1:45 a.m. We had an interesting alignment of the planets today, an encounter in serendipity that was supposed to cause the massive tsunami that would finally wipe the bad coast off the face of the globe, but it didn't happen.

That guy in the bomb shelter in the Midwest might as well start eating his stockpile of cocktail weenies and making furniture out of remaindered copies of his doomsday 05-05-00 book. As for me, I still have over 52 empty milk jugs to squash and put into the recycling bin and a certain amount of canned milk to enjoy ever since the new year came in so quietly.

You can never, ever be prepared. Might as well not bother.

I found that out tonight as I rushed to finish up my font organizational extravaganza and really, really crashed my computer. Something to do with a damaged font suitcase stuck in the trashcan somehow, metaphorically speaking, of course.

But it meant that I had to start looking at a "clean install" -- two words that strike terror into my carefully ordered, color-coordinated, icon-perfected heart. Luckily, I didn't have to go that far, but I did spend a few frantic hours once again bookmarking my trusty copy of Mac Secrets, Vol. 5 and holding down the shift, option, and command keys simultaneously.

I have to be able to see what I've got. I have to be able to spread every single item out before I can make a collage. I have to be able to compare, contrast, weigh, and decide based on availability and expiration dates. No matter what the project, I am a shopkeeper at base.

So, I'm doing some design work and I have to see the fonts. All of them. I have to see the funny way that Desert Crypt handles the upper-case letter "H" before I can decide what to do. There's no use fighting this.

If I'm going to sew on some buttons, I have to be able to see all my colors and choices. If I'm going to make soup, I have to empty out the veggie bin and proceed accordingly. Well, ok. First I have to throw away the lettuce and celery that has jellied, but otherwise, I line up my produce, note same, and start chopping.

For those readers with small children and a similar need to look at one's entire stockpile before creating, I extend my deepest sympathies. You will no sooner be able to drag out (and arrange prettily) all your yarn or yams or yellow-tipped Sharpies than you will be able to fly.

Such luxuries are only for the young and single, the old, and for people with Schlage deadbolts on their office doors. People with children are lucky if they can even find a button in the bottom of the junk drawer, let alone organize such notions.

But you can dream, which I did, and you can one day look forward to a perfectly organized house of your own. I do.