The weekends are my relax time. I have three things I like to do on my days off (and when I get all three in, I call it the "perfect trifecta" -- yes, I'm a dork): go to the gym, go to the beach, go to the mall.
For the record, I'm only 2 for 3 today, but anyway.
After the gym, I change directly into my Tar-jay bikini and head over to the beach. I'm driving down Hillsboro Blvd. (major road, leads to the beach) when I'm all of the sudden assaulted by brake lights. God damnit (oops), why are we braking? I'm trying to get to the beach!
Slowly, we chug along, and eventually are herded into just one lane by Mr. Officer at the next available intersection. "What's going on here?" I wonder as I cattle my Beemer in with the rest of the brakers. "I don't see an accident..."
But then I see them.
All 200 (at least) Jesus Freaks parading down Hillsboro, spilling off the sidewalk and into the lane of street that we've just been herded away from. They are parading (boringly, I might add -- no floats, bands, Santa Claus, nothing) toward the beach, holding up traffic and whatnot.
Let me stop for one second and qualify my right to analyze this: As a member myself of an often-made-fun-of group (I'm a card-carrying Crazy Cat Lady, thank you very much), I feel that I'm allowed to have fun at the expense of other, um, special groups. Now, to continue...
They are all wearing matching white tees with iron-on Jesus transfers. It's mostly children. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves (maybe because it's approximately 147 degrees out?). The cops are escorting them. Did I mention they are holding up traffic?
Fine. I pass them, swerving defiantly back into the right lane, and proceed to the beach. I park. I grab my beach chair (after first unloading the two giant bags of cat food that are on top of it in my trunk) and start walking towards my mecca.
And then I hear it -- is that a band? Great, there's some outdoor concert, I think.
And then I really hear it -- it's friggin' gospel music! The Jesus Freaks are coming, and they're going to be RIGHT HERE singing and praising while I'm trying to relax. Oh, iPod, where for art thou?
Anywhos, I suffer through. It could be worse -- it's in Portugeuse so I can't understand it, so that's at least a little better. I go about my beaching, relatively unbothered (they are congregated in the parking lot, not right there on the sand with me) until the heavens open up and it starts raining.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Things you can't do if you burn the shit out of your thumb
Extreme cooking tip #1: That thing you just pulled out of the oven? It's friggin' hot.
Really hot. In fact -- and I learned this the hard way -- I don't recommend touching it. Your thumb will hurt... bad. And as if hurting didn't suck enough, there will now be things that you will find you just can't do anymore.
So I bring you my list of things I can't do because I burned the shit out of my thumb:
1. Button my pants.
2. Turn my key to start my car.
3. Release the emergency brake.
4. Fasten my bra.
5. I can't wait to blow dry and use the flat iron on my hair tomorrow...
6. Use the mouse. You'd be surprised how much your thumb is involved. (Try it.)
7. Crochet that cute duckie I was working on (Shut up. I'm going to make someone a faaabulous grandma one day.)
8. Take my finger out of the ice water.
9. Type. Not very well at least. Friggin' space bar gets me every time.
10. Sleep, probably. Come on, Advil!
However, there is one thing that doesn't seem to be giving me any problems... This glass of wine.
Really hot. In fact -- and I learned this the hard way -- I don't recommend touching it. Your thumb will hurt... bad. And as if hurting didn't suck enough, there will now be things that you will find you just can't do anymore.
So I bring you my list of things I can't do because I burned the shit out of my thumb:
1. Button my pants.
2. Turn my key to start my car.
3. Release the emergency brake.
4. Fasten my bra.
5. I can't wait to blow dry and use the flat iron on my hair tomorrow...
6. Use the mouse. You'd be surprised how much your thumb is involved. (Try it.)
7. Crochet that cute duckie I was working on (Shut up. I'm going to make someone a faaabulous grandma one day.)
8. Take my finger out of the ice water.
9. Type. Not very well at least. Friggin' space bar gets me every time.
10. Sleep, probably. Come on, Advil!
However, there is one thing that doesn't seem to be giving me any problems... This glass of wine.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
I don't hate my neighbors
Oh, shoot. Typo up there in the title. I have no idea how that "don't" got in there...
Reasons why I hate the people upstairs and diagonal from me:
1. If I want to go to a Brazilian concert, I will. However, it's 11:00 a.m. (thank GOD I'm not hung over) and all I here is this friggin' crap booming through my walls, my ceiling and my bones. And they're not even directly connected to my apartment. I feel so bad for the nice couple that lives next door from me and directly below them.
2. Your barbeque should not be plastic twisty-tied to your patio railing. Wait... it shouldn't? No. You should not have your el-cheapo barbeque grill sitting on top of a jumbo plastic paint bucket that is plastic-tie strapped to your railing. I can't quite put my finger on why I feel this way, but I'm sure it has something to do with LIGHTING THE WHOLE DAMN BUILDING ON FIRE because of your pollo and carne.
3. Playboy magazines do not belong on your dashboard. Well, maybe they do, I don't know. But every time I walk past their work van (see #4), I'm disgusted. I mean, there are children living here. And why is that thing in your car anyway? Never mind. I don't want to know -- and that's why this is on my list. Keep that magazine in your damn bathroom or under your bed or something. NOT in your car for all to see what you do in your car.
4. The work van (eww) is overflowing with garbage (literally). Not a day passes that I don't find a gas station hot dog holder or some other dirt kind of litter right where the van was parked. Seriously? We all live here. Your garbage can can't be more than 15 steps from your car. Don't throw nastiness on the ground. No one simply drives by here and throws crap out of their car -- it's someone that lives here -- and I'm not naming names, but they play their friggin' Brazilian music too loud, have a barbeque rigged to their patio rails and play with themselves in their car.
Just sayin.
Reasons why I hate the people upstairs and diagonal from me:
1. If I want to go to a Brazilian concert, I will. However, it's 11:00 a.m. (thank GOD I'm not hung over) and all I here is this friggin' crap booming through my walls, my ceiling and my bones. And they're not even directly connected to my apartment. I feel so bad for the nice couple that lives next door from me and directly below them.
2. Your barbeque should not be plastic twisty-tied to your patio railing. Wait... it shouldn't? No. You should not have your el-cheapo barbeque grill sitting on top of a jumbo plastic paint bucket that is plastic-tie strapped to your railing. I can't quite put my finger on why I feel this way, but I'm sure it has something to do with LIGHTING THE WHOLE DAMN BUILDING ON FIRE because of your pollo and carne.
3. Playboy magazines do not belong on your dashboard. Well, maybe they do, I don't know. But every time I walk past their work van (see #4), I'm disgusted. I mean, there are children living here. And why is that thing in your car anyway? Never mind. I don't want to know -- and that's why this is on my list. Keep that magazine in your damn bathroom or under your bed or something. NOT in your car for all to see what you do in your car.
4. The work van (eww) is overflowing with garbage (literally). Not a day passes that I don't find a gas station hot dog holder or some other dirt kind of litter right where the van was parked. Seriously? We all live here. Your garbage can can't be more than 15 steps from your car. Don't throw nastiness on the ground. No one simply drives by here and throws crap out of their car -- it's someone that lives here -- and I'm not naming names, but they play their friggin' Brazilian music too loud, have a barbeque rigged to their patio rails and play with themselves in their car.
Just sayin.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Maybe she's allergic to her coat
So we're going to the Sweet Tomatoes for lunch today. (I looove Sweet Tomatoes -- there's a buffet, macaroni and cheese, bread, dessert, macaroni and cheese... When I die, I want to go to Sweet Tomatoes.)
Anyway, we're walking up when I see this lady coming out the side door, and she's wearing the most ridiculous dark brown, floor-length mink coat. We live in Florida. Sure it's cold, but it's like 60-degrees cold... nothing to kill 250 cute little minks over. I'm not even wearing a light jacket.
That aside (for a second), she doesn't look like this is the kind of coat she can afford (with apologies to those who live in lavish double-wides, this woman is straight up pimped-out trailer trash), which makes it even more ridiculous. Please don't wear a gaudy mink coat if you can't afford hair product. Also, leave said ridiculous coat that you inherited from your great grandmother and costs more than your car at home from now on as long as you live in South Florida.
Whatever. Getting to the real reason I called: This train wreck can't stop sneezing. I mean, at least 15 times while simply crossing one lane of parking lot.
To which I very loudly comment to my friend: Maybe she's allergic to her fucking coat.
I hope she heard me.
Anyway, we're walking up when I see this lady coming out the side door, and she's wearing the most ridiculous dark brown, floor-length mink coat. We live in Florida. Sure it's cold, but it's like 60-degrees cold... nothing to kill 250 cute little minks over. I'm not even wearing a light jacket.
That aside (for a second), she doesn't look like this is the kind of coat she can afford (with apologies to those who live in lavish double-wides, this woman is straight up pimped-out trailer trash), which makes it even more ridiculous. Please don't wear a gaudy mink coat if you can't afford hair product. Also, leave said ridiculous coat that you inherited from your great grandmother and costs more than your car at home from now on as long as you live in South Florida.
Whatever. Getting to the real reason I called: This train wreck can't stop sneezing. I mean, at least 15 times while simply crossing one lane of parking lot.
To which I very loudly comment to my friend: Maybe she's allergic to her fucking coat.
I hope she heard me.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Smile, a-holes.
Did someone Sharpie something awful on my forehead? Are my boobs so freakin' ginormous that you can't look at me straight or, for that matter, look at me at all? Do I have a third boob I don't know about?
Seriously, assholes, why is it that most of us are so rude that we can't even acknowledge or smile when we walk past each other? It's not like I'm asking you to have a conversation with me. I don't care what your kids' names are, what you're name is or even how you're doing... I'm saying: Just smile.
Here's the scenario: We're both walking towards each other. Maybe we're in a hallway, maybe we're outside both going for a walk or run, maybe we're coming in/going out of the grocery store. Either way, you've seen me coming for at least 10 steps now -- and you are making a conscious effort to start straight forward; God forbid we make eye contact... because then you'd have to acknowledge me. God forbid! Oh, the horror!
Are you too good for me, asshole? That bitch is smiling at me... she's got a lot of nerve!
Breaking news: You're the bitch.
A simple smile is friendly. It's common courtesy. I'm right here, asshole -- why do you feel the need to ignore me? It's just rude, and even ruder if I smile at you and you proceed to ignore me.
You know what? Maybe you're right, assholes. Keep to yourselves. Stay in your bubbles. But one day I hope someone actually Sharpies your head or you grow that third boob, and I happen to walk by you then -- with the biggest damn smile on my face you've ever seen.
Seriously, assholes, why is it that most of us are so rude that we can't even acknowledge or smile when we walk past each other? It's not like I'm asking you to have a conversation with me. I don't care what your kids' names are, what you're name is or even how you're doing... I'm saying: Just smile.
Here's the scenario: We're both walking towards each other. Maybe we're in a hallway, maybe we're outside both going for a walk or run, maybe we're coming in/going out of the grocery store. Either way, you've seen me coming for at least 10 steps now -- and you are making a conscious effort to start straight forward; God forbid we make eye contact... because then you'd have to acknowledge me. God forbid! Oh, the horror!
Are you too good for me, asshole? That bitch is smiling at me... she's got a lot of nerve!
Breaking news: You're the bitch.
A simple smile is friendly. It's common courtesy. I'm right here, asshole -- why do you feel the need to ignore me? It's just rude, and even ruder if I smile at you and you proceed to ignore me.
You know what? Maybe you're right, assholes. Keep to yourselves. Stay in your bubbles. But one day I hope someone actually Sharpies your head or you grow that third boob, and I happen to walk by you then -- with the biggest damn smile on my face you've ever seen.
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