At work, why does everyone wait until the last possible minute to ask questions and pile tasks on. Yesterday I was having a pretty good day and looking forward to actually getting out of work on time. Then I got FIVE phone calls after 4 o'clock. All asking for information or demanding something get done NOW. So instead I was at work until 6:30. What's up with that?

Yesterday I made another one of my repetitive mistakes. I wore my black knee-high boots for a day trip to DC for work. They're always pretty comfortable when I leave the house at 5 am, but by 9:30 pm when I get home, my feet are screaming at me. I don't know. Maybe both stupidity and vanity can take credit for this one.

I'm pretty sure the city of Butler has a herd of trolls that come out at night and tear up the roads with pickaxes. That's most logical explanation I can come up with for massive amounts of potholes in this crazy town. They're everywhere, they're unavoidable, and they're killing me and my poor little car. So far this winter I've had my car realigned and my tires rebalanced, I've replaced two tires and a tie rod end, and I've got an axle/boot assembly on order right now. It's enough to make a girl consider buying one of those huge, indestructable pickups that are so popular around here. But then I'd have to take up chewing tobacco and buy a belt buckle the size of my head. And that's something I just won't do.

I am so sick of navel oranges. The deal at the grocery store, a little Butler phenomenon called BOGO (Buy One Get One), seemed too good to pass up. So for the past two weeks I've been eating an orange a day in an attempt to finish the things. I've got more vitamin C than I know what to do with.

I know this is a few days late, but Happy Birthday, Mom. I know I told you in person, but I just want to say it again and document your 50th birthday on the blog.

My friends have become hooked on a place called "Sing Sing". It bills itself as a "dueling piano bar." Basically it's a couple of guys throwing out comic banter, banging out requests that the whole crowd sings along to. It's a good time, but it has its pitfalls. My friend Miriam summed it up nicely:

"The thing about SingSing is the jokes get old, but I really enjoy the requested songs. It's like your sitting there and then, "Oh, I love this song!" then you get to sing along."

Well said, Mirm. Jokes get stale, but still, there's nothing like belting out Don McLean's "American Pie" with 200 other people.

I'm experiencing a bout of "blog (weblog) shyness". Several times over the past week I have started writing a post and then scrapped it, deciding it was too boring to post. I need to get over it right quick.

Why is it that some mistakes we make over and over again? Like Chinese food. Chinese food always seems like a good idea. It sounds good, but 9 times out of 10 I end up with a gutache afterward. Still, I keep on eating it. Why? The only conclusion I can come up with is I'm one thick-headed individual.

I recently came across this photo from college. My friend Beth will love me for posting this one. This is what happens when you're in the middle of your last round of finals in your college career. You get a bit nutty. Beth and I got so nutty that a conversation about how many t-shirts we owned inspired us to try to put them all on...at once, leading to a seriously bloated Sara and Beth.

Have you ever tried eating yogurt with a fork? It's even harder than it sounds.

I've got a confession to make. I'm hooked on "Joe Millionaire". I know what you're going to say. It's smut, trash, a waste of my time. All of this is true. But it's like that car wreck in the median of the highway. It's just awful, but nevertheless you just can't look away. Besides, there's just something about watching a bunch of shallow, superficial, golddigging women primp and preen, oblivious to the fact that they're about to meet their comeuppance. What surprises me, though, is that I almost feel sorry for "Joe". Almost. Not only does he have the typical male handicap of being completely unable to read women, but on top of it...well...to put it nicely, this guy is definitely not the brightest crayon in the box. I expected him to have difficulty picking up hints, to be clueless as to who the greedy ones are. But this guy struggles to form complete sentences let alone convincingly play the role of a millionaire. Now Fox has tried to cover over this by allowing him to give the girls the whole "hey, I just inheritted the money so I'm new to this whole 'rich guy' thing" excuse. But even with that in his back pocket, the former construction worker still fumbles, getting nervous and clamming up everytime he's asked a question about himself and breaking into a sweat every time his limo drives by a bulldozer. Most guys would relish this role, launching into all kinds of fabricated tales about themselves basking in the adoration of all these attentive women. But this poor neanderthal is so afraid of getting caught, he lets the women drag him around like a lap dog. The whole spectacle is, I'm ashamed to say it, vastly entertaining until I realize that these are actual people in this twisted drama. And then it becomes just plain sad.

I think I went through half a box of tissues today. My nose is so raw that even ultra-greasy lotion tissues feel like sandpaper.

I must say that my experience so far in my new hometown of Butler, PA has been rather interesting. The place has it's own unique culture that I'm still adjusting to. One of the stranger phenomena around here is the pedestrian crossing bell. You see, in "downtown" Butler, there is a period of time in the traffic signal pattern during which all lights turn red, a bell dings, and pedestrians are given free reign on the intersection, crossing in whichever way they please. I find this strange custom both frustrating and amusing. Frustrating when driving because the prolonged red lights mean it often takes up to 10 minutes to get through the half-mile stretch that is considered "downtown". And amusing because the locals adhere so rigidly to the bell. Often there is little or no traffic, but they will still sit and wait patiently, not stepping from the curb until the bell has chimed. Now I don't consider myself highly "urbanized", able to dodge traffice like a NYC native, but when there is no traffic, I will cross the street. It's the logical thing to do. Besides, I love to see the look of horror on the faces of the well-trained Butlerites as I defiantly stoll across the street without waiting for the hallowed bell. Breakin' the law...breakin' the law...

Whoever invented Post-it Notes was an absolute genius. Okay, maybe not a genius, but I honestly can't imagine my life without Post-It Notes. I've got those little yellow pieces of paper everywhere. I mean really. Who needs some fancy schmancy electronic address book like Outlook or Lotus when I can stick up all my important phone numbers and "to do" items in a fun yellow border around my computer screen?

I love NyQuil. There's nothing like being out cold from 5 pm to 7 am. My cold doesn't stand a chance with a drug like that on my side.