side in all this is that, if Oklahoma were to be devastated by a large, unexpected blizzard today, and if I found myself stranded on I-35, I can rest easy in the knowledge that I could sustain myself for several weeks merely by sucking nutrients out of my clothes.

Everyone has his or her own special superpower. Some people have the ability to fly. Others have the ability to turn everything they touch into gold. Rumor has it that still others can take flour, sugar and eggs and create something palatable with them.

I discovered my personal superpower a few years ago. It is a superpower that apparently few possess, and which few believe exists until they witness its wonders.

Yes, folks, I have the ability to attract cute straight men to me as a magnet attracts iron filings. This is not the unusual part, as many women have this power. Perhaps all women. The unusual part is that my superpower works only in gay bars. Put me in a hetero meat market and my powers are rendered useless, much like Superman when he is exposed to kryptonite.

I know what you are thinking. What kind of grrl picks up guys at a gay bar, and more importantly, what kind of guys can a grrl actually pick up in a gay bar?

The answer to the first question is, I don't try to attract straight men -- or any men, for that matter -- at gay clubs. I go to Angles, etc., so I can dance with my girls without having my ass grabbed by random overdressed weirdos. However, there is apparently a big sign over my head that says "Grrl who likes boys a lot, is in fact here in this gay bar to meet boys, and would love to chat with you in particular."

The answer to the second question is, the same mix you might expect to find in any other bar. Mostly. For instance, there was the time a friend and I managed to acquire an entourage of cute visiting Aussies. On the other hand, there was the time we received an unsolicited personal show at The Park from a rather unattractive "dancer" thereafter referred to only as Wanker Man.

The other night, I was telling Stacia about my magical superpower as we were clubbing in Bricktown. She was rather incredulous, as we had not drawn a second glance in the hour or so we'd been there despite our looking (as always) positively smashing. However, when we went dancing at the Copa, within feet of male strippers being groped by elderly men, it was not 15 minutes before a cute straight guy approached us and started chatting us up. Then we met his cute straight brother.

Now mind you, neither of us was actually in the market for random hookups. However, it is nice to know that we are still cute.

And that my special gay-bar superpowers are still working.

Having brothers totally rules. When I was little, I dearly wished for a sister, but that was not to be until I was 15. My girlfriends always felt sorry for me, living amongst boys, but now I wouldn't have it any other way. Not only are they there for me when I need advice or support, but having rowdy and delinquent brothers has given me a unique perspective on life, as well as an unnatural appreciation for CKY and Jackass.

Things I've learned from my brothers:

1979:
Women always like a pretty-boy, even if he is way underage.

1980:
Babies can appreciate the lines of a Porsche.

1981:
Even week-old boys have quite a bit of range when peeing. They can hit your favorite pants from 5 feet away.

1982:
It is possible to vomit on command.

1986:
Sticking a butter knife in an electrical outlet isn't fatal, and apparently isn't painful either.

1987:
Your mom will not be sympathetic if you fill your sister's Cabbage Patch Kid's diaper with expensive organic peanut butter.

1988:
When people are whispering during a prayer, expressing your annoyance by yelling at them is not an effective way to ensure the sanctity of church services.

1990:
If your parents belong to a religion that doesn't believe in using instrumental music in worship, playing church songs on the piano is a bad idea even if you make up funny, nonreligious lyrics. Especially if you make up funny, nonreligious lyrics.

1991:
Barbies are for girls ... but it's OK for boys to play with them. As long as the end result is an elaborate diorama depicting a large orgy made up primarily of contortionists.

1992:
While punching is fine, a swift headbutt is much more effective. And the metal pipes from the vacuum cleaner also double as handy, pain-inflicting kendo sticks.

1993:
If you're not athletic or tall, you can still score big with the females. You just need to look pretty, play an instrument, and act like you need to be rescued from yourself.

If you buy a CD with profane lyrics, keep it well-hidden from your mom.

1994:
Pyrotechnics are all fine and good, but if you are caught attempting to light a can of wax and paper three feet away from a large propane tank, chances are you will be grounded for at least three months.

Moms can tell you've been smoking, even if you use mouthwash afterward.

1995:
Boys shouldn't go swimming after drinking beverages containing guarana and yohimbe.

M-80s are forbidden on school grounds, even after hours.

Shoe Goo can repair just about anything.

1996:
Don't lift your arms in the air when going through Boxcar Rapids. It's Class III whitewater, not the kiddie coaster.

Trying to give yourself a Brazilian with a butane lighter can only end in tragic and embarrassing burns.

If your jeans look too new, a good way to give them a weathered look is by sanding the fronts of the thighs down with the rough side of your skateboard.

1997:
The interest a high-school boy has in a given girl is inversely proportionate to her interest in him. Even if he admits she is "the total package," he will lose all interest if she suddenly expresses hers.

Gasoline is a cheap way to make a bright and cheery parking-lot display.

While it is fun to date your sister's friends, her roommates are 10 times the ultimate score!

1998:
Skateboards are an ineffective method of evading pursuit by the police.

If you think you might lose your backpack, don't leave both your ID and an ounce of dope in it.

2000:
If you're mean to your mom, you don't get to keep your favorite furniture when you move out.

Putting raw chicken in the walls of your ex's house will ease the pain of an ugly breakup.

2001:
When you have pneumonia, cigarettes are bad and medical attention is good.

2002:
Employers frown upon drinking at work.

Nothing livens up a wedding more than requiring everyone to wear polka-dots. Unless it is inviting your sister to your bachelor party and watching her dry heave after drinking a fifth of brandy and several beers.

Don't let your friends push you down stairs in a trash receptacle.

Why set off fireworks in a safe and orderly fashion, when you can throw them on the bonfire?

2003:
If you vandalize a band's equipment during a concert, chances are you will get your ass kicked.

Airport security does not smile upon people who attempt to ride into the employees-only baggage-handling area via the carousel.

2004:
When coming out to your parents, the answering machine may seem like the easy way out, but oh, it is not.

Thank you, boys, for these life lessons. I can only hope that you learned equally amusing and informative things from me.

The new apartment is finally set up, for the most part. Oh, there are a few things I still need. Like a half-dozen more power strips, since there is approximately one outlet in each room (and none in the bathroom). And drawer liners and utensil trays to protect my kitchen implements from the weird greasy scum that seems to rise as dew from the ancient cabinetry. And earplugs, just in case the soothing sounds of the downstairs neighbors' domestic squabbles, passing locomotive whistles and wailing police sirens fail to lull me to sleep. Oh ... and the hit I need to place on the person whose car is currently sitting in my reserved parking space.

But all in all, my place is pretty nifty and it's finally box-free and presentable. I've got aforementioned parking space. I can people-watch 23rd Street from my bedroom window. I can drive practically anywhere in the city in fewer than 15 minutes. I've got hardwood floors and a closet with about 4,000 built-in drawers. Yeah, I think I can put up with cabinet funk and sirens.

Owing to the fact that within the next five days, I will be taking my chemistry midterm, moving, and having surgery, this blog won't be updated for about a week. More, if I can't get internet service right away.

In my absence, you will surely need to keep updated on things that are important to you. For well-written, thought provoking entries (unlike WYD, hahaha!) and cool links, visit Becky at Grrrl Meets World. For entertaining Bush-bashing and Cubs-cheering, check out Tony's busblog. To read witty entertainment and pop-culture commentary by a person named Heather, visit the Rabbit Blog. For all-important shopping and footwear info, drop by Madpony.com, whose bloggers also happen to be cute and from Oklahoma. For those of you who have hung around for the last two semesters hoping that I will once again blog about local bars and stuff, or if you like Flash games a lot, check out this other Oklahoma City blog, dirtyashtray.com. And for amusing personal anecdotes, go to Deb at cereal-killer.com, whose spazziness rivals my own. As always, don't forget to visit The Blogger Formerly Known as Mr. WYD, who, like yours truly, enjoys playing Xbox games and links frequently to Salon articles. Have a great spring break!

Peace Offering

This lovely picture brought to you courtesy of the three midterm exams I have in the next five days. Really, I'd love to stay and blog, but my books await. I know I've been very bad about updating lately, but it's been busy, etc.
For your reading pleasure, I offer you this funny pothead story, which is at least twice as amusing as my own ramblings.
If it's blogging you really crave, go visit fellow Cubs fan and Bush foe (not to mention way better and more frequent blogger) Tony Pierce, to whom I pledge my undying adoration for adding me to his blogroll.

Dear Mr. Chemistry Professor,

I appreciate your reluctance to curve test scores. Before I took your course, I, too, was a stickler for percentage grading. It is, after all, only fair that one's grades reflect one's knowledge of the material rather than the sheer stupidity of one's classmates. In most classes, percentage grading fosters excellence, and all too often, a curve indeed encourages calculated mediocrity.

However, taking your chemistry course has made me examine the curve in a new light. Rather than being the facilitator of mass laziness I once thought it to be, the curve actually serves as a grade safeguard for victims of poor instruction. Whether it is the soporific quality of your voice, the scant time allotted for the lengthy and all-important weekly quizzes, or your tendency to test us heavily on things that weren't covered in lecture and were barely explained in the book, your teaching style isn't working. When the median score is 60 percent, perhaps raw percentages are, indeed, not the way to go.

This semester, I have barely had time to blog, let alone log any significant extracurricular hours in my very important independent EtOH research.

I'm not complaining merely that chemistry is difficult or that it takes practice. When you were out of town, your substitute explained the material more clearly in 10 minutes than you managed to do in three class periods. If she were to grade using raw percentage, we'd probably be doing a lot better simply because we'd understand what we're doing. However, if we receive inadequate instruction, we can't be expected to perform well, regardless of how attentive or studious we are.

I never thought these words would come from me, especially after I took advantage of the curve in last semester's zoology class to play video games and hit the EtOH laboratory, but please, Mr. Chemistry Professor, if you can't improve your teaching style, then for the love of all that is good and holy, grade on a curve. Yeah, you heard me. Don't make me say it again, dammit. You may not be obligated to give me an A in this class, but at least let me have my pride.

Lots of love,
Heather

I am going to die at or about age 53. I know this because the other day, I hit my midlife crisis.

I had fully intended to buy a safe midsize car in an inconspicuous color when I walked onto the car lot the day before yesterday. Maybe a silver Camry or a black Accord. But then, I saw The Car -- a laser-blue 2003 Mazda Protege LX with 15" alloys and sporty interior styling.

Sure, it has only a 3-star NHTSA side-impact rating. Sure, its fuel economy (25/30) leaves something to be desired. Sure, it's tiny like a clown car.

But its distinctive styling, tight suspension, respectable torque and spectacular handling on curves were too seductive to resist, especially when compared with the cheap-feeling, unresponsive, pedestrian-looking Hondas. I took it on the road once and was intoxicated with its peppy automatic transmission, satisfying road feel and aggressive cornering. The second time I took it out, I was hooked.

The Honda Civic coupe I test-drove, by contrast, was about as stylish and exciting as a minivan. Despite its superior fuel economy, more instinctive control placement and across-the-board five-star crash rating, its sluggish acceleration, smooshy pedal feel and soft handling made for a singularly boring ride. Ultimately, Mazda's aggressive design and undeniable fun factor won out.

So after having driven three unassumingly-hued, five-star crashworthy midsize Family Cars over the past five years, I can now be seen racing down I-35 in a bright, eye-catching, barely-crashworthy Fun Car. I'm one girlfriend-half-my-age away from being a 45-year-old man in the throes of midlife crisis. I don't yet know how I'm going to manage to die at the tender age of 53, but chances are excellent that my demise will involve high speeds and a tiny Mazda. As the paramedics wheel my dying ass into the ambulance, the final words "Zoom zoom" will escape in a pained whisper from my smiling lips.