The Keys to my Diary: Marina E-Book

Ann Omasta

• Herausgeber: More Happily Ever Afters
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

You can visit the Florida Keys by peeking inside Marina's diary!

Hello. My name is Marina Carpenter, and I am divorced.

I never in a bazillion years thought I would have to utter those words about myself.

Fern, my BFF, thought it would be a good idea for me to work through my hurt feelings by writing in this journal. It doesn't seem to be working.

Maybe I need a hot, young, motorcycle-riding tourist to help me forget this overwhelming sadness for a bit.

I'll just need to remember that it's a temporary fling. No problem... right?

Sneak a peek inside my diary today!

Leseprobe

The Keys to my Diary: Marina

Ann Omasta

Contents

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1. March 22

2. March 25

3. March 29

4. April 1

5. April 5

6. April 9

7. April 11

8. April 15

9. April 18

10. April 19

11. April 21

12. April 25

13. April 28

14. May 1

15. May 4

16. May 4, entry 2

17. May 4, entry 3

18. May 5

19. May 5, entry 2

20. May 6

21. May 6, entry 2

22. May 7

23. May 8

24. May 9

25. May 11

26. May 15

27. May 15, entry 2

28. May 16

29. May 16, entry 2

30. May 17

31. May 20

32. May 30

33. June 3

34. June 10

35. June 18

36. July 5

37. July 30

38. August 15

39. August 26

40. September 16

41. October 9

42. October 11

43. November 1

44. November 10

45. November 15

46. December 10

47. December 15

48. December 16

49. December 21

50. December 24

51. December 25

52. December 30

53. December 31

54. New Year’s Eve

55. Peek Inside Trixie’s Diary!

56. Easter Eggs

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March 22

I am Divorced. I gave the word a capital "D" because it feels ominous enough to deserve one. The "D" word is a description that I never in a bazillion years would have imagined would apply to me. I suppose going into marriage, no one thinks it will end this way.

My dad used to call people in my situation "The Divorced" as if they––actually, I guess I should say WE––comprise a special, undesirable segment of the population.

No longer married... Failed marriage... Divorcée... Single again... Unwed... Split up... Estranged... Dissolution of marriage. There just isn't a good way to say it.

It all sounds so final. Somehow, it sounds even more permanent than being married. I suppose that's because it is. A couple is much more likely to stay divorced than to stay married.

I do have a cousin who remarried his second wife after divorcing her, but I would venture to guess that their situation is more of an exception to the rule. Besides, I don't want to remarry my husband. Well, ex-husband. I just can't get used to calling him that.

After putting up with him for eight years, I guess I should be proud of myself for finally cutting the cheater loose. I can't seem to muster the energy to feel any pride or even relief, though. Instead, I just feel sad. Desperately sad. Like a blood pressure cuff is squeezing ever-tighter around my heart. The sensation is like having permanently lost my best friend, even though he wasn't my best friend by a long shot, and he hadn't been for a long time. Hey, I never claimed that my feelings are logical.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be writing in this silly diary. My best friend, Fern, gave it to me. Yep, Fern is her real name. It's not like I have any room to talk with my crazy moniker, Marina. Marina Carpenter. My newly reacquired maiden name is one more thing I have to get used to. I need to learn how to sign it again. It's been a while.

Fern has regularly kept journals since she was a pre-teen, so she thought I might find some solace in writing down my thoughts. She gave me this beautiful leather-bound book at my tacky divorce party (a freedom celebration clearly created by women desperate to ensure their newly divorced friends don't drown their sorrows in a giant vat of Ben & Jerry's or numerous bottles of Riesling), but now I don't know what to write in it.

I promised her I would try, so here I am trying, but all I can think about is that I now have to check the 'Divorced' box on government forms. And I have to take out the trash. Frank wasn't great about helping out with household chores, but he did always take the trash out. Sigh.

March 25

Still Divorced. Still sad. Not sure what else to say, but I know Fern will ask, so at least I can say I wrote in here.

March 29

I have been avoiding the corner of the room where this diary sits because I have no idea what I'm supposed to be recording in here. I guess I'll try, but it doesn't seem to come naturally to me like it does to Fern. Of course, she's been keeping a journal for almost thirty years, so I guess she has her fair share of practice at it. I wonder what she writes in hers? Maybe I should ask if she will let me see hers...kind of an 'I'll show you mine, if you'll show me yours' exchange. She would probably shoot that idea down in a heartbeat because her diary is bound to be much more steamy than this one. Her first diary as a pre-teen is probably juicier than this one. I really need to up my juice factor.

It should be acknowledged that successfully avoiding the journal (or anything else) in my tiny hovel is a miraculous feat. That accomplishment doesn't keep me from feeling guilty for majorly failing at journaling, though.

Calling this round-cornered living room / kitchenette / bedroom a 'room' is a bit of a stretch. Looking around the dilapidated Airstream that I now call home is a reminder of the hot mess of slimy goo my life has slithered into.

I used to be the only one of my friends who had it all together. I was married. I had an amazing job that most people would kill for, and I lived in a home––a real home, with shutters and a garage and its own washer and dryer. I miss my washer and dryer. The laundry mat smells like feet, and it costs a small fortune. I've probably already paid for a new washer––all in quarters, of course––in the weeks since I left Frank (and our house) and moved into our aging trailer. The ability to pay for the machines has little meaning, however, since I have NO room for them.

I probably should have hired a divorce attorney and insisted on keeping the house. After all, Frank was the one who broke our marriage vows, not me. He is the reason we are no longer married, not me––even though he loves pointing out that I am the one who left. Even knowing that I was getting the short end of the stick by moving to the trailer, I didn't have it in me to fight him for the house. I felt sad and betrayed and I just wanted out, by any means necessary.

Fern keeps telling me to focus on the positive, but I'm struggling with that suggestion. The overarching sadness that my failed marriage is causing suffocates my feeble attempts to be chipper. I'd rather kick something. Hard. Perhaps I am moving into the anger phase of grief? It will have to be better than the empty, desolate darkness I've been enduring. At least if I'm angry, I'll still feel alive. I have felt like a zombie lately, just marching dazedly through my life on autopilot.

My close friends became concerned about my overwhelming sadness. They even suggested that I might need to move home to lick my wounds and heal for a while. By home they meant my real home––in Arkansas––where I am originally from, NOT my home down here where I lived with Frank. (They care about me too much to ever suggest I return to having my heart trod upon by him.) The vast majority of us in this area are Florida Keys transplants from other locations that we consider our real homes. Even people who have lived here for the past twenty-five years are still not considered true 'conchs' or locals.

I wish that moving back home was really a viable option, but since my family was dead set against my marriage to Frank, it's not a possibility. I thumbed my nose at my parents and informed them that I was old enough to make my own decisions before running off and marrying Frank, at what I now realize was way too young of an age. They practically disowned me over it and my relationship with them has never been the same since. I certainly don't want to give them the satisfaction of verifying that they had been right all along.

Deep down, I know that I stayed with Frank much longer than I should have. I was aware of his cheating for longer than I care to admit, and I had strong suspicions for a long time before that. My stubborn refusal to admit that my family had been right about our marriage being a mistake kept me from leaving until it seemed I had no other choice, if I wanted to hold on to my last shred of self-respect.

At one point, while I was still with Frank, I started exchanging flirtatious messages with Brian, my ex-boyfriend from high school, via Facebook. He seemed genuinely interested in what I had to say, unlike Frank whose eyes tended to glaze over whenever I spoke. It was so tempting to run home to try to rekindle my relationship with Brian, but I finally decided that I couldn't run away from my marital problems. Besides, running home would only give my parents the opportunity to say, “I told you so,” about my ill-fated marriage.

Those desperate and pathetic emails had been the closest I ever came to cheating on Frank. On several occasions, I considered finding someone willing and able to keep my bed warm when Frank failed to come home. I just didn't have it in me, though. I'm not a cheater. I don't believe in it, and I won't do it... even though he deserves it and thought nothing of repeatedly betraying my trust by bedding anyone with a skimpy bikini top and short skirt who ventured into his line of vision.

For a while, I was angry with the women. I hated them for being more attractive to Frank than I was. I blamed them for his indiscretions. I felt like if they weren't willing to jump into his bed, then maybe he would stay in mine.

I realize now what a foolish stance this was. It took many late nights of crying and sharing entire bottles of wine with Fern to realize that I was displacing my anger. Most of the women he was with probably didn't have any idea he was married. I tried to convince myself that they should have somehow known, but the reality that he likely hid his wedding ring and led them to believe he was single, was as unavoidable of a conclusion as a migraine at a pulse-pounding laser lights club on disco night.

Honestly, I can't even bring myself to blame them for sleeping with him. His shiny black hair is just starting to show the beginning speckles of gray. His perpetual five o'clock shadow, startling blue eyes, and relaxed demeanor only serve to add to his blatant sex appeal. He drives a dive boat in paradise and no doubt presents himself as being ready, willing, and available. Who wouldn't want to hit that? I sure couldn't ever resist him. Why should I expect anyone else to?

It's probably a dream come true for most of his conquests, until they wake up the next morning only to realize he has his sights set on his next victim. All the while, I was sitting at home, pining away for him and cherishing any tiny bit of attention he decided to carelessly toss my way. Pathetic.

Not anymore, though. Wimpy Marina West is in the past. Marina Carpenter has taken her place. I am strong, and I am done being a victim! It's going to be my life, my way, from now on. I'm in charge of me, and I'm going to turn this shattered shell of a woman I've become into someone who is happy and enjoys her life. It's possible to do that, right? Happy people do exist, don't they? Even if they only exist in wishes and fairy tales, I vow to make it happen and become one. Let the happiness transformation begin now.

Hmm. Now what?

April 1

I am proud of my progress towards happiness. Despite the date, that is no joke.

Speaking of today's date, I pulled off a hilarious April Fools' prank at work. I stopped by Fern's office a few days ago just as she was getting ready to throw out a donut box. No surprise there. Her office is always bringing in meals or special treats for random, made-up special days, like Hot Dog Day. When I asked her if I could have the box, she informed me the donuts were gone. I said that was exactly why I wanted it, so she handed it over and looked at me like I might have completely lost my marbles.

I still chuckle every time I think about what I did...When crusty old Skipper saw me bringing in that donut box this morning, his face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning. I smiled and led him and a trail of other unsuspecting victims into our tiny break room. The allure of fresh donuts being irresistible, they gathered around like vultures as I carefully placed the box on the rickety folding table. Skipper even grabbed a handful of napkins to place next to the box in an unusually helpful gesture.

Yelling, "Surprise!" I flipped back the lid on the box and revealed the brightly hued carrots, celery, and cucumbers I had spent the morning painstakingly slicing for my ruse. The collective groan of disappointment from my co-workers was immediate at the sight of the crudités.

I couldn't help giggling at their reactions as I dunked a carrot into the ranch veggie dip and popped it in my mouth. Skipper told me to “choke on it” before ambling out to the docks. His cranky reaction to my healthy offering made me laugh even harder.

They weren't really mad at me––just frustrated that I had fooled them. In fact, by the time I returned from the afternoon diving trip, the veggies had all been eaten.

Today was a good day. I made it fun. I do feel a wee bit guilty about tricking my co-workers, though. I think I'll get up early tomorrow to stop by the grocery for a real box of donuts to take to them. They deserve it, and so do I.

April 5

OMG...I saw a skank coming out of my house. Well, I guess it's not technically my house anymore, but that knowledge doesn't keep it from feeling like it is still mine. I can't block the horrid mental image that keeps popping into my mind of her (more than likely stinky) lady parts touching my bed in my room while my husband's penis grinds inside her.

Frank can be a magnificent lover when he puts effort into it, which he hadn't bothered to exert with me in a long time. In recent years, our coupling had become merely a connection of parts to satiate mutual need. There was little to no foreplay, cuddling, or intimacy. In fact, our sex lives had morphed into an animalistic, base ritual that gave us both physical release, but little else. I had given up on trying to make it anything more satisfying, assuming that he had used all of his creative and sensual energy on his current conquest. The simmering anger that bubbled under the surface made it so I didn't have the energy or desire to make love to him either. So, our sex lives became just that––frantic and unromantic mating.

Here's a disturbing thought that just reared its ugly head in my mind... I bet he hasn't changed the sheets on our bed since I left, which means he's spreading that bimbo's legs on the luxurious bamboo sheets I purchased last Christmas as a special treat for both me and Frank. I miss those sheets, but they are King-sized, so they would be huge on this trailer's Full-sized bed. I certainly don't want them back now that I am confident they have been hussy-tarnished.

It's just not right. Even though I have been presented with blatant evidence of Frank's cheating on numerous occasions, he had never cheated in my home––that I know of. To the best of my knowledge, he always engaged in his adulterous affairs in seedy hotel rooms... until now. Now, he's bringing his wife-for-a-night into the home where we lived as a somewhat happy married couple for so many years. It cuts deep that he doesn't have any more respect for our marriage than that, but I suppose it shouldn't overly surprise me.

I keep picturing that woman teetering out of my house this morning on the stripper heels that she was wearing with short-shorts and a belly-baring cut-off shirt. It's not like I am qualified to be the fashion police or anything, but she clearly needs a lesson in dressing for success. Of course, if she was looking for a handsome man to bone her all night long, she probably considers herself to be a raging success.

It feels good to write about this. It's not like I can talk to anyone about it. I have great friends, but they would give me that downcast look of pity that seems to surface any time my failed marriage is discussed.

Fern is the only one I would consider sharing this with, but I already know she would be up in my grill about why I was driving past my former house in the first place. In my defense, our house is on a small canal-wrapped lane that shoots off US 1 (the main thoroughfare in the Keys). I have to pass by it on my way to work. Turning my head to peer down at my former house is an ingrained reaction. It's not like I plan it or even want to look, but my eyes wander that way every time I pass by, as if they are magnetized.

When I saw the slut puppy doddering out to her car, it was as if my car's steering wheel turned itself to go check out the situation. Slamming on my brakes to get turned and almost getting rear-ended by the tourist behind me were unintended consequences of my involuntary looksy.

I did feel a bit like a stalker as I drove slowly past the house to get a good view of her. The concern that Frank would see my car wasn't overwhelming because I figured he had already hopped into the shower to cleanse away her stench. There was not any fear of her recognizing me or my car because I'm sure Frank hadn't mentioned anything about an ex-wife.

The problem with my rash decision to do a drive-by was that our lane dead-ends into a house that overlooks the ocean. It's a beautiful location, but the cul de sac left me no alternative but to turn around and drive back by in the other direction. On the second pass, I started feeling a lot like a stalker.

My concerns were multiplied when I neared our driveway and realized the questionable lady was backing out onto the street without bothering to check for oncoming vehicles. I was on the road and clearly had the right-of-way, but had to lock up my brakes to keep from hitting her as she reared back out of our drive and blocked the entire road. I felt like blaring my horn at her––for more reasons than her lack of driving skills––but I couldn't for fear that it would draw Frank's attention from inside.

I managed to get my car stopped without ramming into her, she put her car in drive, and nearly sideswiped our mailbox as she swung around to leave. She was so much in her own little bubble world of dippy elation that she never even realized I was behind her. As I suspected, she must be totally clueless––a brainless vajayjay for him to pound.

Confession time...I just reread that last part and realized maybe I do hold just a tad bit of anger towards the women my husband beds. The rational side of me recognizes that this isn't fair, but the hurt and angry side of me just wants to lash out at them. I guess I better work on that.

For now, I'm going to bed and will probably cry myself to sleep. Goodnight.

April 9

I'm fed up with moping. It's time for me to live for me. I have to stop worrying about what Frank has done or what he's doing now. He's not mine anymore... not that he had been exclusively mine in a long time.

As I'm looking at my surroundings, I realize that it's no wonder I've been depressed. This trailer has no life. It's plain, boring, dank and depressing. This is just the fixer-upper project I need to keep my mind occupied. I'm going to snazz up this camper. I'll buy crisp new curtains and linens, spruce up the cabinets with some bright paint, hang some Keys-themed island decor, and decorate the tiny lot outside with a fire pit and comfy lawn chairs. I can probably discover some terrific bargains by visiting flea markets, swap shops, and any yard sales I stumble upon. I'll make this place cute.