You can run but you can't hide.

It appears that Steve and I are allergic to New Year's Day. Or, rather, New Year's Day is allergic to us. Let us review:

New Year's Day, 2004. Steve and Mad complete a wonderful backcountry yurt trip. They are delighted to discover that the car starts despite being buried under 3 feet of snow. They begin the drive down Cumbres Pass, only to hit a large rock 20 miles later, necessitating a 275-mile tow job.

New Year's Day, 2005. Steve and Mad decide to ring in the New Year in the safety and comfort of their own home. They throw a fabulously successful New Year's Eve party, including homemade sushi, an eclectic assortment of other delicacies, and copious amounts of beer, wine, and champagne. Revelers spanning three generations and five decades celebrate into the wee hours. Steve and Mad wake on January 1 to discover raw sewage seeping into their new basement from the floor drain.

So we are 0-for-2 on the New Year's Day thing, and between rebuilt engines and removal of poop chunks, January 1 has proven rather costly in our world. We're already soliciting suggestions on where we might spend New Year's Day, 2006, to minimize the chances of an expensive and frustrating (not to mention stinky) mishap.