IN PRAISE OF PUBLIC TRANSPORT

Long, long ago, in a state far, far away (California, that is), I fell in love with public transport. I fell so much in love in fact, that the picture accompanying this column is not from the current line of Los Angeles-based "MTA" buses, but is the picture of a circa 1980's "RTD" (Los Angeles Rapid Transport District) bus. I was ideally suited to ride the RTD when I lived in Los Angeles. Not only at 50 cents per ride was it affordable, but from my home one-half block north of Hollywood Boulevard, I could catch a bus going practically anywhere there was to go in Los Angeles without worry of fluctuating gas prices, exorbitant insurance rates, or the worry that I may come home one evening to find an automobile stripped, and sitting atop cinder blocks.

The ride from home to work (Beverly Hills) consisted of one bus trip (Downtown Los Angeles-Santa Monica on the Number 1 route); if I stayed too long at happy hour at the Rangoon Racquet Club, I could always take a Number 4 and transfer to a 429 at the intersection of Sunset and La Brea without missing a beat. Weekend activities were equally simple; Santa Anita racetrack, Santa Monica Beach, and the Beverly Center shopping mall were all easily reachable via courtesy of the RTD, and my monthly bus pass with the cartoon "smiley bus" imprinted on the card.

As much as I was in love with public transport however, these feelings quickly turned to hate when I moved back to Washington DC where, as I've said in this column before, the shortest distance between Point A and Point B is most definitely, a cube. In addition to the established "Metro" service, the largest carrier in the Washington metropolitan region, there was also an alarming assortment of local carriers; OmniRide, MARC, DASH, ATC; the acronyms spell out half the alphabet. I suppose this arrangement was meant to make life easier for commuters in the DC environs, but it only served to confuse me to the point of vowing never to take public transport again.

But now, I'm ready to say I'm wrong. If I'm honest, I really don't have much choice when it comes to my commuting change-of-heart; the new employment position I accepted is located in an area of Washington DC that, while accessible by car, simply isn't worth the money for parking, gas, and the man-hours lost sitting in the slug-paced parking lot known as Interstate 395. So with cheerful resignation this week, for the first time since my days in Los Angeles, I've taken up being a full-time commuter.

As public transport goes, my commute is fairly easy; a short walk to the bus stop (which is so close to my house I can see it from my sofa as I write); about ten further stops through a quiet, leafy suburban area of town then directly onto the freeway HOV lane for a short trip to the huge underground station at the Pentagon. If I time it correctly, there's no more than a five minute wait for the first "Blue Line" train, then only two subsequent stops before I reach my final destination, "Foggy Bottom". If I'm honest, the most difficult part of this commute is walking the .40m final leg of the journey to and from the office, but I console myself knowing that the slowly diminishing pain in my thighs means I'm getting in shape, and I've even calculated how much extra junk food I can eat with the calories I burn every day (riding public transport means you have time on your hands to work these things out in your head). Cost? $5.20 round trip which is a bit pricier than what I currently pay in gas, but the alternative to public transport isn't very attractive.

Should my gear-head's desire to drive to work win out, I'll be trapped into a monthly parking fee of between $275-$325 per month (assuming I can get a space), then there's fuel for my gas-guzzling Subaru which is currently $3.09 per gallon and rising. And the drive-time? Only a Washingtonian would believe that a one-way trip of less than seven miles means at least thirty minutes at a complete stand-still while the bus whizzes past in the HOV lane.

Let's face facts, these days it just makes more sense to take public transport. On the whole, it's less expensive than driving and time-wise more reliable on a daily basis than driving. And the best reason to take public transport these days? Wherever public transport is going most frequently is more likely where the jobs are. It may not be fun, but its simple economics.

Now, get on the bus.

"NONE IS FUN", EXPLAINED

Earlier in the week, my slightly dim-witted co-worker Jean interrupted me in the process of sending out some time-sensitive bid invitations to pass on the following bit of information. Apparently her friend had a dream that she (Jean) was three months pregnant, and from the look on her face as she was telling me, she was positively beaming at the thought of pregnancy (as if there was some spiritual connection between her friend's nocturnal rambling and an actual conception). Of course I had to pour some cold water on the fantasy and speak my mind; "Dream? Sounds like a nightmare to me." The poor woman looked positively dejected.

I don't know why she was surprised though, because it's no secret that I have no children and that baby showers, daily pregnancy updates and ultrasound pictures of fetuses does nothing for me short of putting me into a mild state of semi-coma. Before I get angry emails from the Moms, let me say that I don't dislike children, only that I have never wanted any of my own. In fact, anyone who knows me well will tell you that my maternal instincts + nurturing skills + child tolerance threshold = absolutely zilch.

There must not be many members of what I call the "None Is Fun Club" about these days, because I often find myself justifying my decision to remain childless as if it's some sort of character defect. It amazes me that in this day of enlightened womanhood I can hear a remark like "you're not a complete woman until you've had a child." Really? Who said that, someone trying to sell baby products? Private school tuition? Accident insurance? My answer to any type of "complete woman" remark is replying that no one is 'complete' until they're six feet under, which either brings a chuckle, or leaves them thinking I'm something that rhymes with "a witch". I'm often asked questions such as "don't you get lonely"? and I answer that I have plenty of friends for companionship and I also have a dog, which, unlike a child, doesn't talk back or ask me for money, clothes, a cell phone or a car. She's also less expensive to feed. One of the strangest comments by far was from a gentleman who suggested that being childless meant I wasn't leaving any legacy wherein I pointed out that, being childless, I will have no one to leave a legacy to. I then suggested he call a cab instead of driving while intoxicated.

In fact, the reason for my decision not to have children is very simple, but there are two very different versions; the version that looks good on paper and then the honest one. The version that looks good on paper is that I sacrificed Motherhood in pursuit of my career, personal aspirations and goals (for the most part, hogwash), and that I didn't feel I could make the long-term commitment and the sacrifices required to be a good parent (for the most part, the truth). The honest version is that, in order to be a good parent, you have to grow up yourself, and that's something that, even at my age, I'm still not prepared to do. There are enough "children having children" about; there's no need to add me to to the total number.

There's nothing wrong with "childless-by-choice". Parenthood isn't, and shouldn't be for everyone, and it's the wise person who can step back, look deep and face the truth. So, if you are one of those people who are thinking of going the childless route don't be dissuaded by people for whom parenting works; just say what I've been saying for years, "I'm a proud member of the 'None Is Fun Club' ". If truth be told, I'm sure there are more than a few parents who secretly wish they were holding their own Membership Card.

D.I. WHY?

Since the commencement of my partial unemployment in March of this year, I've been spending much quality time in the comfort of my cozy home. Unfortunately, quality time when you're on slim-to-none income restricts your activities to anything that doesn't cost money, so I usually found myself watching mind-numbing daytime television until five or six o'clock in the evening when, in my mind at least, it's "ok" not to be productive.

After a very short time though, my normal daytime fare (read: anything I would watch as a guilty pleasure on a random day off from work) became too obnoxious, even for me. I soon tired of Maury's paternity tests, Jerry's in-breeding cousins and Judge Mathis' women-suing-ex's-for-unpaid-cell-phone-bills, and worst of all, the incessant airing of commercials reminding us all to get off the couch and look for work was just too darned depressing and, frankly, guilt-inducing. So, I decided in a quest for my personal enlightenment to turn my attention to shows related to home improvement, and I think I'm now hooked on those for the time being.

It's just as well, because with the added time on my hands, I've had a chance to assess the state of my own home and I can say with complete candor that it simply, a mess. I don't mean "mess" in being untidy; I watch enough episodes of How Clean Your House to know better; I'm referring to the general state of the place, repair-wise. For the most part, the house is in fairly good shape. It could well benefit from new kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures, but those have simply worn out over time but, are even now, at least functional. The other household repairs, the glaringly visible ones, are many in number and I'm embarrassed to say, they are all a result of my previous feeble attempts at D.I.Y.

You see, until I bought my house I had never lived in any place that wasn't rented, or belonged to someone else; places where you just rang up an anonymous face for repairs ("rental") or just had had your husband take care of it ("someone else"). When I bought my home though,I think I experienced a sort-of D.I.Y. epiphany, an empowering freedom telling me "this is yours; you can do ANYTHING you like to it (as long as it conforms to Code)!" And, so it was, in the early days of home-ownership, I was armed with a second-rate tool kit, a Home Depot charge card and much conviction.

Unfortunately, my limited knowledge, limited talent and declining interest in D.I.Y. have not stood me in good stead over the years, and evidence of my feeble efforts about the house are all too evident. I should have known that peel-and-stick floor tiles were not going to stand the heat and moisture of a kitchen or bathroom; at least not the ones I bought for ten dollars a box. The repairs I made to some kitchen cabinet doors was successful; they do close now, but unfortunately, none of them close level and flat. My miserable failure at caulking the bathroom is still evident these many years on, and the decorative door handles, while installed properly, were probably not designed to take the frequent use I give them, and several have cracked. I would have expected more for those $7.98 items. And, changing the color of my floor-to-ceiling vertical blinds with a coat of paint seemed like a good idea at the time...

It's easy to overlook these small, inconsequential items when you're gainfully employed and are simply grateful to spend quiet time in front of the TV and then fall into bed, but my unfortunate down-time means I've had to face them every day in the bright glow of sunlight. Up until now that really hasn't been a problem because either a) I was anticipating unemployment so I didn't want to lay out the dosh, or b) I didn't really care. But now, I do care; I realize that most of the visible household cock-ups are a direct result of my pathetic D.I.Y. efforts, and it's as embarrassing to look at as another episode of Jerry and his in-breeding cousins. So, I've decided to spend part of my remaining down-time to do a thorough assessment and make a complete list of anything I think needs to be repaired or replaced and once the coin starts flowing into the bank from my new job, I'm going to do the right thing by my home: toss out the tool box and call a professional.

FACEBOOK FUSS

Standing on line at the local convenience store for a well deserved six-pack and sub sandwich, I noticed that this week's featured article in Time magazine is entitled, "Facebook...and how it's redefining privacy". I've heard a lot about Facebook and privacy issues lately (mostly from friends who post on Facebook), and if I'm honest, I don't see what all the fuss is about.

I should start off by saying I'm relatively new to all this social networking stuff. I've been on Facebook for six months, give or take a month, and in that time I've managed to re-connect with some long-lost friends, co-workers and people with a common interest in all things Sherlock Holmes and cars (better off not asking about that). My general posts are usually one or two-sentences of nonsense similar to what I write here, a commentary and link to a particular bit of news, and an occasional plug on whatever column I happen to be writing on any given week.

For me, Facebook's privacy options are quite adequate; I can choose who I wish to "friend" and I can ask a question to someone who wishes to "friend" me before I confirm. I can chose what information, including my profile picture, I want to be shown, and to whom I want to show it, and if I'm feeling exceedingly paranoiac, I can alter my profile so no personal information is given at all. If some friends are being excessively network-ish, I can hide those posts until such time as they're finished plugging the latest project, and I can un-hide them at will. So where's the privacy issue with Facebook?

Facebook veterans may have more experience than I and, in turn, take a different position but it seems to me that the privacy issue lay at the feet of the Facebook users themselves. In this age of internet-enlightenment, common sense dictates that one should never write anything to a select few on the internet without expecting to see it on a Google search somewhere down the road for all the world to see.

Facebook affords every person the opportunity to place their life story on their Facebook profile, should they wish to do so. Facebook users can upload as many photos of themselves (and others) as they wish, and users can friend, an be "friended" by anyone they wish. The more astute readers among you have picked up on the all-important keyword, "wish". Facebook offers what I think are more than adequate privacy settings; it's up to the user to decide the depth of information to post and most importantly, who precisely they wish to see it. Put simply, If you want to share photos of an indiscreet drunken night out or post that you're calling out sick from work when you aren't, having an affair, or you think your boss is a b**tard, go right ahead; just make sure your privacy settings don't allow everyone to see it.

Post safely, readers.