Wherein “rock” is my sacrosanct heart, and “hard place” is the cock you stroke while listening to my vulgar verbosity.

The first thing is that I really am both girls. And mostly I am both girls at the same time. There just isn’t a big division there. (Which I think is a good thing, by the way.)

I actually received a bible as a gift from a caller one time–his attempt to convince me of the validity of The Rapture, which I did and still do believe is downright Voodoo mumbo-jumbo. Not always, but more often than you would think, matters of spirituality, religion, who/what is God, etc. are the whispered sweet nothings, either right before or after a client sniffs my ass and barks like a dog or jerks off on on his own face or finger-fucks his ass while fucking a Fleshlight.

And then there are the sacredotal fantasies I occasionally spin, involving inovative uses for rosaries, chalices, crucifixes, holy water, blessed candles and whatever else I might pull out of my ecclesiastic bag of dirty tricks. Let me put it this way: When I’m toting the trick bag, no orifice is off limits. I do sooo love taking boys to church. Can I hear a hallelujah?

The way I see it, personality schisms are dangerous to our emotional homeostasis. You could say that they are a function of our dysfunction. When we are cracked into isolated pieces, rather than being a whole person with various facets, it just can’t be healthy. We ache for a connection which is impossible in our divided states and the fallout is a whole bunch of seriously bad religion, in which they who are spoken to carry the “word” to the spiritually deaf.

The second thing is, more often than not, proselytizers really piss me off. I take issue with someone who needs the ten commandments to figure out right from wrong. Not to mention that it’s kinda-sorta scary that someone needs to be told that stealing or killing just isn’t cool. Born again, they are suddenly pompous, condescending assholes. And aren’t even self-aware to see that what they are doing is not the answer to WWJD. Jesus, my friend, was definitely not hanging out with the Pharisees. (Matthew 23. 29-31, 34-38)

And I find it a serious disservice to honest seekers that most religions–believing their way is the only way–divide rather than coalesce, ritualize rather than celebrate, judge rather than love, cleave rather than conjoin. I have absolutely no doubt that every religion’s heart is pretty much in the right place. It’s just that they’ll never get it right by trying to be the only right. Does that make sense?

The third thing is that I would like to find a place to do the spiritual thing. A church but not a church. If you’ve experienced any type of twelve step program, you can probably get where I am coming from. It’s like spiritual beliefs are shared, but separate…and nobody is wrong. I like that. And matters of “saving” someone are left to God, not to bible-thumping, wanna be super heroes.

Which brings me to the but maybe…

There really isn’t a twelve step program into which I actually fit; my brief exposure was due to supporting a beloved friend. I can’t hold my liquor and I’m too frugal to get addicted to other chemicals. So I’m always looking at possibilities.

What’s recently caught my interest is the Episcopalians who in 2003 consecrated an openly gay bishop. The going is not easy as even in 2007 too many believers and even nonbelievers still can’t understand that goodness and morality are about hearts and not sex organs. But then there is Father Matthew’s vlog.   I’m watching and waiting.

So while while I’m watching and waiting, why don’t you stop in at my confessional. Say, Bless me, Saint Angela, for I want to sin. I’ll take it from there.

xo, Saint Angela

I couldn’t resist stealing this from Slip of a Girl.  How she finds this stuff is beyond me.  But she sure knows how to treasure hunt.

Along with her passion for all things feminine, Slip of a Girl also digs vintage erotica and lingerie.  Which makes readers of her blog very lucky.  Very lucky, indeed.  I personally think it is one of the best blogs on the web today.  But, then again, I’m a sucker for all things girly.

If you have a stocking fetish or panty fetish, or just like to look at pretty girly things, or want to know what is the newest fem-fad…bookmark her blog and check often.  You won’t be disappointed.

And…I have a bit of news about Slip of a Girl, which I will tell you in the next few days.

xo, Angela

Would it really be so bad? Don’t you just want to crawl up her legs and worship that ass with your mouth?

Photo courtesy of Secondhand Rose. I haven’t a clue as to whom the ass belongs. Could be Rose’s, could be Francine’s or Blair’s or Maddie’s or Candy’s or Melinda’s…or or or.

All I know for sure…it is damn sexy. I almost want to give it a little smooch-a-roonie myself.

xo, Angela

So for the second time I’ve joined a gym. Last year’s endeavor, well, the place was just too far away–eating up at least three hours of my precious life every time I went. This one is a lot closer–I can make it there in ten minutes. And I have access to a personal trainer if I so desire. Plus there is a hair salon and nail salon in the same complex, which you can bet I will be checking out.

So for the last three days I’ve been working out on these machines, hoping that I can become physically stronger, particularly my upper body. Due to regularly (five days/week) jogging/walking five miles, my legs could practically be registered as lethal weapons. If you are into smothering and/or queening, I’m you girl…I’m talking major headlock, baby cakes.

There is a series of probably 15 machines which, according to my trainer, I have to utilize–NO SKIPPING!–during my visit. I am breezing through the ones concentrating on calves, hips, and thighs. But the ones where I have to work my arms in a variety of torturous combinations are kicking my cute little ass, let me tell you!

But there is good news: Today I actually did the circuit twice, with my trainer only correcting my “form” on one of the machines. I think this is going to grow on me. Because even though my arms are aching a tad right now, all and all, I feel fantastic. In fact, I just might be able to take you in a bout of arm wrestling. Well, maybe in a few weeks or so.

***

Now lets talk about my hair. I recently had more highlights put in…and it looks fucking fabulous. I am paying $180 for this service, because I believe you get what you pay for. My hair happens to be important to me. As it is with most women. Unfortunately the original hairdresser lost her zing or enthusiasm or something. I switched to another girl at the salon who actually seems to want to do her best for me. Which is what I expect when I am spending this kind of money and tipping very well. So we may have World War III at the salon, or perhaps a minor skirmish, as these girls are usually very territorial about clientèle.

Regardless, I made my choice, I love the new hairdresser…so screw the old one with the bad attitude. She should have at least pretended to give a damn.
***

If you’re a Top Chef fan–and I am sooo a super fan–you watched last night and saw that Hung beat out Casey and Dale to take the title of Top Chef for season three. I’ve been hooked on this show from the first season, even though I’m not much for fancy dishes. What engages my interest is the passion these people have for what they do.

I have to admit that I’ve kinda caught the REALITY TV bug…with at least some semblance of reason. I don’t do The Bachelor, or Survivor, or Dancing with the Stars and a whole lot more. But I do have a thing for Project Runway and American Idol. I didn’t want to get hooked; it all started with Fantasia who won the third season of American Idol. I was just flipping through the channels, when I saw this girl just belting out a song like there was no tomorrow. I stuck around to see who she was, and there I was–signed, sealed, delivered–a new American Idol junkie.

Reality TV is big time these days. So much so that MTV sees the need to distinguish it’s new show, Kaya, which is not a reality show, with the following blurb: “MTV’s New Scripted Show.” I found that quite telling in re. to what’s happening all over the tube today.

***

I think men in boxers are so sexy. Men in panties can be sexy too, though. And don’t you forget it.

xo, Angela

DISCLAIMER: I’m a bleeding-heart liberal, and today I am on my soap box, so Don’t Give Me Shit on This. It’s my blog and my heart.

…and Pedro Zapeta’s heart.

I don’t have a problem with immigrants, even “illegal” ones. The American Dream was borne of immigrants. We’re all Heinz 57 mutts, when you get right down to it.

And you can bet your sweet ass that if we lived today under the fist of a cruel dictatorship or in the midst of poverty, each and every one of us would be hightailing it to “The Land of Opportunity.”   We’re the light of the world, for Chrizts sake! Who wouldn’t rather be here?

Guatemalan Pedro Zapeta had his own American Dream: To come to America where he would get paid what was–for him–a decent wage for his hard work. He didn’t even want to stay forever…just long enough to save up some money. And so he somehow made it to Florida, where he landed what must have seemed a dream job as a dishwasher, making $5.50 an hour. For the next eleven years, keeping his belt tight, he skimped and saved…and worked and worked and worked.

He must have thought he hit a gold mine when he eventually got a 25 cent raise. Which was for good job performance, by the way. Wish I could meet some “American born” service workers who actually cared about their job performance. Being good at what you do seems to have gone out of style with the true blues.

Two years ago, Mr. Zapeta decided it was time to return home. With his entire life savings — $59,000 — in a duffel bag, he was going through customs at the Fort Lauderdale Hollywood International Airport, when a security officer called U. S Customs, who were quick to confiscate the money.

Although Customs Officials dropped original allegations that Mr. Zapeta was a drug currier, they were still All American enough to keep his money, because, after all, this non-English speaking illegal alien did break THE LAW when he attempted to leave the country with more than 10K and not declaring it. Duh! He sure wasn’t hiding it. It was in his duffel bag. That’s pretty much is the same as making a declaration–when you don’t speak a lick of English and haven’t a clue about THE LAW.

Then again, a home-grown USA boy –someone like Ken Lay or Joe Nacchio— would have used his good old American know-how to send that money electronically so that nobody would be the wiser. Come to think of it, maybe Mr. Zapeta’s only mistake is not understanding the NEW American Dream: Get the money and run, fucking over everybody and anybody while you’re at it.

Still holding on to his (very) hard earned cash, our Men on White Horses turned Mr. Zapeta over to the INS, who began deportation proceedings. But two lawyers with hearts (they do exist: I know quite a few from the kink-O-phone), working pro bono, took up his cause, fighting the deportation and trying to get his money back. And when the story made the news, donations came pouring in. Now 10K sits in a trust, which apparently Mr. Zapeta is also not permitted to have. But it seems that after two long years, officials are willing hammer out a (somewhat lacking) negotiation:

Robert Gershman, one of Zapeta’s attorneys, said federal prosecutors later offered his client a deal: He could take $10,000 of the original cash seized, plus $9,000 in donations as long as he didn’t talk publicly and left the country immediately.

But Pedro Zapeta is having none of it. He says, ” They are treating me like a criminal when all I am is a working man.” I agree with him, am rooting for him, am praying for him and champion him.

So it’s been two years since Customs officials took their stand at the OK Corral and saved the good people of the wild, wild west from the likes of Pedro Zapeta.

But somehow I just don’t feel any safer.

Do you?

xo, Angela

LINK TO STORY