Nothing's funnier than some good engineering humor.

I may upset a few people by saying this, but here goes...

I really don't like meatballs. I just don't get it. The whole meat/bread mashed together thing just does not appeal to me. Call me racist or segregationist or whatever, but I like my meat as meat and my bread as bread and ne'er the 'twain shall meet. I guess this is why I've never liked meatloaf.

I got thinking about this last night as I tried out some tomato sauce from Prego's new line of meat sauces on my eggplant. Only it wasn't meat sauce. It was meatBALL sauce. But anyway, this brings me to my other topic: eggplant. You see, I like eggplant, but I certainly don't love it. But it's such a beautiful vegetable. I just love the shape and rich color. In fact, I love the appearance so much that I've developed this compulsion. If I'm in the produce aisle and they have good-looking eggplant, I have to buy it. Doesn't matter if I feel like eating it or not, I must buy the eggplant.

Try to figure that one out.

The kid in me is still alive and kicking. Most of the time I'm grateful for this, but not today. Because the kid in me can't turn down a co-worker's bucket o' candy, particularly the brightly-colored candy necklace. Now that I've polished the thing off, I'm left with a pounding headache and a queasy stomach. Just one more sign that I am getting old.

Well, my triathlon is exactly a month from today and I'm starting to get nervous. Last night I hit the pool and shared a lane with three other people in an attempt to simulate the chaos of the open-water swim. And I made it through without swallowing half the pool. Maybe I can do this thing after all.

The Bob Dylan/Victoria's Secret partnership continues. While waiting at the Pittsburgh airport on Thursday, I hit the mall there. As I was ambling through Victoria's Secret, I was surprised to see that they are now selling special Bob Dylan/Victoria's Secret compilation CDs. Move over Giselle, Bob is the new face of Victoria's Secret!

Now I think we're all waiting for one more thing: Bob in a garter skirt!

I was admittedly a very bad guest on Saturday. Poor Beth had to watch me lay unconscious and drool all over her futon for three hours Saturday afternoon when she could have been out having fun with friends or something. But I had gone to great lengths to be there that morning to see her become Bethany "MacGuyver" Blood, JD, so I suppose a little leniency was warranted.

I will be eternally grateful to my friend Bethany "MacGuyver" Blood for showing the value in a good stapler for on-the-fly clothing repairs. See, a couple of summers ago, Beth and I were out for a night on the town in Erie. We had only been out for an hour or so when I made one fatal twist and flex of the shoulder and...pop! The strap of my camisole/tank broke. Now we were about 20-30 minutes from Beth's house, so going back to change was not an option. And we were NOT about to hang it up for the night already. So we headed to Beth's office down the street to see if we could finaggle some sort or remedy. We scoured the supply closet, searching for inspiration when suddenly Beth yelled "A-HA!" and held a stapler above her head victoriously. A couple of quick staples and I was good as new and we were once again on the move.

I have used this solution several times since. For instance, when a heel catches in the hem of a long skirt and pulls it looser. Or like today. On a trip to the bathroom, I got a little too fierce and pulled loose the bar on my hook-and-bar closure pants. But a few quick staples and I'm once again on my way. Now you have to be careful attempting this one. I've already accidentally stapled my shirt tail to my pants once today. And people do look at you a little funny when you take a staple remover with you to the bathroom. But I figure the looks would be much worse if I was walking around with my pants around my ankles.

Last week, a former co-worker, someone I had neither seen nor thought about in quite some time, managed to slip into one of my dreams for a brief cameo. Possibly against my better judgement, I shared this information. Apparently, the co-worker, let's call him "Bill", was quite flattered. So much so, in fact, that I was sent this image of Bill in the hope that it would birth more dreams of him.

Stunning, isn't it? As you can see by looking at Bill and myself, the whole "engineer = undesirable nerd" thing is pure myth, as we are both pretty much sex on a stick. Anyway, I think a Bill calendar is the next logical step toward global domination for this up-and-coming heart-throb.

Finally. I am on my way back to health, the daily white blood cell casualties are noticeably declining, and my sofa is beginning to lose its reclining-Sara-shaped depression and return to its usual shape.