To Prudie readers: If you have been with me for a while, you know a few things about me. One is that I have changed my last name a few times. Now the time has come for me to change my first name . . . my professional first name, that is. Because my new Internet home will be Yahoo News, I will be leaving "Prudence" behind at my previous cyber-dwelling, and flying under a new name: my own! Needless to say, I got used to it a long time ago. I hope that you will get used to it right away. Everything else remains the same . . . same girl, same approach, just more readers. Now back to business. -- Margo

Dear Margo: I understand that, these days, almost everyone who lives in this country (and several others) has a cell phone. I also understand that people insist on using them in the strangest places, so that many of us are unfortunate enough to have to listen in.

I even understand that cell phone ring tones are an expression of one's individual style and taste. But it's one thing to hear the phone next to me trill Marilyn McCoo's "One Less Bell To Answer," or even Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff." I'm old, but not a fogey. At least I thought I wasn't until the well-dressed, well-coiffed young woman beside me dug into her Gucci bag and fished out a phone whose ring tone was a girl group chanting, "I don't have no panties on."

"It's a song," she reassured me. And then she turned away to chat about what sounded like a deal being closed.

Is it me, or are young people's phones singing far more information than they should be? — Shocked But Not Awed

Dear Shock: Well, you are one step ahead of me; I usually can't even make out the lyrics. Alas, the Age of Aquarius has given way to the Age of Too Much Information.

There is nothing any of us can do about cell phones, ring tones, suggestive lyrics or outright junk. (Well, dirty looks, if it makes you feel better.) The too-much-information thing is now pervasive . . . thank you, Jerry Springer, et al.

All we can hope for is that, miraculously, playing things close to the vest becomes the next big trend. I know, I know, and pigs will fly. Well . . . a girl can hope, can't she?

Dear Margo: I'm married to a great guy whose mother isn't technically a monster; she is just terminally whiny about her life and how everyone has let her down, from her ex-husbands to her mother, to the U.S. government, to whatever church she is currently attending. She can go on for hours about her victimization, to the point where her other children don't care to spend much time with her.

We were left with her for the holidays, like always, and since my husband knows her ways, he usually manages to get out of the room and leave me to listen to the negative recitals that have ruined past get-togethers. I am beginning to feel like a holiday prisoner. After hearing her hang dirty laundry on every living soul in her life, I spend the next few weeks looking at my husband with small affection, wondering why I married into such a bunch of losers. Any advice welcome. — Desperate in Dixie

Dear Des: For starters, there are only so many options open to you as to how to spare yourself from The Victim's Tales. Mix and match as you see fit.

Tell "her other children" that you'd like some help when there are get-togethers. Leave town. Tell the great guy you're married to that he is not allowed to wander off and leave you to be the audience. Have friends around when you're in her company to act as a buffer.

And I suppose if you really want to live dangerously, you could tell your m-i-l that you believe you have heard about all her difficulties and you'd prefer to talk about other things. This could, of course, land you on the list of people who have let her down . . . but at least you will be in the company of her mother, her exes, the U.S. government, and her various churches.

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Dear Margo is written by Margo Howard, Ann Landers' daughter. All letters must be sent via e-mail to [email protected]. Due to a high volume of e-mail, not all letters will be answered.