tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-273960782008-08-16T17:22:30.543-07:00An old-fashioned bitchfest about the most tedious things. Now with twice the eye-rolling!Angelanoreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-61058660485828644672008-05-19T08:35:00.000-07:002008-05-19T08:49:42.157-07:00

But it's time to go for a bit. I've had way more emails about this that I can answer, so I'll tell you now what's going on. In the past few weeks, I've kind of let my feet get out from under me. In the past several months, I've lost track of my priorities. And after an irritating invasion of privacy by one of those classic web-bound nutjobs, I pulled this here blog down for a bit, until I could

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-3617347338231169312008-05-05T07:47:00.000-07:002008-07-29T20:26:53.722-07:00

Actually, I wasn't on vacation, but most everyone I know was, and so I was left to my own devices, and I remembered why it is that I love to be alone. A lot of it has to do with being an only child, but it's actually rather practical. If you don't spend time with people, you don't waste time on people crap. It's rather efficient. I broke that rule at one point and hung out with my friend Jamie (

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-4289080110740640152008-03-14T23:07:00.001-07:002008-03-15T11:28:14.836-07:00

I'm going to tell this story one time. Just this once. So, sometime around 10:30 on Friday night, it occurred to me-- too late, it would seem-- that I needed racquetballs. It could have been the beer talking; it could also have been that my date had a hellish week and in a moment of compassion and solidarity, I let him off the hook for the evening, and so went drinking alone. Hence the beer

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-15882988219569995472008-03-05T18:55:00.001-08:002008-03-06T18:54:00.858-08:00

My friend Sean recently found himself smack in the middle of a big anti-gay throwdown, San Fran style (West Coast represent!). Sean took the position of a neutral observer, benevolently ambivalent, just sort of watching, and that's fine. Like any good liberal hetero, I've kind of enjoyed that same perspective. More and more, though, I find the issue has actually become the One Big Issue

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-91308571591064231032008-02-11T15:33:00.000-08:002008-02-11T18:40:47.044-08:00

...Has plainly gone completely fucking batshit crazy. Evidently, the least awesome governor from Arkansas (and really, Arkansans, how do you go from this to a Baptist minister? What the Huck?) has decided that, even though he cannot possibly win the Republican nomination, he's gonna stick it out anyway. If you follow his logic here, because God made the earth in six days, he's also capable of

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-91740277832666883982008-02-04T15:13:00.000-08:002008-08-05T08:06:17.856-07:00

There are a lot of weepy, sobbing, sulky people in New England this morning, and as much as I love them, I have a hard time giving a rat's ass. I didn't want the Sox to win the Series again, either, and they did, a sort of backhanded method of breaking my heart by, you know, not breaking my heart. The Pats' loss was less of a loss for them and more of a win for little slackjawed Eli, the Billy

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-63611604280398051842008-01-31T11:29:00.000-08:002008-02-01T09:13:35.056-08:00

I've been wrestling with God lately; or maybe it's more appropriate to note that I've always wrestled with God, but sometimes it descends into biting and kicking and becomes less like wrestling and more like wrassling. I am a preacher's daughter. I am the director of a charitable Christian mission proving aid to African orphans. I descend from a family of lay ministers, deacons, elders and

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-78143811105233456532008-01-27T12:30:00.000-08:002008-01-27T15:18:41.521-08:00

Over the Christmas holiday, I was rooting around in some of my grandma's old things, including her high school year book from 1937 ("Helen-n-Dorothy BFF4LIFE!! Glee Club Roxx!!"), some crap my grandfather stole off a dead Nazi in Germany, and-- miracles!-- a stash of cookbooks. What's so astonishing about this is that my grandmother-- and don't doubt for a second that I love her more than just

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-3136970409040978632008-01-09T09:28:00.001-08:002008-01-10T08:44:30.725-08:00

Or, Why I Just Filed For A Concealed Weapons Permit. Last night my lover and I talked about Meredith Emerson, the pretty, likable, charming girl who just moved here from Colorado and almost immediately went missing while hiking with her dog Ella. The timeline and some details of Meredith's disappearance can be found here. Be forewarned, if you haven't followed this case closely, it's fucking

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-88051558249295960882007-12-24T07:36:00.001-08:002007-12-24T11:40:09.849-08:00

It's an accidental Old Home Week, and all the old heads from high school are in town, visiting their parents for Christmas. Most of us were part of a gifted and talented program that kept us segregated from the rest of the general (read: average) population, and most of us have gone on to do wildly incredible things, like live in Africa, become famous fashion photographers, sell luxury doorknobs

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-52857670133640947212007-12-17T20:39:00.000-08:002007-12-18T21:12:57.560-08:00

It's sweater weather, folks. And not just because it's 55 degrees outside in Central Florida and all the Detroit snowbirds are flipping their shit about the pipes freezing in their trailer in the retirement community for active seniors. No, it's the other kind of sweater weather, the one that is entirely seasonal and not a bit environmental. It's Christmas sweater weather. Hey, know what I hate

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-28113191719561542672007-11-24T09:57:00.001-08:002007-11-24T10:31:53.314-08:00

Last night was Bithlo. Bithlo is a place, immediately east of Fort Christmas, Florida (which is why we call it The Nightmare Before Christmas). But the word "Bithlo" is commonly applied to an annual event, the Orlando Speedworld Crash-A-Rama Night of Destruction and Figure Eight Schoolbus Races. Obviously, since this is the only thing of interest that ever happens in Bithlo, the name of the town

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-80777569584080705552007-10-27T21:36:00.000-07:002007-10-28T00:18:04.782-07:00

I'm just going to risk the abuse and admit it: I'm having a hard time coping with winning. I'm good at lots of things: my job, which is highly specialized, demanding, and a constant exercise in infinite diplomacy. I can get a kite in the air when there isn't enough wind to push clouds around. I'm a pretty good shot, and confidently skilled with firearms. I can cook like nobody's business. I am a

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-78787656279990268482007-10-21T12:45:00.000-07:002007-10-21T13:00:41.622-07:00

"So good, so good, so good..." The Boston Red Sox will do one of two things tonight: they will either break my heart in seven games, because why rip the bandage off quickly in four when you can extend the pain to seven, or they will limp their asses into yet another World Series, where they might also break my heart in seven games. Of course I remember 2004. I remember how we almost screwed the

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-69142577463152324812007-05-21T10:19:00.000-07:002008-08-16T17:22:30.559-07:00

Dear President Carter, May I call you Jimmy? It seems so natural to do so. You've sacrificed so much of your private life to remain accessible to the public, and consequently, we feel as though we know you. This is the blessing and the curse of giving yourself to public office, and I know it well. I have seen good people buckle under the pressure of being elected to lead, and I never stop being

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-37722164996584164252007-04-18T11:11:00.000-07:002007-04-18T12:05:13.064-07:00

Recently, I found myself staring 6:00am in the face on a Sunday morning as I crept—shoes in hand, bra in purse—out of the apartment of a man whose name I can’t remember right this second. (His name is not important to the story.) I’d parked a block away, and as I walked to my car, I passed a guy in his late 20’s walking his dog first thing in the morning. I smiled politely, by way of

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-38956494563528842852007-03-31T07:34:00.000-07:002007-04-07T21:16:05.205-07:00

What do I love? Why, pineapple, of course. And flip flops. And National Geographic. And now the iBuzz. More on that in a moment. Here's what I don't love: the arbitrary addition of the letter i to literally fucking everything. iPod. iTunes. iProng. iSuck. Whatever. Adding the insipid lower-case i to every marketable product has become the poor man's route to hip. The crippled and lazy marketing

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-55775281997952456722007-03-04T12:28:00.000-08:002007-04-07T21:16:29.693-07:00

During a recent evening of altered consciousness, I wrote, scrawled on a yellow legal pad, the following phrase: "I fucked up a lot so far. And I haven't really been fair to the men." I can't recall exactly what I meant by that at the time; remember, I was lost in some sort of waking dream about satellite radio, but the next morning, the simple admission of guilt-- I fucked up a lot so far; I

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-48510216474678312062007-03-01T13:49:00.000-08:002007-04-07T21:14:26.383-07:00

Purim! Purim! My most favorite of all Jewish holidays, which, by the way, are awesome. Shavuot, the shady lady of the holy days commands us to stay up late and eat all the dairy we can tolerate. Hijinks ensue! And Sukkot, where we go camping and we're literally commanded to be happy. "Happy," God says. "Get yer asses happy before I smite all of ya's!" God makes lots of demands on us Jews. One of

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-76539780575620178352007-02-23T09:40:00.000-08:002007-04-07T21:15:12.465-07:00

A little more on the touchy, feely subject. Obviously, the Sheikh has considered the matter long and hard. Looong. And really, really hard. Mmm. Poor adolescent boys. Amen for being a chick. All we have to do is earn 30% less and bleed every 28 days. Man, I definitely dodged a bullet. Happy Friday, kids. The Talmud teaches us that sex on the sabbath is a special blessing, a mitzvah. The

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-67949371962342741912007-02-23T01:35:00.000-08:002007-04-07T21:16:58.412-07:00

Alright, my lovelies. It's time for Mother Dread to talk to you kids about masturbation. (I'm pausing while you giggle and begin to feel like I know more about you than you've told me. We'll move on whenever you're ready. Has the discomfort passed? All set? Okay. Let's begin.) Recently, this has, umm, come up for me quite a bit. Maybe it has something to do with this guy, who earned himself

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-87476550875478660892007-02-22T17:07:00.000-08:002007-04-07T21:17:29.264-07:00

An Open Letter to KFC: Dear Chickenmongers, As I napped in my clothes this afternoon, the ghost of The Colonel came to me in a dream and told me to tell you to knock this shit off. For real. Cut it out. As though being as mean as fucking possible to the birds you fry isn't bad enough, now you're gonna fuck with fish, too? The Colonel would like for you to know that there is so much shit wrong

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-10540049156784449952007-01-17T12:47:00.000-08:002007-04-07T21:19:48.139-07:00

Evidently, perverts really dig me. I secretly knew that, but I didn't know the depth of their adoration. There is something about me that draws the perverse, the marginalized, the fringe dwellers, the freakshows and the voyeuristic hidden-secret types to me. I've never understood exactly why, but I've treated them all with a sort of affable acceptance. Ass plugs aren't exactly my thing, but hey,

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-89030499845646264062006-11-29T08:41:00.000-08:002007-04-07T21:23:42.272-07:00

Friggin Jess. (If you had any idea how frequently I start a phrase with exactly that, then chances are, you'd probably already know the girl.) Jess is my roommate from college who, along with Malia, made up our little Witches of Eastwick trio of shitstorming badass bitchiness. (I thought I was the Cher but chances are I was the Susan Sarandon. Bummer.) So all of these years later, we've (mostly

Angelanoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27396078.post-15996304752420216182006-10-08T07:49:00.000-07:002006-10-08T08:43:06.048-07:00

Teenage girls are stupid. For real. With the exception on my own precious Elsie, who is perfectly snarky and piquantly bitter in every delightful way, teenage girls are a scourge on humanity. It's not their fault, of course; some adult clearly failed to tell them that anal sex still does count as sex, but still, their mere existance (and the fact that they will grow up and vote, but they're not

Angelanoreply@blogger.com