My cats' collars have a safety clasp that's designed to break free if the collar gets caught on something, preventing neck injuries.

I just took a look at the lanyard on which I wear my corporate ID.

Same mechanism.

Tortillas Can Be Heavy

Brought to you by the farmer's market.

Farmer's market season has begun on Nicollet Mall, the dozen-block-long pedestrian mall that is the central artery of downtown Minneapolis. Every Thursday from now into the fall will find the Mall lined with carts, kiosks, and stands offering everything from fresh produce and flowers to good old hot dogs. Yesterday the stalls were staffed by unfortunate vendors Goretexed to their eyebrows on an unseasonably cold first market day of the year.

I was wearing the wrong shoes for this event. Unware that there was anything happening on the sidewalk, I'd kept my loafers on at lunchtime, thinking I'd just step across the street, get lunch, and return. I hadn't counted on getting sidetracked up and down several blocks to admire and photograph the wares.

I ended up buying a dozen homemade tortillas and a jar of chipotle salsa from a young man just outside my building's front door. I never met a carb I didn't like, so it took little of his sales pitch to get my money. He talked me out of the jalapeno tortillas in favor of the garden veggie ones when he heard I wanted to use them for breakfast burritos. Garden veggie makes the best wraps, he said, and the chipotle salsa will supply all the spice I need.

So I was well supplied for future breakfasts, but I still needed lunch in the present. I continued across the mall to the Marshall Field's food court, the fresh, dense tortillas and jar of salsa dangling from my wrist in a plastic bag. I bought food — sushi! wasabi! — but could not find a place to sit even after 10 minutes of pacing around the seating area, so I headed back out through the department store, now carrying both tortilla bag and lunch. With my mineral water and some soy sauce and a fork in there, too, the bag was getting heavy.

Not unexpectedly, I got lost in the store, which covers an entire city block, but finally found my way out through the skyway and ended up back across the street in my home complex. Then I realized I needed to buy a quick gift at the bookstore downstairs, so tortillas, salsa, and sushi all accompanied me to Barnes & Noble. Mission accomplished, I at last found my elevator and ended up eating the sushi in my own company's lunch room. It took an hour for the bag handle marks to fade from my forearm.

Well, what can I say, I'm a farmer's market novice. Next Thursday I'll know better. I'll wear my walking shoes — and a warmer jacket if this cold spell keeps up — and save my market purchases for the end of the lunch hour. And I'll remember to bring the wheeled frame I recently bought to trundle my enormous duffle bag up and down the street on T'ai Chi-after-work days, because I just realized I still have to carry those tortillas to the studio and then home tonight, too. Oy! They'd better be good.

Today around the world: April 29 is Midori no Hi, or Greenery Day, in Japan. It's also Good Friday in the Greek Orthodox church.

Elf Shoes

Brought to you by my latest Rockapella road trip.

I went to La Crosse, WI, to see Rockapella on Tuesday. If you're not a Rockapella fan, you really don't care how the concert was, and if you are a fan, you already know: sing, applaud, banter; repeat. Here's the highlights anyway.

It was a relatively easy drive through rain and green fields. I took a wrong turn getting off the highway and had to backtrack, but once I made it into town, I was fine. I found the venue and my hotel in short order. I'd hoped to spend some time exploring the riverfront and the historic downtown, but the weather, like my childhood dancing teacher, was 40ish and bitter, so I did it mostly by car.

My rambles didn't take long, so I spent the rest of the afternoon in my room watching various incarnations of Law & Order. I ate a great burger and fries in the hotel restaurant — more beef than I normally consume in a week — and made it to the venue in plenty of time to snap and e-mail photos of the marquee to friends who couldn't come. Not that I'd rub it in or anything.

In the lobby I met up with some fellow fans who had heard that there were unclaimed seats close to the stage. On their advice, I requested an upgrade. A $6 fee got me from halfway up the balcony to second row center. Woo! It was prime paparazzi territory, but photos were no-nos and my Treo screen was too bright for me to sneak any, so I chickened out. (At intermission, my buddies moved into two empty seats behind me and kicked the back of mine every time the band did something funny.) I ended up sitting close enough to the speakers to take each of the vocal percussionist's plosives personally.

Concert time. As always, the singing was spectacular, the choreography cheeky, the drummer perfect, the bass sexy, and the lead singer clothed in three different (visible) varieties of stripes, not counting the veins bulging in his neck when he went for the high notes. He was also wearing some sort of long, pointy Beatles tribute footwear that looked like nothing so much as elf shoes. Given that said lead singer is a wee sprite of a man, about 5'5" and 130 pounds on a good day, and has been known to refer to himself as a pixie, the image was more than a little funny to me.

Tenor #2, his famous hair so freshly shorn you could hardly see the curl, had to restart an early number after the bass gave him the wrong note with the pitchpipe. This is an a cappella band, you know, so there's no instrumental melody line to get them back on track. If they miss a starting pitch, they take a mulligan, or it turns into a train wreck pretty quickly.

The do-over number was "Dancing in the Streets," one of numerous cornball tunes Rockapella revitalizes with innovative arrangements and damn fine singing. Tenor #2, who likes to take it dancing in the seats, hopped down off the stage and disappeared into the row behind me. I turned to find him, and suddenly my eyes were inches from the back side of a very nice suit. When he brushed against me as he turned, his eyes widened. I gave him a little wave. He stooped to rub my shoulder in quick apology, though he'd certainly done me no harm. His Broadway voice is much more dangerous than his booty. That boy is LOUD up close!

Exactly how good are these guys? The lead elf has crafted an arrangement of "It's a Small World After All" that's actually fun to listen to. True talent.

Image of the evening: Audience participation victim Nicole being chased across the stage by the lead singer's deadly derriere. He was trying to get her to bump hips with him, but every time he threw one at her, she took a giant step backward. He can bump and cover considerable ground at the same time, so she was almost running. "Help! Save me from the tiny tushie!" Or maybe it was the scary elf shoes.

Oh, and I've finally figured out where the bass man stores his hotness: in his dimples. My second-row seat rumbled happily as he showed off his range, starting a verse of "We Three Kings" so low it caused the building to shift on its foundation.

They concluded with an off-mic medley of "Up on the Roof" and "Don't Know Much About History," or whatever that song is. The percussionist, singing rather than drumming for this final number, looked so stiff and concerned trying to hold still that I wanted to pat him on the arm and tell him he could groove again soon. I was able to pick his diamond notes out of the harmony, though, and I have just two words to say about it: SING MORE. You could focus lasers through that voice, it's so clear.

The band signed autographs and posed for photos in the lobby after the show. Tenor #2 squinted at me like he thought he should recognize me, but I didn't remind him he'd been shaking his moneymaker in my face an hour ago. That's just not the sort of thing I can say to a guy who looks like a junior high English teacher.

And that was it. I parted company with my fan friends, whom I probably won't see until Rockapella makes another of its rare forays into the Midwest, and returned to the hotel.

I found a great diner for breakfast the next morning. First, the waitress brought my cinnamon roll. It was at least 6 inches in diameter and swimming in icing. I ate maybe a third of it. Then she brought my biscuits, at least 6 inches in diameter and swimming in sausage gravy. I ate nearly half. Price: $6.33 plus tip.

I had an easy drive home and reached Sensational Acres around noon. The cats were glad to see me, and I was glad to be seen. Then it was time to go check the tour schedule to see when I can do it all again.

BTW, there are rumors (unsubstantiated by official sources at this point) that my boyz may be performing in Jefferson City, MO, in December and Goodyear, AZ, in January. If you live anywhere near either of those places, you should go. Sister-san, Wrong Way Aunties, I'm talking to you.

Today around the world: April 28 is Take Our Daughters and Sons to Work Day in the U.S. and Day of Mourning for Persons Killed or Injured in the Workplace in Canada. I am not making this up.

BGM

Brought to you by 80s TV. BGM stands for Bad Guy Music, the foreshadowing score in a movie or TV show that warns viewers there's a bad guy lurking just out of the hero's or heroine's sight.

I spent far too much of the 80s watching TV with my parents, classics (now available on DVD!) such as Dallas, Remington Steele, Moonlighting, and that sentimental favorite, Hart to Hart. Remember that one? Lovebird husband/wife team Jonathan and Jennifer Hart (80s screen icons Robert Wagner and Stephanie Powers; series created by 80s "literary" icon Sidney Sheldon) brought evildoers to justice in glamorous settings with impeccable couture. Their weekly adventures were so fraught with peril that the Media clan renamed the show The Jon & Jen Who Are We Almost Going to Kill This Week Car Chase Hour. BGM featured especially prominently in H2H, making it perhaps more of a comedy than intended.

Closely related to BGM is SGHM, Something's Gonna Happen Music, that auditory omen that tips you off to imminent events. Yeah, the warning chords — dunt dunt DUN! — that make you holler at the screen: "Jon! Jen! Look out! It's a trap! Can't you hear it?" Melodrama would be nowhere without it.

I've often wished for a soundtrack for my life so I wouldn't miss out on these helpful cues. I'd like to hear BGM if there's a mugger waiting in the parking ramp or a skeeze asking for a date, or a little SGHM before a tire goes flat or a computer crashes. I'm not sure how much good it would do me, really, since I still wouldn't know exactly what danger lay in wait. But I'd have a chance to stop, look, and listen, and maybe head disaster off at the pass.

Come to think of it, it might also be nice to have some stirring FSM, or Fight Scene Music, playing for my next bout with a certain customer service department . . .

Anyway. In other news, the Media Sensation will be on a mini-vacation the 26th and 27th, out of town for another Rockapella road trip. No BGM predicted, just TNACM (Top-Notch A Cappella Music). Stay tuned, true believers.

Today around the world: April 25 is Pesach, the start of Passover, in the Jewish faith. For Americans, it's Arbor Day; for Swazilanders, it's National Flag Day.

Creature of Habit

Brought to you by rote.

I'm a creature of habit. I think most of us are. Do you sit in the same place at the table for every meal? Do you sit in the same seat each time the family piles into the car? Do you always put your left shoe on first, then the right? Do you drive the same route home from work or school each day, even when you meant to detour to run an errand? Yeah, me too.

When I was little, I lined my stuffed animals up in order every night at bedtime. In college I ate the same dinner almost every Tuesday night while working on the student newspaper. When I worked at Media HQ, I parked in the same row every day; now I do the same thing in the park-and-ride lot. At T'ai Chi, I always put my bag in the same place in the changing room and stand in the same place for warm-ups. Sometimes I sit down in my office chair and reach for my seatbelt. At work I take the same path from the restroom back to my desk — even when I'm supposed to be on my way to a meeting somewhere else. D'OH!

Speaking of D'OH, habit got the better of me one time during grad school. Usually I rode the bus to and from campus, since parking was dicey and I usually ended up getting a ticket anyway. But one day I drove to school for some reason, possibly for an early meeting or something. Anyway, when I got home that evening, I found that my car was gone. Stolen! I had dialed 9-1- before I realized that the thief was me; I'd forgotten I had driven and had ridden the bus home as usual, leaving the car on campus. Thank goodness I didn't actually get the police on the phone and have to stop mid-report when I realized my mistake.

I also have a habit of carrying on for far too long about the most inane things. So go outside and enjoy the nice weather!

Today around the world: April 21 is the first day of summer in Iceland. If you want a firsthand account, read the excellent blog Iceland Weather Report at www.aldakalda.blogspot.com. And don't forget to tell the author Jugglernaut sent you.

My Bad My Good

Brought to you by my generous capacity for error.

Sometimes it's nice to be wrong. Case in point: I misunderstood my Treo's voice/data plan. I thought I bought a certain number of minutes for the month and could use them either for making phone calls or for surfing the web. But no! The voice and data plans are separate! I only use up minutes when I make phone calls; I can surf the web as much as I like for the single monthly fee. Surf's up! Heck, I'm so delighted with this feature that I've even checked my e-mail from the bathroom. Oops, was that overshare?

Another instance: Last night I set out to navigate a skyway route from my office to the bus stop. Map in hand, I wended my way through four blocks' worth of the not-so-secret passages that connect downtown office buildings. Some of the buildings are quite old (by Midwestern standards, at least) and not designed around the skyway system, and while some have been renovated with thru traffic in mind, many have not. No two buildings are laid out alike, and sometimes you have to make three right turns to end up heading left.

I did all that, wandering up and down and around and through like a shoelace in a toddler's fingers, and ended up in an alley between two buildings. I was sure I'd taken a wrong turn somewhere. But when I went to the end of the alley, I found myself half a block from the bus stop, just where I meant to be. I was wrong about being wrong, and that was all right. As a bonus, my bus had just pulled up.

I've done this with people, too — been leery (but not Denis Leary) of them at first but ended up finding them really cool upon further acquaintance. No names come to mind at the moment, but I know it's happened. I also wasn't so sure about Chinese food the first time I tried it, but anyone who's ever seen me plow through a buffet knows how that one turned out.

So I guess it's never too late to challenge first impressions. I'm pretty sure I'm not wrong about that.

Today around the world: April 20 is St. George's Day in Canada.

Nia Mia

Brought to you by yours truly, Lord of the Dance.

OK, I exaggerate. I am not nearly the Lord of the Dance. I might qualify as a handmaiden of the dance on the best of days. But on Sunday night, I gave it a shot anyhow. See, about a year ago, I wrote a story about Nia (click for more), a form of low-impact aerobic dance, for my former employer, the Award-Winning Magazine. Nia incorporates types of movement from several art forms in addition to dance, one of which is martial art.

During the course of the interviews, my background in martial arts and especially T'ai Chi came to light. The Nia instructors, Jill and Marie, remarked that it would be interesting to have a T'ai Chi person come and demonstrate some postures for other Nia teachers sometime. I said sure, give me a call, and that was the end of the matter.

Until last month. Then Jill e-mailed me to invite me to actually come and do this. So I did. The theme for the evening was the four elements (earth, air, fire, water), so I tried to incorporate those ideas into my talky bit. But for the most part it was T'ai Chi show and tell. I explained some of the principles of the form and demonstrated how a few of the postures could become dance steps. It was very low-key, but everyone seemed to catch on quickly. I enjoyed the main dance portion of the class that preceded my part, too. I might just have to go back.

As an aside, I'd just like to mention that yesterday I gassed up the Subarushi for the first time since Easter. Gotta love taking the train.

Today around the world: April 18 is Health Day in Kiribati (click for more).

Today I gassed up my car for the first time since Easter -- the first time since I started taking the train. Woo!

People keep asking me what I'm going to do with all the money I'm saving on gas. Uh, did I mention that there's a bookstore in my new office building? Any further questions?

Lung Fu

Brought to you by my strong dislike of public smoking.

Since it’s Tax Day, I thought I’d take your mind off it by talking about something equally unpleasant: smoking. Here’s an argument I heard once that I found pretty entertaining. See if it works for you.

Like the kidneys and intestines, the lungs are part of the body’s excretory system. The process goes like this: intake, extract, excrete. For the former two, the digestive system takes in food; the kidneys and intestines extract fuel and excrete the waste as urine and feces. For the latter, the respiratory system takes in cigarette smoke; the lungs exctract nicotine and excrete the waste as smoky carbon dioxide. With me so far?

So lungs are excretory organs just as kidneys and bowels are excretory organs. Since things that are equal to the same thing are equal to each other, lungs are the same as kidneys and bowels. Therefore, if a smoker chooses to empty his or her excretory organs all over an eater’s hair, clothing, belongings and personal space, an eater has an equivalent right to empty his or her excretory organs all over the smoker’s hair, clothing, belongings and personal space.

In other words, if you can blow smoke on me, I can take a leak or a dump on you. So think twice before you light up, there, genius.

There. Now taxes don’t seem quite so icky, right? You’re welcome.

Today around the world: April 15 is both Tax Day and Rubber Eraser Day in the U.S. Do you suppose the two are related?

Well Trained

Brought to you by my new involvement with public transportation.

As you know by now, I’m not driving my car to my new job. I ride the train from near Sensational Acres to near the office each morning. On class days, I take a bus from near the office to the front door of the T’ai Chi studio, and a friend drops me at a train station after class. On non-class days, I take the train straight home from downtown.

In general, I like these arrangements. Getting home at 11:00 on Monday nights and 10:00 on Tuesdays is kinda rough, but only about half an hour later than I got home when I drove. I miss the cushion of personal space guaranteed by driving one’s own car — and the actual seat cushion, for that matter. I also miss listening to entire CDs in a single trip; now I have time to hear just a song or two during my brief time in the car. (When I figure out how to use the mp3 player function on my new Treo, this will change.)

I’ve had to learn some adaptive behaviors to suit the new circumstances. Such as:

• I can stop wondering whether the train or bus is coming. It is. There’s always another one coming. That’s what makes trains and buses something other than funny-looking private vehicles.
  
• When waiting, I must stand upwind of smokers. There are a surprising number of them about.
  
• The train and bus are going to stop at stops other than mine whether I like it or not. This is part of the deal and I should not scowl when it happens. Control issues? What control issues?
  
• If I want the bus to stop at my corner, I should signal a block in advance, not as we go zooming past it.
  
• I must choose seats with space beneath them for my mammoth gear bag. It’s too big and too dirty to be held on my lap.
  
• Because I board early in each route, I should take the window seat right away so people boarding later don’t have to crawl over me to get to it.
  
• The train accelerates and decelerates smoothly, so I can stand up safely while it’s leaving or arriving at a stop. The reverse is true on the bus.
  
• Nobody likes a line holder-upper. I keep my train/bus pass and a stash of quarters in a handy place for quick access.
  
• Whatever I’m reading will be neither the most highbrow nor the most lowbrow printed matter aboard, so I can quit showing off the Treo manual.
  
• The guy on the #16 bus that likes to hold women’s hands but does not speak is odd but harmless. I can ignore him.
  
• The woman on the #16 bus that carries on a loud, one-sided conversation with the driver regarding the behavior of the other passengers is just plain annoying. I cannot ignore her. She’s too loud. But I can refrain from correcting her.
  
• Not all the people talking to themselves are crazy; some are using tiny cell phone headsets. I should not rush to judgment without searching for wires first.
  
• Even just a few blocks is too far to walk in unsuitable shoes. I wear tennies to and from the office and on my lunchtime rambles and reserve the lady shoes for the office.
  
• My deodorant works. Not everyone I ride with can make that claim. Sometimes I must breathe shallowly.
  

Today around the world: April 13 is International Special Librarian’s Day. If you know any special librarians, make them feel international today, and if you know any international ones, make them feel special.

Happy Dance

Brought to you by my very shiny, very groovy new toy.

Today I did something I’ve been wanting to do for about three years: I bought myself a new PDA (personal digital assistant), a Treo 600. Woo technology!! This thing is more than a PalmPilot-like device: it’s that, plus a cell phone, plus a wireless web browser, plus a digital camera, plus an mp3 player. It’s the first new PDA I’ve bought since 1998, before El Pendejo and I bought our first house, to give you some perspective. I’ve wanted this upgrade for a long, long time but haven’t felt like shelling out the dough until now.

As you may guess, I’m terribly excited by this purchase. Not only is it somewhere near the cutting edge of hipness (as far as I know, anyway), it’s also actually useful. I’ll be able to use my Treo to check e-mail and appointments, do my favorite online crossword puzzle, and perhaps even blog on the train or bus. Or make or receive phone calls. Or snap and send digital pictures. Or admire photos of CNE. Or listen to music.

This little gizmo is barely larger than a deck of cards. It has a screen about two inches square and a complete keyboard and number pad — albeit with teeny tiny keys. It’s far more powerful than the first computers I hacked away on back in junior high, yet I can carry it in my shirt pocket. Super cool, right? It’s not quite a Star Trek tricorder, but it’s close. And it’s smaller. And it’s prettier. And it’s mine.

Today around the world: April 11 is National Heroes Day in Costa Rica. The inventor of the Treo is my current hero.

Ever write your own words to a popular song or show tune? Come on, everybody does it. Sit right down and tell me all about it.

First order of business:

Happy Birthday, Sister-san!

The Great Flydini

Brought to you by comedian, actor and author Steve Martin and his magical trousers.

Have I ever told you about the huge crush I have on Steve Martin? It's true. I loved Steve even before he started making family comedies and writing books. I loved him when he was a Tonight Show guest and a Saturday Night Live god, I loved him singing "King Tut" on MTV, and I loved him on the vinyl comedy albums my parents played for us on homey evenings. I loved him when he was a ramblin', banjo-playin' guy. I'd like to say I loved him before his hair went silver, but that's going too far back even for me.

It was with great pleasure, then, that I viewed his appearance as the Great Flydini on one of my Best of Carson DVDs last night. I don't think I've laughed so hard since the first time I saw Eddie Izzard. It's a simple gag played to great effect — and I apologize for going on about it here, because it's much better seen than read. Still: Steve comes out on stage, pins back the tails of his suit jacket, carefully unzips his trousers, and proceeds to pull stuff out of his fly. He doesn't rummage for the items; they appear at the opening as he stands with his arms stiff at his sides. It's all done wordlessly, the famous rubber face bemused and somber, with classy music playing.

First there's a series of scarves tied together at the corners like a magician's scarves. Then several eggs, which he places in a basket. A lit cigarette. Then a phone rings and he pulls a receiver out, the cord trailing back into his pants. In the short pantomimed conversation, he clearly mouths, "I told you never to call me here!" Back in goes the phone.

Then a beautiful woman appears and the crowd titters with anticipation, wondering how close to an R rating they're going to get. The fly produces a bouquet for the woman, followed by a small cocktail. Then the phone rings again . . . and it's for her. She chats for a moment, then tucks the receiver back into his fly. As she leaves, Flydini offers her the gift of a lace handkerchief. She takes it but drops it carelessly on her way out — and it swoops right back into the fly.

For the finale, a small harlequin hand(?)puppet emerges from the fly and "sings" the operatic aria on the soundtrack with Martin watching in amazement. The puppet takes his bows and Flydini exits. Brought back for an encore, Flydini emits a shower of bubbles a la Lawrence Welk.

Best. Prop comedy. Ever.

Today around the world: April 8 is the birthday of the Sultan of Johor in Malaysia — and Sister-san's birthday everywhere else.

Aces & Eights

Brought to you by corporate America and Wild Bill Hickok.

I grew up in aces and eights territory, a few dozen miles from Saloon #10 where Wild Bill was shot in the back of the head by Jack McCall while holding a poker hand consisting of two black aces, two black eights, and the nine of diamonds. This particular distribution of cards has since become known as the dead man's hand.

When gambling, Wild Bill always sat with his back to the wall and his face to the door, lest any friends or relatives of those he'd killed sneak up behind him — and since he was an experienced quick-draw duelist, that added up to quite a few people. The night he was killed, however, he'd taken a seat with his back to the door because all the other chairs were taken.

With that kind of history in my blood, you can see why I'd have an aversion to sitting with my nose in a corner. It feels like I'm being punished. Yet that's what I do for a living.

I work in a cube farm. This is a fact of life that I accept, but it's not exactly my favorite part of the job. In addition to being grey and dull, cubes are usually configured with the computer placed in a corner opposite the door opening — which means that the person using the computer must sit with his or her back to the door. Whose bright idea was that? Complete pants! I do not know a single human being who would choose this setup if given a choice, yet it's the norm in almost every office I've visited. (Exception: areas where sensitive client information routinely appears on screens, which must therefore be shielded from the eyes of passersby.) While corporate assassinations are relatively rare these days, this workspace configuration means that someone can still sneak up behind me while I'm facing the screen and scare the poo out of me.

At my old workplace, I made a big deal of getting my cube arranged so that I sat facing the door. It contributed greatly to my peace of mind. When interviewing for my new job, I relayed my "hate having my back to the door" preference to my prospective boss, who said she'd keep it in mind during the reconfiguration that took place before my start date. Well, either she forgot or it just couldn't be done, because my new cube home places me with my back to the door like everybody else.

Dagnabbit! I thought of moving the computer myself, but the monitor is too tall to fit under the overhead bin in the desired spot. So now I'm stuck twitching my head over my shoulder every 20 seconds to make sure I'm not being ambushed. I guess it's a good neck exercise, but still . . .

One thing is for sure, though: This setup will keep me from playing video poker — and risking being dealt the dead man's hand — on the job.

Today around the world: April 7 is World Health Day.

Pssst

Brought to you by my bike.

Every spring it's the same thing. Ooh, nice weather! I think. Bike time! And I rush home one evening and wheel the bike out of the garage, spend five whole minutes stuffing my hair into my helmet, and wrestle my little gloves on. Then, starting in the middle of the driveway, I mount up, triumphantly steady even after so many months out of training, and pedal off toward the Amoco station to air up the tires. On the way I remark to myself how out of shape I am and how bicycle handlebars really are not wrist-friendly and how the seat really is not bum-friendly, and also how fine the wind feels on my bare legs and how lovely my streamers look fluttering in the early evening light. I promise myself I'll only stay out an hour this first time, not overdo it, and then sail on until dark anyway.

Well, I'm a creature of habit. I did the same thing last night, and all went according to the script up through the promise. With my tires aired up and plump as little black piggies, I turned in the direction of the Darth Mall, intending to explore the neighborhood to the east of it. I passed the cobalt-and-saffron Ikea and the politically incorrect Thunderbird Convention Center and reached an intersection. I dismounted, standing astride the crossbar, and waited for the "walk" signal to light up.

And waited. And waited. And waited. I waited patiently through two full light cycles, and still no "walk" signal. Passing traffic was spitting grit at me and I was anxious to get on with my ride. I was seriously considering crossing, signal or no signal, when I thought I heard something.

Psst.

Wow, that sounds just like a tire springing a sudden and serious leak, I thought. I looked around for the unfortunate rider whose steed had gone lame. But I was the only one at the intersection.

You're kidding, right? Not on the first ride of the season!

But no one was kidding. My rear tire, and my spirits, were suddenly as flat as an IHOP special. I was pssst, all right.

Across the street from where I stood should have been a large, bustling convenience store where I could have tried to reinflate the tire, but the lot had been razed for reconstruction. Up the road half a block or so was another filling station, but it was dark and dead. I had a flat-repair kit in my pannier, but buying it had been an act of bravado; I knew it would take me far longer to try and fail to fix the tire than to simply walk the bike back to Sensational Acres — because in my heart I knew reinflating the tire wouldn't be enough. So I sighed and turned around.

As I walked, I reconsidered my situation and realized I'd been damned lucky the tire blew when it did. I had been standing still on a safe sidewalk, not crossing the intersection or whizzing along a busy street alongside car traffic. I was less than two miles from home, there were sidewalks almost all the way, it was still light outside, and the weather was fine. If I was going to plan a flat, I could hardly have picked a better time or place. Maybe the shy little light-up guy on the "walk" signal is my guardian angel.

So I walked home and enjoyed some light exercise in the mild evening anyway. The streamers looked just as good at that slower pace. I'll take the bike to the shop next weekend and ask some nice young man with gritty fingernails to teach me how to change the tire, and then I'll go out again. Let's just hope this doesn't become part of the springtime tradition.

Today around the world: April 6 is National Tartan Day in the U.S. It's also Drop of Water is a Grain of Gold Day in Turkmenistan.

Blast from the Repast

Brought to you by the winds of history.

Senor Editor took me out to lunch shortly before I left Media HQ, to a place we didn't normally go (but that serves great tater tots). And who should walk to this obscure little pub and recognize me but Paula.

I haven't seen Paula in about five years. She's the wife of my ex-husband's best friend, and when we stopped doing couple stuff together, she faded right off my radar. She took me out to a movie one afternoon when the ex was at the house clearing out some of his garbage with her husband's assistance, I think. And after that, nothing. We always got along fine and all, but we had little in common besides our spouses, and we didn't keep in touch.

And then there she was in a suburb far from home on a weekday lunch hour with her mother and her two cute little girls in tow. I introduced her briefly to Senor Editor and told her why we were out at lunch — my leaving the office — and it only occurred to me just now that his prominent wedding band and my lack of one might have raised Paula's conservative eyebrows.

So that was interesting. I feel like I should call her up and arrange to get together for dinner sometimes soon. She probably feels the same way. I wonder if either of us will actually do it. I'm curious to know whether she's got any gossip about El Pendejo, and I want to brag up the good fortune I've enjoyed since parting ways with him. But it wouldn't be very nice of me to call her up just for that. If I do, it'll have to be because I want to visit with her for her own sake.

Today around the world: April 5 is Arbor Day in South Korea.

Squish

Brought to you by a fine spring weekend.

I had to make a deal with myself yesterday: no computer until chores were done. But I didn't mind for once, because some of the chores were more pleasant than surfing could have been.

First, I drove to the grocery store with the windows down. Thanks to using public transportation to get to and from my new job, I've put as many miles on my car this whole week as I would have in a single day under the old system. The Subarushi is getting on in years and miles, so it's nice to know it'll have to work a little less hard now.

Then I came home and caught Mother Media leaving me a message, so I grabbed the phone and chatted with her while putting my goodies away, opening windows, and, as usual, watering my plants. I had to tell her about the great evening I spent Saturday watching one of the "Best of Carson" DVDs the Easter Bunny had brought me. That EB sure knows how to shop.

My favorite bit (so far) was one from the 60s featuring Bob Hope, Dean Martin, and George Gobel as Johnny's guests. (Gobel was, Mother said, one of her own father's favorite comedians.) All three guests were smoking and drinking openly, and Johnny had a cigarette in hand, as Naughty Party Boys did in those days. Every time Gobel, who was nearest to Johnny, turned to tell the host something, the tipsy Martin, seated beside him, flicked cigar ash into his tumbler of beer. While Gobel played it perfectly straight, the audience, the other guests, and Johnny himself convulsed with laughter every time Martin flicked and Gobel brought the cup to his lips, only to lower it at the last second without taking a sip. Yep, that's entertainment. That, and watching a small arboreal rodent pee on Johnny's head.

Anyway, after visiting with Mother Media, I barely had time to start a load of laundry before Mork knocked on my door. Mork is the honest-to-goodness name of a local contractor who left a flier in my door, and he had agreed to come over on a Sunday to give me an estimate on replacing the white picket fence that surrounds Sensational Acres. He gave me a ballpark figure that wasn't too shocking and left me to the task of raking windblown leaves from my flower beds.

I won't lie, I dawdled over the raking and bagging. To be outside in a T-shirt with the sun on my arms and sweat on my forehead and the scent of new growth in my nostrils was the sweetest way I could think of to spend an hour in the early afternoon. I'm not much of a gardener, but I can't resist the allure of the brave new blades of grass and early plants. I took my shoes and socks off and squished about in the soggy dirt and will no doubt take a bit of earth to work with me under my toenails tomorrow.

Lolling in the yard doesn't buy us any cat food, however, so I had to go back indoors to work on a freelance project (next to an open window). It was small, fortunately, and I was out for a walk before the ink dried or the sun set.

As for the feline despots, they were remarkably benevolent — as long as I left the back door propped open so they could come and go as they pleased. They both spent great swathes of time rolling and scratching their backs on the grit in the driveway and stretching loooong in the afternoon sun. Call me a copycat, but I flopped down too and gave my yard a big warm hug.

Today around the world: April 4 is my parents' wedding anniversary.

Safety in Numbers

Brought to you by my deepening knowledge of my new office.

I'm slowly learning my way around at the faith-based organization (FBO) I've gone to work for. It occupies most or all of one floor and half of another in a 20-storey building. I'm already aware of the Barnes & Noble, the Panera, the haircut place, the ATM, and the Izzy's Ice Cream Parlor housed on the ground floor. Other goods and services are available on the skyway level, too. I'll keep you posted as I travel this undiscovered country.

Bathrooms: 3 per gender

Bathroom stalls: 11 per gender

Lunchrooms/kitchenettes: 1 large, 3 small

Conference rooms: 10, with geographical names like Great Plains Room or Pacific Northwest Room

Coke machines: 2

Pepsi machines: who cares?

Vending machines: at least 6

Vending machines with ice cream: 0

Bike storage areas: 1

Quiet rooms: 1 (for use if you need privacy for something; complete with comfy chair and a doctor's scale)

Recovery rooms: 1 (for use if you feel ill on the job; includes a cot with a bucket discretely tucked away beneath it)

Learning zones: 2 (for online education modules, etc.)

Mini-libraries: about 5
Meetings attended in first week of work: 12

Meetings scheduled for next week (so far): 2 meetings, 2 training sessions, a lunch, and an informal lunchtime presentation that's being given by a bigwig, so it's pretty much mandatory. 4 of these will occur on Monday.

Pages in user's manual for phone and phone software: 54 (Yes, separate software for phone calls. Egad!)

Guys with hunting rifles: 0

Snakes: 0

Today around the world: April is National Poetry Month, and April 1 is April Fool's Day. I thought about showing up back at Media HQ and saying, "I didn't really quit! April Fool! But thanks for the cake and the lovely parting gifts!" But I didn't.

Or did I?

Don't forget to set your clocks ahead early Sunday morning.