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?

Well…wouldn’t YOU be?  (Click to view larger image.)

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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The Christmas decorating has begun!  I finished making this wreath yesterday.  I plan on adding more junk to it just as soon as I bring everything else down out of the attic.  I was half asleep last night when the Husband elbowed me and shoved his earphones in my face.  By the look of horror written all over his face, I thought we were being robbed at knife-point.  I stuck one bud in my ear…and you know what I heard?  O Holy Night.  I’ve tried to explain that the sooner he embraces this, the easier it will be.  Maybe he’ll work things out in his head while he’s pulling all the Christmas stuff out this weekend.  I’m drunk with the giddy!

Now pay homage to the Christmas Wreath and have some wassail.  It’ll do you good.

I personally think the now defunct Wunderlee Candy Company (of Philadelphia) needs to reimburse me for approximately 12 tooth cavities that have been filled and re-filled over the years from excessive consumption of their candy corn. They’re the ones who started the whole mess. What was THAT ‘Aha’ moment like? I mean, it was the 1880’s….people weren’t exactly forward-thinkers. The big kahuna boss man, George Renninger, came up with the brilliant idea. Here’s my theory. I think George had diverticulitis. Anyone who knows anything about something knows that corn is the arch enemy of the diverticula. So he figured he’d change a couple of ingredients and develop a corn more suited to the afflicted colon. Of course, he’s probably responsible for 1/3 of our nation’s diabetic population, but who cares! You can’t stay mad at the Candy Man!

I’ve been having a love-affair with candy since conception. My Mother, however, found sugar to be a carnal sin and forbade it as such. You know how your parents have those “I was so poor….” stories? Well, I have one too. Only I’m not poor. I’m deprived. “I was so deprived that instead of ice-cream with Hershey’s syrup, I had to eat ice-milk with wheat germ.”  Oh, you think I’m playing?  Surely I do not jest.  But there’s one particularly cruel moment that stands out. 

I don’t remember the year….I may have been 9 or 10 years old.  We lived on a road that ended in a cul de sac. There was one rule that had been agreed upon by all the parents:  DO NOT GO PAST THE STOP-SIGN!  As far as we knew, life didn’t exist past the stop sign.  But I knew there was manna from heaven over there.  I’d stand, one hand on the stop sign pole, one toe just past the line of demarcation, luxuriating in my rebellion.  So every Halloween, we’d be emphatically reminded to stay within the boundaries of the Deprived Kid Compound.  To deliberately break this rule would result in a punishment so heinous, it didn’t need details.  We knew, though.  They didn’t have to spell it out.  We knew disobedience would result in death. 

But that year, I felt brave.  Strong, even!  I’d won the spelling bee a month earlier and things were looking promising in the science department.  I figured I deserved a higher level of freedom.  While all those involved would beg to differ, my crime was not premeditated.  I can’t remember my costume…but I do remember that I carried a pillow-case for a candy sack.  So I must have subconsciously known what was about to commence.   I followed the herd of kids around to each other’s house, making snide remarks about those who only passed out Sweet Tarts. 

“Why don’t you just give us a wad of paper towels?  Or smack us in the face!  Sweet Tarts are monetary proof  that you could care less about children.” 

So we’d all made the loop and ended up in front of my house, which happened to be snuggled up to the church that my Dad pastored, commonly referred to as “The Parsonage”.  We’d all sit on the church steps, eye-balling each other’s candy, wishing there was more…KNOWING there was more on the other side of The Sign.  I’d like to think I was viewed as heroic that year.  I stood, tossing my sack over my shoulder like Santa’s delinquent sister.  I made my way towards The Sign, knowing in the deepest part of my rear-end that once I was past….there was no going back.  As I crossed the threshold into the Land of Untapped Candy, I heard my angelic brother call out:

“You’re gonna get in TROUBLE!!!  She is so much in trouble bad she doesn’t even know it.” 

I don’t remember much after that.  I do remember it was dusky when I embarked and pitch black when I returned.  And in that amount of time, I had canvased the entire town of Groveport.  My pillowcase was engorged.  My feet were blistered.  I crammed candy down my gullet like a Nathan’s Hot Dog contender, knowing that when I returned home, there’d be no fatted calf awaiting me…only confiscation and death. 

Obviously, the threat of death was nothing but a smoke-screen to hide their true cruel intent.  I was tongue lashed black and blue while my brother stood by with a strange mix of horror, fascination and glee written all over his cherubic face.  Then, like a henchman letting go of the rope that held up the guillotine blade, my Mother snatched my sack, still foaming at the mouth.

“You’ll never see this sack again!  You hear me?  NEVER AGAIN!”

I searched for that sack and its contents for the next 13 years.  I never went trick-or-treating again.  What was the point?  I’d seen all there was to see.   Enough to know that when I grew up…I was going to let my kids eat as much candy as they wanted…WITHOUT the mind-games. 

Last weekend, my daughter pointed and asked, “Mommy, what is THAT?”

“Produce, sweetie.  Oranges, apples, bananas….it’s produce.  Give me that Ring Pop.  Show’s over, baby.”

So in honor of my sad and somewhat strong parental stance on the evils of sugar, here’s a tribute to Candy.  My one true love.

I’m back home.  Went from perfect weather to 100 degrees with a side of wet-sock-humidity.  I may very well run back to the hills and erect me one of them thar moonshiney shacks so I can beat the heat.  This is just flat stupid.

Anyway…have tons to say.  I’ll do that later.  The pic is the front door to the house where I stayed.  Every time I walked in, I had the uncontrollable urge to hitch a horse up to something.  I didn’t have a horse.  But if I would have, it would’ve gotten hitched to something.

I have to go now and mop my brow.

For some reason I have that song, “Total Eclipse of the Heart” stuck in my head.  I keep wandering around the house hollering, “Total eclipse of the suuuuuuuun.”  The Husband is plotting my demise.  I can sense it.  I can’t help that I’m all atwitter over these astronomical happenings.  I totally would’ve gone out with Galileo.  He would’ve had to shave, but I’d still have dated him.  I’m an astronomy geek.  I’m not ashamed.  Cali is walking in my footsteps…her obsession happens to be with the moon.  When she was about a week old, I said, “She’s probably gonna be one of those kids who asks for a telescope for Christmas.”  Yeah.  She’s already asking. 

If I had extreme wealth, I’d be flying to India right now to see these 6 minutes and 39 seconds of history.  But alas…extreme wealth I have not.  So I’ll be scouring YouTube for some footage.  I’m fairly knowledgable about all things astrology, so for those who are on the same page, you’ll know how important this eclipse is for those with Cancer rising (my Cancer is rising).  It also has heavy bearing in the astrological houses where Cancer falls.  (For those of you who have NO idea what I’m talking about, it’s kinda hard to put in layman’s terms.)

All of the doom &  gloom hypothetical scenarios that come crawling out of the woodwork during astrological events like these never cease to amuse me.  If we actually believed all of them…or even a fraction of them, we’d be hunkered down in the basement underneath of our basement protected by lead walls and surrounded by canned goods and bottled water, begging our Gods to save us from the impending beheadings, hangings, suicides, mass violence, tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, earthquakes and the complete and total anihalation of India.  Mmkay.  To those people, I say this:  PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER! 

If you’re gonna fall prey to these predictions, at lease fall for the good ones.  While you’re deciding on which one, here are the basic questions that each Zodiac sign will be faced with for the next 3 months to 3.5 years due to this eclipse.  

ARIES (My sun sign): “What battle have I been fighting my entire life?”

TAURUS: “What are you saying? Do you hear yourself?”

GEMINI: “I uncover the truth of what I depend on.”

CANCER (My rising sign): “I have a strong sensitive self that doesn’t quiver, but feels and expresses profoundly.”

LEO: “You’re kidding, I thought my life was over and now I’m in the spotlight. Am I ready?

VIRGO: “I was just so popular, who turned off the lights?”

LIBRA: “I didn’t know how many decisions I made, especially the work I chose and the place I live, because of my family, my kids or my heritage and now everything is changing?

SCORPIO: “I’ve confirmed I have a great gut instinct, intuition and knew the truth about reality the day I was born, I dipped my toe hesitantly in the waters of social reality for years, sometimes engaged, sometimes bored stiff with the stupidity around me and now I’m ready to come out in full force and take on the world”

SAGITTARIUS: “I have been superficial and using, I know. I covered it up with grapevine philosophies and now I’m cornered and have to be real.”

CAPRICORN: “Okay, I can’t get away with acting like the serious professor or successful business woman to have clout anymore. I’m going to have to be powerfully honest and share my profits, inspire a good work ethic, and be a real person in order to get ahead this time.”

AQUARIUS: “I am even bored with isolation, my eccentricity and my genius, I want to play and love and feel engaged with others in a real rapport”

PISCES: “Too many people, how can I save them all? One at a time in cahoots with the Universe.

Dates to keep in mind:

The Total Solar Eclipse will be activated over the next three years by the Sun and Mars (as well as other planets).
These dates are the following:
Sun Activation:
10/19/2009
1/19/2010
7/21/2010
7/21/2001
Mars Activation
10/15/2009
1/15/2011
9/17/2011
12/25/2012
8/27/2013

Activation just means that your personal questions will sound loudly again, creating an event, experience or realization.

Just one more reason I love Michelle. She straight went and country-hugged the Queen. Said Michelle to pompous protocol, Poo Poo. (A slightly adapted version of Madeline’s poo poo at the zoo comment).
I’ve always loved the Queen. She gets a bad rap, but I dig her. But did the Queen look down…more like UP her nose at Michelle? Hardly. She wrapped that short little arm right back around Michelle and said, “Michelle dahling, you are extraordinarily skyscraping in stature.” (I totally made that up). But she did actually comment on Michelle’s height. According to eyewitnesses, the entire exchange lasted about 10 seconds and was “absolutely extraordinary” to behold.

Noone has touched the Queen in 57 years. In public, that is. And the Queen has never ever not now or ever made a gesture like the one she bestowed upon our nation’s First Lady. According to the same eyewitness, “She didn’t seem to mind a bit and was smiling and joking throughout.” Had to be an English eyeball witness..throwing “throughout” around so flippantly. If it were an American witness, it would’ve sounded more like, “She had her arm around her like this. Yeah, she patted too. Definately patted.

But that wasn’t even the best part. The best part was when the Prez and his Lady gave the Queen of England an iPod chuck full of footage of her 2007 trip to Richmond, Jamestown and Williamsburg. Word on the streets is that the Queen already has an iPod. A 6GB Silver Mini. Now, thanks to America, she’s upgraded for free.

I don’t know why everyone is surprised by all of this ‘Never-Been-Done-Before’ stuff. May I remind you that the majority of this nation elected the first African American into office. A President who is actually doing what he said he’d do (much to the Republican’s shock and dismay). A President who is slowly phasing out the archaic for a more relevant, technological approach to doing business.

I’d like to think that the Queen got back to the palace, looked at her stooped over hubby and said, “THAT’S what I’m talkin’ about. I’m gonna start keepin’ it real, American style, Phil. I’m gonna do it. Where’s my tea and biscuits?”

England and the United States will forever have their differences. They’ll never understand our loud obnoxious behavior and we’ll never understand how people who sound so intelligent can have such horribly bad teeth. But if you filter out the non-essentials, you’ll see that we have more in common than not. We say the same thing in different ways.

Obama & Michelle on Family: “We act weird and our kids act like hooligans some days. We get in each other’s face when we have to. That’s why we’re normal. We’re cool like that.” (A total fabrication).

Queen Elizabeth II on Family: “Like all the best families, we have our share of eccentricities, of impetuous and wayward youngsters and of family disagreements.”
(Actual and factually true).