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.

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.

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.

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, 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? 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.

Top 10 Signs You're A New Year's Resolutioner at the Gym

1. You have a beach towel.
This could be Mickey & Minnie, some Polo Sport one from the mid '90s or something loud, splashy and pink. Either way, you're just kind of dragging it around, not really knowing what to do with it, except that you know you should have a towel at the gym. Here's a tip: You wipe your nasty sweat off the machines with it.

2. You're wearing jean shorts.
Ah... this is one of my favorites. Ladies, yours are inevitably cutoffs because, let's face it, that's the last time you wore shorts. Fellas, it doesn't really matter what yours are; guys don't wear jean shorts anymore.

3. You are chugging Gatorade, Red Bull or Vitamin Water like it's your job.
And it's not like you're thirsty... you haven't done anything. But you're at the gym, so clearly you need to hydrate. Excessively. Like, more than any of us who are actually sweating and possibly working up a thirst. Free tip: All those drinks have many calories, so you're technically taking in more calories by going to the gym. Tip #2: It's called water.

4. You have a CD Discman.
I'm not sure I need to explain this one any further. But I will say that they have these really cool things nowadays called Mp3 players and iPods which don't weigh 17 pounds and don't even skip! Imagine that... no skipping!

5. You do a nifty quad stretch in between every exercise.
This is where you just finished "a set" on that cute machine where you twist back and forth at a feverish pace because you think it's going to get rid of your love handles, and then you stand next to the machine, death-grip it and pull your ankle up behind you. Editor's note: You did not just work that muscle.

6. You are gnawing away on a Powerbar.
See #3: Gatorade, chugging.

7. You get on the bike and don't understand why it won't turn on when you press the buttons.
I know, this one's a little tricky, and I almost feel unfair adding it in here. But, surprise, it's not broken! Oh, and moving to the next one won't help; it's not broken either. Tried-and-true tip: Start peddling, and the pretty screen with magically light up.

8. You are reading the instructions on every machine.
This is not wrong, and I don't fault you for it -- at least you're trying to do it right (see #5: quad stretch, nifty). However, you are taking up way to much of my precious time, and my nice, neat compact 30-minute workout is somehow now ticking and tocking longer and longer, and I'm not getting up earlier in the morning to accommodate for your decoding of the torture devices. Gym-goer tip: Please get a personal trainer. They're free for a session or two for new gym members, and they'll explain the scary machines in plain English.

9. You grab a smoothie from the juice bar on your way out.
Again with the healthy eating and drinking... Please, once again refer to #3: Gatorage, chugging and #6: Powerbar, gnawing. You know you're going to eat as soon as you get home, so what is this extra feeding for?

10. You are in the waaaay back of the class.
I understand you don't want to be in the front because people will see you, but here's one you may not have thought of: We can see you even better when you're in the back. That's right, those rooms have glass walls in the back, and you know what's on the other side of the glass? The entire rest of the gym... full of people who have nothing to do between sets but watch you almost bust your ass. Tippy tip: Try the middle for two reasons: a) You should be closer to the front so you can actually see the teacher and learn how to do it, and b) We're too busy watching the back people to find you in the middle.

Have any more to add? Please leave a comment. I love these.

Oh, and Happy New Year!