Happy New Year's Eve. Bleh. I'm faced with the same dilemma every year: how can I keep this from being another lame New Year's Eve? You'd think that after years of encountering this question, I'd be able to come up with an answer, but alas, I cannot. Not that this New Year's Eve will be an unhappy or boring one, I'll be hanging out with two of my dearest friends. But I've always dreamed of having this crazy NewYear's Eve that lasts til sunrise, but it has not yet found me. I may be crazy, but I'm still holding on to hope for this year, even if it is by a thread. Maybe BonAire Bowl can help me out.

So I'm wondering, when do you let it go? When do you call someone up and say, "You were a real jerk. Please don't do that again." And when do you just let it go?

Saturday night I made my second visit to what could soon be my favorite hangout: BonAire Bowl. Being more acquainted with the atmosphere, I was able to fit in a little better this time. My first trip to the BonAire Bowl was an enlightening experience. I don't know what I was expecting, but I was surprised to find a full-fledged potluck going on when I walked in. People had crock pots and coolers, rugrats running around everywhere. Later on, as the picnic crowd began to thin out, the late-night folk began to wander in. They strutted in with their cases of Busch Lite held high, belt buckles flashing, jeans seams straining, skillfully working the Red Man and Marlboro Reds simultaneously. What a sight. It was then that I knew that I had to return to this place. So Saturday night I did. I got out my little Coleman cooler, put on my John Deere hat, and headed to the bowling alley. I was intimidated at first. Carrying a cooler into a bowling alley just seemed wrong. But after some coaxing from my friend, I gingerly stepped into the establishment. Then I assembled all the courage I could muster and marched in, right up to the counter. I half expected the manager to send me and my Yuengling back to the car, but all he said was, "What size shoes ya want?"

Yesterday was a classic Sara episode. I stopped at a Meijer (TM) gas station to fill up and get some coffee before I hit the road on my 400-mile journey back to PA. I bought a caramel cappuccino and when I got back to the car, I set it on top of the car while I took off my coat to prepare for the long ride. Well we all know where this story is going. I hopped in the car and took off. As I was pulling out onto the road, I thought, "Where's my coffee?....Uh oh." Just as I realized what I'd done, I saw my nice, warm caramel cappuccino go tumbling off the back of my car. I was too mad at myself to stop and survey the damages. Watching the brown liquid trickle down my rear window was punishment enough. But when I did stop to fill up later on, I was not disappointed. The whole roof my little white car was spattered with coffee-colored stickiness and the trunk and one side of the car has also been painted with the stuff. I had no idea that 16 oz. of cappuccino could nearly coat a compact car. How come paint never goes that far?

I just want to give a quick shoutout to Grandma B. No need to worry, I got back to PA safely with no problems. So just enjoy your trip to St. Louis and have fun with your great-grandson. And say "hi" to the family for me.

The clerk at Blockbuster recognizes me now. I walk in the door and he says, "Uh oh. Here comes trouble. How ya doin', Trouble?"

I gotta get a life.

I just remembered the name of the Little Mexican Guy: Jesus.

Things that make ya go, "Hmmm."

I had to change the headlight on my little car, Hughey, yesterday. I was able to do it quite easily, without a hitch. No big story there. I was just disappointed that I had to do it. There was something ghetto-riffic about driving around with one headlight.

This weekend I went ice skating. It's a fun activity if you're coordinated. Okay, it's fun even if you're not coordinated. It's just a lot more painful. Unfortunately I belong in the "Not Coordinated" category; always have, always will. Some days it's a struggle just to walk down the street without hurting myself. My GR friends can verify this. One night on the way back to the car after an arena football game, I tripped on, well, nothing and just got my hands out in front of me fast enough to prevent my nose from hitting the concrete. Yeah, I know. Cat-like reflexes, grace. My ma says I'm real catch. Anyway, the ice skating went quite well considering my handicap. I was able to walk away from it with one 2-inch diameter bruise on my knee and that bruise was well worth it. I don't remember exactly how I fell, but I know I was trying to stop to talk to my friends who were clustered at the end of the ice. I lost my balance, lurched forward, and somehow ended up sliding about 10 feet on my back, finally coming to a stop in full, spread-eagle position. I groaned, then rolled over and got up, finishing with a flourish. Eat your heart out, Carrie Strugg. We all know who the real hero is.

Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with me. Last night was one of those times. After barely surviving four years of being made to feel like I knew nothing and I didn't have a prayer of getting a job and making it in the real world, I went back for more. That's right. Last night I returned to the School of Engineering at Grove City College. When I received the invitation to go and critique a design project similar to one I had worked on a few years ago, I accepted, thinking it sounded like fun. But as I began to think about it all the old college insecurities began to set in: Do I really know enough about the subject to be of any help? Will I be able to come up with any insightful comments or questions? But I went anyway, determined to show my professors that I wasn't the idiot they seemed to think I was. After all, I've been working as an engineer for more than two years now, which is more work experience than some of them have ever had. So I went with a friend and collegue of mine and I'm glad I didn't go alone. Even as I walked in the room and saw my professors, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I struggled to keep my voice from wavering as I addressed the students and fumbled to find something interesting and intelligent to say about my job and my work. I listened to the students' presentation with all the attentiveness I would have poured into an applied fluid dynamics class, but still felt in over my head. After the presentation was over, I looked at my notes. "Ergonomics?" "More detailed pricing." "Show progress toward achieving design goals." "I have no idea what this kid is talking about." "sarasarasarasarasara" Pitiful. I had nothing to say about the design and the few comments I had seemed trivial and useless. I was certain that if I tried to say anything, Dr._____ would give me that look that said, "I can't believe I allowed you to graduate." My friend Cherie indicated to me that she couldn't come up with anything either. She was as paralyzed by insecurity as I. Two graduate engineers, both coordinating construction projects costing hundreds of millions of dollars, and we were both frozen with fear of these little men who spend their days sitting alone in labs, daydreaming about the physical sciences. Finally my friend blurted out some comments and I gravely nodded in agreement, then repeated her in almost exactly the same words. Then the students began to question us about our project a few years back, "What forces did you use for impact loading?" "Where did you find your master cylinder?" "What did you think of your suspension performance?" Question after question we pulled answers out of our butts trying to pacify them so we could escape the critical eyes of the professors. And finally we did with little more than a handshake and a "thank you". And with that we left, laughing at our foolishness all the way home, amused with our own irrational fears.

My friend Cherie was telling me how weird the phrase "play it by ear" is. I have to agree that it's a little weird in the context in which it is normally used. However I can at least figure out where it comes from. What I'm wondering about is the phrase "fly by the seat of my pants." Where in the world did that come from?

By popular demand I've got a couple of photos of me in my new place: me on the couch in my living room and Mirm and me at my dining room table.

If you had to decided to sneak into my apartment last night, you would have been greeted by a strange sight: me cooking, wearing a t-shirt, mesh basketball shorts...and 4-inch heels. Believe me, there is a perfectly reasonable explanation for this. You see, I got home from the gym and I wanted to make lasagna. So I figured it was senseless to shower and change if I was going to get spashed with tomato sauce and smell of garlic. Now about the heels. Weelll, I've got this great pair of heels that I'd like to wear to the office Christmas party this weekend. The problem is that they're sky high and after wearing them for a couple of hours, I want to cut my feet off. So I figured that I'd wear them around the house this week and get my feet used them. Maybe then I will be able to wear them for the duration of the party without significant discomfort.

And that is how I ended up making lasagna in basketball shorts and 4-inch heels.

My slate blue tights are missing. Do you have any idea how hard I had to search to find slate blue tights? Have you seen my slate blue tights?

I just spilled yogurt on my pants.