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.