I grew up during the 80’s. Literally.  I was a teenager growing out all over the place.  I’m pretty sure I wore every single fad all at once.  Shoulder pads, jelly bracelets, jelly shoes (with heels!), big bangs frozen in time with Aqua Net, white framed shades, Lip Smackers lip gloss, Rubik’s cube in one hand and a Shasta cola in the other.

Now.  The following picture was taken when I was around 15 years of age…somewhere around 1986.  (Note the shades.)  What you can’t really see in the picture is the horse I’m on.  Nor can you see my entire family and a horse guide laughing their butts off up on the ridge above me.  I was in a gully because my ignorant horse got a burr up its hiney to run (full speed!) down a cliff so he could have himself a drink of water from an old rusted out bathtub.  I believe I screamed for my Daddy the whole way down.

Also..note the bangs.  We were “primitive” camping that year and I nearly passed out at the thought of being without my curling iron.  So.  I somehow got hold of some extension cords and drug them all the way back to Camp Angus, quite pleased with my ingenuity.  There’s a picture of me taken the morning of the horse incident…where I’m straddling a red igloo cooler, got my mirror stuck up in the bark of a tree and I’m curling those bangs, hunny.

So tonight my husband and all his little Facebook cronies were spouting off Napoleon Dynamite quotes and someone commented on Napoleon’s boots.  I mentioned that I had owned some boots and gloves that changed colors in the cold.  After about a five second pause, my husband started laughing like an idiot and then mocked me openly.  Naturally none of his elderly friends knew what I was talking about.  There’s an age gap between my husband and I.  Not a big one…but big enough to separate us when it comes to style and music.

The gloves I was referring to were called Freezy Freakies.  Only the cool kids had a pair.  Here’s a pic:

Old people, go have yourself a cup of tea by the fire….this ain’t for you.  For everyone else, let’s take a stroll down memory lane, shall we?

We got our King Cake yesterday….I’ve already secretly embedded the creepy plastic baby and we’ll be having our party in the next day or so.

So what in the world is a King Cake Party, you ask?  What’s with the creepy plastic babies?  Let me see if I can break it down for you:

Day of the Epiphany falls on January 6th.  Christians mark this as the day Jesus was visited by the Three Kings.  You cannot, will not, shall NOT make or partake of the King Cake prior to this date.  I’m not sure what’ll happen if you do…I’ve never been bold enough to try it.  Maybe you’ll get flogged with Mardis Gras beads. Who knows.  At any rate, from January 6th until Ash Wednesday, you can party all night long with your King Cake parties.  While cakes and parties are the grandest thing ever, there’s actually alot of sacred symbolism behind the cake itself.

Traditionally, the cake is an oval or circle – this representing the unity of all faiths.  It’s then slathered in white icing and decorated in traditional Mardis Gras colors:  Purple for justice, green for faith and gold for power.  The plastic baby which is baked inside of the cake represents Jesus.

The person who receives the slice of cake with the plastic baby inside is considered lucky.  Lucky AND responsible for bringing the cake to the next party….which could be that night, the next day…whenever.  And these parties just keep go-eeng and go-eeng until Lent rolls around and everyone has to swear off sugar and starch.

A very cool tradition indeed.  One I intend on keeping up with.  If you’re interested in more Mardi Gras/King Cake faqs, Mayor Nagin will do what he can to answer your questions here.

Now go forth and plan your party!

Yeah, baby.  I’m bringing back the penny loafer.  Remember all the crap Katie Holmes got a couple of years ago about sporting pennies with baggy jeans?  Two words.  TREND SETTAH.

I say bling the things out.  Screw the pennies….put jewels in there and whatnot.  I’m not doing the whole baggy jean thing though….I’m thinking skinny jeans with pennies.  I got me a pair of Converse skinny jeans right after Christmas and I’m practically sleeping in them.  They’re becoming kinda like Amy Winehouse’s ballet shoes.  Ew.  I know, right?

Here’s a tribute to The Penny.  Try to open your mind.:

“You must have been warned against letting the golden hours slip
by; but some of them are golden only because we let them slip by.”

~James M. Barrie

So yesterday was my first pdoc pow-wow of the new year.  The subject of STRESS was discussed at length.  I’ve had a bellevue couple of months which I initially attributed to the holidays.  After yesterday’s meeting of the minds, it was determined that I done went and over-stimulated myself.  That’s right.  Went and worked myself up into a lather.  Specifically between the months of May and October.  The Folk School, the writing, the submitting of manuscripts, the emotional high of mind-blowing opportunities showing up on my doorstep every hour on the hour.  All of that combined with Matt’s surgery and my warped desire to have  Martha Stewart Christmas Happy Times resulted in a most undesirable forehead-vein protrusion and a mood most foul .

I stopped making New Year’s resolutions a long time ago.  I think they’re a farce.  But this year….okay, I’m not gonna call them resolutions.  We’re not agreeing to anything via a vote or anything here.  I just saying….this year I’m making a concerted effort to relax more and commit myself less.  OH yeah.  Slacker you say?  Eh?  Please.

We’ve become a jacked up society that views rest ‘n relaxation as a luxury…when in all actuality, it’s a God-given necessity.  Even the big man in the clouds had the good sense to rest instead of putting in some overtime so he could give Jesus that new robe he’d been asking for.  No.  He put the foot down and rested.

Growing up, my parents had the STUPIDEST MOST DUMB RULE ON THE PLANET OF EARTH AND SPACE.  (That’s what I called “The Rule” when I was 7 years old.)  The Rule was this:  No screwing off on Sundays and there was a mandatory nap approximately 45 minutes after the usual pot roast/carrots ‘n taters lunch.  We didn’t have a choice in the matter.  Get in the bed and I want to see those eyes closed, sister!

Nowadays if I lay down in the middle of the day to rest, I immediately begin to flog myself with the guilt-stick.  Naturally,  my ADD makes it a tad difficult to stay still.  And as odd as it sounds, I can’t really relax unless I’m working on something.  Painting, gluing….working with my hands.  So vowing to stop all of that would be like a big fat yummy stress samich.  Instead, I’m going to bring the bar down a hair.   I’ve been told I set the bar so high that God and the angels in heaven would need a compass and pygmy guide to find it.  So I guess I’ll bring it down to cloud-level.

The bottom line is this:  When I’m stressed, ain’t nobody happy.  So I plan to find time for more useless activities…and to ease up on the guilt-trippin’.  So while I was hanging out in the waiting room yesterday, I kicked things off by downloading a game onto my LG Neon:   “Brain Exercise”  by Namco.

Apparently my brain age is 60.  I’d like a do-over because my elderly fingers ain’t swift with the the new texting keyboard.  I saw this little 10 year old brat across the room smirking…looking me in the face while she texted away…her thumbs looking freakishly Hobbit-esque.  I fought back the urge to inform her that if an Atari were to magically appear, a butt-whoopin’ of monstrous dimensions would go down, followed by me doing the Rocky dance while dumping water all over my head.  Hey.  It was the pdoc waiting room.  Things like this don’t even warrant a look from the desk-lady.

So to all my chronically stressed homies out there who have minimized the Excel spreadsheet in order to read my Blog…and are feeling really crappy about their choice….I applaud you!

Slack on, people!  Slack on!

Spc. Alexis Hutchinson is being both praised and reprimanded for choosing to stay home with her son instead of deploying to Afghanistan.  I myself am torn on the issue.  Part of me is like, “Let that Mama stay home with her baby!”…..while the other part understands the commitment a person makes when they sign on the Army’s clear and dotted line.  Everyone is required to sign Form D-A 53-05, a form that specifically states that failure to put together a family care plan while you are away on deployment could result in disciplinary action.  So it’s not like this was new news….Hutchinson knew the drill.

According to Hutchinson’s civilian attorney, Rai Sue Sussman, Hutchinson was informed by her superiors that she WOULD be deploying and her son was placed in foster care.  After 10 days, Hutchinson’s mother stepped in and agreed to take the boy…albeit grudgingly.  Apparently she’s stressed out with having to take care of other ailing family members and running a daycare out of her house five days a week.  I guess the problem I have is that in the middle of rules, regulations, complaints and paperwork, there’s a 10 month old kid getting bounced around like a rubber ball.   Yes, Alexis Hutchinson knew exactly what she was required to do…what she was being paid to do.  I’ve been reading comments that say stuff like, “Women wanted equality, well here you go then!”  Or, “Maybe she’s related to a ‘Katrina’ victim…they sure know how to work over the system.”  Myself personally, I don’t have enough facts and info to make judgments about whether or not she’s trying to weasel out of deployment.

What I do know is that Hutchinson signed a binding contract that super-glued her soul to the United States Army.  And I don’t see an unwed mother who broke the rules standing a chance at winning a legal battle with the Army.  Over 30,000 single mothers have already deployed to either Iraq or Afghanistan….and I’m willing to bet they don’t feel a whole lot of  sympathy for those who can’t “keep up”.  As civilians, we are clueless about how things work in the military.  Broken families, back-t0-back deployments, mental fatigue, wrecked marriages…this is, sadly, what has become the norm for most military families.  To give the Army some credit here, they were emphatic about stating that they would not deploy a single parent without anyone to care for their child.

One word that I hated hearing my Mother say over and over…and the word that I find myself telling my own daughter….CONSEQUENCES.  And for Spc. Alexis Hutchinson…it looks like she’ll be living with those for quite some time.

I was 13 years old when I looked into the face of Sharbat Gula, the 13 year old Afghan girl that had been photographed by National Geographic photographer, Steve McCurry, while at the Nasir Bagh refugee camp in 1984. She made an indelible mark in American history, becoming the visible face of Afghanistan. As a 13 year old girl, I always wondered what it must’ve been like for her…also 13. I lived in a country where I could freely run my mouth, scream at my parents and slam doors. The typical difficult American teenager. Gula lived in a country that publicly executed, stoned and beheaded young girls and women for things like wearing fingernail polish.

In 2002, when National Geographic tracked down Gula’s location and later published her photos, side by side….I remember being overcome with emotion. At 13, Gula’s eyes showed a wisdom far beyond her years. And behind that wisdom, stubborn tenacity. Her jaw firmly set, her head covered but only slightly…perhaps her way of rebelling. Seventeen years later, those same eyes held a look of defeat. A look of resignation. That maybe life wasn’t everything it was cracked up to be….a big rip-off. The tenacity of her youth a naive notion. Her once firm jaw had become slack and her firmly set lips now turned downward. Her head completely covered in submission. Without saying a word, Gula’s eyes tell a story of unspoken pain, terror and trauma. Yet under all of this, there remains a look of ferocity.

Sharbat is a married mother of three daughters. In 2002, she told McCurry that her dream was to provide an education for her daughters. She knew it was “too late” for her oldest daughter…13 year old Robina….but there was still time for her youngest, 3 year old Zahida and 1 year old Alia.

Now here we sit…7 years later…our President sits behind closed doors today discussing Afghanistan and four options that involve putting more American lives on the line. Do one of those options give a defining meaning to each ordered mission? One that can be communicated to everyone? From where I sit, sending more troops to Afghanistan is like dragging a garden hose to a 5-alarm fire that’s been burning for six days straight.

The Afghani men are all about getting some free stuff from the Americans. Guns, uniforms, candy, ink pens…..but the second you start talking about the rights of women, they laugh in your face, spit in the sand and saunter off. It’s not like they’re being subtle about it either. It’s not something they do when noone is looking. It’s a way of life. I recently read an article that lightly stated, “It’s better to be a dog in America than a woman in Afghanistan.” Ha Ha….but not really.

As a woman, I’d like to think that some of my tax money is over there helping another woman out…..not pulling the burqa tighter over her face. Not throwing little girls out of school to make room for more boys. We’re assured by the higher-ups that progress is being made. “Lookie! We put one in Parliament!” I’ve said it myself….it’s THEIR culture….if they want to live that way then we should let them. When orders were given to invade….to set up a government and help rebuild their country….were human rights specified?

Afghan men are allowed to marry as many women as they can afford….and as young as they desire. Seeing as how we’re giving them $65 million bucks every month…I’d say we’re funding a top-shelf brothel. While unemployed Americans desperately search for work so they can feed their families, we’re pumping billions into the Afghan’s economy by giving the majority of the reconstruction jobs to the locals. So let me get this straight. We’ve given the men more jobs…with more money….more guns…more power. Sure, it’ll help their economy. They’ll throw some haphazard form of government together. We’ll try to clear our guilty consciences by giving them even MORE money and jobs to compensate for wrecking their country. But is that helping their cause or exasperating the underlying issue….that being one of Human Rights?

Somewhere in the middle of all this money, power and testosterone….there stands a woman, completely buried beneath suffocating blue fabric. A tortured mind, wondering, “Have they not seen us? Certainly they’re not blind. Every day we make sure to walk past them many times so they’re sure to see us. They’re here to help us, yes? The Americans? Surely they wouldn’t leave us here….like this. Surely they see us beaten and pushed to our knees in the streets while they give handfuls of candy to our children. We cannot scream or we’ll be killed. If I can just let them see my eyes….to speak to them with my eyes….maybe then they could see and help us. Help our children.”

Maybe Sharbat was trying to tell her story when she realized she’d been noticed. When she realized a man had made eye contact with her and respected her human worth. Steve McCurry’s photograph was the one and only photograph ever taken of Sharbat Gula. McCurry was able to capture her on film a second time, but only after permission had been granted by Sharbat’s husband.

When we hear the word “Apartheid”, we immediately think of South Africa and their violent racial war. But the true definition of Apartheid is this:

“The condition of being separated from others; segregation.”

So from where I’m sitting…it looks an awful lot like Gender Apartheid going on over there in Afghanistan. And what are we doing to stop it?! If anything, we dig our heel a little deeper into the head of an Afghan woman when we assume she likes it this way. That she is somehow comfortable within the confines of her burqa, never wanting things to change.

What goes through the mind of a female soldier when she sees a blur of blue shuffle past her on the street? Does she see a woman? Or does she see a burqa. Chances are, she sees the burqa. Not because she’s blind….but because of what is being hidden. I can see why the Afghan men wouldn’t want the world to see their women. We’ve already seen one……and she single-handedly became embedded in American culture. A stark reminder of what is forcefully hidden by a country with no intention of changing their ways.

I hope that when an Afghan man leaves the room, the women rip off their burqas and start mocking him….shooting invisible guns in the air, flalalalalalala-ing at the top of their lungs…..playfully pushing each other around, imitating, “Get over here woman and bear my water and child….quick…before I kick you in the teeth!”

If anyone can hear me…someone with rank….do me a favor. SEE the women of Afghanistan. Take them into consideration when you’re padding the pockets of the man who will beat and torture her every night. Think of her when you build schools with two separate wings…one for boys, one for girls. Think about the subliminal message that sends. Candy coating their condition with words like “It’s their culture it’s always been this way” only demeans them further.

So I end this Veteran’s Day a bit heated under the collar. Heated because by the end of this year, we will have flushed $200 billion down Afghanistan’s woman-beating toilet. $200 billion that is desperately needed right here in our own back yard. If our money is doing nothing but empower abusive Afghan men, then I say put our military men and women on a one-way flight and bring the money back home. I’ll bet all those people standing in line at the unemployment office would appreciate it. So would the family that’s been forced out of their home because of a dismal economy that is seemingly sinking further.

Chances are, more of our men and women will be ordered to Afghanistan. From a not-at-all neutral third party, I’ll sum up my perception. We’re depriving and neglecting our own children to feed, support and empower the kids who throw rocks at our kids every day at recess. I say give them a “Neener Neener” and put them on the Naughty Bench and start paying attention to who is sitting in our lap.

Oh, snap!

When I was a kid, I had one of those record players that you could carry around….and I had a stash of 45’s…the whole Sesame Street collection.  I can’t believe it’s been 40 years.  There’s not much out there that is still going strong after 40 years.  Maybe my husband.  But other than that, you’d be hard pressed to find anything.

Here’s my theory.  Their stamina lies in their refusal to change.  For the most part, Sesame Street is the same as it was when I was a kid.  Minus the bell bottoms.  Nowadays, children’s programming feels the need to change every six hours to stay competitive.  I wonder if anyone ever stood up in a Sesame Street board meeting and suggested that Oscar start taking anti-depressants and Big Bird come on out of the closet?

So here’s to forty years….hope I look this good when I hit the big FO-OH.  Here’s my fave 45 of 1974….”C is for Cookie”.

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Most of my readers will remember an article I wrote back in June about my cousin, Sean, getting shot in Afghanistan and his amazing recovery.  Shortly after the shooting, his wife received a call that noone but a military wife can begin to understand.  From there, phone calls were made to family, then emails, then forwarded emails, prayer chains, special prayers, strangers with a genuine and sincere interest in Sean’s fate.

I was raised in a religious family, but denounced religion as an adult…..up until I had a near-death experience of my own.  As I lay hovering between life and death, I became acutely aware of a presence that cannot be described with words.  There wasn’t a man with a beard in flowing white garments….no angels with wings and harps.  Just a presence.  My experience pales in comparison…..actually, it can’t even BE compared to what Sean endured for this country that we sit safely in today.  A country that most of us take for granted because we’ve never stepped foot in a third world, communist or terrorist-run country.

As I said back in June….it was surreal to have a family member become a near casualty of a war that had affected OTHER families…certainly not ours.  In my mind’s eye, Sean is still a little tow-head running around in brown corduroys and fuzzy socks.  In reality, Sean is a man with a tenacious and unyielding spirit.  A man who has triumphed over malignant hate with his pneuma intact.

Yesterday, Holly Zachariah wrote an article entitled, “Carver’s Gift”,  featured on the front page of the Columbus Dispatch, telling the story of Sean’s miraculous recovery and a woodcarver by the name of Jake Jacobsen.  Jake presented Sean with a beautifully crafted, hand-carved cane…Jake’s personal contribution to those men and women wounded in Iraq and Afghanistan.

“It was about 3:30 p.m. on May 31 in Afghanistan when Sean led a line of soldiers through a village. They snaked their way to a house where a suspected terrorist was having dinner.

Sean tried to kick in the door. It didn’t open. He stepped back and kicked again.

The door gave way, and he hit a wall of gunfire.

“You know, it’s like, have you ever stood next to a big concert stereo speaker when it comes on full blast?” he said. “You can just feel this vibration, this energy pushing into you, moving you. That’s what it felt like to me. Blow after blow after blow.”

A 7.62-mm bullet from an AK-47 hit his chest — the body armor that stopped it still bears the mark — and another pinged off his helmet. A warm feeling oozing just under his waistband told him he’d been hit low, too.

“I wasn’t panicked. I thought I could make it out. I knew I could still back out, still live.”

Then, a round blew through his left wrist and forearm, the one that supported his M-4 rifle. The arm went limp; his weapon fell. And a soldier without a gun in a firefight is as good as dead.

“When I saw my arm drop, I thought of my boys. I’m going to leave them without a dad. And Sarah. My Sarah. How can I leave her?”

Then, his thoughts turned to himself: “What’s it going to be like to die? Was I good enough?”  ~ Holly Zachariah (Columbus Dispatch)

Yes, Sean….you’re “Good Enough”.  So good, in fact, that the Angels knew the world would be an emptier place without you and hand-carried you back home.

“When a resolute young fellow steps up to the great bully, the world, and takes him boldly by the beard, he is often surprised to find it comes off in his hand, and that it was only tied on to scare away the timid adventurers.”

~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Another successful year of treat-begging is winding down.  We “partied” at the RiverQuarium last night and it’s a good thing!  Had to run Cali to the doc’s office first thing this morning.  Her cold had gotten outta hand and because there’s been such an outbreak of flu-nonsense around here, you had to make an office visit.  So.  Diagnosis:  Sinus infection, 10 day antibiotic, followed by, “NO PLAYING OUTSIDE!”  So we set a big bowl of candy out on the front porch and let the beggars have at it while we poured Dimetapp down the kids’ gullet. 

Naturally, the first order of business upon entering the Aquarium last night was signing up for the costume contest.  I didn’t burn the skin off two fingers with a commercial grade hot-glue gun for cheap thrills.  I did it for the acclaim.  After waiting about five minutes for the contest to get rolling, Cali put down a sequined slipper and informed us that Snow White had officially removed herself from the competition.  Threatened to rip the wig off and everything.

“I’M HERE TO SEE THE FISH!”

It was probably for the best.  While we’d been waiting I took note of two stunning fairy costumes, hand sewn…exquisite work.  And I let the Mama know it. 

“Phenomenal job!  Just gorgeous!  And the tulle!  That’s alot of tulle.  I   stopped working with tulle last year.”

But that Mama…she had a look in her eye.  Like she wanted to challenge me to a scissor-fight at the Fish Tank Coral.  I saw her eye-balling my work.  Critically.  So what if I use Fabri-Tac, you pretentious over-protective mother who needs to incorporate more fiber into her diet!  I didn’t say that out loud.  The meanie in me wanted to cock an eyebrow and remind her:

“I can clearly see your blind stitches from here.  Even with no glasses and an astigmatism.  You might shoulda touched up that toe-nail polish before you fuss-hustled yourself up in here too.  And what color is that anyway…what’s left of it?  Brown Frost?  Does Revlon still make that?  Ohhh….I think Wet ‘n Wild carries it now.  Hm.  Oh look.  Your little one there is knuckle deep up her nose and eating its contents.  She could get rickets, you know.  If you’d been learning to parent instead of sew, you would’ve known that.  There’s no need to call security!  They know me here….I have a membership.  See?  YELLOW bracelet.  You have blue.  Oh…and before I forget….while you were tulle-fluffing, your husband was totally macking on that chic over there running the bag-toss game.”

 Obviously I’ve matured because I laughed, adjusted Snow White’s wig and went to look at fish.  I don’t know who won….but THIS was my pick of the night.  Brilliant!

And here’s the rest of it.  Witches, haunted underwater dives, sea horses, getting shot in the face by Predator, ice-cream trucks and planetariums.  A good time was had by all.  We ended the night at Wendy’s, listening to a one-sided conversation about how child support was paid LAST week and it wasn’t getting paid again no matter if the baby was wandering around the yard with filth in his drawers. 

Cali has been learning all ’bout the letter H this week at school and today was *drumroll please*…HOT DOG AND HAT DAY!!  For about a month now, Cali and all her little cronies have been crawling around on the floor, convinced they’ve become cats.  They hiss, spit, meow, scratch, howl….the whole nine yards.  So I made this hat last night for the resident Kitty. 

She resembles an embellished Oliver Twist with a hammer.  I have also come to accept the fact that she will forever be inclined to screw around whenever a camera is within a mile of her.