The Keys to my Diary: Trixie

Entry 1 My name is Trixie Ross, and I am addicted to Pirate’s Booty. Those delicious corn puffs covered in white cheese dust are my version of c***k cocaine. Is that the kind of thing I’m supposed to write in here? I’ve never kept a diary before, so I’m not positive about the protocol. I guess this journal is mine, so I can write whatever the heck I want. My friends, Fern and Marina, are always scribbling in their journals, so I decided that with this new year, I want to join in the fun. They probably think I’m not smart enough to pursue such an academic activity, but I am. Apparently, all it takes is hiding one turd in your purse to be known as the group’s airhead for the rest of your life. Even though I am not familiar with the rules of journaling, I am NOT, in fact, a dummy. That is how you spell ‘dummy,’ right? Dumb has that silly silent ‘b’, but ‘dumby’ doesn’t look right. There, I just Googled it, and I was correct. That’s tangible proof of the fact that I am smarter than I look. Wait, that didn’t sound great either. I guess I’m a little paranoid about the whole intelligence thing because I always seem to get labeled as a ditz. That detail might be mostly my own fault because I do have a tendency to speak before completely thinking through my words. I’m not sure how else to actively participate in conversations, though. If I scrutinized each sentence I planned to say, the discussion would have moved on, and I would have missed the opportunity to speak. Sharing a well-thought out statement that pertained to the previous topic would make me seem even denser than just blurting out whatever is on my mind at the moment. After rereading what I just wrote, I realized that I used the word ‘pertained’ without even really thinking about it. That is very much a smart person’s word, if I do say so myself. Despite the fact that I have an inferiority complex about my brains (or lack thereof), I feel like I have my life in pretty good shape. I love living in the Florida Keys. Who wouldn’t? It’s a tropical island paradise, but is still in the United States. Key Largo is like living in a quaint village where the locals mostly know each other, yet it has the benefits of a large city just up the road. How many U.S. citizens get to say they live south of Miami? Just a lucky few, I would think, and I am one of them! My friends are fantastic, especially Fern and Marina. We have a relaxed group that flexes between six and ten people. Group members come and go, but the core remains the same. We eat, celebrate holidays, and hang out together whenever we feel like it. It’s almost like having a substitute family, since our blood relatives live elsewhere. I get to live my life in a place that most people scrimp and save to come visit for one week out of the year. The Keys are one of the most naturally beautiful places I’ve ever seen. Oh, and my job is to don a bathing suit and go out to a gorgeous coral reef on a scuba diving boat every single day. How I get paid to do such a wonderful thing is beyond me, but I’d say my chosen occupation makes me smarter than the office workers who get dressed up in real suits to go sit in a cubicle and stare at a screen all day, every day. The daily dose of intense Florida sunshine keeps my skin tanned dark and my hair bleached light. The swimming, anchor pulling, and line work keep my body in shape. I also set aside nearly half my income to build equity in my home. If I can stay on the savings regiment I’ve been on, I’ll have my house paid off in 11 years. It’s not a big place, but it’s two properties away from a canal, has killer views, and is going to be all mine in the foreseeable future. My friends all think I’m a tightwad for always ordering tap water and grilled cheese sandwiches, hot dogs, or whatever the cheapest option is when we eat at restaurants, while they eat whatever they are in the mood for and pay the huge beverage mark-up eateries charge. They are all paying exorbitant monthly rental rates for canal-front apartments, but I feel like they might as well just throw all of that money into the canal because at the beginning of the next month, they start all over with nothing gained. Maybe they are right about living in the moment, but I have a plan for my future, and I’m sticking with it. I know I won’t be able to work on the boats forever, and I don’t want to end up middle-aged with no real job skills and no assets. My parents would love to gloat about that, since they had been vehemently opposed to my decision to forego college in favor of moving down here. I was always their problem child, especially when compared to my perfect twin, Nixie. We might be physically identical, but our personalities couldn’t be more opposite. I’m sure I will write more on her in future entries, but I want this first passage to be just about me––for once. Nixie has overshadowed my life for as long as I can remember. She doesn’t get to dominate my very first diary entry. Back to my life… I have a boyfriend, Ryan. We moved in together a while back, but I think that may have been a colossal mistake. I like having a plus-one to take places, especially since Fern and Marina now both have significant others. He doesn’t treat me right, though. It’s not like he beats me, or anything like that. I wouldn’t put up with that. There is no denying that he is emotionally abusive, though. His favorite thing is to pick on me about anything that I am already self-conscious about. This morning’s pre-work conversation is the perfect example. I was up and getting ready. I even went to the extra effort of making him a pot of coffee, even though I don’t touch the stuff. He didn’t bother to thank me for that. Instead, he opted to point out the “stupid” things I said last night at our favorite bar and grill, The Flamingo, with our group of friends. As he replayed word by word everything I said and made me feel foolish for opening my mouth at all, I decided it is high time for me to give him the boot. He’s been living here for free. He doesn’t even contribute to the household expenses. I guess I am kind of dumb for allowing that to happen, but it has been nice to not feel like a fifth wheel with Fern, Marina, and their love interests. The more I think about it, the more I can’t believe he has the audacity to get on me about what I say around my friends. It’s not like he is Albert Einstein. I mean, he made a remark about “Iz-la-muh-door-a” last night, but did I correct him in front of everyone? No, I did not. My friends all know the pronunciation of the island to our south is Islamorada, so it would have just been mean to point out the faux pas. If the situation had been reversed, I’m sure he wouldn’t have hesitated to do it to me, though. I’m fairly used to people thinking I don’t have a brain in my blonde head, so I probably wouldn’t break up with him if that were his only flaw. Unfortunately, it’s not. He also likes to point out how skimpy my clothes are and call me a tramp for wearing them. His words make me feel like a cheap floozy, but I don’t know what else he thinks I could wear in this tropical climate… leggings and turtlenecks?!? I would sweat to death. Bathing suits and short-shorts are standard attire down here, and I hate it when he insinuates that I am flaunting my body for wearing them. As I’m writing, I’m trying to think of something positive to write about him. After all, he could go snooping and find this journal. It’s hard to think of anything good to write. I must have liked him at some point because it was my idea for him to move in. Let’s see… He’s a good kisser. His d**k isn’t massive, but it’s big enough to get the job done right. (I’ve been with a man who was totally lacking in that area, and it was worse than I would have imagined. I won’t mention his name because that would be mean, and I prefer following Ellen’s credo of being ‘kind to one another.’) Ryan is passably attractive––not movie-star handsome, but slightly above average. He doesn’t hit me. Okay, I just realized that as I struggle to think of good things to write about Ryan, the best thing I could come up with is that he doesn’t physically a***e me. That is absolutely sad. No doubt about it… It is time for him to go. Resolution time… My first resolution for the year is to write in here at least once a month. I’m not going overboard with a plan to write in here daily, like Fern and Marina do their diaries, because I don’t think I could keep that up. I do think I can stick with once a month, though. It can be a regular checkpoint on what is happening in my life and what needs to change. Maybe once I figure out what to write, I’ll start to actually enjoy it. Besides, it should be fun to read back through it and see how things have changed over the course of a year. Resolution number two is a biggie… Get rid of Ryan. I know it is time for him to go. I don’t see a future with him, unless I want to be ridiculed and verbally beaten-down for the rest of my life, AND I DON’T. It’s not going to be easy because he won’t have anyplace to go. I’m really wishing I hadn’t asked him to move in, but I guess that’s the price I have to pay for being spontaneous. At least we aren’t married and we don’t have any kids or anything jointly owned. We had talked at one point about getting a dog. I thought it might help bring us closer together, but we had never made the leap. I’m thankful for that now. I might get one after Ryan moves out. I feel like the longer I let this relationship linger, the harder it will be to end it, so I’m adjusting my second resolution to… Get rid of Ryan before next month’s diary entry. There. A deadline. Now comes the hard part. I’d rather be broken up with than do the breaking up. He’ll probably never end things with me, though. Why would he? He’d have to give up the gravy train of free rent and living expenses that I’ve inadvertently let him ride on for too long. Okay, I had been planning to come up with a third resolution, but I feel like the first two are big enough to count as three. Now, if I can just stick with them. Wish me luck…