Yesterday was the first Easter that I didn't have something - candy, a small gift - for the girls. When they were very little I would hide their Easter baskets all over the house and give them hints about where to look. As they grew older, I wrote clues for them to follow to find the books or videos or candy that was scattered around the house. Yesterday I had to resort to giving them the little chocolate bunnies ("hollow" was the accusation-laden comment I heard) that had been intended for their cousins (who will now get lumps of coal or, even worse, stale and faded Peeps). My guilt lasted about as long as it took Condy Rice to deflect the first question at the hearings last, well on the road to her own plausible deniability. But then I'm mixing politics with the joy of celebrating the arrival of Spring, aren't I?

This morning I had intended to make one last attempt at a vacation day, but with the painters here I thought I'd have more peace at work. So through the drizzle I drove, arrived at the office, closed my door (something I almost never do), plugged in the iPod and concentrated on preparing for an interview later this week. I don't like giving interviews, because I always feel as if I'll say something so monumentally stupid that the company will collapse around me, everyone shamed at having worked with such a pinheaded employee. Magazines and newspapers aren't too bad because of their short shelf-life, but this is for a book and representatives from our competitors will be in attendance. So, not only do quotes have the potential for lasing a very long time in print, but I have the chance to both mortify myself in front of my industry peers and create prodigious amounts of competitive leakage. Perhaps I can ask for it all to be off the record?

As I was listening to the iPod today (on shuffle all songs, as I always have it playing), Roger Miller's King of the Road came on. This is the first song I can recall having a strong positive opinion about (except for the songs on Romper Room, but those don't really count). I first remember hearing it while we were on vacation, listening to it in the back of our gargantuan Oldsmobile Vista Cruiser, me, my sister and our bassett hound Dagmar (named by my father for the singer of the 1950s referenced on this web page - although I found other references to her death within the past few years). No seat belts for us, just lots of wide open space through which we became human (and canine) missiles each time my father had to stop suddenly. Anyway, back to the song - it was both the lyrics and the music that appealed to me - the reference to a trailer (we vacationed in a 17' turquoise and white Fan travel trailer); the mention of Bangor, Maine; the slightly seedy, illicit feel to the song; the country-ish twang. All of that came rushing back in the first few bars of the song, which I shall blame for breaking my concentration in preparing for the interview.