Notes From The Light Side

IT'S LIGHTER IN THE DARK

2010-07-26T13:14:00.029+01:00

For those of you living outside the Washington DC area (read: The Hinterlands), you've probably not heard of the very severe summer storms which swept our way Sunday night. These storms are, for the most part, a temporary but welcome relief from the stifling humidity and heat which seems is if it will suck the very air out of your chest, but while not uncommon during this time of year, they also bring the inevitable destruction of falling trees, downed power lines and transportation delays seemingly designed to bring additional misery to an already miserable Monday commute.

And so it happend, suddenly and without explanation at Huggins House Sunday night. I say suddenly and without explanation because the power cut arrived hours after the storms had wreaked havoc in the area. Fortunately, I had already completed my nightly ritual of personal hygiene and the tricky job of picking our my ensemble to wear for the following day so the power loss proved no real disruption to my routine. But, as I was watching a pivotal moment in the plot line of Buck Privates on Turner Classic Movies, it was, neverthelesss, annoying.

Still, with an "every cloud" mentality, I groped about the house for the emergency lantern and flashlight The Late Partner insisted was vital to the successful running of a household. Once found, the small comfort of some temporary light bought a smile to my face as I saw (and heard) panicked neighbors who had obviously not had the benefit of a haranguing partner, and therefore, no light.

Once the neighborly noise had died down a bit, I was, for the most part resigned to accept the darkness would probably last for awhile, so I did something I haven't done for ages; sat on the balcony, watched the full moon partially obscured by the drifting night-time clouds, and relaxed. In the near-complete darkness, interrupted occasionally by the passing headlights of a car, there was nothing for me to do but relax; relax and think.

It dawned on me quite quickly that without all the distractions of light, the noise of all manner of mechanical contraptions and the constant droning of the television set, it was easy, if not downright impossible not to unwind. It occurred to me that all manner of gizmos, deliberate in their intrusion of quiet contemplation, was not what human beings were supposed to deal with at the end of a productive day. The onset of night was meant to triggger the body's need for rest and relaxation; if not the case, I reasoned, why do most of the animal kingdom do likewise? I followed this train of thought as far as I could take it before my own theory about natural nocturnal rest came to pass and I found myself longing for sleep.

Lazily I shuffled on through the darkness, punctuated by the small shaft of torch light until I made my way to the comfort of the king-size. Confident that I was naturally sedated enough to enjoy an uninterrupted night of sleep I contemplated once again how wonderfully simple is nature's way.

Before drifting off however, I still checked to be sure the batter-powered alarm clock was set for an un-natural wake up call of 4.30, and reminded myself to make plenty of coffee in the morning in preparation for another manic Monday. Nature may not have meant for our bodies to deal with all the gizmos, noises and distractions that interrupt quiet contemplation but it is, after all, the 21st century. Methinks it may be time for a "software" update.

"THE AMAZING HUGGINI"

2010-07-20T00:00:00.000+01:00

After smoking on-and-off for the past 30 years, I've finally decided it's high time I quit. The decision isn't based on any health considerations, but merely because of the fact the government has imposed such massive taxes on smoking products (even the cheapest cigarette brands are now over $4.50 per pack) that I see quitting as an act of defiance; one of the Little People stepping on the small toe of Big Government. Mind you, I've been thinking about quitting smoking for ages; it's the bit about actually doing it where I fall flat on my face. Nevertheless, I'm semi-serious this time, and I've been listening to a few ex-smoker friends advising me how best to quit. So far, I've been open to all suggestions but when a friend tried to refer me to a hypnotherapist for assistance, I passed on it. At first I wasn't sure why I wouldn't consider this option, I know hypnotherapy has been proven to be a very useful problem-solving tool and it was certainly effective in helping my friend stop smoking, but somehow it didn't seem a viable option for me.

But now, I think I may have found the reason for not seriously considering hypnotherapy. On one of my marathon house cleaning sessions that occurred during my vacation I found, forgotten and tucked away in between a large pile of paper, a yellowing and faded 11 x 17 diploma from 1985. It was from the very prestigious-sounding "Psycho Neurology Foundation / Hypno-Mind Science Church, Inc." (no, I am not making that up) and it acknowledged that I had successfully completed the required studies in the Dante Method of Hypnosis and was thereby registered as a Certified Hypnotherapist. It was even signed personally by Doctor Ronald Dante, PhD. just in case any autograph hounds care to get in touch.

Now, I had completely forgotten about this stunning academic achievement, but the sight of the shingle brought it all back to me. I attended the course, held in the Grand Ballroom of the historic Biltmore Hotel in Los Angeles at the insistence of my friend Donna, a New-Age enthusiast who was into crystals, past-life regression and all manner of Los Angeles-based weirdness going on in the 80's and she had somehow secured free tuition for us to attend the marathon three-day, fourteen hour-per-day course. To be honest, I don't remember much about the experience (perhaps I hypnotized myself into forgetting it), but I remember it was surprisingly interesting and fun, and I also remember being impressed that Dr Dante, who actually taught the course, was once married to screen legend Lana Turner. While I never considered taking hypnotherapy and further, Donna did and eventually had a small practice in Santa Barbara with several well-known show business clients, whose names she probably should have kept a to herself as opposed to telling me.

I suppose that whole Dante-esque experience is why I can't consider hypnotherapy as a smoking cessation aide. Rationally, I know there are many dedicated and highly-trained professionals who treat hypnotherapy as a serious study, but I can't help thinking about myself and Donna, who only attended a three-day course because it was free and we had some time on our hands, and both of whom now carry the title "Certified Hypnotherapist". With my luck I'd get a hypnotherapist with the same training as me, treating me.

My schooling may not be wasted though, because when I Googled Dr Ronald Dante for the purpose of this article, I discovered that he was also a night-club hypnotist in his spare time, back in the day when people actually enjoyed that sort of thing. I think that line of work is more to my liking, so if you see "The Amazing Huggini" advertised at your local venue, that will be me on stage, ready to hypnotize. If I'm not on stage you will probably find me somewhere outside, most likely smoking a cigarette.

OH HIP, WHY IS THY STING?

2010-07-11T13:00:00.005+01:00

A few weeks back, I waxed poetic in this column about the virtues of public transport, and now I'm sorry to say, having worked the process steadily for the past few weeks, I think I've changed my mind. It's not the commute itself that's so taxing; psychologically, the biggest problem is me because I stubbornly maintain I shouldn't have to travel on someone elses schedule. A quick look at prices at the pump and parking expenses brings be down to reality though and I accept the realization that it just makes more sense to belong to that Big Brotherhood of Commuters.

Having accepted that fact however, I have to say that the next obstacle to public transport is downright stubborness of a different nature; the unwillingness of my body to accept a daily brisk walk of eight-tenths of a mile to and from the train station. Let me cut the tongue-cluckers who claim exercise is good for me at the pass: I'm already in good pphysical fitness for a woman of that "certain" age, but the problem is a rather dodgy hip that began giving me problems several years back. I don't know if it's bursitis, arthritis, or some other type of "itis", but I can count on at least two excrutiatingly long (read: two weeks or more) episodes of extreme hip pain which magically disappears for reasons only known to the Divine Healer, and, perhaps, the makers of Excedrin Arthritis Pain Relief.

Unfortunately, my bi-yearly hip torture session chose the week after I returned to commuting to make its reappearance, and the summer heat an accompanying humidity have only served to worsen the situation. Normally, I would grin and bear it -- well, bite down on a rope and bear it, if I'm honest -- haul myself into/out of the car/bed/chair, and get on with it until the hip fairy came to alleviate the pain. But now, thanks to commuting, it'a whole new painful ballgame. In addition to the exquisitely painful eight-tenths of a mile walk I have the torture of alighting and departing buses, all of which seem to have extremely steep steps, the torture of subway stations whose escalators never seem to be operational, and the pressure from other commuters who don't seem to understand constant pain and are always urging one to hurry up.

To add insult to injury, the onset of this most recent eposide begain one week after the start of a new job; the time meant to be absorbed in learning and understanding; not pain and swelling. So now I have a fresh, valid reason to curse public transport, miss my car, and hate middle-age. But, no worries, when it all passes and hip health is restored to it's usual self, I'll be writing about how my daily walk has made me fitter, how I'm saving money on gas by commuting, and how content I am with life in general.

Until then, pass over the heating pad and Excedrin Arthritis tablets, please.

SEXUAL INEQUALITY IN THE CLOSET

2010-07-01T21:09:00.002+01:00

Over the years I've managed to incorporate some of my favorite movie lines in everyday conversation, and this is one of those times. It comes from the Bond film Moonraker, where Bond-baddie Hugo Drax says of Agent 007, "you appear with the tedious inevitability of an unloved season". In this case, what's appearing with a tedious inevitability just happens to be...an unloved season. I hate Summer. I hate the heat, the humidity, the mosquitoes, amusement parks, men who wear sock with sandals and specially, Summer fashions for women.

When it comes to summer attire, it's man's world. On the way to work? Don a pair of light weight dress pants, a good shirt and tie and Bob's your uncle and out the door. Home from work? Ditch the dress pants, shirt and tie, on with a pair of shorts and a tee shirt (or a polo, for the more posh amongst you), and voila, job done. In my experience a man's closet consists of the following: shirts, ties, belts, pants, boxers, shorts and socks, and from what men have said to me in the past, 'what else do we need"?

Well gentlemen, be glad you aren't a woman. A quick look through a ladies fashion mag or internet website will tell you we're expected to wear a bewildering array of styles and fashions requiring many more items of clothing to coordinate, whilst trying to stay as cool and comfortable as you and, more importantly, do it without breaking the bank (it's an unfortunate fact that those who earn the least amount of dosh have to shell out the most on a decent wardrobe).

Now, in relation to the average male closet, let's look at what a typical ladies "summer attire" closet may be expected to contain. If you don't know what some of these are gentlemen, don't worry, be happy.

BLOUSES: tunic, poncho, smock, camisole, duster, oxford, shell
SKIRTS: pleated, a-line, bias-cut, peasant, mini-, midi-, kilt
DRESSES: sun, jumper, sheath, blazer, shirt-waist, two-piece
SHOES: clog, sandal, pump, boot, flat, espadrille, sling-back
ACCESSORIES: scarves, bows, stockings, panties, knee-highs, panty-hose, garters, bra (dress and sport), nail polish, make-up, hair accessories, hand bags

I'm sure I'm forgetting some items, but I'm experiencing some slight dizziness simply listing these. While it may not be complete though, it's a good indication of the sexual inequality in the closet with regard to Summer attire, and is one of the primary reasons I hate Summer. The truth is girls, no matter how much money you spend, how many different accessories you buy and how hard you try to stay cool, you'll fail miserably. At the end of the day, you'll still be sweaty, wilted and out-of-pocket for dry-cleaning expenses. Meanwhile the gentlemen simply throw their shirts and socks in the washer and away they go.

Personally, I can't wait for the Fall season. That's when I go back to buying my fashion basics from the gentlemen's department.

IN PRAISE OF PUBLIC TRANSPORT

2010-06-18T22:38:00.021+01:00

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

2010-06-11T22:24:00.000+01:00

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?

2010-06-05T20:50:00.016+01:00

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

2010-06-01T00:57:00.023+01:00

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.

WITH APOLOGIES TO MRS FLEENOR

2010-05-26T23:18:00.000+01:00

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

2010-05-15T03:52:00.020+01:00

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

2010-05-05T17:41:00.001+01:00

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

2010-05-01T18:46:00.000+01:00

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".

WHAT A DRAG.....

2010-04-21T23:19:00.028+01:00

There’s nothing like partial unemployment to give you a massive inferiority complex. In one fell swoop you’re plucked out of a position of relative comfort and personal security within an organization and turned into one of “the great unwashed”, just one more victim of the economic slowdown from which only the perpetrators (read: banks and other lending institutions) will survive, albeit with the generous help of Our Government. Still, as I said in last week’s column having seen this coming, I’m better off than most but no amount of planning could save me from that most dreaded of confidence-destroying experiences, the job interview.

Resume-wise, I read fairly well, with solid executive-level support skills and a good working knowledge of the computer programs currently in demand. I read so well in fact that I’ve already had four interviews in the past two weeks, and I’m told that’s no mean feat in today’s job market. While two of the interviews didn’t work out (one did offer me a future position in another department, which I still take as a “win”), with a glut of applicants, the other two potential employers are taking their time, and as of yesterday they have both indicated a decision would be made by the end of this week.

That may seem like promising news, but to me it’s meant seven days of crippling self-doubt. Sure, I interview well, but did I present myself appropriately? Am I the physical type the employer envisaged for this position? Should I have worn another suit? Was my hair a floppy mess by the time I made it to the meeting? Was my make-up applied correctly? Don’t laugh, Gentlemen, these things really do cross the minds of female applicants, and I know from my own supervisor’s hiring practices, appearance can play an important part in the hiring decision, regardless of the experience of the applicant.

Perhaps fueling my insecurity is the fact that, with spare time a-plenty, I’ve become addicted to the reality program, RuPaul’s Drag Race, (on cable channel LOGO) an honest-to-goodness “must see” program wherein 12 drag queens compete in challenges and beauty and style competitions to discover America’s Next Drag Superstar. In other words, it’s The Apprentice with falsies.

I’m jealous beyond belief because, while I’m not suggesting going to a job interview resembling a drag queen is the key to employment success, I wish I had one-tenth the ability to do my make-up and hair, and was able to afford the fantastically stylish daytime attire I’ve seen some of the “ladies” wear on that program. While I’m in passable physical shape for woman of middle-age, any amount of time spent in front of a mirror with a table covered in foundation and eye shadow would only serve to make my face look like a circus clown, and I’m too lazy to learn how to correctly apply it now.

I suppose if I’m honest, I’ve run out of reasons to speculate why some potential employers haven’t made a hiring decision on me yet. On all of the important fronts, I have the background, the experience and the skills, so it must by process of elimination be my appearance; egads, that even sounds ridiculous as I write it. I should just stop speculating, stay busy and as my Mother is always telling me, “don’t overanalyze everything!” While I'm waiting, I should at least make an attempt to enjoy my enforced down-time, kick-back on the sofa and watch RuPaul’s Drag Race. Who knows? Maybe I can pick up some make-up pointers from my two favorite contestants, “Jujubee” and “Tyra Sanchez”.* Rationally I know it shouldn’t make any difference in the employment interview process, but it would make me feel a lot better.

* If any “girls” care to loan me an outfit or apply my makeup prior to my next interview, please write to me at lightsidenotes@gmail.com.

HOME, SWEET OFFICE

2010-04-15T14:05:00.011+01:00

Thanks to the current economic debacle, I'm sorry to say that yours truly has become a statistic, and am now one of the many unemployed and semi-unemployed in these United States. It's not a surprise really; my employer's fortunes have been on the decline for the past 18 months, give or take a month, and the added economic fallout to the building trades has all but sealed the fate for all who are employed at Give-it-up Contracting, Inc. In the short span of two weeks, my hours have decreased, first from 40 to 30, then from 30 to 20, and this week, I expect to see little more than 10 hours on my pay stub.

The good news is that, being the practical person regular readers know me to be, I anticipated this situation and made contingency plans. I've increased the number of shifts I work at that posh Concert Hall on the banks of the Potomac River (my fellow fully-employed workers are a generous lot), I filed for partial-unemployment benefits some time ago (just in case....), and I'm doing some work from the comfort of home for a local performing arts school who is trying to expand their opportunities by obtaining arts grants from various institutions. These efforts, and thrifty habits, should keep the wolf (a.k.a. Citibank Mortgage) at bay until another employment opportunity crops up.

If I'm honest, this decreased-hours, working-from-home situation is a pleasant change of pace from the normal 8-5, but I couldn't take it as a steady diet. Reason? I've uncovered a surprising fact I never knew: I'm completely useless when it comes to working at home. For me work, a proper job where you receive compensation in exchange for a service, should take place in the well-structured environment of a real office complete with photocopier, scanner, desk and free coffee. Work doesn't have the same appeal when I'm sitting on the sofa typing away on the PC that sits on the coffee table; I find myself procrastinating on simple tasks to the point where even cleaning the bathroom is a more appealing prospect. Conversely I find I can't write my column anywhere but home because I'm then working for myself, and so should be working from home. Imagine how much money I could have made working instead of spending time coming to these conclusions...

Perhaps if I had a proper home office, something distinct and completely separate from "home" it would be different, but I don't, and after years of making my home a place I go specifically to close the door on work and the rest of the world, I'm finding it a bit difficult to divide my attention now. Hopefully, I won't have to try much longer. I've had some very promising interviews with proper companies who have pleasant, professional office environments where I can work to my heart's content. Then my living room can return to being a place of relaxation and my home computer can revert to its correct function; solitaire and on-line shopping. In the meantime however this weeks column will have to end because the distant cry of the wolf approaching my door means I need to get back to work.

A (TINY) CASE OF CAR FEVER

2010-04-09T15:09:00.005+01:00

This past Wednesday marked one of the happiest days I've had in recent years. I'm fairly easy to please, so it wasn't winning the lottery, finding true love or even dropping a dress size that made me so happy; it was going to my on-line banking site, hitting "enter" and making the final car payment on my slightly banged-up, late model Limited Edition Subaru Outback.

I should explain that I never really wanted this car. It was a legacy from my deceased partner who paid way too much money for it, financed it poorly (due to a dodgy credit history), then left me to pay off the balance of the loan after his passing because I was sweet-talked into signing my name on the loan documents. Nevertheless, I fulfilled my obligations and after many years of an unwanted $170-plus car note, the Subaru is mine. All mine. The problem is that, despite it being a good, safe automobile, complete with all the optional extras, I still don't really want it. I believe, when it comes to cars, less is definitely more, so my ideal car is the micro-mini SmartForTwo. It follows that, having ditched the ball and chain of the Subaru car payment, my mind is consumed with the idea of instantly trading in the oversized clunker and buying a brand spanking new Smart.

When the champagne-like rush of freedom wears off though, it's just not a wise thing to do. If the adage stick to what you know is sage advice, I should stick with the Subaru. I've had it long enough to know what it's little foibles are; I know that the right front tire is going to run low on air after 8-10 days of driving; I know when, and in what conditions to shift manually, and I know that the occasional groan from the left rear wheel is brake dust and not a malfunction. I know it lives up to it's much advertised reputation and runs like a top in poor weather conditions; rain, ice, rough roads and heavy snow simply will not stop this car, provided it's driven correctly and according to my trusted mechanic, with proper maintenance it has many years of life left in it . On the other hand, what exactly do I know about the Smart? I know it's tiny and being 6 feet in height, I'll look like a circus performer getting in and out of it. I know that it doesn't have a proper manual transmission; their "automatic manual" gear box doesn't use a clutch pedal and is therefore, useless. I know the gas mileage is good, but not great and I know that if I buy one, I'll be re-shackled to another $170 car note for several years to come, with a corresponding increase in auto insurance premiums.

The sad fact is not only can't I have what I want (SmartForTwo), but what I do have I don't want (Subaru). At the end of the day, I suppose I'll do the intelligent thing and stick with the car I have. It's comfy, roomy, safe and most importantly, completely paid off. In some ways the Subaru is a lot like me - practical, economical and a bit of an old clunker. I'll make a mental note to remind myself of that every time a SmartForTwo whizzes by.

PROFESSOR SOLUDO IS AT IT AGAIN

2010-04-01T00:55:00.003+01:00

Professor Charles C. Soludo is a very busy man. Not only is he Chairman of the Board of Directors for the Central Bank of Nigeria, he is also a member of the British Department for International Business Development and a distinguished professor of economics. He is also, I'm proud to say, a very good friend of mine, judging from the number of emails I receive from him.

While he may be a good friend, he's a rather tedious email writer because his emails to me are always about the same thing. He always writes to tell me that I have a gazillion dollars/pounds/euros/rubles or yen on hold at his bank simply waiting to be deposited to my bank account. Then he proceeds to ask me for all manner of personal information about myself which, I suppose, shows his genuine concern for me. Then he gives me his email address and phone number to call him directly but strangely, the email address and phone number is always different on each email he sends. Perhaps he doesn't want his wife to know. After corresponding with me for such a long while, I decided good manners dictated I needed to contact the Professor, but since I'm not prepared to spring the bucks for a call to Nigeria, I created a special email account just for him and sent him the information he requested. He wrote back straight away and after exchanging some passionately heated correspondence over a period of four days it turns out that, just like so many men out there these days, all he wanted was some of my hard earned money payable in the form of an untraceable Western Union wire transfer. I was heartbroken.

Of course, I'm being intentionally sarcastic; I know that this email was yet another "419" advance fee fraud scam and only one of fifty or so I receive in the course of a month. I know these scams include check cashing, money laundering, fake charities, puppy adoptions, romance-angle, fake lotteries, fraud recovery and employment offers and I know the average scam victim loses many thousands of dollars after falling prey.

What I didn't know was how much fun it was to actually bait one of these criminals (using a complete alias, naturally). I've had a fun-filled four days convincing this man that, yes, I was absolutely going to the Western Union office immediately to send him the money. A pity it was that I never made it because over that time period, the car broke down, I got the flu and my paycheck hadn't cleared the bank. Alright, so it's a bit childish, this scam-baiting thing, but times are tough, money is tight, and he is a thief. No harm, no foul.

He is still sending me an email or two a day; I think he's well and truly hooked because he now calls me "sweetheart" and "honey". Too bad he doesn't realize what a complete waste of his time I am, because, while a fool and his money are soon parted, even though its April 1st, I'm no fool.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

2010-03-26T12:10:00.039Z

On a recent episode of British motoring show Top Gear, outspoken host Jeremy Clarkson conducted an interview with Jay Leno and one of the questions asked by Clarkson was how difficult was it to get President "Obama Barack" on The Tonight Show. Leno was very gracious and didn't correct Clarkson on the gaffe, but when Clarkson realized his mistake, he said something to the effect that, "when you choose your name from Scrabble tiles, you have to expect that".

This really did give me a chuckle, because I've often scratched my own head on hearing some of the unusual monikers floating about these days, and Clarkson summed my feelings up fairly well, all the while excusing me from being the person who is politically incorrect.

It's my fault really, that some of the current baby names sound a bit...unique; after all, our generation grew up in an era of boring (by today's standards at least) Marys, Richards, Bobbys, Cindys, Toms and Johns, but while names such as Demetria, Madisyn, Cadence, T'Keya, Aaliyah, Laquisha and Rylee would have gotten big laughs in my day they, as proper names should, have an origin and a meaning. For example, "Barack" is actually Hebrew in origin, and means "lighting" or "spark", and that seems to sum up Mr President's personality quite well. "Demetria", a personal friend of mine, was given that name to honor a recently deceased uncle "Demetrius", which in turn is the masculine version of "Greek goddess of the Earth", and that's nothing to throw stones at. Even scrabble-tile contender "Aaliyah" is Arabic in origin and means "sublime", and I've been called much worse than sublime in my lifetime, I can tell you.

Where it all goes wrong though, are when parents who, through some form of temporary madness, saddle their offspring with names such as, Tiger Lily, Heavenly, Moonbeam, NyQuell (named after an over-the-counter flu medication, no doubt), and Jawschwa, to name but a few. Do parents realize saddling offspring with such silliness is the verbal equivalent of a "kick me" sign? The worst name I've heard by miles comes from a story told by a maternity room nurse, who, along with her colleagues, tried to persuade a young mother-to-be that "Sh'taid" was not the best idea for a name for her daughter. I don't know if the persuasion worked, but if not, my heart goes out to the little girl, who will be forever taunted for having a name resembling "fecal-skull".

At the end of the day though, I shouldn't be so smug. While my own given name, "Julia" is noble in history (it was the name given to all women in the Julian family of ancient Rome) it's actual meaning, and that of my nick-name "Julie", is "down-bearded youth".

Thanks, Mom.

WHEN IRISH EYES WERE SMILING

2010-03-18T10:33:00.005Z

On Wednesday, March 17, I was sitting comfortably at home watching 42nd Street for the 103rd time when a television blurb reminded me that this day was the most sainted of Holidays for the Irish, beer drinkers and/or both, St Patrick's Day. This made me bit nostalgic, because in my younger days, I was a "regular" at two prominent Irish pubs in Washington DC, The Dubliner, and Kelly's Irish Times, and most St Patrick's Day holidays would find me and the other regulars huddled in a corner waiting for the lightweights to clear off and let us elbow our way to the bar for a cold bevvie.

Being a regular patron of "The Dub" and Kelly's was great fun for me at that age. I was never comfortable socializing with others, and, although I could talk a good game even then, I was so painfully lacking in self confidence, I seldom spoke to anyone, and didn't expect anyone to want to speak with me. But as I discovered (to my great surprise, if I'm honest), in the warmth of a pub, you're equal to everyone provided you have a love of authentic Irish music and equal love of Guinness or a good lager.

Pubs are truly the great equalizer. A traditional Irish or English "Public House", was exactly that; an actual house, with a section specifically delegated for the purpose of consuming alcoholic beverages. It was the "home" you could go to, talk to people whose path you may never cross, interact with those above and below your own social strata, and , for a short time anyway, behave as equals until the dreaded call of "last orders" was sounded.

And, so being a Dubliner/Times pub-goer was for me, a great equalizer. For the first time, I was surrounded by attorneys, political aides, lobbyists, journalists, Congressional aides, reporters (did I mention these establishments are on Capitol Hill?) and a rather odd assortment of eclectic characters, and to my utter surprise, they didn't particular care if I didn't go to an accredited university, drive a nice car or dress in the latest fashion. With that caliber of mental weight serving as the main customer base, it was what you had to say that made you stand out in the crowd, and being able to hold your own with some impressive thinkers earned you "regular" status. Being a pub though, it wasn't all business and politics; the drinks flowed, the authentic, live bands played from the tiny stage and there was plenty of governmental-gossip and romantic drama to go 'round, but for me at least, it was a liberating experience. After all, where else can you regularly go in relative safety and security to experience a microcosm of society, have a good chat, enjoy a few pints, and then go home unencumbered to the comfort of your own surroundings? For me, when I was in my early 20's the answer was: nowhere else.

The Dubliner and Kelly's Irish Times are still standing. The Dubliner is much more upscale than when I was a regular patron; it is now connected to the very impressive Phoenix Park Hotel, which was once a very run-down establishment called The Hotel Commodore. Kelly's Irish Times is also, to my surprise, still standing; always a little "shabbier" (but just as welcoming) than it's next-door neighbor, I understand it now caters more to the college crowd than serving as a still-crowded alternative when The Dubliner got too busy or too loud for tolerance. I haven't been in either place for years now but I think I'll make a return trip soon. Even though none of the "regulars" from my day will be there, I'm sure the food's still as good, the beer's still as cold and the atmosphere's still as warm and unchanged as then. Simplicity never changes. Erin Go Bragh.

ARE WE INFANITLIZING TODAY'S YOUTH?

2010-03-12T01:37:00.033Z

A few weeks back, I got into a discussion about the current state of the economy with a third-year college student who has been earning extra income in the office, and he asked for my opinion on the outcome of this fiscal mess based on my experience (read: advancing years). I answered that I thought that for quite a few folk, the money crisis would not get better but, eventually, the economy would experience a slow recovery. Not being an economist, it wasn't a very enlightening discussion on my part, but it picked up a bit when I remarked, "the question is, who will be left standing?". This struck a chord in him because he remarked how many people in his age group he knew were totally unprepared for the tough times that lay ahead because they have never held down a job.

Now, at the risk of sounding like the grandparent everyone has had ("when I was your age"...), I think the young man is correct. I look around and see what seems to be an entire generation of young people who have never known anything but prosperity, whose parents strive to give them material possessions and spending money, without making any attempt toward educating them on the simple economic theory of quid pro quo.

For example, let's take the children of the partners in the business where I'm currently employed. All of the children go to private schools (tuition ranging from $6,000-12,000 annually), and don't understand public transportation because they are chauffeured to and from school and extra-curricular activities (of which there are many) by parents, grandparents and parents-of-friends. Need supplies for a school project? Not to worry; text your father at the office and tell him he needs to pick them up from the store on his way home. None of the children have come within smelling-distance of any type of work (including something as basic as baby-sitting, the staple of young-girl-employment in my day...), but they all have more video devices, computers, cell phones and pocket money than me and both my two jobs can afford. As easy as it would be for me to blame the parents, that wouldn't be entirely fair because they also came of age in a time of relative prosperity and financial stability, and I suppose they're only carrying on with a lifestyle of which they themselves are accustomed.

Maybe it's just me, but it seems that our generation was raised a bit differently than that. While we were never denied any of the basics, we were taught to be productive, self-sufficient individuals capable of sustaining our own lifestyles. Practically everyone in my peer group had a part-time job while in school; even the more affluent kids worked in their family's businesses. With the exception of one or two "rebels" pregnancy was out-of-the question for any high school girl because it was taken as read that the baby would not be taken home and given to our mothers to raise. Material possessions were given as gifts, not as an expected part of adolescence, and anything we wanted other than that was something to be worked for and earned. With that kind of upbringing, it was easy to transition into the economic realities of adulthood, because we became accustomed to dealing with economic uncertainty while in our youth, and still in the bosom of our parents.

So, who will be left standing at the end of this economic mess? As in all previous economic messes the answer is the same. The strong, resilient, adaptable and those prepared to make the necessary sacrifices will emerge relatively unscathed. Unfortunately, that leaves much of today's youth out of the equation because, sadly, no one has told them it's time to grow up.

"IF I WERE A RICH MAN...."

2010-03-06T21:19:00.020Z

In todays uncertain economic times, there are more people playing the lottery than ever before. I didn't arrive at this sweeping statement by doing any specific market research or polling; I know it's a fact just by visiting my local convenience store where, while waiting to purchase a bag of chips and a soda, I always seem to wind up in a long line of eager and very serious lotto players with cash on hand waiting to buy that elusive ticket to riches.

As you may guess, I'm not really a lotto type of gal; I've played the odd scratch card (and won a few dollars) from time-to-time, but I don't take it very seriously. After all, like any other form of gambling it's a game of chance, and based on the behavior of some lotto-playing friends of mine, just as addictive as the ponies.

What I do have in common with lotto players (and, probably most of the population, come to think of it) is wondering, what would I do with a few million bucks? I was reminded of that question yesterday waiting in line at said convenience store listening to two men talking about what kind of super car, ski condo, speed boat and trophy wife they'd get if they Struck It Rich. Their big plans for the cash-rich future made me feel a bit inadequate because if truth be told, in all my fantasy scenarios of richness, I always imagine myself to be very practical with my money.

For example, in Huggins' World, that "super car" would be a brand new Smart-for-Two (Google it folks, you'll giggle, trust me) with all the optional extras in black and grey with a manual gear box. Being practical of course, I'd put a few bucks aside to have the twelve year old Subaru maintained properly so I can still get about in the event of a big snowstorm or larger than average grocery shopping. Redecorating my house to bring it more in line with the 21st century would be my equivalent of their "ski condo"; new kitchen and bathroom fixtures, and a professionally decorated interior is my dream, and if I'm dreaming big, I imagine buying the smaller unit next door, combining the two units and having a home office and "library". No buying a posh new condominium for me; "stick to what you know" is my policy. I decided I would lay out a considerable number of dollars on a new wardrobe which would justify the extra living space since, at last, I'd have a place to hang all my clothes. I don't see spending much of my money on any fancy jewelry in my wardrobe dreams because I'd most likely lose the gems down the elevator shaft or drop them down a storm grate.

Once all this luxury is paid for (full, and in cash...), I figure I'd still have a tidy sum left over so my next dream would be to "retire". Not full time, mind you, just the 40-hour a week job. I'd still work, but for a change I'd be able to work because I want to work, not because I have to. Since I'd still be working, there would be no need for the power boat that the convenience store customers talked about; I wouldn't have time or inclination to have one and besides, with all my money, I could just rent one for a day if I fancied it. As for their "trophy wife" dream? Frankly, I don't see a "trophy husband" in my rich-woman future because, let's face it, I know he'd only be after my money.

So, in my fantasy world of riches, I'd have a Smart Car, an updated and expanded condominium, a fully maintained twelve year old Subaru, a new wardrobe, and the luxury of working a job I liked. Whatever cash was left over I would, as practicality demands, invest it prudently for the future. It reads as if I'm a bit dull, a bit boring, a bit too practical perhaps but think what you like, I'd still be rich.

THIS (SHOW) BETTER BE FUNNY.....

2010-02-25T22:39:00.018Z

Tomorrow night at that posh Concert Hall on the Potomac River where I make a few bucks, I'm working two back-to-back performances with stand-up comedian Jerry Seinfeld. Both shows have been sold out for months, Kennedy Center employees who normally don't work in the Concert Hall have been fighting for a chance to work these shows, but for some reason, I have absolutely no interest in being there, and would gladly give up my place, if Management would let me (they won't).

I can say that I categorically do not like Jerry Seinfeld, but I'm also categorically embarrassed to say I'm not sure why. I never saw one episode of his long-running situation comedy Seinfeld, I've never seen one of his many televised stand-up comedy shows, and I've never read any of his writings. So, what have I got against him? To paraphrase the old song title, "I don't know, why, I just don't".

If I'm completely honest though, I think the big turn-off for me is how overly hyped in the media he was throughout the run of his series. You couldn't pick up a magazine, watch a commercial or see an entertainment-related television show without someone waxing poetic about the genius that is Jerry Seinfeld, and that kind of thing has always been a turn-off for me. It reminds me of my younger days in motion picture distribution, where a weak picture would be given a "saturation booking", which means to book it into every theatre possible for as short a time as possible (usually no longer than two weeks), advertise as much as possible, and create a "buzz" about the picture so everyone will want buy a ticket out of curiosity, if for no other reason.

Rationally though, I know there was no 'saturation' job done on his hit comedy show; it had way too long a run to be able to sustain the ratings it received, so what is it with me and Seinfeld? Maybe he's just not my kind of comic...wait, hold that because I'm a big fan of comedians Eddie Izzard, Ray Romano, Paul Merton, Michael McIntyre, Jonathan Ross and other cutting edge comics, so that's not it either. Heck, even the Kennedy Center's press for this show states, " Jerry Seinfeld has an uncanny ability to joke about the little things in life that everyone relates to", and that description sounds suspiciously familiar to my very own description of Notes From the Light Side", so that theory is awash as well.

Anyway, while I can't put my finger on why I dislike him so, the situation will be resolved one way or another tomorrow night, because I'll be in close proximity to Mr Seinfeld and his wacky humor (yes, I'm being sarcastic there) for many hours, so I'll walk away either liking him intensely or disliking him more immensely. ** Either way I win though because, regardless of the outcome, I take comfort in the fact that some of Mr Seinfeld's money is going into my pocket.

(** As much as I hate to admit it, my gut instinct tells me I'm going to walk away liking him intensely. We'll see....)

IF THERE'S A HEAVEN, I HOPE IT HAS EBAY

2010-02-18T00:47:00.002Z

Without being immodest, I can say I'm a woman fairly free of economic folly; I drive a twelve year-old car (and, being a Subaru, no one except a true "petrol-head" can tell how old it is), I prefer a classic dress sense (read: I can wear the same clothing for years), and most of my durable furniture is from La-Z-Boy, which means it will probably be functional long after I am.

Where I let the team down though is in the area of what I'll call binge buying, meaning, if I buy something and enjoy it, I have to own an entire set of whatever that item may be; DVD box sets, books by a particular author, and so on. A good example of a recent binge would be airline dinnerware. Yes, you read that right, airline dinnerware. I now have a collection of plates, cups saucers, ramekins, cutlery and cloth napkins from the best of 'em; United, Delta, TWA, Western, Pan Am, National, and a few other airlines you've probably not heard of if you were born after 1979. Some people may think, "well, you're just a collector", but the truth is I'm not. A true collector buys things but doesn't sell them while a binge buyer a) buys things b) keeps buying until bored with it, then c) gives the stuff away. At least, that used to be the case until eBay came around. Now, I can buy all the bunny rabbit salt and pepper shakers I want, knowing full well that when the obsession passes, the Salvation Army stores won't have more stuff on their shelves. I can now get my money back by selling it on eBay.

Selling on eBay can be a bit tricky for a beginner but it's actually quite easy to do, and the more often you sell, the simpler the process becomes. When I first started selling on eBay, the entire shipping/feedback/PayPal transaction system completely baffled me, and my first few sales were completed with me in a seemingly perpetual state of confusion, but working the process is really the best way to learn. And, it's amazing to see what some people will buy; a magazine I was fully prepared to toss in the recycle bin sold in a bidding war between three buyers for $202.00. An out-of-print, spoken word CD that was a gift long forgotten fetched $175.00, and a buyer in Australia paid $45.00 in shipping charges alone (the item itself sold for $15.00) for an old cup and saucer from the 20th Century Fox studio in Los Angeles. Of course, it's not all wins; I've listed a few items that never received a bid, but it's a no-loss situation; I get to keep the item. As much as l like to sell however, there are some things I would never sell on eBay. Jewelry, clothing, appliances, and the like are all great categories in which to sell, but there's plenty of "pros" on eBay doing that, and I leave them to it. But for the binge-buyer like me, who collects oddities such as old movie posters, DVD box sets, old sheet music, cups and saucers, salt and pepper shakers, and yes, even airline collectibles, selling on eBay is heaven. I can indulge my binge to my hearts content, secure in the knowledge that another binge-buyer is out there somewhere to take it off my hands when I'm ready to sell it.

You'll have to excuse me now, a bidder in Israel just bought my VHS copy of an obscure made-for TV-movie, A Fire In The Sky. Time to fill out my Customs Declaration.

GOODNIGHT, SWEET PRINCESS

2010-02-11T13:27:00.004Z

Today marks the fourteen-day anniversary of the passing of my dog Trixie. She was a sweet, well-mannered, pure-bred pug, whose only form of aggression manifested itself by the act of "kissing" someone to the point of bodily harm. She was very popular with my neighbors in the condominium community where I live because of her habit of occupying a corner of the balcony, irrespective of the weather, and greeting all passers by with a yelp or two, knowing full well she was protected from retaliation by a storey in height, and some metal railings.

Trixie had been ill for some time. Diagnosed in June '09 with Grade III Mastocytoma, a relatively common cancer in canines, it had developed past the point of surgery and her advancing years became the primary reason for the decision of palliative care alone. Despite this, she was her old self right up to the last evening, even waiting outside for me to return home. There I would see her pacing the balcony and erupting into an explosion of barking as soon as I exited the car, just as on any normal evening. But, the following morning, I knew it was "the day". I can't explain how I knew it was "the day", I think only another pet owner, one who has had to make that terrible decision them self, can understand, but I drove, numbingly, to the vet, muttering over and over, "today is that day, today is that day...." And, so it was, the veterenarian was in complete agreement (in fact, after the decision was made she confessed I may have waited a bit too long), and within minutes, it was over. She passed very peacefully, in my arms, surrounded by a loving vet staff that had cared for her for many years.

Fortunately, I live in a very pet-friendly community, and as I said, Trixie was well known and well liked, and I have the luxury of having a boss who knew that Trixie was my "kid", so everyone has been very sympathetic and kind about Trixie's passing (one older resident even cried when she heard the news). Now, that's a real comfort because I don't know how I would cope being surrounded by people who think of pets as "things". I know how those people think because I was one of them. Before I had gotten my two dogs ("Alice" passed many years ago), my first utterance on hearing of the loss of someone elses pet would probably be, "oh, I'm, sorry to hear that...are you going to get another one?" I'm much smarter now; I know a pet is truly a companion, a friend and champion, a true family member and one who gives unconditional love and asks very little in return. As many fine people as I know, I can't think of one who has all those attributes, and I doubt I'll ever find such a person.

So, do I plan to get another dog? I doubt it. My work schedule is hectic, but Trixie grew up in, and was used to that environment and it would be unfair to not give a young puppy the undivided time and attention it truly needs. So I tell myself, sometimes choking back a tear, "I've had my 'dog days', I don't need to do that again", but if I'm honest the truth is, there could never be another Trixie, or as she is known by her AKC registration listing, "The Princess of Park Place".

Goodnight, sweet Princess.

MICHELLE OBAMA'S WEIGHTY ISSUE

2010-02-06T21:51:00.002Z

I don't normally write about politics because if I'm honest, I know only enough about it to be dangerous. Lifestyle commentary is more to my liking, and fortunately, Michelle Obama has given me a topic on which to dip my foot into politics and have a jolly good rant at the same time.

The First Lady has launched a campaign against obesity in general, and childhood obesity in particular and, while its an admirable undertaking, I think it's doomed from the start. Like many unhealthy and potentially dangerous activities human beings engage in (drinking smoking, unprotected sex....) obesity is a lifestyle choice and telling an overweight person they're more likely to suffer heart disease as a result of their foul feeding is like telling me smoking causes cancer. Thanks Ma'am, we've already sorted that one out. The First Lady reckons childhood obesity is reaching epidemic proportions, a fact I don't dispute, but, what exactly is her plan? The Surgeon General's report lists the following very elementary points:

Requiring students from pre-kindergarten to grade 12 to take physical education.

Requiring child care providers to offer at least 60 minutes of physical activity per day.

Requiring schools to develop comprehensive wellness plans that include policies to offer kids more nutritious lunches.

While I don't suffer from an obesity problem, I do take exception to the First Lady, who has a personal trainer, a dietitian, a nutritionist, a professional chef. and access to the healthiest foods available attempting to preach to the choir a lifestyle choice, be it good, bad or indifferent. What's more irritating to me is that Mrs Obama has, to my knowledge, failed to make any mention about how the economic downturn has led to many Americans being forced to give up healthier eating in exchange for less expensive options. If I only have $1.25 in my wallet, I can't afford a bag of "organic" carrots, but I can fill myself up pretty well on a box of unhealthy macaroni & cheese.

I'm sorry Mrs Obama, its a worthy and admirable course of action, but attempting to legislate personal behavior is a waste of your valuable time and has slim hopes of success. That pun is intended, by the way.

PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF

2010-01-28T23:28:00.003Z

I've never been particularly good at taking what I consider to be unnecessary advice about how to take care of myself, so it's no surprise that I positively dread going for a visit with my physician. But, because I need several "maintenance" medications for a serious medical condition, I endure my twice-yearly visit with him with the sole objective of leaving his office with my pile of refill orders (and a wallet $125.00 lighter).

To his credit, he has no illusions about me as a patient. He knows I smoke, but doesn't lecture me. He knows I enjoy a beer or two (or three...), but he doesn't lecture me. He knows one of the reasons I still see him, even though his office doesn't accept my insurance plan, is so I can continue to receive my prescription refills, and to change to a different physician at this point would probably mean referrals to a costly specialist to determine if the medications are achieving their "optimal effect", and I'm just not having that. When my medications stop achieving their optimal effect, everyone will know because in the event they no longer work I will have shuffled off this mortal coil.

As physicians go, he's a fairly pleasant person. The only time I've gotten a dressing-down from him was when my blood pressure and cholesterol count were found to be abnormally high and he was right to be angry. While some people have to work hard by monitoring diet and exercise to get these things under control, in my case, the conditions are hereditary, and simply taking two tiny pills a day prescribed by him whips my body back into submission in no time. So, I have to conclude that while my physician can tolerate a somewhat irresponsible patient, he simply will not suffer a lazy one.

If I had any doubts about this conclusion, they were silenced today when I told him I had not taken two medical tests he had ordered for me six months ago. His reaction, which to me seemed to be bordering on apoplectic fit, made me realize I'd gone too far and I should just take the tests he ordered and be done with it. The problem is, I simply don't want to take the tests. It's not that they're painful; women have them done every day (there's a clue for you..), but I've adopted the childish stance of "no-I-don't-wanna-and-you-can't-make-me" and he's sitting across the desk saying "oh, yeah"?

At the end of the day I think it boils down to not liking to be told what I should and shouldn't do with my own body. I'm up to hearing advice, but should I have to take it? Can't I as an educated adult be able to make my own decision about what health care I chose to receive as opposed to what my physician tells me is necessary? Morally, I should be able to refuse the medical tests he's insisting on, but, practically, it's not a good idea. Sacrificing the convenient doctor-patient relationship I have with him would be like cutting my nose off to spite my face. And then I'd have to find a brand new doctor to fix it.

METHINKS THE BBC "REVEALS" TOO MUCH

2010-01-22T01:29:00.003Z

Regular Light Side readers have heard me refer to BBC America from time-to-time, so it will come as no surprise that I'm an avid watcher of this cable channel. I'd like to say I only watch it because of the excellent and extensive coverage on BBC World News America, but the truth is there's a wealth of quality programming on BBC America that we're not likely to see on any American cable channel.

Some examples of excellent programming are dramatic series Robin Hood, Doctor Who, and MI-5, comedies Coupling and Little Britain, talk shows Friday Night With Jonathan Ross and The Graham Norton Show, and reality programs, Top Gear, Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares (miles ahead of the US-based version) and Last Restaurant Standing and the good news is that, because the BBC replays each episode a ridiculous number of times, you're sure never to miss an episode no matter how hectic your schedule may be.

The bad news is, where there's a yin, there's also a yang, and in the BBC's case that massive yang is called BBC America Reveals. The BBC describes this gem as a "...compelling range of ...documentaries (highlighting) a wide range of social and cultural issues", but they're not fooling anyone; it's basic sensationalism-based television with a British accent and I know this because I've watched a few of the "documentaries" myself. While some of them were of genuine interest (Apollo Wives, The Cocaine Diaries and The Fastest Man on No Legs come to mind), here are some of examples of the more sensational topics on offer in this series: 100 Men Own My Breasts, Fake Baby, 476-Pound Teenager, Transvestite Wives, My Small Breasts and Me, and Should I Smoke Dope? Alright, it's all a bit silly, but there's obviously a market for programming such as this and, on the whole, it's basically harmless.

At least, that's what I thought until I saw one of there more recent offerings, Perfect Private Parts and the premise was to explore (no pun intended) how far women will go to achieve perfection for "a body part that not many people will ever see". The documentary shows heavily pixelated scenes of bikini waxing, women having their woman-parts moulded into clay for comparison with other women's parts, men discussing what they find unattractive about that "region" and we also get to see a woman having actual surgery on that area, under local anesthetic, no less. The most stomach churning scene however was a segment featuring what can only be described as a "support group", where women of varying ages sit in a circle on the floor, private parts fully exposed for inspection by all, while individuals share their feelings about the pain and trauma their vaginas have brought to their lives. As todays youth would say, "WTF?!?!"

Really, a bit of trash television is an acceptable guilty pleasure, but does this kind of expose serve any genuine purpose other than to increase viewership with the tempting prospect of seeing a womans sexual organ? Is this what John Reith, the first General Manager of the BBC envisioned as quality programming for the new network? I don't think it does any service to women other than to cause them to question the state of their own "region", and it certainly did nothing for me except make me wince. There's a reason they're called private parts and the key word is "private". BBC, if you want to educate your viewers in the wonders of nature, stick to what you do best. Give us more documentaries with David Attenborough.

SICK SCORECARD: BODY-1, MIND-0

2010-01-14T13:58:00.047Z

For me, one of the best opening lines in literature comes from Poe's "The Pit and The Pendulum": I was sick, sick unto death with that long agony, and when they at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me. For the purpose of this week's piece though, I'm going to edit that line to say; I am gawd-awfully sick and I know my senses have left me.

On Monday I thought something wasn't quite right, but I chalked it up to fatigue. However on Tuesday, I knew I was in a bad way. That feeling was confirmed when my boss, who has sympathy for no man or woman told me I didn't look well and to my complete shock, suggested I go home for the day as soon as my workload permitted. It is now Thursday, and I'm still sick, at the office, and after a few days of confused thinking have come to the conclusion that we don't fully realize what being sick does to the mind, as well as the body. For example, my normal writing routine is to kick around ideas on Tuesday, begin writing on Wednesday, make changes on Thursday, and publish no later than Saturday evening. But, this week I could have cared less about any of it. By Tuesday I was completely convinced this column was a waste of time and that I was only a hack writer with not an original thought in my head. In addition to this, I was convinced that my house was a mess, my car was worthless, my job was a disaster, my face was ugly, my hair is dangerously thinning, and life as I know it, was no longer worth living.

But after being depressed for just under 72 hours, it all makes sense. I'm sick, and my body wants and needs rest. Unfortunately in our society it seems a person isn't allowed to be ill; our daily schedules and rigid corporate policies simply will not permit it. So, we carry on working, shopping, doing housework, etcetera as if there's nothing wrong and, based on my befuddled thought processes, I don't think my body is sitting still for it. Whether I like it or not, it's telling me, "I don't want you to write, work, cook, shop, do laundry, clean, or any of that nonsense, and to be sure you don't, I'm going to have the brain confuse you so bad that you won't want to do any of it either."

You know what? It's working because I am now certain that while I'm sick anything I write, anything I do or say, or any decision I make is going to be completely wrong. So I think I'll just pack it in, do what my body wants and get some rest, taking comfort in the knowledge that when I'm well, my writing will no longer be garbage, my column isn't a waste of time, my house is gorgeous, my car is tip-top, my job is a dream, I still look good for my age, and life is indeed worth living again. Unfortunately, I'm fairly sure my hair will still be dangerously thinning, but I'll deal with that when I'm feeling better. Stay well, readers.

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE BOSS

2010-01-08T00:24:00.028Z

This morning, the owner of the company where I work assembled the "top brass", meaning his partner, the Senior Construction Site Superintendent and myself, into the board room and rather unceremoniously informed us all that the Company was "screwed" (his word, not mine). According to him, the present economic situation and resulting loss of business means that, unless there's a dramatic turn-around, the Company may go under in as little as four months.

As depressing a prospect as this is though, I can't say I'm surprised. I've been with this employer since the day they opened the door; I've seen them do many things right, but I've also seem them do many things wrong. Over the years, where I thought their judgement was a bit off, I've tried to give my opinion and it has almost always fallen onto deaf ears. Usually, their somewhat patronizing answer was "we have to play 'devils advocate' on this one, Julie", or even worse, "we're not asking for your opinion on this one". Anyone reading this who's spent any small amount of time in business may wonder why I stayed with this employer, but the truth is I've gotten quite comfortable. I learned early on what they will take on board, and when I'm wasting my time, and my salary, while not the highest I've been paid, is enough to cover my expenses and the job itself is not terribly demanding.

Having said all this, there's nothing either myself or the Site Superintendent (who has also tried his level best at coaching Management) can do about this crisis now. Either the owners will try to pull it together and obtain some kind of emergency funding or we'll simply close the door; there's no more talking to be done. However, despite the fact they've seldom listened to me before and so aren't likely to do it now, I still want my say in the matter, and since I don't want to jeopardize my unemployment benefits, I've decided to write an open letter to them and place it here, where I know they'll never find it:

"Dear Owner/CEO and President/COO,

So sorry to hear the business is failing; we all had high hopes for our prospective success, and for awhile, we were riding quite high in a very competitive field. I know you say our downfall is due to the economic climate and general construction decline, but I have an alternate theory, and it is that our declining fortune is due primarily to poor project management and financial irresponsibility. Let me cite some examples:

"Profit" means net profit after paying off all subcontractors and suppliers; opening a separate bank account and simply calling it a "profit account" does not make it so.

A fledgling company doesn't need to move into spacious new offices, complete with wall-mounted big screen TV's, glass panelled conference rooms and kitchen facilities simply because the "other" company (whose previous years profit was $3.2 million) has one.

Don't tell your employees they can't receive a pay hike, then purchase yourself a 50-foot sailboat.

Don't hire a completely inexperienced Project Manager because you think she's "hot". That was a two-year mistake, and quite costly to the company.

Don't take on a project you know will lose money simply for the exposure. The last time you did that the company lost close to $80,000.00 and and the only exposure we received was that we were made to look foolish.

Don't use company money to finance your second company's opeation unless you plan to pay it back; we're still waiting for re-payment.

Don't apologize to your key employees, the ones who actually run the day-to-day operations of your company, for not being able to pay them a holiday bonus, then drive up two days later to show off your new Aston Martin DBS.

Gentlemen, I can cite more examples, but the ones I've listed here should give you a general idea of my direction on the matter. While I'm sorry you chose not to listen this time, I hope you carry it forward with your next venture, whatever it may be. It's very simple advice, really: listen to the people you pay to run your business because at the end of they day, they are the ones who have the company's best interest at heart, you cretins.

Sincerely, Your Business Manager."

Alright, so posting my letter here may be the cowardly way out, but I've never been much of a bridge-burner, and doing it this way means I can vent my spleen in complete anonymity; after all, if they've never taken my advice, they certainly won't read anything I write. And that's a good thing because they won't know that, in the unhappy event the business fails, I've already been offered employment with the accounting firm who does the company's books. Unlike my bosses, the accountants have been kind enough to listen to me.

NO, REALLY, WE'RE JUST FRIENDS

2009-12-31T13:12:00.046Z

Every year, particularly during the holiday season, several acquaintances seem to feel the need to "fix me up" with someone. I can almost hear the inevitable tongue-clicking from well-meaning people who assume that, because I've been partner-less for some years now, I'm lonely. Anyone who's widowed knows precisely what I'm talking about; the sad gaze from people who hear you've lost a spouse who assume you're in a perpetual state of grief and therefore require a replacement mate as soon as possible. As annoying as their presumption can be, I really can't fault them; I'm sure their well-intentioned reaction is based on how they would react themselves in my situation, but they obviously don't know me well. If they did know me well, they'd know that I have an active social life, with plenty of friends for company.

One of my favorite friends is a man who I will call Richard, which is a good idea because that happens to be his name. Richard is great fun to be around, intelligent, witty, thoughtful and an all-around gentlemen. He is also tall, lithe, non-gay and extremely handsome, which is a positive bonus for my ego, and means I don't have to wear flats whenever we're out together. Let's face it, we're a stunning pair, Richard and I. It's a convenient arrangement as well; we're not a couple but we go to social functions together from time-to-time. We interact well with each others friends, enjoy many of the same activities and at the end of an evening, we're off to our respective homes in good spirits with a friendly peck on the cheek serving as a goodnight kiss.

Where the arrangement gets awkward however, is that sooner or later the question of our relationship status pops up somewhere in conversation and it's a tricky question to answer. As we've found from experience, there seem to be a lot of folk out there who don't believe that men and women can simply be friends. At least, we assume that's what it must be, because our standard answer to the relationship question, "we're not a couple", usually produces one of three looks; awkward glances from real couples, looks of confusion from men (as in, "are you gay?) and from the ladies, hope-filled smiles at Richard, and what they're actually thinking, I can probably guess.

In truth, it's not difficult to be close friends with a member of the opposite sex but the key component is that you cannot enter into such a friendship with the expectation of something more, and Richard and I don't have those expectations. Surely, if he was looking for romance, he could find it practically...well, anywhere, based on the amount of female attention he gets, and I could have my share of admirers as well provided I ever saw fit get up off the sofa. But for us at least, at this time in our lives, its much nicer to have the friendship of someone of the opposite sex without any of the pressure but with (almost) all of the benefits, namely companionship, caring, someone to do emergency repairs about the house (him), and someone to cook (me). Richard's simple explanation for me is "she's just like a 'mate', except better looking", and I simply say "he's my friend", and that's a basic enough explanation for anyone to understand. Can a personal relationship like this stand the test of time? If we're honest it will, of necessity change if or when either of us finds true love (whatever that mean) but for now, it's a perfectly satisfactory arrangement that I encourage anyone to try.

Now, I'm sure some readers, particularly the women-folk are asking, "wouldn't you like to be involved with this man?", and my answer is that I already am, but I'm practically certain to become more involved would probably lead to the end of a beautiful friendship.

SNOW, SNOW, HORRIBLE SNOW

2009-12-19T05:19:00.047Z

As I write this, it's the wee hours of a Saturday morning. I'm in wind-down mode after working a wonderful performance of Handel's Messiah at The John F. Kennedy Center Concert Hall, enjoying a cold beer, watching the warm glow of the Christmas tree lights reflected in the glass and mirrors in the room, and gazing through the window at the snow that started falling shortly before I made the drive home roughly two hours ago. However, if you're reading this and thinking what a delightfully tranquil mood I must be in, you're quite wrong and the reason is, the snow.

As a rule I enjoy a bit of snow, especially this time of year. Who wouldn't like to hear Bing Crosby sing White Christmas while actually seeing it in person for a change? The problem is, this particular snowfall is an official Winter Storm Warning with an approximate accumulation expected of 12 inches, and perhaps more, and I think it's going to be bad. The first warning sign was the trip home. Normally, the trip from the Kennedy Center takes about 10-15 minutes but tonight's trip took thirty minutes, and I passed no less than three auto accidents en route and the snow had barely begun to fall. If this is any indication of what the next 24 hours of expected snowfall means to the Nations Capital, I am in a state of absolute dread.

If you live in one of the more snow-hardened areas of the world you may be wondering what all the fuss is about, but the simple truth is that Washington DC and snow simply do not mix. There isn't the amount of equipment and manpower in place to keep the area moving if there is more than a snowfall of say, five inches or more, and even that small amount can bring the city to it's knees. Add to that the constant minute-by-minute coverage from the television finger-to-the-wind boys warning us of all the hazards of driving in snowy conditions, and you have a sense of city-wide panic probably not felt since that of Grover's Mill, New Jersey when they thought the War of the Worlds radio broadcast was real....

It is now twelve hours later, and I'm gazing through the same window, watching what should be the lovely sight of gently blanketing snow, but I can't, because I'm watching the local 24-hour news channel feed me live coverage of cars getting stuck on the major highways, walk-by citizens being interviewed on camera saying how unsafe it is to be out at all (so why are you, then?), and updates on how much more snow is expected to accumulate before we can all breathe a sigh of relief and sort out how to dig ourselves out of this mess. Again, if you're not from this area, you haven't experienced the pain of watching "cowboy" snowplows making a quick buck piling six feet of snow behind your car or worse for people living in DC proper, waiting four or more days for City services to come plow the side streets...

It's now Sunday evening and I'm happy to say that, with the help of two very nice gentlemen who took pity on me, I was able to dig my car out from under the expected six feet of snow piled behind my car by the "cowboy" snowplow, but since the men only showed up at the end of the two and a half-hour chore, I'm still taking credit for all the major shoveling. So, at least I know I'm mobile again but the next worry is how to deal with the Monday morning commute surrounded by people who have absolutely no conception of how to drive when there is a bit of hardened moisture on the road. It's not terribly difficult; maintain a steady speed, keep a safe distance, put your cell phone down, wait until you get to the office to apply your make-up, and just drive the car.

All this snow should be a pleasant experience, but unlike the Hollywood depictions of snowfall in films such as in White Christmas it simply isn't, at least not in this region. The one crumb of satisfaction I have is courtesy of Chicago-based, snow veteran President Obama; last year DC schools were closed because of a four inch accumulation of snow, and he stated on record he couldn't understand why. I remember having a chuckle and thinking, "don't worry, you will".

I think he may understand now.

WANTED: ONE REAL VACATION

2009-12-11T18:06:00.002Z

According to the Compact Oxford English Dictionary, a vacation is simply defined as "a holiday" (they're British, after all), but it's clear that whoever wrote that entry didn't spend last week's "holiday" with me.

With the economy in it's uncertain state, I wouldn't expect to be able to take a proper vacation (for instance something involving travel, excitement, fun, romance or having a nice meal that doesn't arrive at the table immediately following the "ding" of a microwave); it just would have been nice if I didn't have to do any sort of work. I don't mean "from the office" type work, I'm referring to the personal things needing done that those of us who have jobs simply can't get taken care of when working 8am-5pm Monday thru Friday. Combine a full work schedule with a boss who thinks that, other than himself, nobody has any errands to attend to, and you have the vacation I enjoyed last week. Had I bothered to write down a schedule in advance, it would have looked like this:

MONDAY

0800-1200 - plumber due to arrive, watch trash television to kill the time

1200-1400 - still waiting for plumber, watch "daytime drama" to kill the time

1500 1530 - plumber arrives but is missing a part; goes to hardware store to purchase

1700 - plumber completes work

TUESDAY

1000 -appointment with veterinarian

1030 - still waiting for veterinarian

1115-1145 - veterinarian's appointment complete. Wait to pay for appointment and three doggie prescriptions.

1200-1215 - light lunch al fresco (read: quarter-pound Big Bite hot dog in the car on the drive home)

1400-1630 - retrieve holiday decorations, assemble tree and disentangle lights, watch re-runs of Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares to pass the time. Wish Gordon Ramsay would buy me dinner in one of his restaurants.

WEDNESDAY

0800-1700 - Wait for and supervise plasterers, and then painters, sent to repair damages caused by plumber who occupied all of my time Monday. Watch old movies and re-runs of Gordon Ramsay's The F Word to pass the time. Wish Gordon Ramsay would take me away from All of This.

THURSDAY

0800-1300 - engage in marathon house cleaning that can't possibly be done whilst working two jobs, including but not limited to: washing interior and exterior windows and window treatments, shampoo area rugs, keep dog off wet area rugs, wash and wax kitchen and bathroom floors, keep dog off floors until wax dries, sweep and mop hardwood floors, keep dog off damp hardwood floors and finish assembling holiday decorations. Watch old movies and Speed Channel to pass the time. Wish I could drive a Bugatti Veyron at it's top speed away from All of This.

1430-doctor's appointment

1500 - still waiting for doctor

1530-1545 - wait to pay for doctor

1615-1645 - take blood tests and wait to pay for lab work ordered by doctor

FRIDAY

nothing scheduled - go to shopping mall. Decide holiday shopper volume is too much and wish I would have stayed home and shopped on-line. Spend rest of day in deep depression wondering what happened to my vacation.

Now, I'm not exaggerating; this is actually how I spent my vacation, and I have no doubt that when my next one comes 'round in June, I'll be doing many of the same activities that week as well. But who knows, one of these days I may actually take a proper vacation with real travel, glamor and excitement, just like the ones I saw advertised on the television while I was passing the time. If I'm honest though, I doubt it will ever happen. After all, who would run my errands while I'm gone?

WHOSE COLUMN IS IT, ANYWAY?

2009-12-01T19:04:00.000Z

Here it is, Thanksgiving week, and because I'm deep in the holiday spirit (read: lazy), there will be no spleen-venting. Instead, I've decided to give thanks to readers of Notes From The Light Side; not only is it tremendous fun for me to write but it's introduced me to some very nice people who appear to be regular readers. Even readers who don't necessarily agree with me seem to enjoy what I have to say enough to keep reading and criticizing me every week.

I think one of the reasons I have readers in the first place is because of on-line magazines. Since I started this column, it's been picked up by several "e-zines", which is quite flattering considering I expected I would be the only person reading this. Most of the e-zines are automated systems that "ping" your blog from time-to-time to check for, then publish updated content (techno-geeks, correct me if that's the wrong description), but of all the e-zines, the one I really pay attention to is a major one whose name you can get if you Google me on the internet. This magazine keeps very thorough stats, telling how many views each article has had, how many times an article has been published electronically by other publishers, how many people have accessed your profile, what reader "rating" each article has received and how many people are redirected to your actual blog to subscribe and, amazingly, all these services are provided absolutely free-of-charge to authors they choose to publish. Another reason I pay attention to it is, as far as I can tell, the only e-magazine that has actual live human beings editing content before publication. Before anything gets published it faces not one but two reviews; "initial" and "quality control". The process can take up to a week to complete, hardly surprising considering the amount of content in their magazine. The editorial staff is efficient of necessity, and are a very intelligent group of individuals, an opinion that has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact they've only kicked two articles back to me for revisions.

As much regard as I have for them though, I was a bit irritated last week when they published my article, Strolling Down Memory Lane... At 55 MPH. You see, I'd specifically tagged this as an "automotive" piece, but in their editorial process, it was changed to "self-improvement". Self-improvement? Nonsense, that wasn't my intent at all; that piece was meant to be about escaping the pressure of everyday existence behind the wheel of a car; the idea of, "clear your mind on the open road as I do" (without sounding quite that silly). I suppose I could have made the automotive angle stronger if I'd written "......behind the wheel of my 2.5 litre, 170 brake horse power 4-door "Limited Edition" with full-time AWD and double wishbone suspension that does 0-60 in 9.7 seconds", but not only would that have spoilt the mood, it would have sounded like I freelanced for Motor Trend in my spare time.

I got quite a bit worked up over the change, thinking, "I know what I was writing about, not them", and wondering if they would have changed the classification from automotive if my name was Billy Bob Huggins, until I realized I was getting worked up over absolutely nothing. Did the magazine change one word of the article? No. Did they change the title? No. All they did was move it to what they thought was a more suitable classification, and, with head bowed I can say they did the right thing. Twenty-four hours after Strolling Down Memory Lane...At 55 MPH was published, it ranked fourth most popular of all my articles, and the "view" numbers continue to grow each day.

The lesson learned is a simple one, each of us has a job to do so let's just get on with it. Their job is to edit, and they've been doing quite nicely for nine years without my interference, thank you. And my job? Easy. All I have to do is shut up and write.

(Notes From The Light Side will return the first week in December.)

PASS(WORD) / FAIL

2009-11-21T17:19:00.061Z

It's difficult to believe that only five or six years ago, I had little interest in the internet. I was one of those old-fashioned folk who believed the World Wide Web was useless to me, in much the same way I thought ATM's were useless 20 years ago. Of course now I consider both of them indispensible; I can't remember the last time I was in the local branch of my bank to conduct any financial business, and nearly all of my reading, shopping, communication and recreational pursuits are connected in one way or another to the cobalt grey slab of metal from Mr Hewlett and Mr Packard. If I hadn't acquired a taste for the internet you wouldn't be reading this now, but the jury is still out over whether or not that's a good thing.

The bad news is when things go wrong with technology, they can go horribly wrong, as proved Monday morning when I misplaced my pocket-sized telephone and address book. No, it doesn't contain names and addresses of my nearest and dearest (who writes letters these days?); it contains all my internet account user names and passwords. Sure, I can remember a few user name/password combinations such as email and my bank account, but what about all the others, the ones you don't use enough to warrant a permanent slice of brain space? I learned in a terrifying 30 minute search that the loss of the 21st century's version of the "little black book" could mean hours of frustration spent with countless Customer Care Teams trying to sort everything out, and that was a best-case scenario; what it was truly lost only to be found and then used by someone else? That prospect brought on a panic I haven't experienced since I lost my contact lenses three weeks after the expiration of my vision-benefit plan.

Just like the contact lenses though, the book did turn up, found tucked away in the torn pocket lining of a jacket I'd been wearing, but as relieved as I was to find it, I was also troubled at how the loss of this book could cause so much anxiety and chaos in my life. The truth is that practically everything we do online these days, email, banking, mortgage, insurance plans, shopping, forums, newsgroups, ad nauseum is done at the mercy of multiple username and passwords, the volume of which the average person can't possibly be expected to remember. Until someone comes up with a better plan, we're stuck with it though, but to avoid a possible catastrophe, I've devised a back-up plan. Along with my other important papers, I'm keeping a separate list of all my passwords in a fireproof combination-lock box I've just bought.

Hopefully, I won't forget the combination.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS, LOVE, THE I.R.S.

2009-11-14T11:14:00.000Z

Bang on November 1, it started; strange noises emanating from the television set sounding suspiciously like Christmas music. At first I thought I was imagining things because I had just tucked into a piece of leftover Halloween candy, but on setting down the dust rag and taking a peek at the set, there it was, a major retailer reminding me that Christmas is the season for buying.....oops, I meant giving. That's right, Christmas advertising (or "pre-Christmas gift-sellers", if you want to sound like a pro) has already crept its way into our lives.

Now, I really do enjoy the holiday season, but every year it gets longer and longer. I thought it was bad when the selling started after barely digesting Thanksgiving dinner, but now we don't even have time to finish off the pumpkin-shaped marshmallow Peeps none of the kids wanted on October 31. I'm beginning to believe that, in the course of my lifetime, the Christmas season will begin shortly after my birthday in August; it's only a matter of time. Nevertheless, we're stuck with the bombardment of ads until the January "white sales" come around and we will be encouraged to spend even more money we don't have.

On the plus side of this extended holiday season, I got an early Christmas present in the shape of an envelope from the Internal Revenue Service. In as nice a tone as possible, and with as much warmth as the Government could muster, they informed me it's possible I'd made a minor mistake on my '07 tax return, and could they please have the additional $476 I owe them by December 24, thank-you-very-much. I was prepared to meet this governmental onslaught with all the courage and conviction that a woman about to lose $476 could, until I realized that they were right. I had made an error on my '07 tax return, and it was not a minor one. In fact, it was so glaringly obvious I expect to be investigated for tax fraud in the near future.

What surprised me though was just how darned nice the I.R.S. was about the matter. The tone of the notice was almost, dare I say, pleasant. Over the six-page document they explained why I was receiving the notice, what steps I needed to take, what would happen if I didn't respond in a timely manner, and what my payment and dispute options were. They supplied me with the exact information I needed to determine where I was at fault on my original filing, and even told me I may qualify for a discount on the $476 owed based on the information supplied by my financial institution. Christmas came to Huggins House because the information handed me was so thorough that even Donner or Blitzen could have understood it. The parting gift was the name of an actual human being assigned to my case; I did call with a question, and the lady was extremely nice and helpful. She even told me how to save an unnecessary $105 fee by filing paperwork different from what I was planning to file. Happy Holidays, indeed.

So, with holiday-cheerful resignation, I'll pay the taxes owed, but as tempted as I am I don't think I'll be smug and send it to them in a Christmas card to meet their December 24 deadline. In what I can only assume is their best holiday spirit they've been nice this time, but if I irritate them and they discover I've made the same error on my '08 return that exchange may well turn into a July 4 fireworks display.

STROLLING DOWN MEMORY LANE....AT 55 MPH

2009-11-07T23:34:00.031Z

For as long as I can remember, falling asleep has been difficult. Over the years I've employed a variety of methods to get the job done including prescription sleep aids, working a second job, staying up 'til all hours behaving raucously with friends, and reading the latest edition of The Wall Street Journal online. Each method has worked with varying degrees of success, but lately the simple task of sleep has become more elusive than ever.

I think I may be in good company because many of the things keeping me up nights are most likely shared by many; possible unemployment, financial instability, deadlines, health issues, the upcoming holiday season, and general concerns over the future are probably sending more than a few people to join me for a midnight read of the WSJ.

A few nights ago though, none of the usual sleep aids seemed to work and I again found myself pacing about the house at 1 am. So in absolute frustration, and with the feeling of the house closing in around me, I did something I haven't done in ages; I threw on some slightly grubby clothes, grabbed my drivers license, a few dollars and my keys, and went for a drive.

I used to do this quite a bit when I was younger, and that night I was reminded of how refreshing it is to leave the trappings of day-to-day life behind, albeit only briefly, driving about on the empty roads with only your own thoughts and whatever music is coming from the stereo system. That night my musical tastes were geared for what are now called "golden oldies" (I prefer to call them "timeless classics"), and perhaps because there weren't the usual daytime distractions, some of the tunes brought back instant memory flashes of similar drives many years ago.

The Spinners Games People Play came blasting out of the sound system, reminding me of a midnight drive when I worried how I was ever going to be able to afford the $95.00 monthly rent on my first apartment. Following not far behind on the playlist was Kenny Loggins' I'm Alright, a song that seemed to play continuously on my cross-country move to Los Angeles; a drive memorable not for the sights and adventure of the trip, but for the fact on that drive I worried how I was going to find a job, where I was going to live, and how I was going to eat... From Dionne Warwicke's Heartbreaker to Michael Jackson's Human Nature, it seemed no small coincidence that each song filling the car's interior had some connection with past midnight drives spent with good tunes and a chance to think through life's concerns.

This went on for about an hour, and with gas running low, and the thought of sleep at last not a scary thing, I headed home to the tune of Electric Light Orchestra's Mr Blue Sky, a song that's impossible to hear and not be happy. Then, when I finally pulled into the parking lot and turned off the CD it hit me: the worries and stresses that keep me awake nights now are the same worries and stresses that kept me awake nights then, and despite everything I thought could possibly go wrong with my life, I'm still here.

I don't think I'll wait so long to take another trip down memory lane at 55 MPH. With good music, empty roads and nothing to clutter your mind, it's easy to put things into perspective and remind yourself that, as confused and uncertain as things might seem at the moment, life is going to be just fine, after all.

THE TRUTH BEHIND AIRLINE COUNTER DELAYS

2009-11-01T00:05:00.044Z

I've been in love with air travel since I can remember, and my first recollection of flight was in the early 1960's on a MATS (Military Air Transport Service) plane en route to join Dad who was stationed in Naples, Italy. The aircraft was prehistoric by today's standards; for example the seating arrangement was to arrange to sit wherever there was a space. The consolation prize to Uncle Sam's Discomfort was my sister and I discovering a serviceman in possession of candy and chewing gum, which we mooched successfully until Mom came to the rescue of the poor Marine. My first recollection of a commercial flight was with with the family en route to somewhere (we were military, after all), and it was, compared to MATS, strictly deluxe; a Pan American prop jet with pretty ladies wearing hats and gloves who were handing out drinks and snacks and free "future stewardess" pins for the girls.

My fascination with air travel was cemented in 1970 when the grand-daddy of all disaster films Airport arrived at my local theatre. With the exception of a mad bomber who blew up the plane at 30,000 feet, the film depicted airports and airlines, and all the people associated with them as a romantic, glamorous, exciting way of life and I decided that at some point, sooner or later, I was going to be a part of it. Unfortunately by the time I became a "part of it" and joined American Airlines some 25 years later, the glamour days of air travel had long gone. In it's place air travel became (to borrow and old theatre term), a "fill and spill"; get as many passengers on an aircraft and do a turnaround trip as fast as possible to maximize profit. Gone were the silver service meals, free postcards and stationary or free "future stewardess" pins. In it's place was, depending on the length of the flight, a meal or light snack, and many travel delays.

Before I worked for an airline I used to complain about air travel delays, but I don't do that anymore. Now I know if there's a delay at a security checkpoint it's more often than not a result of one or more passenger's inability to follow simple instructions such as "have your tickets and identification ready please." I know if the aircraft is late out of the gate it's at Captain's discretion, and it rarely happens unless there's a possible safety issue with the aircraft, and no one should complain about that one. I know if there's a delay at the ticket counter, it could either be a system slowdown, high passenger volume or just possibly a ticket agent trying to find alternate routing for a passenger who's the unfortunate victim of a canceled flight, or some other unforeseen circumstance.

And, if a bag is missing or delayed en route you might be surprised to know that there is an entire network of people dedicated to tracking down missing or delayed baggage using an industry-wide system called BMAS (Baggage Management Analysis System) to keep score. While it's a very effective system, it's not exactly simple so if you're delayed at the Baggage Service counter of any airline, it's because some miserable agent has to type in the acronym-version of Gone With The Wind before your "tracer" is initiated in BMAS.

If you're a frequent flyer out of St. Louis, Boston, Miami or Seattle-Tacoma, then, unfortunately, you're probably familiar with BMAS and don't mind the wait. But for those readers who have never had the BMAS Experience and wonder what's taking that idiot behind the counter so long, here's what a real agent must manually input before a trace on your bag can begin. Bear in mind, this is inputted after the agent has entered the information on you, your location, your contact details and your preferred method of delivery. For the purpose of this demonstration, you are Mr Landau, who traveled from Dallas-Ft Worth to Reagan National Airport in Washington DC on flight 1598 on the third of May:

Here's your passenger itinerary: 1 AA1598Y03MAYDFWDCA2344569200324

Here's a description of your missing bag. If we're lucky, it's only bag one per passenger, not ten as I once had to do. Oh, heck, I think Mr Landau lost three items:
1 DB/L/RD22PSW/LEATHER/GUCCI/LL/LANDAU/SHOES CLOTHES CDS
2 DB/L/BK22/CANVAS/NONE/DL/LANDAU/CHILDRENS ITEMS
3 DB/L/GR70/CLOTH METAL/AL/LANDAU/BABY CART

Here's your check-in counter information from DFW: K/03/00/C/0090/DFW

And, your flight information:
FLIFO*1598-4DFW/OUT0818 OFF0839*0840 2DCA/IN1139 *1147 DCADRD.03MAY.1405

While Mr Landau is yelling at me over the counter because I'm too slow, I check the information from Baggage Service in DFW. Most delays are due to weather conditions or missed connections, but for this demonstration, someone at DFW forgot to load the bags onto the flight, so "oops, we missed the flight so we put 'em on flight 1409" is translated into:
5 BIS ON HND CONF TOT3 BAGCHKD TO AA1409 DFWDCA

Unfortunately, that flight will arrive after Mr Landau has left on another flight to Gatwick Airport in London, so I have to sort out the best way to forward his bags. After some checking, I decide to send the bags on to London on a (fictional) US Airways Flight 232 to New York with a transfer to a (fictional) British Airways Flight 2442 is best, so I enter this:

BO1/AA1598/LANDAU/L/US232/03MAY/JFK/EXP3295728/AA1598/03MAY
/US232/LANDAU/L/BA2442/04MAY/LGW/EXP223298/US232/04MAY
BO2/AA1598/LANDAU/L/US232/03MAY/JFK/EXP229092/AA1598/03MAY
/US232/LANDAU/L/BA2442/04MAY/LGW/EXP240157/US232/04MAY
BO3/AA1598/LANDAU/L/US232/03MAY/JFK/EXP244277/AA1598/03MAY
/US232/LANDAU/L/BA2442/04MAY/LGW/EXP244298/AA1598/03MAY

Done. Now Mr Landau can leave the counter with a receipt (that contains none of this information) and hopefully there are only a few more passengers left waiting behind him.

There's the real truth behind ticketing and baggage counter delays. Airline employees aren't slow, lazy of stupid (I've been called all three names, by the way). For the most part they are thorough and accurate out of necessity, and you can rest assured the fictional person at DFW who made the mistake with Mr Landau's bags will be in seriously hot water over that error. That may not be much consolation as you wait in line, but it may give you a chuckle later, after you've calmed down.

Now, enjoy your flight.

NEED AN ANSWER? ASK A FORUM.

2009-10-24T00:20:00.001+01:00

I'm happy. Very happy. Over the past weekend, an on-going problem I've been having with the old HP Pavilion 5700 (that I refuse to part with, thank you very much) finally got resolved. It didn't get resolved by HP tech support who were, frankly, useless. It didn't get resolved by the IT support group used by the company I work for, and it didn't get resolved by following HP's on-line troubleshooting tools. It got resolved by two guys on an internet forum.

"evil_bob" and "Camaro Guy". gave me the answer to my problem within a half-hour of my asking the question on an online forum dedicated to solving PC-related problems. It turned out to be a CD-ROM driver issue that, even though I know nothing about "drivers" took no longer than ten minutes to fix myself, with the help of their step-by-step instructions. There was an additional five minutes spent while they reassured me that the driver would, indeed, re-install itself on start-up, but I won't include that in the repair time. After thanking the forum members in a style of English that must have made them instantly aware I was old enough to be their Mother, I pressed my luck and asked how to change a DVD player to "multi-region", meaning it can play DVD's manufactured in other countries. This time it was "teenychinagal" who responded with a link to her own amateur video tutorial on how precisely to resolve that issue. I spent five minutes watching the video, and three minutes to make a simple change to some hardware settings, and the job was done. Total time spent to resolve both issues? About two hours from diagnoses to "fix". Total cost? $0.00. Total respect from me? Absolute.

While I'm thrilled with the outcome it's also a bit of an embarrassment for me because I have a tendency to bang on about how the internet has depersonalized society. In fact (and I am not making this up) the article I started this week had to do with the role of the internet in effectively "killing" customer service, but it simply isn't true. The problem is me, because I've clearly been visiting the wrong sites. Where the combined wisdom of HP and several highly-trained professionals failed, people who I will never know, and who have absolutely nothing to gain but the fact they were able to help, succeeded.

Come to think of it though, maybe my first column idea was only half wrong; while the internet hasn't killed customer service it's brought to the fore that customer service, real customer service has been dying a slow death for some time. That would certainly explain the existence of on-line help forums in the first place. I would like to think that the people who helped me became so exasperated with the same "technical support" I received that they got together one day and said, "sod all, we can do better than this and we can use goofy screen names at the same time". They certainly did do better than traditional customer service because forums don't just give you an answer, you can get an explanation as well and knowing what causes things to go wrong is the best way to avoid and solve a problem in the future. I would never get a proper explanation from an IT professional, after all, why would they give that information away free of charge? And, I most definitely wouldn't get an explanation from HP tech support because, well, they probably don't have an explanation.

The lesson learned here is that, for a frustrating, unpleasant experience with an unsatisfactory outcome, try traditional customer service. For real knowledge and first-hand experience from people with no agenda, ask your question on a forum. I'm going to start looking for a Subaru forum next week. I'm having trouble with windshield wiper noises in the Outback, and I know there's a Subaru owner somewhere in cyberspace who can tell me best how to fix it.

SEARCHING FOR A JOB? GET TO WORK.

2009-10-16T01:30:00.000+01:00

Now that the recent unpleasantness of partial-unemployment is behind me (having been resolved by acceptance of a rather tasty job offer), I've had time to take a deep breath, review the events connected with being unemployed and make an honest assessment of it all. The conclusion I've come to after hours of beer-filled contemplation is simple: everything about being unemployed is the pits. While this in itself may not be a revelation worthy of publication by The Huffington Post, it does give me an opportunity to offer some realistic observations and tips in the event any readers are or shortly will be among the ever increasing number of job-seekers .

Plan Ahead - If you suspect there may be trouble at your place of employment, it's probably because there is trouble. Don't assume everything is fine simply because your supervisor/co-workers/human resources department says so. Planning ahead is essential in order to take some of the stress off your job search. I'm speaking common sense here; pay down charge cards; avoid making any large purchases and plan where you can make cuts to your budget should you need to. At the very least you'll be prepared, and, if nothing else, you will have reduced your debt.

The Best Time To Look For A Job Is When You Don't Need One - Some wise soul told me this many years ago, and fortunately, I remembered it. I started registering myself on online employment sites and sending out resumes long before I was ever unemployed. It paid off as well; registering for employment sites is time-consuming. Re-writing and tweaking a dusty resume is time-consuming (I re-tooled mine three times before I was satisfied with what I was sending out), and generally taking your time in the beginning will make you more informed about the types of positions that are being advertised.

Avoid Agencies, If Possible - Now, this came as a total shock to me because, in the past, I've always been able to secure at least temporary employment from an agency. This go-round, however, I found I couldn't get so much as arrested, much less an interview, from an employment agency, despite having a vastly-improved resume. I'm not sure why that is, but I expect with a surplus of unemployed willing to work cheaply, the agencies were turning their attention to recent college grads. I continued to send my details into the agencies but got nary a nibble out of it all.

A First-Rate Cover-Letter is Essential - I don't know if this fact is being taught, but if not, you've heard it from me: your resume should be no more than one-page in length, and should be used to outline your basic experience and qualifications. Where you "sell" to a potential employer however, is the cover letter. I always made a point to ask people with whom I was interviewing how many applications they received, and it generally ranged from between 125-175. Now, think of it from a potential employers point of view; after reviewing the third or fourth application it must be a fairly mind-numbing experience. Use your cover letter to grab their attention; refer to your resume and state why you feel your past experience would be an asset to their current job opening and cite parallels between positions, if possible;it will demonstrate you've paid attention to their brief of the position. Your cover letter should also state your salary requirements; no need to get through to the interview stage if you and your potential employer won't be in agreement on this basic matter.

Be Prepared To Be Brutally Honest - In your cover letter and interview, don't be afraid to point out your weaknesses as well as your strengths. If the brief calls for "proficiency in XYZ computer software" and you've only had a passing acquaintance with it in the past, say so. Being honest and expressing a willingness to "bone up" on a particular subject will carry more weight with them be more comfortable for you, and is easier than trying to blag your way through, trust me.

Interviews Are Like Dates - and I never particularly cared for dating. But, what I've learned over the years from dating stood me in good stead for the interview process. Don't assume because you had a good telephone interview, the personal interview will go quite so well. Like dating, the person talking to you may have a completely different mental image of who is on the other end of the phone. Unfair? Yes. An undeniable fact? Also yes. It's important to be on your best behaviour in an interview, but also be yourself. Remember that the person you're speaking to you may be potentially seeing you five days every week for quite some time. Allow your natural self to peep through; it may be exactly what they're looking for. Most importantly though, don't assume that because your date...oops, interview went well, you'll hear from them again. I had several excellent interviews where I was specifically told I would be back for the second selection process, and I never heard from them again. It's sad, but, just like dating, there's plenty of competition out there. Move on.

The Bureau of Labor Statistics stated that there were a reported 15.0 million unemployed in the United States in May, 2010 so if you are currently (or soon to be) unemployed, take small comfort in the fact you're not alone. But, be aware that looking for work is, in itself, work. I hope my own experiences in the employment piranha-pool will save you some steps, provide some ideas, or both. Sermon over. Normal service will resume (no pun intended) next week.

CONFRONTATION, ENTERTAINMENT AT ITS BEST

2009-10-09T23:15:00.000+01:00

Since the flu bug I picked up last week is still with me, I've had a lot of time to lay about the house feeling miserable and sorry for myself. As much fun as this can be at times it can also be pretty boring so in an effort to be productive I tried something new; I became addicted to BBC's The Apprentice.

I don't typically watch this 12-week reality series because of an unpredictable schedule but also because it's so unreal. If we're honest, is there anyone who believes that the candidates are selected for their potential as employees and not for the group dynamic and personal conflicts that the producers are hoping to promote for the sake of ratings? Of course we don't believe it. However real or unreal, the formula does work. Take me for example; thanks to an enforced confinement and the generosity of a person called "ebeleys" at a certain video-sharing website, in the past two days I've watched the complete first series and I'm halfway through series three. I'm hooked.

For sheer entertainment, you can't beat it. First, there are the candidates. In series one (as in most series probably), it was a fairly mixed bag of individuals including managers from all sectors; communications, direct sales, hotel, retail, etc. I believe some of them were really in it for the advancement opportunity and larger salary but on the other side there was an investment banker, a property developer, a financial analyst and an internet entrepreneur. Each one of these candidates waxed poetic about what successful businessmen they were, but how successful are you really if you would give up your lucrative business to work as an apprentice to Sir Alan Sugar for a paltry 100,000 quid a year? Can you say "launchpad to bigger things"? I can.

Nevertheless, the premise of the show is that each candidate demonstrate their intelligence and business acumen by going through a series of tasks arranged by Sir Alan to prove who is the best qualified. I have respect for the candidates because some of the tasks looked extremely difficult, but if we're honest, that's not why we watch. The real reason we watch is for the confrontation between the candidates, and Sir Alan does confrontation very well. All the participants live in the same house (confrontation). Initially they are paired off into "boy" versus "girl" teams (confrontation). After a few tasks and no small amount of backstabbing, Sir Alan shifts groups around (confrontation) and each losing team leader must select two team members to go with him/her to "the firing line" (confrontation). Let's face it, The Apprentice is a twelve-week train wreck, and we can't not watch.

Despite all the education and experience professed by the candidates, the smartest man by far is Sir Alan Sugar himself. He really is my type of boss. A self-made millionaire who left school at the age of sixteen, he has a brusque East End accent, he says "bloody awful" a lot, he calls people "nutters" (among other things), and most important to my viewing pleasure, he cuts to the quick any nonsense being talked by the candidates (more confrontation). I know bulls**t when I hear it, and I sit grinning on the edge of my chair waiting for Sir Alan to verbally dismember the candidates and unceremoniously hand their heads back to them (third-party confrontation).

Maybe that's why we enjoy The Apprentice, and shows like it, so much. We can root for the best, 'hiss' at the worst, enjoy a little confrontation, and in the comfort of our own homes, no one gets hurt.

READ ALL ABOUT IT! (WITHOUT BEING BORED).

2009-10-07T23:32:00.000+01:00

If you have read more than one or two of my columns, you've already sorted out that I'm no student of serious journalism. Certainly I can string sentences together fairly well and I'm also quite proficient in the art of spell-check. I write in what's been described by people who owe me money as a "light hearted" and "enjoyably readable" style, but if I was challenged with writing a serious piece of journalistic work on any subject, you may have a long wait. I have no doubt I could deliver the goods, but the topic would probably be obsolete by the time you had the chance to read it.

This isn't a reflection on my ability but to me, "journalism" means "serious", and I leave that to those more talented than myself. Even Messers Meriam and Webster define journalism as "writing characterized by a direct presentation of facts or description of events without an attempt at interpretation", which means I am automatically disqualified.

Fortunately, there are plenty of others who take their journalism seriously, and I read quite a bit of their work. Living in the Nation's Capitol means having access to most hard copy newspapers (Washington Post, Baltimore Sun, Philadelphia Enquirer and New York Times are all available at the corner store), and of course, unlimited resources on the internet. I read, or try to read, one newspaper a day and two, if I can manage it. Typically, it's the Washington Post and (British newspapers), the Telegraph or Express; they all present factual articles in a simple, unbiased and straightforward manner. So simple and straightforward in fact, that at times it can be a bit of a bore. Here are some article titles from the 1 October edition of the Washington Post:

News
U.S., Allies, Begin Nuclear Talks With Iran

Health Care Reform: Panel Expects Vote Next Week
Courts To Decide If State Gun Laws Violate Rights
Number Of People Receiving HIV Drugs Rises
Al-Maliki Forms New Coalition Ahead Of Elections

Sports
Dodgers Fail To Win NL West
Griffey Homers, Morrow Pitches Seattle Past Oakland
Redskins Allow Lions To End 19-Game Losing Streak

Lifestyle
Spielberg, Lucas, Bring Rockwell To Museum
The Brain That Won Us The Cold War
Art Auction Price May Be Local Record
Gospel-Choir Competition Brings Pitch-Perfect Praise to Verizon Center
Taking A Shine to a Museum Photo Project
Home Front: Your Design Dilemmas Solved

No matter how informative and important these articles may be, the titles aren't likely to pique your interest after a hard day at the office. When your attention span and threshold of boredom are low you need a real attention-grabbing title to make you sit up and take notice, and for that you need go no further than my guilty pleasure, the British newspaper Daily Mirror. One look at their titles and you know you're in for a good read. In contrast to the Washington Post, here are some titles from the 1 October edition of the Mirror, and I am not making any of them up:

News:
Top 10 Most Bizarre Items For Sale On Ebay

Paris Jackson Blames Gig Chiefs For Father Michael's Death
Labour Launch Election Battle With Hell-Vision of Britain Under David Cameron
Strange Maps of the World
Arm Transplant Dad Tells of Amazing Operation
Safe Sex for the over-50's

Sport:
If Arsenal Wenger is the Daddy, Who's the Embarrassing Uncle?
Charm School Could Give Gosden a Hat-Trick in Cambridgeshire
Miracle-Man Massa Back on Track

Lifestyle:
Chocolate Heidi: Find Out Why Pregnant Heidi Klum Is Covered in Chocolate.
You Really, Really Don't Want To Know Whose Camel-toe This Is
What Do Kids Really Know About Sex?
Our Babies Will Have Two Mums and One Dad!
Diet Like it was 1959.
Why Do People in Relationships Cheat?

Alright, so it's not Pulitzer Prize-winning material, but the Mirror is still a legitimate newspaper with a circulation of over 1,324,000 daily, and while you may not be as enlightened after reading the Mirror, you're certainly more entertained. The Mirror has got it right with the titles as well. If given the choice of reading these two articles from 1 October, Art Auction Price May Be Local Record or Top 10 Most Bizarre Items For Sale On Ebay, honestly, which one will you read first?

So, Washington Post and similar newspapers, take a tip from the Mirror and de-bore your titles. Instead of Courts To Decide If State Gun Laws Violate Rights try Will Court Hitmen Take Pot-Shots at Gun Control?, or something equally silly. I'm sure you'll attract the attention of more readers.

Unlike me, your writers can do it. They're all serious journalists.

NORMAL SERVICE WILL RESUME....TRUST ME

2009-10-02T20:35:00.013+01:00

This week I wrote a column that I decided was nothing short of brilliant. Unfortunately, I have flu and was running a high fever at the time of my epiphany, so my judgement may have been a bit off and the article may not be as good as I think. Nevertheless, while under the spell of illness I decided, because of the subject matter (newspapers), I should submit it to The Washington Post for inclusion in their Op-Ed section.

Unfortunately, one of the requirements of the Washington Post is that anything they consider for publication cannot already be published in any other medium, including a personal blog, which means I can't post it here tomorrow as scheduled.

But don't despair, readers. I'm sure the professionals at the Washington Post will do the right thing and kick it back to me with the usual "Thanks, but no thanks" at which time I can publish it here. If they have well and truly lost their minds and decide my bit of nonsense is exactly what the Washington Post is looking for, after picking myself up off the floor I will include a link to it at that time.

At any rate, normal service at Notes From The Light Side will resume next week.

E-COMPATIBILITY = INCOMPATIBILITY

2009-09-26T08:45:00.001+01:00

If you watch any amount of cable television during the course of a week, you've seen this ad: couples lovingly talk about how an on-line dating site brought them happiness beyond their wildest dreams and only through the thoroughness of the on-line questionnaire were they able to find true compatibility. I won't say the name of the site, but it starts with 'e" and ends with "h-a-r-m-o-n-y".

I'm very happy for the people I see in the ads. They seem to enjoy each other and believe in the service they were provided and in fairness they are compatible; each couple seems to have a desperate need to be on television.

I'm not convinced with the service though. Maybe I'm just old-fashioned, but I believe that the process of personal discovery plays a large role in the establishment of a long-term relationship; getting to know each others personality and strengths while exercising tolerance with what you may find annoying is part of the whole "relationship" package. As an added bonus, it's just plain fun. So, where's the fun in finding that out by taking the equivalent of an SAT? It's definitely not of interest to me, but in fairness to That Site and, if I'm honest my own curiosity, I decided I needed to find out what's what by going through the application process myself.

I registered on the site, and I am now a 55 year old male from California called Robert. The lengthly questionnaire starts with the most basic information; how much money I make, what's my religious belief, and the all-important description of my appearance. Fortunately, the questions are gender non-specific, so I didn't have to fib. You are also asked to fill out your criteria for the wealth, religion and appearance of your future partner. Once that's done, the real fun begins because you are met with page after page after page of required information divided into the categories of Self Description, Personal Characteristics, Relationships and Values, Important Qualities in a Partner, Personal Interests, Basic Living Skills and Basic Matching Information. Some questions are answered either True or False, but the majority of information is answered by degrees graduating from "Strongly Agree" to "Strongly Disagree". It's nothing if not thorough and because there are over ten pages of information to be completed I won't go into detail about what's asked; after all, I'm doing this so you don't have to. I can tell you one of my favorites was "I waste my time". I answered "Strongly Disagree" and fortunately my boss didn't see what I was up to and strongly disagree with me. After that process is completed there are quite a few essay-type questions, and the answers supplied show up verbatim in your profile in the event your future partner wants to check you for spelling and grammar I suppose. Once the essay portion is completed, there's the matter of reviewing the five page, small-print Terms of Service Agreement, then deciding which "Subscription Plan" you want. Depending on the length of subscription, the price can range from $23.95-$44.95 per month, but, shamefully, the network went down before I could complete my payment.

The entire process was so mind-numbingly tedious, I think I would have preferred to transcribe the O.J. Simpson Trial. Nevertheless, as not to corrupt the results, "Robert" answered all of the questions with a reasonable degree of honesty and effort, and according to the eight-page profile created for him in only two hours based on my answers, he's really a nice guy. He is described as sensitive, responsible, democratic, contemplative, fair, proper, self-aware, accepting, rational, witty, charming, passionate, diplomatic, able to cope, receptive, reliable, organized, dependable, genuine, amiable, relaxed, poised, temperate, solid and laid-back. Face it ladies, he's quite a catch.

I'm still not convinced though. I truly believe that attraction is a chemical reaction based on the five senses, and in the "courting" process, you discover the rest. In contrast, e-compatibility is an academic exercise, as refreshing as stale beer, and not altogether reliable. Look at the case of "Robert"; no matter how much Joan in El Segundo or Sara in West Hollywood ** are convinced of their compatibility with him, they still don't know "he" is in reality, me.

**Since I didn't complete the payment process, no females were harmed in the writing of this column.

BOND VILLAIN NOW HIRING

2009-09-19T00:01:00.002+01:00

Good old BBC America. Every now and again, say after showing their smash reality show My Big Breasts and Me for the 51st time, they come through with something I enjoy. This month they are replaying selected James Bond films and that's great news for me because I love a Bond film. Any Bond film. Even one with Roger Moore as 007, which is what BBCA is showing.

Unfortunately, I have a love/hate relationship with their latest offering, Moonraker. On one hand I love it because it has a great evil genius, Hugo Drax (shown, played by Michael Lonsdale). Then there's the character of "Holly Goodhead", an astronaut-slash-Bond Girl with a name second only to Goldfinger's "Pussy Galore" in terms of improbablility. It also has a good musical score with a lovely theme song performed by Shirley Bassey. The problem with this film though, is somewhere in the middle it appears that the director and/or screenwriter started experimenting with the fumes from model airplane glue because, for no apparent reason, the wheels start to come off. The film dissolves into a series of farcical gags featuring the steel-toothed henchman, called "Jaws" trying his best to kill Bond while generally acting silly and pulling faces that would have made Tommy Cooper, Red Skelton or any one of The Three Stooges proud. It's a complete embarrassment to watch, so you go for coffee and a sandwich until the production team sober up and get on with it, which they eventually do.

If you're not familiar with Moonraker, here is the plot in a nutshell. Hugo Drax, evil billionaire and genius, decides to take out the entire human race (as you do) by escaping to his personal space station with six space shuttles and a group of hand-picked couples a la Noah's ark. His plan is to launch a necklace of satellites around the earth to release a deadly poison into the atmosphere fatal only to humans then return to start a New World Order. No, really, that's the plot but surprisingly, the film is not bad.

With such an ambitious plan you can imagine in order to carry out his dream of world domination, Drax has a very complex system of companies employing what must be thousands of people around the world, and maybe because of the current economic climate (but more, I suspect, the beer I was drinking) while I watched the film this time, I wondered: where does he get his help? Does the Drax HR Department outsource? Hire temp-to-perm? Use professional headhunters? Maybe they do things the old fashioned way and advertise in the local newspaper but I have to think that given the nature of his operation the ad would have a few warning signs. How far in arrears on your mortgage payment would you have to be to answer this:

COME JOIN THE DRAX TEAM! If you are an enthusiastic, team player with an eye toward the future, the Drax Corporation want to hear from you. We are beginning work on an exciting new global project, and qualified candidates are being sought in the following areas: terrestrial and celestial construction, manufacturing, import/export, supply management, heavy goods transportation, real-estate acquisitions and development, multi-media and computer specialties, travel services, administrative (all areas), aircraft piloting and maintenance, aerospace technology and logistics, hazardous biochemical systems delivery, space shuttle piloting and maintenance, security (special training provided), and attractive females with experience in seduction and treachery.

Employment is offered in our branches in Los Angeles, Rio de Janiero, Rome and Outer Space. Length of employment varies on location; long-term employees will be required to relocate temporarily to the Drax Space Station.

Our generous benefit package includes salary commensurate with experience, weapons training, free travel, free uniforms and free burial services for terrestrial-based employees. Room and board, employer-sponsored health care and 401(k) plan provided to long-term, celestial-based employees and seductive females only. The Drax Corporation is an Equal Opportunity Employer.

No phone calls please.

It doesn't sound very promising but with current national unemployment at an approximate rate of 9.5 percent, I'm sure Drax would have no shortage of applicants. And, there's one benefit the recruiters didn't mention; the possible chance to seduce James Bond, 007.

Gentlemen, my application is on its way.

WASHINGTON DC, LAND OF THE LOST

2009-09-12T12:00:00.001+01:00

A few months back I mentioned in a column that I think SatNav is a useless toy in a car, but I'm beginning to doubt that now. If anyone needs SatNav, it's anyone living in Washington DC and its environs.

For a start, there's the traffic. Washington DC is, according to which survey you read, either the fourth or fifth most congested city in the United States, although anyone sitting in DC traffic will argue that it's undoubtedly the first. Interstate 495, also known as the Capitol Beltway, the major ring road feeding traffic in and out of the city is a daily commuting nightmare. Even in the best weather conditions and no accident delays, the sheer volume of cars attempting to navigate the roads ensures a lengthly stress-filled journey . That's a good argument for SatNav right there as it's wise to have a minimum three alternate traffic avoidance routes to get to your destination.

But the real joy, and where SatNav is almost a necessity, is when you finally arrive in Washington DC proper, as proved once again the other evening when I got lost on a seemingly easy journey. I truly believe the city layout was designed under the geometric principle that the shortest distance between Point A and Point B is a cube.

Now, I have to say I have a very good sense of direction. In the years I lived in Los Angeles, London and Philadelphia, I never got lost. Never. I did once get lost in Cincinnati, but probably because I was hoping to permanently find a way out. However, in Washington, unless I know the exact route I need to take, I can almost guarantee I'll guess wrong and end up on a dead end street, or the Anacostia Freeway, which in my opinion is the same thing.

At this point I was going to give you my own description of Washington's street layout but after the fifth draft I was totally befuddled and longing for Cincinnati. So I'm borrowing the following abridged, but very accurate description from Wikipedia. Brace yourselves readers, this is the simplest description I could find:

"At the center of the design is the U.S. Capitol, from which four quadrants radiate along the four compass directions, Northwest, Southwest, Northeast and Southeast. The four quadrants are separated by North Capitol Street, South Capitol Street and East Capitol Street, with a line travelling due west serving as the fourth demarcation line. Streets that are oriented north/south are designated by numbers and count upwards from east to west in the
Northwest and Southwest quadrants of the city, starting at the Capitol; these streets repeat in the Northast and Southeast quadrants, counting upwards from west to east going away from the Capitol."

Confused yet? Wait. It gets better.

"Streets that are oriented east/west use a single letter of the alphabet, thus, east-to-west
streets "count" upwards from south to north in NW and NE and likewise repeat in the opposite direction from SW to SE. Street numbers count upwards travelling outward from the dividing lines of the quadrants. "A" Street, as named, is only found in NE and SE. in NW and SW,
the roads that would have been known as "A" Street are known as Madison Drive NW, and Jefferson Drive SW."

And, for sheer folly it seems, the city planners did this:

"There is no "J" Street in any quadrant. North of the Mall, the road that once was "B" Street NE and NW is now named Constitution Avenue; south of the mall the corresponding street is named Independence Avenue. There is also no "X", "Y" or "Z" Streets. "I" Street, "Q" Street and "U" Streets are alternately called "Eye", "Que" and "You" Streets to avoid confusion with other lettered streets."

After reading that I imagine some are thinking, "How can she be confused by that? There's nothing to it.". To which I reply, come to Washington DC without SatNav or a navigator (read: wife or girlfriend), anytime between 0700 and 2000 hours, or whenever there is inclement weather, a parade, a demonstration, a free concert on the Capitol lawn or a marathon. I'll wave to you as you drive by the third time trying to sort out where you need to go and how best to get there.

As an interesting sidenote, while looking over the internet I've found there are some very committed citizens who believe the city's quirky configuration is the result of architect and Freemason Pierre Charles L'Enfant's efforts to hide certain occultic and Luciferic symbols within the layout of the city. Whether this is true or not is the subject for a possibly heated Masonic debate, but anyone trying to navigate Washington DC without knowing precisely where they are going will probably agree that the confusing streets may well be the work of the Devil.

UN-FAIR HOUSING

2009-09-03T21:02:00.012+01:00

I'm afraid I'm going to be a bit irritable and politically incorrect this week, and you can blame it on my neighbor. Her name is Jennifer, but I call her the "Good Humor Lady". She always carries a keyring so chock full of keys it would make a building superintendent jealous and since she doesn't work she's in and out of her unit at all hours, playing a chorus of "Jingle Bells" as she walks down the lengthly corridor.

GHL greted me this morning as I was rushing off late to work and announced, "Have you heard? They're moving all of us to different units!" Not your normal "hello" mind, but then, you don't know Jennifer.

The "all of us" she was referring to meant the tenants living in my condominium complex under Section 8, the subsidized housing arrangement sponsored by my city of residence. In my 476-unit complex, approximately 25% of the units are owned/operated by the city and rented out at reduced rates to disadvantaged citizens.

GHL went on to tell me that the reason for the tenant movement was because the city was completely remodelling all of the Section 8 units in the complex, installing new cabinets, bathroom fittings, carpets, window treatments, the lot. She told me she had already seen one of the re-decorated units, described in detail the new countertops in the kitchen, and then she made the mistake of asking, "Isn't that great"? My reply was less then cordial and I answered "Yeah, its great for you ."

I'd like to think my ungracious attitude was because it was early and I was running late, or the fact Jennifer is annoying at the best of times, but I'm rather more ashamed to say, I'm angry. I'm angry that my neighbor, who can work but doesn't (I know this to be fact; she collects Social Security Disability and once told me she doesn't want to work if she doesn't have to) has a unit nicer than my own courtesy of the City, and is shortly going to get a better one. I'm angry that I have to pay for condo maintenance and she doesn't, courtesy of the City. I'm angry that her monthly rental is approximately 35% less than my mortgage payment, courtesy of the City, and I'm angry of the fact that, despite holding down two jobs, I couldn't possibly afford the home improvements she and the other Section 8 tenants are getting free, courtesy of the City. The icing on the cake is I get to pay the City, in the form of tax dollars, for all the anger I'm feeling.

Before I get bad mail about this, let me say that I know many of my Section 8 neighbors and I'm quite fond of a few of them; there's the man who lives down the hall, retired from Amtrak who suffers from diabetes. He always has a nice word to say and talks to my dog while she sits on my balcony waiting for me to come home; there's the elderly lady who used to live in the unit that GHL occupies. She was close to my late partner and me, and brought food over to me more than once after his death because she thought I wasn't taking care of myself properly. Then there's the wheelchair-bound lady who never seems to have a bad mood, and who made my Mother's day once by saying she thought Mom and I were sisters....

Hang on, maybe I've got this wrong. It's not Section 8 or the remodeling that I have a problem with at all. It's Jennifer the GHL, and people like her who work the System, take unfair advantage of it, and then remind the rest of us that it happens that makes me angry.

And the person I'm most angry with right now? Me, for letting it get to me in the first place. Rant over.

THE 80'S ARE BACK! GREAT.....I THINK.

2009-08-27T21:05:00.015+01:00

When it comes to shopping for clothes and shoes, I'm a bit simple. I know what I like to wear, I know who sells it, I know which sizes of which items fit me best so on the internet I go, click-click-click and there. Clothes shopping done. In fact these days the only time I seem to go out to do any shopping at all is when an item just can't wait, like something for the house, or a new DVD I want. Since I haven't done any proper clothes shopping for ages, I really don't notice fashion trends, so I was completely surprised to recently hear two women talking about how fashions of the 80's are coming back in style.

I was very excited to hear this because the 80's was my favorite decade. For everyone there is a time in life where the world is all excitement, fun and new experiences and the 80's was my time for that. I lived in a new city, had a new career, new friends, fun aplenty, and since the city I'm talking about is Los Angeles, people had to look gooooood.

It was easy to look good in the 80's because, well, there was so much to look at. A quick check into my 80's wardrobe closet would have revealed at least 10 different electric colored jackets, blouses, slacks, skirts, oversized knits and leggings of varying prints and patterns, all interchangeable of course. Naturally, there were the matching leg warmers, matching floppy socks and matching shoes and boots. If I wasn't tidy, the bottom of my wardrobe might well have looked like an explosion at a paint factory. Then there were the obligatory hair accessories, plastic bracelets and ear rings (again, in all colors), ripped sweat-shirts a la Jennifer Beals in Flashdance and studded leather jewelry and fishnet gloves a la Madonna. Other than the designer brands, jeans were non grata, and flat shoes outside ankle boots were absolutely verboten. For anyone who wasn't fully grown in the 80's and can't quite comprehend the nature of 80's fashion, here's a tip: rent the movie Purple Rain. It'll become crystal clear to you, believe me.

I was well dressed in the 80's. My job required it, I enjoyed it and despite it looking a bit complicated, it was surprisingly comfortable as fashion goes. It could even be practical. Having a bad hair day? No need to worry, just apply some spiking hair gel or spray and, way-hey, a new style is born. So, would I wear these fashions today? Absolutely. Would it still feel comfortable? Yes, I think so. Could I get way with it? Ummm.....in a photo-shoot with ten or more 1980's models wearing the same fashions, probably, but on my own at a local Chinese take-out, probably not. I think I'd look like one of those school chaperones who gets up to dance with the kids.

Still, these fashions looked good then, they look good now and I'd like to wear them again. So, Christie Brinkley, Paulina Porizkova, Elle MacPherson et al, let's show the world that 80's fashions are fun whatever your age. We know. We dressed that way...in the 80's.

A CLASS(LESS) REUNION

2009-08-20T23:18:00.015+01:00

Some time ago, while either very bored or very drunk, I registered with my graduating class of 197? on the website Classmates.com. Typically social sites don't have much interest for me but I probably had a moment of nostalgia after hearing music by Earth Wind & Fire or England Dan and John Ford Coley. It's unusual that I registered with this social site in particular because, there's no other way to say it, I absolutely hated high school.

My memories of high school consist mainly of mind-numbing tedium and desperate unhappiness at being a social outcast and the butt of ridicule and taunts (I was a bit of a fattie). High school wasn't a happy experience, it was something to be endured; a requirement I had to fulfill before I could go out and get a proper job. There was the occasional break in the clouds though; the drama club, where I won a Best Supporting Actress award one year, the fencing lessons, the orchestra and marching band (thanks Uncle John for the use of the clarinet), and the college-level sociology class I took in my senior year, memorable for being a "by application only" class and one of the very few courses where I felt challenged and never ditched.

Given my dismal high school experience I was expecting not to recognize the names of anyone who had already registered on Classmates.com but surprisingly I did. My name must have jogged a few memories for others because several people have signed my guestbook; sadly the site makes you pay extra to read them and I don't want to dole out the cash. Never mind, because if people want to reach you they can email you from the information on your profile. Since registering I've received several emails; one from someone telling me of an upcoming Band reunion (meaning I must be on a list in someone's house), and recently I've received an email from an old classmate asking if I'd like to participate in an upcoming class reunion activity. Now, that's a problem for me. You see, up until now I've never attended any of my class reunions. Either I wasn't living in the area or as in the case of the latest reunion, I didn't find out in time. Now, thanks to high tech if I choose not to participate I really have no excuse...now they know where I live.

Some friends say that I should attend and if I'm honest part of me is curious, but then the other part of me asks, why on Earth would I want to? I'm sure many of the participating alumni stayed friends over the years or at a minimum, kept in touch. They probably have many good memories of the high school experience and see the reunion as chance to rekindle old friendships. On the other side of the coin there's me, who intentionally put high school as far out of mind as quickly as possible. I keep in touch with one close friend from my school days (she was a social outcast as well), but as for the others, my memories of them are vague at best and painful at worst. "Maybe you need to go now -- put it all behind you", said one of my friends. Frankly I put it all behind me years ago. But for Classmates.com and an email from a seemingly very nice lady high school would be light years from my mind.

If I go to the reunion I think the most I can expect is a mildly pleasant evening. Mind you, not because of any resurfacing painful memories of high school but for the simple fact that time has passed and I've moved on. I think that now, just as it seemed to me then, my former classmates and I probably have nothing, absolutely nothing in common.

So despite my curiosity I think I'll pass on the reunion this time and instead spend a pleasant evening with some people who actually know me. It'll be less expensive, less stressful, and I won't even have to wear make-up.

IF THERE'S CASH FOR CLUNKERS, I'M A MILLIONAIRE.

2009-08-14T22:44:00.016+01:00

As my many faithful readers (cough) will remember, last month I wrote about new cars and new car shopping (What's Wrong With Just Driving?) and in my continuing quest for automotive education, I've been reading up a bit on the government-sponsored stimulus package, the Car Allowance Rebate System (CARS). Real people like me call it Cash for Clunkers.

Without going into too much detail -- it is a government-sponsored plan, after all -- the Bill was introduced by the House and Senate as an incentive for consumers to purchase more fuel-efficient vehicles. I suspect getting people into a showroom to spend money had something to do with it as well, but the government won't tell you that. In the Bill, the new-car buyer receives a rebate provided their trade-in vehicle and purchase meet the following guidelines:

- the trade-in value of the used car is less than $4500
- the trade-in vehicle is less than 25 years old
- the trade-in is rated on the government website www.cars.gov as having a combined MPG of 18 MPG or less

If the trade-in vehicle fulfills these requirements and

- the new vehicle has a combined MPG rating of 22 or higher, the buyer receives $3500 or,
- the new vehicle gets a combined MPG of 10 over the MPG of the trade-in, the buyer receives $4500

The Bill calls for all "Clunkers" turned in to be hauled away as scrap, which has the environmentalists up in arms, but that's up to the talking heads in Washington to debate. Besides, who cares about the environment when someone waves $3500-$4500 under your nose?

Reading up on the plan got me thinking about all the ancient pre-owned cars in my life, and I came to the conclusion that if Cash for Clunkers had always been around, I could have made/saved a small fortune. Here, in order of purchase, is the Huggins inventory of Clunkers past.

1964 PLYMOUTH VALIANT - my favorite car of all, probably because it was the first. Bought for $75, we used to joke that the car was so indestructable, it could drive over a dumpster undamaged. Built before the days of undercoating, my foot went through the bodywork of the rear panel while I was kicking snow away from the tire one morning, but it still had four wheels and was warmer than the bus shelter. Sold it for $75.

1965 PLYMOUTH VALIANT - If a Valiant worked once, I figured it would work again. Painted a lovely gold color with only minor staining on the seats, this one even had a radio and a working heater.

1971 FORD PINTO HATCHBACK - What substance was I smoking when I bought this one? Lime green exterior with a forest green interior in lovely vinyl, it had the popular Landau roof that so many cars had those days. But it did look modern compared with the two Valiants and I was so anal about this car I dragged my stepdad to a junkyard because the badge was missing from the back. Finding a replacement was easy, there were a lot of Pinto's in the junkyard. I didn't learn my lesson though because my next car was a,

1979 FORD PINTO HATCHBACK - Yes, I can't get enough of a bad thing. To be honest, this was quite a good car. By 1979 Ford had fixed the Pinto's pesky exploding gas-tank problem and it never had a breakdown. This little car got me and everything I owned all the way from Washington DC to Los Angeles when I moved to L.A. in the 80's, and ran many, many miles after that with only regular maintenance. Why is it in the Clunker category then? It had a burnt-orange exterior and a light orange interior and it was.....a Pinto.

1983 TOYOTA COROLLA - Toyota's have a reputation for good quality, but they must have forgotten that when they made the second-hand one I bought. Rough handling, jerky transmission and an uncomfortable ride all 'round, I sold this to a dealer for cash (and with money out of pocket) just to get rid of it.

1982 VW RABBIT - A great little car this, but it really qualified as a clunker because it had a diesel engine and was incredibly awkward to shift gears. Being a diesel, it sounded like a truck, and when I moved back to Washington, I realized diesels + cold weather = bad news. It met it's end when the engine hydrolocked about 100 yards from the entrance to the Baltimore Harbor Tunnel.

And, the best clunker of 'em all,

1993 FORD FESTIVA - After the 1964 Valiant, my absolute favorite car. Fun, easy to drive, inexpensive to own, this car could navigate snow and ice almost as good as my current car, the Subaru Outback. My mechanic once told me that the engine on the Festiva would still be running long after the body rusted away. I hope the couple I foolishly sold it to are taking very good care of it. Why then is it a clunker? Cut and paste this link to find out:

http://www.atozautolights.com/images/AutoPhotos/FOFE8893.jpg

Mind you, these aren't all the cars I've owned, these are just the clunkers. So, President Obama, members of the House and Senate, please make Cash for Clunkers 25 years retroactive. I could pay off a lot of bills.

Or buy a restored Ford Festiva.

PLASTIC SURGERY? NO THANK YOU, I'D RATHER BUY DVD'S

2009-08-06T01:39:00.014+01:00

This Sunday, August 9, I turn 29 years old yet again (real age known only to close relatives, the Division of Motor Vehicles and the Passport Office), and Mom called earlier in the week to invite me to a slap-up meal to celebrate. In the course of the phone call, Mom did what she does often these days, and asked me to "ask your computer a question". My computer answered questions about Vitamin A and the nutritional properties of tomatoes, but the intersting question was about a procedure she'd seen on television called Lifestyle Lift, or a one-hour facelift (Bad Sign #1) supposed to be able to take years off your face, or some such nonsense. Their official website didn't give me much information about the procedures available (Bad Sign #2), but after reading Mom some of the negative information from unhappy patients, she decided it wasn't for her.

While there was no connection between my 29th birthday yet again and the facial plastic surgery question, when I came home that evening I did begin to scrutinize every pore on my face and wonder if at my age I needed some "work" done. Surprisingly, I was fairly happy with what I saw in the mirror. For a woman my age who doesn't take particularly good care of herself, my only complaint is some lines on my forehead and some modest crow's feet around the eyes, and I justified all of them by saying "well, at least I got them by laughing!" Done. There's $6,000-$7,000 that won't be leaving my bank account.

Now, there's nothing wrong with plastic surgery. To be honest, if I had a spare $100 large in the bank and nothing else to do I have no doubt I would get the old forehead ironed out in a jiffy. I can even see instances where cosmetic plastic surgery is necessary, say, as an adjunctive therapy for depression, or if you were presenting a morning show on television, or worse than that, you're the wife of a plastic surgeon. But for other people in general, and me in particular I ask, what's the point?

These days, I'm happiest at home. After working two jobs, having a social life and running errands, it's a great feeling to come to Huggins House and close the door on the rest of the world. So instead of Plastic Surgery, (something for others to look at and enjoy), I'd buy "stuff " (something for me to look at and enjoy).

Topping the "stuff" v Plastic Surgery shopping list at the moment are:

a flooring contractor to re-finish my beautiful but worn wood floors
new kitchen appliances, just in case I decide to cook something
new verticle blinds throughout
a custom-tailored, double-breasted black pinstripe suit with slacks AND skirt
a high-limit credit account at Play.com, one of the UK's leading retailer of DVD's

and the ultimate purchase,

a large, flat screen, wall-mounted HD television with region free DVD player and home theatre stereo ***

Who knows? In five years time I may opt for the surgery, but I'd rather like to think I'm still happy with life and the way I've aged and instead, enjoy my quiet time at home and play another DVD on my big-screen.

(***List not intended as a solicitation for birthday presents, but if you're interested in making a purchase for me, I'll give you my home address.)

MEMO TO CO-WORKERS: GO AWAY MORE OFTEN, PLEASE

2009-08-01T18:38:00.011+01:00

This past week was one of the most relaxing times in the office I've had in months. My workload was actually a bit heavier than normal but overall, it was a calm, orderly, productive and relatively stress-free 40 hours. The reason? Simple. Half the office staff was on vacation, so it was possible to get things done.

Now, it has to be said that I like my co-workers, but the truth is that I spend more of my waking moments with them than with anyone else in my life, so it's not surprising that they've gotten on my nerves. In fairness to them I suppose they can say the same about me, but I'd rather not admit it.

What didn't I miss about my co-workers this past week? Well, I'm going to make a short list, and before I'm accused of being petty, I'd like to think of this piece as an exercise to help me cope and deal effectively with my co-workers in an efficient and business-like manner. There. That's my story. I'm sticking to it.

The Kid: This man still needs Mother. He doesn't know how to put staples in the stapler, always leaves 1/16 mm of coffee in the pot, leaves faxes and mail laying about without regard to the receipients, won't answer his own phone, and lets the copier run out of paper without re-filling it. Niggling little things but annoying nonetheless, and if you're on a deadline and number fifteen in the print-queue because the paper tray is empty it's maddening.

The Perfume/Men's Cologne Counter: You can smell these people coming before they open the door, and they're with you long after they leave. While not necessarily time-wasters, these are the irritating people who will stop to ask when I plan to give up smoking. In a Perfect World my answer would be, "when you stop wearing fake Obsession/Paco Rabanne".

The Mom: I really like this woman but do I really want to hear about her children's grades, awards and athletic achievements? An occasional update is fine, but an in-depth report running about an hour long several times a week is too much. There's a reason I didn't have children, and all those activities is one of them.

The Partner: not a nickname; he really is a partner in the business, and he's keen to call me "his secretary" to anyone he wants to impress (I'm not his secretary). He constantly disrupts my day by having me do work for his other business and he's also one of the classic loud-talkers on the planet. I know more than I ever cared to know about him, his wife, his other business ventures, how much money he has, what he owns, what he wants and who he wants to sleep with. Is there any way to turn the volume down on someone like this? Not if he's one of the two signatures on your paycheck.

There are more, but anyone who has spent any time in an office environment knows the types I've described, and readers here probably have some classic stories of their own. If you do, please let me know by adding your co-worker story in the "comment" section. Alternately, if you're not a "comment-er", you can email your co-worker tale to me at lightsidenotes@gmail.com.

So much for the stress-free week; time to enjoy the rest of the weekend because guess what? My co-workers will ALL be back on Monday.

DAYTIME TELEVISION MAY HAVE SAVED MY CAREER

2009-07-25T00:42:00.008+01:00

Today is what my friend Cyndi used to call a "mental health day" but I prefer to be realistic and call it a "I-can't-take-it-one-more-bloody-day" day.

Yes, I feigned illness and called out sick from work. My plans were to take advantage of the unscheduled down time and run some errands that include taking the dog to the vet, grocery shopping, working on my column and general housekeeping. Unfortunately, other than going to the vet and beginning to work on this column, nothing else is getting done because I have become addicted to the misery that is daytime television viewing.

I say misery not because of the unrealistic tales of woe in "daytime drama" (aka "soaps"), but the countless court shows, shock shows and reality television designed to entertain the unemployed, students on summer break and retirees. This must be the audience this programming is geared towards, judging by the advertising. First, the lawyers who will get you money for your auto accident, your disability, your Social Security claims, and for that medical malpractice suit they are certain you will file as soon as they tell you that you will win millions. Second, the car-title loan people who, with a pleasant jingle, tell you to take their money and, hey, you can even keep your car (for now). The least offensive ads are for the technical/trade schools which encourage said audience to get off their arses and advance themselves through further education; a noble message but I've counted at least eight in one thirty-minute program, and I'm beginning to doubt even my own career choice.

So, instead of using my time productively, so far I've watched several divorce cases, people suing over cell phone bills, damaged property, unpaid rent and utilities, unpaid loans, unpaid bail, vicious dogs, vicious neighbors, and shows about paternity tests, out-of-control teens, and cheating partners. Heck, even my old standy BBC America is in on it, albeit to a lesser extent. We have Gordon Ramsay trying to save a failing restaurant, Ruth Watson trying to save a failing hotel, Gillian McKeith yelling at fat people, and The Apprentice.

What I've learned on my illicit day off is that daytime television is all about pain, misery, human anguish, suffering, and the pursuit or lack of money. And I'm addicted.

I'm rather looking forward to going back to work tomorrow.

IF CHIVALRY IS DEAD LADIES, I THINK WE HELPED KILL IT

2009-07-25T00:11:00.016+01:00

Last night I indulged myself in a guilty pleasure and watched Goodbye Mr Chips; not the sixties musical version with that O'Toole actor I used to think was a hottie, but the 1939 MGM version with suave Robert Donat playing kindly public school master Charles Chipping. If you havent seen it, please do. This sentimental, simply-told story is beautifully acted, very entertaining, and doesn't have one car chase or any computer-generated imagery. In short, it has much of what Hollywood lacks today, but that's the subject of another column.

One of the pivotal scenes is where "Chips" meets his future wife on the side of a mountain, and in the course of their first coversation tells her that she must think him very old-fashioned for thinking ladies shouldn't ride bicycles, and that fifteen MPH is faster than human beings were meant to travel. She replies "I like men to be old-fashioned".

Well done, Greer Garson. So do I.

That may sound a bit strange coming from a woman who grew up in the "women's-lib" generation, but it's absolutely true. Given the choice between a GQ-looking he-man versus a gentleman who will open the door for you, the door-opener gets my vote every time. I know it to be true because my late partner bowled me over not only because he had a great personality and good looks, but he used words like "courting" instead of dating, and ordered for me in restaurants.

I think the Womens Liberation era was a confusing time for both sexes and while I'm glad of it's positives, for instance, I no longer see "Help Wanted - Female" in the classifieds, I wonder what we gave up along the way. In gaining our independence it appears we sacrificed some of the common courtesies that existed between the sexes, those simple things like having a gentleman stand when you arrive in a room or light a cigarette; based on what I've seen from younger women the one "old-fashioned" idea that hasn't been discarded is that men should pay for everything we want. I can't blame men for being confused about their role. Let's face it ladies, men can be easily confused......you can't shout "girl-power" through one side of your face and "treat me like a lady" through the other. That's as bad as watching Britney Spears fighting for child custody five minutes after you've seen her latest bikini ad for Candies. The poor guy will wonder if he's breathing properly by the time we've sorted him out and at the end of the day It Just Doesn't Work.

Before I get beat up too badly, I should say that my views come from the perspective of age and, hopefully some wisdom. Trust me, a man who is secure in his masculinity will know you're a strong woman so there's no need to shout about it. Likewise, a woman secure in her femininity will appreciate the respect, admiration and courtesy shown by an "old-fashioned" man and not mistake it for condescension. I know I do.

Damn you, Robert Donat, I'm going to get a lot of bad mail over this one.

THE HIGH COST OF MIDDLE AGE

2009-07-19T00:01:00.009+01:00

Unlike many of my contemporaries, when I was young and eager to make my way in the world, "middle age" wasn't a particularly terrifying prospect to me. I associated middle age with a calm and steady period in life; a time to relax and enjoy the fruits of years of hard work and economic uncertainty. To a certain extent, at least in my case, the calm and steady part is true. I have a lovely home of which the bank only owns 50%, I have two steady jobs; one I like and that other one that pays the mortgage, I don't feel any pressing need to redecorate, and I have all the kitchen utensils I could ever want in case I ever feel the need to cook something.

What I hadn't counted on in middle age was the inevitable decay of the body, and the high cost of it's maintenance. When I was young, I had excellent health care benefits, but I never used them. I never had to. I went to the dentist religiously every six months, but that was it. I didn' t go for regular check-ups, and neither did anyone I knew. If I got a cold or flu, I went to the pharmacy, got a bottle of That Awful Green Stuff and that was that.

But now it's quite a different story, and I would dearly love to have that excellent health care coverage back, because this week my doctor has placed me on two more "maintenance" medications (read: "take these once a day for the rest of your life"), bringing the total so far up to five. Now the prescription coverage I have in my current employer-sponsored plan is only adequate, and I'm beginning to fork out a hefty amount of my middle aged money on medications Presuming I'm walking the Earth for another twenty years or so, could I be up to ten medications a day, and if so, how will I pay for it? In addition, my doctor will not refill any of my prescriptions until he sees me for a follow-up which includes a battery of blood work and a mandatory EKG, and my medical coverage doesn't pay for his visit at all.

This isn't a uniquely American problem. I'm always banging on to anyone who will listen that the NHS in the United Kingdom is a much better system of health care, but a quick check on their site disproves me; a three month pre-payment certificate for a prescription is almost 29 pounds (appx $47), so my coverage has the NHS beaten this time.

So, middle age, while not all bad, isn't exactly the calm and steady time in life I envisioned. It's an ever increasing race to see which will run out first: my money, my insurance coverage my medications, or me, and if any of the first three run out, so will I.

What a depressing prospect. I'd ring my doctor for a prescription for some Valium, but I don't think I can afford it.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH JUST DRIVING?

2009-07-11T20:33:00.008+01:00

The last time I bought a new car was in 1993 and it was the most basic of vehicles; a Ford Festiva. It was inexpensive, relatively comfortable on all but the longest of journeys, and reliable and easy to maintain; there wasn't much in it to break down. I subsequently inherited a 1998 Subaru Legacy Outback Limited. Not a car I would have bought myself, but very safe, very solid, and I can take it off-road if I ever wake up one morning and decide to lose my mind.

Despite the Subaru being in still very good condition, I've been thinking lately of buying a new car (the wisdom of making such a large purchase in today's economic crisis is the subject for another column....), so I've had a flip through some motoring magazines to do a little research.

Boy, was I surprised.

The last time I bought a car the options were fairly basic. Automatic vs. manual transmission, power steering, brakes, 2-door or 4-door, and of course the inevitable cassette or 8-track conundrum. Now, the list of optional extras available on some cars reads like an inventory list at Best Buy. The lists included pop-up touch screens with real-time traffic reports, iPod/MP3/Bluetooth connectivity, cameras in the rear bumper to help with navigation, telephone pre-wiring and aerial, overhead flip-down tv screens, rear-view mirrors with built-in LCD displays, andonandonandon.

Now, these are all nice toys to play with but the question is: what do they have to do with driving? Do I really need to spend money for a sat nav when I can read a map or print out a MapQuest route planner? The flip-down tv screen; honestly, does the average family spend so much time in the car that a TV and DVD player is essential to maintain domestic harmony? Rear bumper cameras and rear view mirror LCD displays could be eliminated by just, oh, I don't know....looking behind you? The iPod/MP3/Bluetooth ports; I suppose it may be handy if you're a passenger trying to drown out the nonsense being talked by the driver but other than that, what's its functionality? I can see a use for the mobile phone pre-wiring and aerial, but people who talk on the phone while driving annoy me, so it gets a mention here.

I suppose I'm a bit old-fashioned, but I enjoy driving for the pleasure of it. If I want to work, I go into the office or break out the laptop at home. If I want to watch a movie I sit on the sofa and watch. If I want to de-stress in the car I turn on the stereo or the CD player that's already in the car I have without any optional gizmos that require hooking up more doo-dads, and if I need to see what's behind me, I look.

So, does more toy make for a better drive? I don't think so. Discuss amongst yourselves but pull over to the side of the road first, please.

WELCOME TO NOTES FROM THE LIGHT SIDE

2009-07-05T00:05:00.002+01:00

Hello and welcome.

There is absolutely no purpose to this blog other than to simply entertain you through my slightly cynical but humorous look at the people, places and events that make life interesting and/or irritating.

Subjects will include love, sex, death, work, finance, motors. children, television and anything else that I happen to think about when the keyboard is within reach.

Commenting is neither required nor ordered but please do so if you wish. Alternately, you can reach me via email at lightsidenotes@gmail.com

Enjoy.

Julie Huggins