I really miss Bubba

Right now I’d love to personally slap each and every person who voted for Bush in 2004. There’s a lot of them, and I’d have to go to places like Alabama to get them all, but it sure seems worth the effort now.

Today the Supreme Court made it that much easier for anti-abortion dingleberries to stand in front of clinics to interfere with my right to have a PERFECTLY FUCKING LEGAL MEDICAL PROCEDURE performed within the confines of my very own uterus.

Ay, my friends, there’s the rub. The dingleberries will not rest until the perfectly fucking legal part is no longer associated with abortion.  

Now this blog isn’t big enough to detail the ridiculous hypocrisies of those who say things like they want to “restore the sanctity of life in our laws and policy.” They’re completely full of shit, especially this group, in Chicago’s Greektown, who was instrumental in closing all but one abortion clinic in Mississippi.

I have to get a couple of cavities filled on Saturday and I’m worried. Who is to say some enamel preservation activists won’t blow up my dentist’s office? It’s not my poor teeth’s fault that the world hasn’t invented sugarless beer yet! I was a dental slut, drinking and eating with reckless abandon without using cavity control and now my teeth are paying for it.







    

iLuvs my iPod Shuffle!

I’ve now joined the legions of jerks walking around with white wires sprouting from the ears. Friday night I strolled into the Apple store on Michigan Avenue and came out a new woman.

This little plastic thing is amazing! If I didn’t know better, I’d say inside my shuffle it’s perpetually 2 a.m. and there is a teeny tiny drunk girl sitting on a floor covered with CDs playing songs for me. Sometimes she’s so drunk she tries to play the same song twice. But that’s alright. We’ve all been there. I just skip to the next song.




    

I don't write. . . I don't call. . .

Miss Manners says it is rude to take an unexplained absence from one’s blog. So in the interest of being an overachiever, I’ve decided to offer you several excuses as to why I’ve taken nearly a week to post.

1. I was embroiled in a five-day fiddlin’ duel with the devil.

2. I was peppered with buckshot by a drunken urban pigeon hunter.

3. I was called up to active duty in Iraq. (The Green Zone has awesome margaritas by the way.)

4. I was surgically separating yet another set of Third World Siamese twins sent to America so some media whore hospital can get press coverage.

5. I was a guest host on the View.

6. My toilet overflowed and I was sitting on the counter top waiting for FEMA to rescue me.

7. I was explaining to Oprah why and how she needs to get over herself.

8. I was helping Madonna recover from her hernia operation.

9. I was on a Meth binge.

10. I was taken up to Heaven by the Rapture but returned quickly as Saint Peter realized they had the wrong person.

Finally, a use for my journalism education

David Gregory isn’t the only member of the White House press corps to get under the skin of Press Secretary Scott McLellan. As a citizen journalist, I used my credentials as dynamo lunchtime blogger to get a seat this week in the briefing room.

Here’s the actual transcript of my questions and McLellan’s answers. Really, it’s the actual transcript.

Me: Angie Tee from Blogdiggidy

McLellan: Blog-what? Never mind. What’s your question.

Me: I just wanted to shoot a couple of questions your way.

McLellan: I gather as much.

Me: I’ll just fire away then.

McLellan: Funny. WHAT IS YOUR QUESTION!

Me: Calm down. Let’s not make this about you, Scott. You’re trying to make this about you, aren’t you? Well it’s not about you.

McLellan: (to no one in particular) Who let her in here?

Me: Alright. (ahem) Question numero uno. Vice President Cheney’s gun wasn’t the only thing that was loaded on Saturday, am I right or am I right?

McLellan: The Vice President has said he only had one beer at lunch. He was not intoxicated.

Me: Yeah, but how big was the beer? (laughter in the room) Is the Vice President drunk now?

McLellan: Are you finished?

Me: Hardly. Last month the Pew Center for Research reported in a poll that the Vice President’s approval rating had significantly dropped among alcoholic bird hunters who had shot a friend at one time or another. Was the Whittington shooting, or excuse me peppering really a way to shore up support among this key Republican constituency?

McLellan: I don’t have time for this.

Me: Scott, focus. Last question. Should America be worried about copycat pepperings?

McLellan: (shouting) Security!

So anyway, at that point I was bounced from briefing. And I have to say it’s amazing how one can fly from Chicago to DC and back during the work day with no one noticing.

30 minute lunch break + Photoshop = fun

I peaked at 13

I’m with these folks. Spelling Bees are not to be taken litely or excuse me, lightly.

In 1986, I won the Lincoln Junior High Spelling Bee at the age of 13. A tremendous moment it was, and my name is engraved on a plaque outside the gym to this day. I know this because I ask my niece, an 8th grader there, to check on it periodically.

Kayllatee is also a fantastic speller and has made it to the finals each year going as far as second place. Last month was her final chance at Spelling Bee glory, but she lost to a 6th grader. I couldn’t bee-lieve it. A 6th grader? I called her to find out what happened.

Me: So what happened?

Kayllatee: Uh, I lost.

Me: Any regrets?

Kayllatee: No.

Me: Is my name still on the plaque?

Kayllatee: Yes! They don’t put your name on there anymore anyway.

Me: Are you fucking kidding me? Who do I talk to about this!

OK, so I didn’t say “fucking,” but I do want to talk to these people because Kayllatee lost on the word “aphrodisiac.” What are these people thinking? She’s 14 for chrissakes! What if she asked the judge to use it in a sentence? What then?

Our family does have some hope left. Kayllatee’s brother Zachtee is freakishly bright. At six he was able to take everyone’s birthdates and the wedding dates of their parents and figure out who was born illegitimately or not. It was a proud day for us. A spelling bee crown is clearly within his reach.

I talked to their mom about Zachtee’s chances. I told her she should have him up every morning at like 5 a.m. with flash cards and the like.

“Should he be reading the thesaurus?” Staceytee asked.

“Yes, definitely the thesaurus!’ She was on board, I could tell. We talked a bit more, and then she shrieked suddenly. I heard the kids laughing hysterically in the background.

“Ah man, Zach just farted,” Staceytee said.

“Tell him champion spellers don’t do that!” I said.

She did. He didn’t seem to care.

They're not the only ones watching you

Patriot Act got you down? Did you ever consider that bloggers, like the NSA, don't need any frivolous warrant to eavesdrop on your cell phone conversations or watch your every, seemingly mundane move? Be warned: what you do, wear, who you talk to, how you walk, what you smell like, what you order in a restaurant--all this and more could end up on some blog.

When I'm out among the masses alone, for the most part my attention is squarely on my internal dialogue. It's pretty fast paced, and frequently unintelligible so I have to focus to not miss a word. But with this whole blog thing, I have to admit I can became hyper aware of people around me. A girl needs her blog material, what can I say.

And hey, it goes both ways. I too could have become blog fodder. If I looked hard enough, I might just stumble upon the following blog passages.

Guest's blog from a wedding I was in last summer:

". . and then out of no where, this bridesmaid tackled the bride to the ground! I wouldn't have believed it if I didn't see it with my own two eyes."

UIC student blog from Chinatown riding the #8 northbound:

"Again this morning, she's fumbling for money and balancing a zillion things trying to get on the bus--coffee, bags, and a CD WALKMAN that looks like someone walking her dog found in an alley somewhere. She might as well have a ghetto blaster on her shoulder. It's called an Ipod, old lady. Look into it."

2nd floor apartment dweller/video game lover in Pilsen:

"I love my video games, and I love 'em loud. My upstairs neighbor (who's stunning by the way) apparently has a problem with it. She knocked on my door around midnight one Saturday night last month when I was in a total gaming frenzy. I didn't come to the door though. What if she's planning to take me somewhere and kill me?"

Dell customer service dude:

"What part of 30 days from shipment doesn't this customer understand? Her many sad, yet eloquent emails haunted me. I put her rebate through."

My new found homicidal tendencies

I’m going away for the weekend and when I get back I plan to kill my downstairs neighbor. I have a high threshold for noisy urban apartment living, but this guy is more than any mortal can bear.

Loud music isn’t the issue. Nor is loud sex. These things I can handle.

This guy plays video games. Really freaking loud video games.*

Like I’ll be on my tip toes trying to put away a dish when all of sudden my entire apartment will start to shake. Machine gun fire is everywhere, and as luck would have it, I don’t have a fox hole to jump in. I’ll even look outside to see if those rascal gangbangers are giving someone a 21-gun salute or something. Nope. Not them. It’s the downstairs Asshole Man. And wowza, I sure do love it when I’m drifting off to sleep and I hear squealing tires, a crash, and then a high-pitched woman’s voice coming from under my bed.

I tried knocking on his door once when things really got out of control, but he didn’t answer and I’m guessing it was because he COULDN’T FUCKING HEAR ME! And let me reiterate, I do understand the tenets of living in what is essentially little boxes stacked on top of each other. But there’s a line, Downstairs Asshole Man has crossed it, and now he’s going to die.

I think I can get away with it. Some homicide detectives the ladies and I used to drink with told us if we ever killed anyone we’d so get off. The catch is, I’d have to lure him to their corner of the city. If anyone has any creative and relatively bloodless ideas on how to do this, I’m all ears.

*I have nothing against video game players, just those who think the world wants to play along with them.  

          

The lady doth moons too much, methinks

I’ve fully retreated into Angie’s world where State of Union addresses don’t exist. The inflatable pilot from Airplane! is president here and he’s not one for speeches.

While the rest of you were either crying or vomiting through Dubya’s performance last night, I met up with a pal of mine for a stroll through the Art Institute and some vittles. We found out a little late that the museum now closes early on their free night, so Tina and I happened upon this quaint and oh-so-authentic little Irish Pub for dinner and drink.

We had a great time catching up and headed to a nearby bookstore to browse and ridicule anything that crossed our path. I bought this very funny Chicago blogger’s new paperback (see, blogging can pay off!), and Tina helped me with the big words in a David Egger’s book. Good times.

On the way to our respective modes of public transportation, we saw a crowd of placard-holding, drum beating rabble making their way down Wabash. Usually as protests go in Chicago, cops outnumber dissidents 2:1 leaving Johnny Law a little bored. Last night was no exception. About six of them on bikes quickly swarmed a carload jammed packed with protesters. Something, as they say, was about to go down.

This girl in the passenger seat suddenly hopped out and shouted/stuttered preemptively to an officer: “MY UNDERWEAR WAS ON THE ENTIRE TIME!”

Excuse me? What in the fuck did I miss?

Tina again helped me out (I’ve been real slow as of late) and said she probably stuck her bare bottom out the window. Something called mooning, I guess. Sure, that’s one way to make a political statement. But talk about wilting in the face of authority! Abbie Hoffman probably turned over in his weed-lined grave with Miss Pants-About-Her-Ankles squirming her way out of trouble.

And anyway political mooning, I don’t get. But drunken ass-baring, totally makes sense. A few years back, the ladies and I were back in the ol’ hometown and got some beer to go after the bars along the Illinois River closed. One of us, probably me, got the bright idea to moon barges as the passed us.

To this day, I can still feel the barge’s radioactive search light on my bum. They were really looking for something, lemme tell ya.

          

What keeps me honest

Different religions have different ideas of what heaven is like. Boring. I’d like to know what you think hell might be like. Lake of fire? All-night poker games with demons? A tough job interview that lasts into perpetuity, maybe.

Well here’s mine. And remember this is eternal damnation we’re talking about.

I’m at a bar where the jukebox has Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Lights on repeat. No matter how much I drink, I can’t get drunk and I’m fused to the bar stool next to the biggest stroke in all of Hades. He’s telling a story so boring I’d wish I’d die. But, fuck, I already have so there’s no escape. The Bush twins are dancing on the bar, and I can’t get to my friends who are in the corner, laughing and looking like they’re having the time of their after-lives.

O.K. now you go!

We're walking. . . we're walking. . .

I'm one of those nerds who loves reading historical markers. They're usually commemorating some obscure event or person, but you never know when useless knowledge can get you out of a scrape so I'm always careful to stop and read them.

Like what if I'm held hostage somewhere and my captors demand, "I'M ONLY GOING TO ASK THIS ONCE. WHOSE COMPANY (they're yelling most likely) DID ABRAHAM LINCOLN ENLIST WITH DURING THE BLACKHAWK WAR?" And I'll reply, maybe with a smirk, "Why with Elijah Iles at Fort Johnston in LaSalle County. " Impressed, they'll of course let me go and as I'm leaving I'll shout, "AND IT WAS HIS SECOND TOUR MOTHERFUCKERS!"

So point. . . I had one. Oh yeah last weekend I was walking by the Tribune Tower where I saw a marker on the Chicago River noting that Louis Jolliet and Father Jacques Marquette were the first white men to pass through Lake Michigan into the river in 1675ish. I've walked by the spot a trillion times and never noticed it. Some group--surprisingly still in existence--calling themselves the Colonial Dames of America erected the plaque in 1925. The whole thing was troubling, and it had nothing to do with the 'white men' thing. Some of my best friends are white men you know?

Carved into the side of a pillar, this sculpture allegedly depicts the aforementioned French explorers meeting the first native Chicagoans. Homoerotic to say the least, the well built and presumably oiled Natives were on their knees clinging, CLINGING to the legs of Jolliet or Marquette and gazing up at them adoringly. Even more spectacular, an angel is floating above the group and smiling down at them. Somehow I doubt that's what the meeting looked like.

And the whole thing left me wondering if a more contemporary Chicago River incident deserves an historical marker. Lest we forget the shit bath that boatload of tourists took a while back when Dave Matthew's bus driver decided to unload their crapper on the Kinzie Street Bridge?

Don't those people deserve recognition for their struggle? Should I call the Colonial Dames?

email me at angieblog@yahoo.com

Babies can't smoke and drink? Says who?

One of my pals who happens to be a cigarette aficionado and beer enthusiast from way back, has recently announced she’s with child. No drinkie and no smokie treats for Mommy-to-be for the next several months. A pre-natal hop on the wagon kind of sucks, and you know how I know? Because she said as much when we were all gathered for a wedding reception on Saturday.

“THIS. FUCKING. SUCKS!” she declared, white knuckled and gripping the edges of the table while I talked to her with a Marlboro Light in one hand and about 62 beers in front of me. It was open bar. Talk about pouring salt in an open wound.

“Um, you’ll be fine,” I said, and then busted out laughing as she took a drink of her O’Doul’s and shot me a look only a crazed woman could muster. A couple of times while I was enjoying my moderate habit I indulge in only while drinking, I spied a blond head next to me inhaling smoke deeply as I exhaled. I shoved her and told her to get away from me. I care about this baby, ya know?

It’s just too bad she wasn't married to a sea horse.

Most of us who were in utero in the 60’s and early 70’s can be quite certain that our moms didn’t exactly stay away from the sauce during pregnancy entirely. My mother and my friends’ moms actually told us so. These ladies were registering for bongs and fifths of Jack Daniels for baby showers, I’ll bet.  

Anyway, we’re all ok. We’ve got degrees from mediocre state universities and lackluster jobs just like everyone else. We turned out just fine, is what the old ladies say when they rationalize their pregnancies. To think if my mom didn’t have that six pack the summer of 1972, I’d be chief of staff of an Al Gore White House right now.

I’m certain that my friend Blondie will be a model pregnant lady. And I vow to be there at her house with a pack of cigarettes and a case of beer to celebrate baby Blondie coming into the world.          

What Jesus would blog

Using James Frey’s exciting prose style (no indented paragraphs, no quotations, and seemingly indiscriminate capitalization is so edgy) I’ve fabricated the following post using as many elements you guys sent.

My name is Jesus Dreyfus and I’m the toughest Mexican cop in Chicago. At one time my full name was Jesus Dreyfus DeJesus (I was born the year Jaws came out, my mom was big fan.) but I got it legally changed to just plain Jesus Dreyfus because Jesus DeJesus sounds kind of stupid. This is my story.

I walk into Dugan’s after a long shift on the Martial Arts-related crime task force. It’s been a Shit day and all I want is a stiff drink. I look at the Bartender. She knows the drill.
Jesus, you want the usual?
Make it a double.
She smiles and fills the glass.
I gulp it down and look at around. I see the last Broad I was screwing from across the bar. Too bad I didn’t have one of those invisible Capes. I’ve been trying to lose this chick for weeks.
Jesus, you look like shit, she says.
Thanks. It’s been one of those Days.
Why haven’t You answered my emails? What about my calls?
Look, I’m really not interested anymore. I thought you’d take the hint.
She gasps.
Goddammit Jesus, why are such a fucking Asshole?
Someone’s bitter.
She doesn’t think it’s funny.
There’s no chance for us?
A slim Chance maybe.
Really?
Like I said, a fat chance.
You know Jesus, that guy over there just asked me out. She glances over at this flannel-clad oaf next to the Pool table.
If you want to go with that crackuh, knock yourself out. He looks about as exciting as an Egg sandwich.
It’s cracker, Jesus. And he’s nice.
Crackuh, whatevuh.
She throws her drink in my face.
Bitch! This is going to stain my new shirt.
It’s just club Soda Jesus.
Since when did you just drink club soda? You’re a fucking lush.



So that’s all the Ronco Blogomatic came up with! Thanks for playing.

Shut up and give me something to blog about!

Help me, please help me!

Return of the killer hangover and my brush with pedophilia

I got my drink back.

It started last Sunday night at the Radisson Hotel bar in Peoria where I found out I can't be trusted to stay in a hotel alone. Mamatee was doing much better, so I had to celebrate and spent the better part of the evening unwinding in the Medieval-themed lounge with just the bartender and a Red Stater to keep me company. While Trish the bartender told me all about her goodfornothing kids, Louisiana Larry sucked down Makers Mark whiskey and let me smoke as many of his Carlton cigarettes my lungs would allow.

Dirty old man or not, Larry made a find drinking companion. Before he left the bar I told him he looked like James Carville, which surprisingly he took as a compliment. "Really?" he asked, smiling. If you can imagine James Carville being left in a bathtub too long, that would be Louisiana Larry. Good people, that Larry, but rather unfortunate looking.

Last night I went to a coming out party of sorts for a friend who moved to Chicago from Sucklanta this month. Ariamay (she asked that I use pig latin to conceal her identity) looked stunning and surprised me with her ability to stay atop her 19 inch heels after drinking half the liquor in the city. Even during a specially-choreographed yet underwhelming dance to Christina Aguilara's Dirty at the Liar's Club, she didn't stumble.

Ariamay and her friends are all about 5-6 years younger than me and a couple went to my highschool.

One girl told me she graduated in 1996.

"I graduated in 90."

"Shit. You guys were like done with college by the time we graduated. " Her mock horror was refreshing. I wanted to hug her for not saying things like, "Age doesn't matter."

"Yeah, and not only that," I told little Miss 26, "I was on like my third husband in 1996."

I really appreciate honesty. A couple of years ago when I went out with this guy who was several years younger than me, his sister had simply this to say when she found out how old I was.

"Gross."

I thought it was hilarious. And after telling said youngster that he wasn't Ashton and I wasn't Demi, our tryst was over.

At the last stop of the night, one of the even younger girls caught the eye of a gentleman. Though I've been a little out of practice I knew it was important to encourage her debauchery. He and his friend invited the two of us back for a nightcap. Of course I asked them if they were going to kill us, they said no, and off we went.

The two hit it off which left me with the friend, the TWENTY-ONE (maybe 22?) year old friend. Though nothing happened, I have to admit that I entertained the idea. Coo, coo, ca-choo right?

Toddler and I were talking and he asked me if I ever lived in other big cities besides Chicago.

"Yeah, I lived in DC for about five minutes in 1994."

"I was 10 in 1994."

When I thought about the things I was up to while this kid was watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in his jammies somewhere . . . dry spell or not, it definitely was time to call it a night.

Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?

Sometimes you just have to ask.

Tuesday night I was coming back from Peoria to my hometown with my brother and aunt. In daylight it's a rather scenic drive, at least for the mostly flat and boring Illinois, but at night it's a little scary. Very dark, very woody, very Blair Witch Project with winding roads and the occasional farmhouse and one horse town to speed through.

Even though I grew up in a small town, I think I'd handle a shitty Chicago neighborhood better than the dead quiet, pitch black night way out in the country. At least in the city you'd be roughed up and left for dead where someone's bound to find you in an alley like a civilized human being. But in the country, hell you'd end up in some woodchipper and no one would notice till the spring barn raising season started.

My jerkface brother took advantage of my uneasiness about midway through the drive. I was sitting in the back seat and was leaning forward talking to my companions when everything went black. Mr. Smarty Pants had cut out the lights.

"HEY!" I shouted/whined. My heart started to leap out of my chest.

"Uh, I just wanted to see how dark it is. It's pretty dark," he said chuckling.

Asshole.

Usually I deal better with the unknown. Back in our roaring 20s, friends and I embarked on what seemed at the time to be adventures (late night ministering to the sick with cute cops, getting rides back to a London hotel with strange men) but we were always careful to ask the all-important question.

"Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?, or Are you taking her somewhere to kill her?"

And if the answer was no, then you got the greenlight. Because everyone knows that if you kill someone after telling them you weren't going to, then you're going to be in a lot more trouble.

Can you imagine the trial?

Big shot prosecutor: Did YOU or did YOU not tell the victim you were not taking her somewhere to kill her?

Cute killer: (whispers) yes.

The courtroom gasps. Cute killer gets the gas chamber.

Pour some Splenda on Me. . .

Men's Fitness magazine rated Chicago the fattest city in America. While I'm sure most of us living here could give one of our rat's fat asses about it, for a moment I thought I had something to do with it. You see, I've been AWOL from my step class since September, and consequently I'm beginning to actually roll out of bed in the morning. It's not good. I was worried enough to go their site to see if this was the case. And I was curious how they arrived at this. "Don't get your hopes up for a convenient tee time: Chicago's ratio of public golf courses to citizens is the third-lowest in our entire survey." The mother of a friend of mine once said, "Golf is for nerds and assholes." Besides that, this is a dense, metropolitan area you fat heads! Our land goes for over-priced condos the owners of which go to the suburbs for golf. Duh. "Commuting here burns up a lot of people's free time and contributes to stress, which raises hormones that increase the likelihood of gaining weight. How bad is it? The same trip takes 50% longer during rush hour than during off-peak driving times-the third-worst in our survey." Geniuses, rush hour means traffic in the third most populated city in America, with . . . what did you say. . the third worst congestion? Incredible! "Good luck finding a place to get sports equipment: Sporting-goods stores number in the bottom 10% in our survey." OK, now this is just plain stupid. The ability to purchase exercise equipment does not a fit person make. How many of us have treadmills/laundry hangers? The rest of America can go "moo-moo" behind our backs when we walk by, we don't care.

"You can tell I'm stoned."

Yes you with the morphine drip, I can. So my mom's one less kidney and tumor free as of Wednesday afternoon. She sailed through the procedure, at least for a gal with her rusty ticker, and resting comfortably as I write this at St. Francis Hospital in Peoria. I forgot my laptop but these kind folks are nice enough to have computers in waiting areas so families can update their blogs. I almost had a coronary when I saw her surgeon come to grab us about two hours before he said he was going to finish. He looked at me when he came into the room, and gestured for us to follow him into a conference room. Holy fuck ,I thought (sorry Catholic hospitial computer) this is not good. "She did excellent," he said, smiling a bit and I dare say a little surprised. He then went on to explain the surgery and what was going to happen for the next day. When you have a super-sick relative you learn that one day at a time, is a literal thing. It's kind of the only way to get through stuff. We thanked him and at first I reached out my hand. But then I hugged him, which caught him off guard. Hey, the dude didn't kill my mom, so he was going to get a freaking hug. It was the least I could do (well there's always more I could do.) Now I know a little what winning the lottery might feel like. It was a good day.

Dry spell

I've yet to use this blog as a dumping ground for crap about boy-related stuff. I made a conscious decision to leave that to the other gals in blogland.

Never say never, right?

So there's this episode of Seinfeld where George achieves intellectual higher ground after going without sex for awhile. No sex freed up parts of his brain previously used for obsessing and strategizing about sex. Soon he was like solving mathematical equations and curing cancer.

No sex had the exact opposite effect on Elaine.

She turned into a blithering idiot.

I think that's happening to me! I'm not going to disclose how long it's been for me, but I will tell that I watched Jeopardy on Saturday and blurted out like fifteen answers that were WAY off, almost embarrasingly so. My mother and my sister looked at me like I was having a stroke. And yesterday I tried reading the paper, but sounding out every other word was exhausting so I turned on the WB.

It's this goddamn dry spell, I'm telling ya!

I've tried to take the high road and not reconnect with former paramours, and this isn't the 90s so some one-nighter is out of the question. Even though there's this sensitive fellow who's trying to romance me and who happens to be about 12 feet away as I type this, he'd probably want to cuddle. And talk. And I'm not interested in that unless get fired because I forget I have a job, or get lost coming home one day.

Jock Straps for Christmas and the Last Man on Earth who didn't know John Wayne was Dead

'Twas four days before Christmas when I finally attempted to do some gift shopping. Three stores and about $200 later the present score stood at Angie:6, Family:0. I had a bad case of shopper's block, at least when it came to other people, and decided the best route would be a stack of gift cards purchased when I got to my hometown for the holiday.

I had visited the local Target the night I got into town, but still felt like I might let some folks down. My inner-Santa was starting to come out. On Christmas Eve morning I went to the Salvation Army with my Aunt Sheila where I spotted a yellowed package containing a jock strap that was likely older than me.

Antique Roadshow? Maybe. Gift for my brother? Definitely. I threw it in my cart along with a Jane Fonda workout video circa 1983, a bar of soap, a pair of black angels, an onion blossom maker, a mini totem pole, a butterfly thermometer, and a Sesame street doll dressed like a mailman (which by the way still had the tag on.) I took my very special gifts back to my Aunt and Uncle's house and wrapped them happily while a couple of cousins eyed me with suspicion.

Except for my poor 7-year old nephew, who looked a little stunned and confused when he unwrapped a worn story book for someone half his age, my family got a much needed giggle while I passed out the real presents. I then declared I would spend the course of each year seeking out the oddest, and perhaps junkiest pieces of crap for their Christmas presents.

The rest of the holiday weekend was interesting. I'm used to living alone and staying at my mom's apartment where it's just the two of us. We were both at her favorite sisters' house where there's constant chatter, TV's blaring with Spanish programs in the background, and the Christmas tradition of my uncle Ruperto strumming a guitar with his countrymen and singing some incoherent Mexican songs about life on the ranchero.

It was all at once brutal and charming.

On Christmas morning while my aunt slaved away in the kitchen making tamales, my uncle came out of the bedroom wearing a bandanna around his neck. He walked in the kitchen and after spotting me making food (it was breakfast for my mom) he said, actually giddy, "Angela what are you making?"

Even though I've known this man since the age of five, I've never ceased to be frustrated at his old-world notions of what a woman should and shouldn't do. My reply?

"Look Pancho Villa, I know you get awfully excited seeing a woman in the kitchen. I'm out of here in five minutes and I'm not coming back."

"Pancho Villa? No, John Wayne."

"They're both dead, whatever."

"John Wayne's dead?" He was geniunely stunned.

"He died like 30 years ago. You really didn't know?"

He didn't. I had to be the one to break the news. On Christmas Day.