WITH APOLOGIES TO MRS FLEENOR

There are few things I can say with absolute certainty, but of one thing I'm clear; I like order. I don't like excessive newspapers, magazines and mail laying about the house, and all articles of clothing must be put in their proper places. Dishes need to be washed and put away before I can turn the lights out at night, and the bed must be made with almost military precision before I enter the shower stall for my morning cleaning ritual. So fastidious am I that my mother has remarked in the past that I live in the nicest hotel lobby she's ever seen. My car interior is equally orderly; any CD not currently residing in the CD player must be placed in the little compartment between the front seats specifically designated for storage, and you will never find empty bottles, cans, papers or other clutter laying about. Even the tasteful Subaru suede-covered operators manual is tucked under the passenger seat out of sight. In other words, I'm a bit anal.

So anal am I that I was fairly confident I could remember all of the contents in my plastic under-bed storage box containing what I consider to be important papers and stuff (the box is, predictably labeled, "Stuff"). I say was confident because, while searching for an autographed photo in my possession of actor Richard Crenna (don't ask), a small manila envelope appeared before me, marked in pencil with my name, "Grade One Report Card" written beside it, and below that a name that temporarily froze my blood;"Mrs Fleenor".

Mrs Fleenor was my Grade One teacher, and while the picture accompanying this article is not her, that is more or less how I remember her. It's possible I'm exaggerating my childhood memories but she always struck me as stern, unforgiving and abrasive, and the type of woman who bathed with lye soap and a nail brush. Mrs Fleenor was the one who called me out in front of the class because I put my construction-paper Santa Claus on the community bulletin board without attaching his mittens with Elmer's glue first. Mrs Fleenor was the one who told me the picture I drew of myself for a school art project wasn't right because I didn't Crayon my hair yellow (blond) enough. Mrs Fleenor didn't like that I used my Grand-dad's King Edward cigar box as a pencil box. Mrs Fleenor put me in the cloak room as punishment (for an offence of which I've conveniently forgotten), and accidentally left me there during recess. Mrs Fleenor frequently criticized the way I held my pencil. In my mind, Mrs Fleenor was a real b**ch.

Unfortunately, the grading and comments from Mrs Fleenor on the newly-found report card do not bear out the "b**ch" theory, so I called Mom to ask what she remembered of my former teacher; "she was a nice lady; she always liked you and said she could never understand why you didn't get along with her", was Mom's recollection. Reading through the report card seems to back that up; in addition to getting consistently high marks in every area including "attitude". Her remarks to Mom and Dad every quarter contained glowing words; "very mature", "exceptionally attentive", "well-behaved", "enthusiastic", "very polite at all times", "uses time wisely", "considerate", "neat and carefully prepared", "reads in a natural conversational tone" and "shows great interest in learning" pepper that first-year report card. Face it; that's a dream resume for a six year old child.

So why didn't I see eye-to-eye with Mrs Fleenor? If I'm completely honest with myself I think I know the answer. She could have well written the following and not gotten an argument from me; "stubborn", "headstrong", "opinionated", "does not respond well to criticism" "easily offended" and "a-general-pain-in-the-ass" didn't make their way onto my report card thus showing her kindness. If "anal" was an appropriate adjective at the time she could most definitely written that without contradiction. For those other affronts I imagine she caused to my dignity? Utter nonsense. To complete the task properly my construction-paper Santa should have had his mittens glued on, to this day I don't hold a writing utensil correctly causing considerable irritation to my bank manager who claims my signature is never the same twice, and since when is it an insult to be told your hair wasn't Crayon'ed blond enough?

Sorry, Mrs Fleenor, I just didn't get your good intentions. Thanks for all the unremembered things you did for me, wherever you are.

POP GOES THE GOVERNMENT

It's been a bleak week in Washington. Forget the stagnant economy, stifling unemployment, the war in Iraq and increasing dissatisfaction with the Obama administration; this item is serious business.

Earlier in the week Councilwoman Mary Cheh proposed a tax in the District on sales of all sugary soda pop in order, she says, to help the City fight rampant obesity with the anticipated tax revenue, targeted at $16m, to be allocated at $6.5m for healthy school lunch programs, and $9.5m for anti-obesity programs. Personally, I think it's a great plan. According to the CDC, one in every five Washingtonians is "dangerously"overweight. Cheh states, "It's particularly dramatic among children." Referring to hypertension and diabetes, Ms Cheh says, "Doctors are telling us we're seeing all sorts of new ailments in children that we would normally see in adults." The proposed tax would be 1 cent per ounce of soda pop sold, which doesn't seem unrealistic, and the anticipated outcome would be a decrease in sales of obesity-contributing soda pop, and an increase in healthy school lunches and physical fitness.

Hang on though, enter the "Pop Police" in the form of Coca-Cola and Pepsi riding into a City Council meeting on Friday spewing anti-legislation nonsense such as, "Now is not the time to pass a regressive and discriminatory tax; it will push businesses out of the District". Thank you, Coca-Cola spokesman. Another statement in said meeting reported by The Washington Examiner was, "the tax will punish poor families from whom soft drinks are a cheap alternative."Oh dear, regression, discrimination, business fleeing the City in droves, and deprivation of the poor. Let the spin cycle begin.

My question is, where was all this righteous indignation when the PACT Act was signed into law without opposition earlier this year? Never heard of the P(revent) A(ll) C(igarette) T(rafficking) Act? In a nutshell, it prohibits the shipment of all tobacco products, including smokeless tobacco via the United States Postal Service. If you're not a smoker, it probably means nothing, but if, like me, you chose to smoke, it means that we can no longer purchase tobacco products online from a sovereign Native American government, thus circumventing the $3.75 tax per pack of cigarettes. It means that adults (and I do mean adults; these vendors do check) who have the cash, and are fully aware of the risks of smoking, have no alternative but to pay the exorbitant taxes imposed on tobacco. Obviously, my letter of protest to my Senator and Congressman had no effect on the outcome on the final vote.

So, why all the fuss over a 12 cent-per can soda pop tax? The amount is not excessive (the consumer would have to purchase over 30 cans of pop to equal the taxes I pay one one pack of cigarettes), the intent is good, there are healthy, inexpensive alternatives to soda pop, and it appears the tax revenue will be put to good and frankly necessary use. As always, the answer is revenue. Unfortunately, I think the D.C. Government may lose their battle against the soda pop giants, just as, in the case of the PACT Act, the Native Americans lost their battle against the United States government. Again.

PC HARDWARE HOME HEIST

For anyone under the age of, say 30, what I'm about to tell you may come as a bit of a shock. You see, back in the good old days, people had stuff in their house that didn't have to plugged in, charged, docked, clipped on your belt, or downloaded. And, we had loads of it. At the risk of sounding like your Granny, when I was young my room was chocked full to the brim with loads of book, magazines, documents, notebooks, newspapers, needlework patterns, photo albums, scrapbooks and general debris. I think there's an reproduction of it at the Smithsonian Institution if you care to take a day trip to see it; you should find it somewhere near the Ice Age exhibition. Mind you, I did have a television set in my room, but it only received five stations and, thanks to a missing knob, changing channels could only be achieved by careful use of a pair of pliers whose home was the top of the TV cabinet.

Having said that, I have to confess, I enjoy technology and openly embrace it; present and future generations are forever spared the panic of getting to a branch of their local bank before 5pm on a Friday or go without cash the entire weekend, paying bills by writing a check and affixing postage, running out of typewriter ribbon at a critical moment or.....leaving the house in general. Thanks to technology, my room of yesteryear exists no more. My scrapbooks and photo albums are all stored on little discs, my newspapers and magazines arrive to me mainly via my little cobalt gray laptop and the needlepoint wore out it's welcome some time ago. For a minimalist like myself, it's should be sheer nirvana.

I say should because the space vacated by these physical personal items have been replaced by all manner of technology related gizmos. Cables, cords and a spindle full of blank DVD-RW's (will I really need all that storage?) have replaced books in the storage space hidden in my La-Z-Boy sofa. The space formerly occupied by those bulky magazines is crammed full of yet more cables, adapters and connectors. In the "utility closet" is a docking station for my laptop, an external keyboard, an external floppy disk drive (young folks, look that up in Wikipedia), and an external USB port extension. In the hall closet is a box filled with all manner of software CD-ROM discs, most of which I don't think I need, but I'm too afraid to discard. Since I have no proper office, the printer, paper, ink cartridges and accessories occupy space beside my bed waiting to be connected when ready. Then there's the external sound systems; one for the laptop, and one for my cherished portable DVD player (which, with accessories takes up another shelf in the closet). I even found something called a wireless router tucked away at the back of a closet shelf. I have no idea how I came by it, what it's for, or how to use it, but it must have a purpose, so it stays.

So, technology has made my life simpler and more compact, but it certainly hasn't made it any more spacious. But while there's still slightly disorganized clutter tucked away in all corners of the house, it's not personal; they are merely accessories designed to make all my gadgets run a little better, swifter, and much, much louder. In other words, they're easily dispensable. The little gray laptop works just fine without them and the little gray laptop is the only piece of hardware that's really important, because it's allowed me to keep all those scrapbooks, photo albums, books, magazines, correspondence, vital records, etc. in one easy to carry package, and with files backed-up, they're safer than they would be in some musty boxes in a storage unit.

A minimalist's nirvana after all.

THE ROAD SIGNS THEY NEED A-CHANGING

In the United Kingdom, any driver not in possession of a full and complete "driving" license must have affixed to his/her vehicle, a square placard with a large red "L" on a white background. This sign must be placed on the outside of the vehicle, in such a way that other motorists can quickly identify the driver as being a "learner"or novice. While I don't agree with some things British (excessive speed cameras, Congestion Charges and Prime Minister Gordon Brown for example), this is a frankly excellent idea and needs to be adopted into law for motorists in the United States, and as quickly as possible, in my opinion.

In Huggins' World however, this system would involve several different levels of driver labeling. "L" for learner is a great start, but why stop there? I suggest anyone with say, more than one speeding ticket be required to display a tag emblazoned with with an "S" until such a time as any such tickets are wiped from the drivers record. Similarly, there could also be "R" for "reckless", and "U" for "unsafe vehicle". Such immediate visual identifiers would give the rest of us a somewhat fighting chance against irresponsible motorists on the roadways.

The apex of automobile labeling, if I had my way, would be a door panel-sized placard emblazoned with a flashing, fluorescent letter, but I haven't decided if it should be "M" for "moron", or "C" for "cretin"; I'm leaning toward "M" though because I suspect there's many a driver on the road who doesn't know the meaning of the word "cretin". This would be a special prize for all drivers who don't understand road courtesy, basic car control, or forgot everything the ever learned in in preparation for a drivers license examination.

This great idea came to me this morning, while making a quick drive to the local supermarket, I came upon a malfunctioning traffic light at a somewhat busy intersection. In other heavily congested places I've driven, this would not be a problem. In certain parts of Los Angeles, four-way stop signs are the norm, and London's many roundabouts mean that the common practice of yielding right-of-way to the driver on your right is as natural as operating your turn signal. Here, and in other places most probably, it means proceed at all deliberate speed and hope you don't get hit/hit anyone else on the way. Therefore, the driver of late model Mazda RX-7 who did not stop and nearly T-boned me and another driver approaching from the opposite direction this morning will be awarded the inaugural "M" placard for driving stupidity.

The placarding possibilities are endless; "T" for talks/texts, "DWD" for "dines while driving", "A" for "angry/aggressive", "AM" for "applies makeup", "TBTTPA" for "too busy talking to pay attention"; they're all valid. It's impossible for anyone to expect the police to regulate driver's follies but car labeling as I've suggested would, at least, give the rest of us on the road a better shot at getting to our destination safely. In fairness, if we fail to take heed of these obvious warnings, that automatically qualifies us for a Great, Big "M".