Today was Jesus day at the beach

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.

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.