WORKING FROM HOME = VAPING UP A STORM

Like most of the Planet, courtesy of the COVID-19 pandemic, I'm stuck at home.  Worse than that, I'm stuck at home working.

When I'm at the office, I work through my high-stress job with coffee -- LOTS of coffee with four packs of saccharin per cup.  Oh, and plenty of Swedish Fish gummies, which my employer provides free of charge (in lieu of a pay increase, I believe).

When the Planet was normal, I went through, on average, two 1.8 ml menthol-flavored Alto vaping pods per week.

Now that my high-stress job is now in the comfort of my own home though, I find I am going through one pod every two days, if I'm careful.  If the cat keeps jumping up onto my new, corporate-provided Surface Pro, I can easily go up to one pod per day.

At first, I was wracked with guilt.  I had started vaping over two years ago as an alternative to smoking; it worked -- I haven't smoked a cigarette since. But I had promised myself not to exceed a certain number of pods per week, mainly because I'm a bit of a control fanatic, but if I'm honest, because of the cost (hard to believe but yes, toxic, cancer-causing, chemically-laden cigarettes are less expensive than much-safer vaping devices).

Am I losing control, I thought?  Will I got back to smoking cigarettes now?  Why am I doing this??  Just short of thinking about rationing my "puffs" though, I took a moment to think, and remember:

• I still have a job
• I'm earning more now. Overtime is approved for the duration of the emergency.
• I'm not spending money on public transport
• I'm saving money on laundry and dry cleaning
• My local 7-11 has my vaping products stocked a-plenty, and  on sale
• I don't have COVID-19, thanks be to God but, just as important,
• I no longer smoke

I finally got the message.  In a climate of caution, stress, worry and fear, whether I consume one pod a day or twenty makes no difference for the duration. I need to remind myself to stay calm and remember the things I haven't lost.

When the Planet returns to normal, my vaping will return to normal.

Excuse me now, I'm going to go "blow a cloud", as we vapers say.

IT'S LIGHTER IN THE DARK

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"

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?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, get on the bus.

"NONE IS FUN", EXPLAINED

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

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

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

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

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

D.I. WHY?

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

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

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

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

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

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

FACEBOOK FUSS

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

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

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

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

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

Post safely, readers.

WITH APOLOGIES TO MRS FLEENOR

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

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

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

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

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

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

POP GOES THE GOVERNMENT

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

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

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

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

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

PC HARDWARE HOME HEIST

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

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

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

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

A minimalist's nirvana after all.

THE ROAD SIGNS THEY NEED A-CHANGING

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT A DRAG.....

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

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

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

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?

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

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?

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...."

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.....

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

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

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.