Drunky McFreckles’s Weblog

Due to the fact that I came home yesterday suffering from complete and utter exhaustion, I went straight to bed where I slept for a solid 12 hours. I woke up at 6 this morning and have since been drinking gallons of coffee.

I’m a little bit antsy right now and I’m pretty sure I can feel my pancreas having a seizure. Or my gallbladder. Anatomy has never been my strong point.

I’ve been nervous about the THE MOVE. I still have to pack everything. I have no clue how I’m going to do this without breaking anything or beating Tim to death. Plus, what if I make this move and end up hating the beach? What if I hate all of my neighbors? What if they all hate me?

But then I think of all of the good things at the beach. The ocean. Having a balcony! Saving money on gas! Not having to deal with snotty people in San Marco anymore!

I’ve known for awhile that I was considered trashy by San Marco standards. I realized this a couple of years ago when I was walking around the shops and I spotted this absolutely gorgeous skirt in a window. I’m not much a skirt-wearing-girl but I was more than willing to make an exception for this skirt. I popped into the store to get a better look at the skirt and it was even more gorgeous upclose. Unfortunately, “gorgeous” in San Marco also equates to “Really Effing Expensive”. There was no way in hell that I was ever going to spend $240 dollars on a skirt that I would wear maybe once or twice a year. But I really wanted to try it on and pretend that I was a fancy-pants girl.

The only issue is that out of the 6 skirts that they had on the rack, the biggest size was a 4. No problem. I asked the sales person if they had any bigger sizes and her answer was to look me up and down and then sneer while saying “I’m sorry but we don’t carry plus sizes”.

ouch.

Then there was the time when I was out for my evening walk and I met this guy around my age. We got to talking and as the conversation ended, I made a comment of “hey, let me give you my number. Let’s hang out sometime”. His response was to look me up and down and say “umm, yeah, I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’re not exactly of my caliber”.

ouch.

Or what about the time I went into a store and was told that “we don’t accept solicitors” when I wasn’t soliciting anything. I just wanted to look at the pretty, sparkly expensive things! Or the time I had to sit through the manager of Moe’s telling me that he was a “Formally trained pastry chef of the highest quality” (which doesn’t explain why he was working at Moe’s but whatever) (I guess Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse was too intimidated by his pastries to hire him).

You see? People in San Marco tend to be, well, assholes.

I was at lunch on Third Street yesterday enjoying my whopper jr and thinking of how much better I was going to fit in at the beach when a gaggle of girls walked in. They were all easily a size two, tan, gorgeous and carrying fancy-girl purses. Not to mention they were all wearing tasteful gold jewelry.

I, on the hand, was pale, wearing clothes that were much bigger than a size two and I had huge grey bags under each eye. I was immediately intimidated and I started wondering if maybe moving out to the beach was such a good idea. Maybe I could find a nice trailer in Middleburg to move into.

Just as I was fixing to call Tim and tell him that the move was off, I looked out the window and saw a horse being rode through the drive through. For some reason, I’m taking this as a sign that I am, in fact, making the right decision.

Plus, being so close to the beach means that I might even get tan enough so that no one will notice my pale skin or the grey bags under my eyes.

Oh, and San marco? You can kiss my plus-sized ass!

I’ve known for awhile that my taste in music leaves a lot to be desired. I think the first time I realized this, I was 12 yrs old and had just received my very own CD player. My grandparents took me to a CD store (you remember those, right?) and before I was allowed to purchase any CDs, I had to show them to my grandparents for approval.

After a few minutes, I was done and showed my selection to my grandmother. She immediately looked at them and told me to not be such a smart ass. I was immediately confused. First off, why was my grandmother cussing? Second, what was wrong with Rod Stewart, Billy Joel and Elton John? I was thoroughly confused.

Luckily, she finally realized that I was being serious and allowed me my purchases… and apologized for her vulgar language (after I forced her to endure a mini-sermon about how sinful her language was) (I was a really odd child).

While I may have replaced those CDs since then with illegally downloaded songs by The Barenaked Ladies, Ben Folds, Cher and The Smashing Pumpkins, I know that my taste in music is a lot less cool than that of my friends.

Dizzle likes underground punk. Nicole listens to really cool indy music. Tim prefers industrial, techno and classic rock. Meanwhile I am still listening to the same bands and songs that I have listened to since I was 16.

I’ve been trying to expand my musical tastes lately so I’ve been listening to the radio a lot. Granted, I realize that it’s not the best way to expand my taste in music but I wanted to give it a shot.

I’ve been hearing this song on the radio lately and I thought it was really effing cool. It was catchy, had a great beat and seemed to be on the radio quite a bit. That should have been my first clue… but I really liked this song and kept trying to figure out who was singing it.

I finally got my answer and it’s bad. Really bad. Instead of expanding my musical tastes into something appropriate, I seem to have regressed into being 13.

Yes, this song is by Miley Cyrus and yes, I am embarassed.

I really was going to keep this to myself. I was prepared to take this secret to the grave.

Unfortunately, the other day, Tim and I were sitting around and I was overwhelmed with the urge to confess my secret. I turned to Tim and told him that I had something interesting to tell him. I warned him that he wasn’t going to like it. For a second, I was going to tell him that I cheated on him and then say “just kidding! Actually my secret is that I like a Miley Cyrus song!” but I thought that it would be highly inappropriate. More inappropriate than a 25 yr old woman who is listening (and liking!) a Hannah Montana song.

The truth eventually came out. I confessed. After Tim was finished laughing and wiping away his tears (I’m assuming that those tears were from laughter and not from crying because his girlfriend has horendous taste in music), I pulled out the big guns.

I logged onto myspace and found Miley Cyrus’s page and played the song for Tim… and he enjoyed it. Quite a lot.

So while it may be pathetic that a 25 year old woman likes Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus(or any other names that she might go by), at least it’s not as pathetic as a 26 year old man liking her music.

As I sit here and smoke my cigarette and sip my wine, I am aware of two things.

1. Wine is yummy.

2. Smoking, although very enjoyable, is not good for my health.

As a very oblivious person, even I have managed to see the Truth commercials, read the the surgeon general’s warning and read the statistics on smokers and lung cancer. I am aware of the dirty looks that I receive in public when I decide to light up. I have patiently sat through endless lectures from ex-smokers who feel the need to tell me how much BETTER they feel since giving up their two pack a day habit. They can now participate in triathalons. They can breathe better. Food tastes so much better (which would explain why they’ve gained 25 lbs in the month since giving up).

While I appreciate the concerns over the well being of my lungs and my non-existant singing voice, I have a bone to pick with some of you.

I was at work on Friday, handing out “7 day notices to cure” to certain appartments who are very fond of playing The Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd at 4:30 in the morning when I stumbled across a tenant who was lighting his charcoal grill with one of those long fireplace lighters. I hadn’t had a cigarette in about five hours (FIVE!) and was in desperate need of a nicotine fix. I just happened to have a pack of cigarettes in my pocket but no lighter.

Easy fix. I asked the guy if I could use his long fire placer lighter for just a second because HolyGodIfIdontGetNicotineInMySystemRightNOW I was going to spontaneously combust. Considering my eating habits and my penchant for multi-vitamins, fish oil and a table spoon of ground cinnamon every morning (doctor’s orders. seriously), my exploded body was not going to be easy to clean up. Nor would it smell very pleasant.

After I managed to get all of those words out of my mouth, he looked at me and said “oh, you’re a smoker, are you?”. I thought I had found another nicotine fiend. I could imagine the two of us chainsmoking and sounding like Sylvia Browne. If I was ever out of cigarettes, I could always stop by his place and bum one. It was going to be a friendship based on our mutal love of harming our bodies.

Until he looked at me and said, “You know, being dependant is a sign of weakness”.

oh. well, scratch out those pre-thought plans of us well in our 80’s with matching iron lungs. It obviously wasn’t going to happen. He was a part of the anti-smoking brigade… and he made me feel like a codependant fool. Plus, he said it in an asshole-ish way. In that moment, I hated him.

After truly being insulted (or I felt I was), I went back into the office and looked up his records. Was he playing music late at night? Did he pay his rent consistently on time? How many complaints from other neighbors had he received?

Absolutely none. He is a model tenant. And an pop psychology asshole.

I sat in my office stewing over his “dependency = weakness” verbal outlash. I dreamed of ways to evict him. I dreamed of him not being able to pay his rent and filing an eviction against him. I dreamed of telling him, “Oh? You can’t pay your rent because you got fired and your family hates you so they refuse to help you out financially? Sucks for you. You do realize that being fired and not being able to be employed is a sign of weakness, right?”

But then I realized that we are all dependant on something. Food for example. Without it, our bodies would no longer have the necessary energy to function. We would end up looking those sad Ethiopian childrens on those commercials. (truthfully, those commercials make me cry. every single time. They also make me want to be the Jacksonville version of Angelina Jolie with 18 bajillion adopted kids from all over the world. Much like a United Benetton ad. The only difference is that I would put those kids to work. Child slavery isn’t so bad, if you really think about it) (I’m only kidding about the child slavery part) (even if it is mighty tempting).

In the same way that eating is very much necessary for me (I’m hypoglocemic and have to keep my blood sugar up. If I don’t, I have a tendency to go into a panic attack and then pass out) (without remembering anything) (or, at least, that’s my excuse), so is smoking. Without a sufficient level of nicotine in my system, I become Otis Cambell Christy. I’m likely to insult you, your mother and I’ll probably want to punch in your face.

So, yes, I am aware that smoking is a filthy disgusting habit. I am aware that everytime I go to take a drag, I am raising my chances of lung cancer. I know this and, truthfully, I am ashamed that I have let nicotine take such a control over my life.

But, please, do not be surprised when the next time you lecture me on the HORRORS of smoking, I look at you with a shocked look on my face and say, “Are you kidding me? I’ve never heard this before. Please tell me more and, by the way, do you have a newsletter that I can subscribe to?”

A year or two ago (back when I still had the ferrets), I was sitting on my sofa when I saw something move out of the corner of my eye. Naturally, I assumed it was the ferrets. After all, this small and furry thing was eating out of the ferret food bowl and I was pretty sure that I had no other pets besides Chaos and Serenity.

I quickly realized that this small creature was brown and seeing as how neither of my ferrets were brown, I immediately began to panic. In my panic over having a small brown creature with a tail in my apartment, I decided to handle the situation by being cool, calm and collected (which in reality means that I jumped on top of my couch and called Nicole… because, you know, she could get the mouse out of my apartment from MILES away…over the phone) (there is no end to that girl’s talent).

She eventually got me to climb down off of the couch (after the mouse went back to where ever it came from) and I spent the rest of the day on my couch with a broom so I could knock that little sucker into the middle of next week.

We have since talked about that fateful day when she (once again) had to talk me down from the brink of insanity. Mostly we talk about that day when we discuss how much of a dumbass I can be and why it’s never a good idea to have me around in a case of an emergency.

I saw the mouse a couple of times after that. He always ran up to the food bowl, ate, drank some water and left. I realized that he really wasn’t all THAT bad. Especially once I realized that chasing him with a broom was getting me nowhere… Mostly because the mouse just looked at me with an expression of “WTF are you doing, you crazy broom weilding maniac?!”

The worst part of the whole mouse incident was that eventually I got used to him scampering out of the kitchen, eating and drinking until he was full. He wasn’t bothering me. He wasn’t chewing up any cords or telling any of his other mouse friends about the All-U-Can-Eat buffet in my apartment. So, I just kind of lived with Henry (Did I forget to mention that I gave the mouse a name?) (And, yes, I do realize how weird that is) (and, no, I do not name any roaches that I might see) (I’m weird but not that weird).

Eventually, I had to get rid of the ferrets and I never saw Henry again. Maybe it had something to do with the buffet being shut down.. or the fact that as soon as I got rid of the ferrets, I had the maintenance men seal up any and all holes behind my fridge and stove.

I thought I was done with Henry and his kind until tonight. I got off work early (after getting into a screaming match with my grandmother and Elsie), went to the library book sale (where I spent a hundred bucks) and finally put good use into those coupons that I’ve been clipping (I saved 20 bucks!) (which totally does not make up for the book buying spree) (but still! 20 bucks!). I sat down at the computer, cracked open a beer and then I heard a blood curdling scream come from my kitchen…

Surpringly enough, that blood curdling scream didn’t come from Tim. It came from a little tiny mouse that was firmly placed in Cher’s jaw… which she felt the need to deposit onto the bed… while it was still alive.

Luckily, this time Tim was around and handled the situation while I yelled out useful tips like “oooh! I wanna help! Here’s a box that we can keep him in!” and “What do you think we should call him?”

By the time all was said and done, the damage had been done. Poor little Henry Jr was dead.

But I can sleep easy tonight knowing that mice don’t stand a chance against Cher. Tim can sleep even easier knowing that there is no chance of Henry: The Sequel.

You know, my job isn’t very exciting. I pretty much waltz in around 9ish (ok, 9:15), I mumble some kind of excuse about traffic and then spend the rest of the day showing apartments, running credit checks and trying to trick Elsie into saying “sexy” (seriously, if by any chance you work with a 90 yr old woman, I highly recommend trying to make her say the following words: sexy, foxy, penis and my personal favorite - Vagina).

Despite my ridiculously low pay, I enjoy my job for the most part. My tenants are nice. I enjoy being able to eat my lunch on the beach and I enjoy the fact that when things get boring, I can pop open a book and read until there is something for me to do.

However I do have several complaints. Therefore I am issuing the following decree:

WHEREAS, it has come to pass that Christy M. Cantrell, Esquire has been gainfully employed as an apartment complex manager for The Villas and

WHEREAS, the powers that have been invested in the aforementioned person (who is an Esquire!) gives her the God-given right to make her tenants’ life a living hell because they play their music too loud, invite 18 of their relatives to live in a one bedroom apartment and steal the pool lounges to use as beds

WHEREAS, this is in violation of their lease and causes great discomfort to their fellow neighbors

I, hereby, declare every single day to be “Follow your lease or I will kick your sorry ass to the curb” day.

Just saying.

Oh, and if by chance you come into my office, it might not be a great idea to come in and say “Yeah, I wanted to look at your apartments even though this place looks ghetto”. Oh, and if I do show you an apartment with brand new carpet, new appliances (fridge, AC, stove, etc) do not demand that I repaint the walls (in the color of your choice) and replace the brand new carpet (with carpet in the color of your choice) because I will laugh. In your face.

And then I will take your 50 dollar application fee and with never having run your credit report, I will turn you down. While laughing.

Do not piss off your landlord.

Tim recently started working this really cool free-lancing gig. Basically, he shows up at places and connects cords and gets paid. Awesome, right?

Through this job, he met this lovely, smiley boy named Brendan. He’s really nice and no matter what you say to him, he smiles. Great, big smiles that go up past his ears. Needless to say, I really liked him and tried to find any excuse I could to hang out with him and his wife.

Eventually, Tim was able to convince them that not only were we were a perfectly normal and charming couple but we were also house broken. They invited us over for a couple of drinks.

Unfortunately, the night that we were invited over, I was heavily medicated. I’ve been having some issues with the lower lumbar region of my back (oooh! medical terms! fancy!) and had taken some pills because, jesus christ, the pain was attrocious (seriously, I was not taking pills just for shits and giggles). Tim drove and because I was not behind the wheel of a car, I decided that it would be acceptable to have a couple of drinks. You know, just a couple. Except that the couple of beers turned into a lot.

I don’t remember much of the evening (go figure). I remember talking (maybe a little bit too much) but I thought I was being nice and, you know, normal. Apparently, I have a very vague sense of “normal” when I’m on pills and gallons of beers. I also tend to do things like hide my flip flops under random couches and then wear the hostess’s flip flops home with me…

… even though they didn’t fit and looked absolutely nothing like mine.

… and even though the hostess had no idea that I had taken her flops.

Needless to say, since I have been over to Brenden and Wifey’s house, I have not been able to find my flip flops. I had no idea why. Tim and I have moved furniture, cleaned and searched endlessly but to no avail. Tim has even gone as far as to ask me “Are you sure that you even brought them into the house?” (to which I snarkily replied with “umm, yeah. I don’t recall ever coming into the house barefoot… so, yeah, they are SOMEWHERE in this effing apt”) (I’m really not such a good girlfriend sometimes).

But I had these flip flops that were obviously not mine. And they were so much comfier (even if they were 2 sizes too small). In my head, I just figured that God had gladly decided to replace my flops with better ones.. he just happened to be confused as to what my actual shoe size was.

I, eventually, decided to just give up on my quest for my real flops. I was going to take these (too small) (yet oh so comfy) flops and proclaim them as my own.

… Until tonight, when Tim called me and explained that I had walked off with Wifey’s flops and left my own behind. He also let me know that after we left, they discussed how messed up I was.

I have since traded back the flops and when I gave back the nice, comfortable flops, I also traded in my dignity because I will never be able to look them in the eyes again…. which certainly won’t be a problem, as I am positive that we will never be invited over there again. ever.

So, apparently, no one wants to buy my pennies… well, except for scott who ever so nicely offered me three cents for five pennies.

That being said, Christy’s First Annual Penny Sale was a big flop and it is with a sad heart that I inform you that Christy’s Shop of Useless (But Very Valuable!) Coins is being shut down. Truthfully, I blame those silly bastards at the IRS and the economy. People are no longer willing or able to pay for pennies.

But don’t fret, internetz, because I’ve had an epiphany today while I was supposed to be working. You see, this lovely gay man came in to rent an apartment. As we were chatting about his job (and I was trying to figure out if he really had the sniffles or if he was on coke), he mentioned that he really wanted a two bedroom apartment for his collection.

His collection of what, you ask? Well, it seems that Mr. Sniffles collects Barbies. In fact, his collection consists of over 600 Barbies… and has been appraised at over 40,000 bucks.

Umm… 40,000 bucks for Barbies? I’m sitting on an effing gold mine because my grandmother is a firm believer in not throwing away my old toys (I assume it’s because she either thinks that I’ll be breeding one day or that I might just get a wild hair up my ass and decide to revert back to my childhood) (The chances of either happening are slim to none, just so you know).

But here’s the thing. Mr. Sniffles’ Barbies are all in mint condition and in the original boxes. Mine are not so much in mint condition. Mine are even better because mine have all been desecrated. Some of them are missing heads… some of them were the recipients of really bad hair cuts (no, really. I have several Barbie’s with mullets and I have even more with shaved heads).

Basically, I’m offering you the only chance that you will ever receive to purchase “Not so Mint Condition Barbies that have been Desecrated by Yours Truly”. They’re excellent presents for your kids, that co-worker that you hate or for your heinous in-laws.

Truthfully, I was going to save them all and cram them into a box and take them to a shrink just so I could ask “Do you think there is something wrong with me or is desecrating Barbies a normal thing to do?”

But I have decided that I need to share the love (or is it hate?) of Barbies with all of you.

May the best man (or woman) win.

Yesterday morning, I woke up convinced that I was late for work. Obviously I wasn’t late because I don’t work on Saturdays. By the time that Tim was able to calm me down and convince me that it wasn’t necessary to haul ass out to the beach, I was awake. And there was no going back to the land of sleep.

So I did what any other semi-normal girl would do. I drug my boyfriend out to the flea market where I was convinced we were going to get some great deals on things like super-sized underwear (now with more skid marks!) and flashing Virgin Mary statues.

Besides one slight verbal altercation that I was involved in (no, really. This guy deserved it. There is never an excuse to tell your kid to “get down on your effing knees and move this shit”), nothing of interest happened…. until I stumbled across a guy who was selling money.

No. Really. He was selling money. Nickles, Pennies, Dollar Bills… you name it and he was selling it. Obviously, he was selling the money at an extremely marked up rate. The current rate for a penny was five dollars.

I realized, in that moment, that my current financial problems were over because while I may not have alot of money, I do have a random collection of pennies that I picked up off the floor this morning. Granted, I won’t be selling them for five bucks but I will be selling them. The best offer(s) will be accepted.

Here are the years that I have:

1964, 1969 (giggity giggity), 1973, 1977, Three from 1982, 1983, 1984, 1988, 1990, Two from 1993, 1994, 1996, Two from 1997, Two from 2000, two from 2004, Two from 2005, Two from 2006 and one from 2007.

Let the bidding wars begin… And just so you know, if I get no bids on my pennies, I’m totally going to repost this on craigslist. I have too many pennies laying around and let’s face it, I have bills that need to be payed.

p.s. If the bidding wars do begin, I prefer it to be female on female. And I thoroughly enjoy spangly bikinis and jello. Or pudding. Your choice because I’m nice like that.