The Secret Life of V

It's Football day, but more importantly, tomorrow is Groundhog Day. I know I bitch about the heat, but I'm tired of the ball-freezing cold, so hoping Punxsutawney Phil sees his shadow. At least I think that's what you hope for when you're sick of the ball-freezing cold.

Discovered I weigh as much as my fiancé who is some 5 inches taller than me and a dude. Won't stand for this, so I had a banana today instead of the usual twenty chicken nuggets and four tubs of buffalo sauce from Burger KIng. Tonight, I will eat some peanut butter out of the jar and take a swig of milk. I dunno what's going to happen tomorrow though. I'm starting overtime at work, so I'm going to want to get the hell out of there and stuff my face with nuggets and buffalo sauce come lunch time. I must be strong though. If I'm strong enough to drag my ass out of bed at 5:00 AM and motor to work by 6:00 and then STAY THERE til 4:30, I guess I'm strong enough to not eat during the course of it.

I was peer-pressured into working overtime, BTW. You know I don't even like being there when I'm supposed to be there, much less at the asscrack of dawn. But I have to pay for the golden brown stripes I spent 4 hours having put in my hair Friday night. As usual, I got bored with the black and consulted with a styist by my house over what to do. She says when one's hair is octopus- ink black, it's not recommended that one bleach the shit out of it. Instead, she placed brown sripes in it and told me to come back in March for more brown stripes. Eventually, she says, my hair will be brown again, at which point I will probably dye it black like a dumbass again and start all over.

It's also tax refund time and Valentine's Day and my fiance's birthday and all kinds of shiz. A very pink month.

I am dating a (the Day of the Dead) guy and he can't ever get away from his kid. Nor does he want me around his kid, apparently. I'm sort of offended. I got along pretty well with Isacc's six year old. He called me Caween and we'de watch Spiderman videos on my laptop together. I guess I am just the chick this guy's banging once a week, or something. I don't know. He brought movies and ice cream with him last time, but I had already fallen asleep waiting for his kid to fall asleep. We then both fell asleep on my couch, which is not conducive to two people being on it, and I fell off of it. It woke both us up long enough to bang at least.

He left the RedBox movies at my house Monday night, so I asked him if he wanted me to return them or if he was going to come back in the near future. He said to return them. :| So never having used Redbox, I spent about fifteen minutes trying to stuff them back in it by my work today, not realizing I had to hit "return" on the machine first. I'm sure it's on camera.

So this leaves me with ample time to be alone in the evenings, which is not ideal. I joined a gym but now it's cold and raining and shit, and I just want to go home and light candles, listen to Lana Del Rey and pin pictures of Nick Hexum on my Pinterest under the "would do" category. But that does get old, and then I text Dude and that goes nowhere cause he's helping his kid with his homework. I could do that, as long as it isn't fractions. And it's probably not because the kid's six and this isn't China. But he's staying with his mom at present, having recently broken up with the kid's mother after eight years and moved down from Pollock Pines. ("Oh he must be in a great place," my brother commented).

My brother's not in a great place. He's in the hopsital awaiting a heart transplant. Each time I visit him, he motions for me to give him whatever drink I'm holding. Last time it was a praline latte from Starbucks. "This is gross. What's wrong with you?" I explained that I was giving all their holiday drinks a try. The next one on the list is that eggnog latte. I'm looking forward to his face when he gets that one. Last year I asked if they could make it a mocha instead and then I nearly puked it up in the parking lot. It was a little much. Today I had an egg salad sandwich from the gas station, and I nearly revisted the puking in the parking lot thing. I powered through it though. You see, I hoped to utilize the gym to cancel out these sort of things. Haven't accomplished that yet.

Monday night. 8:00 something. Not heard from dude. Searching through "alternative" ringtones to replace my current one of Ghostbusters and the intro to 311's Weightless is on there. The lead guitar is so beautiful. It reminds me of the couple of times Isacc played for me. I talking about music and guitar pedals. I miss him.

My neighbor keeps bothering me to come over and tell her about my date. I haven't the energy the last couple of days. I get some hope and then go back into a depressive stupor when whatever it was I'd planned doesn't work out.

But tonight it suddenly struck me as ridiculous to go searching online or elsewhere for someone to have children and spend the rest of my life with. I need to cool it right now. If that means laying in my bed at night watching Golden Girls and crying, I guess that's what I'll do.

I went to dinner last night with some guy who, although not much older than me, looked ancient and like the father on Alf. But looks aren't everything, right? I knew he was on disability for some weird sleep disorder, which bothered me, because I consider my life one big sleep disorder (It was 2:00 in the morning when I wrote this, for instance) and nobody pays my ass for it, but still I persisted.

Eventually the topic came around to living situations, and his was that he lived with his parents. I clammed up, vaginally and otherwise. "Do you have transportation?" I asked carefully, suddenly realizing my choice of words could have included public transit. No, he admitted, he'd borrowed his mom's car to drive here. It was at that point that she called. He showed me his phone, for unknown reasons. "Mom" it read. I had gotten catatonic at that point and spent the remainder of the date shoving black beans around my plate. Goddammit, why couldn't I at least have gotten refried beans out of this?

He spent the rest of the date constantly talking about the guy behind us who looked like "a young Tom Cruise." Finally he broke that monotony with, "You're not much for eye contact, are you?" I looked up and locked eyes with him, silently communicating that this was not happening. Not even if you didn't look like the father on Alf, I was not going to bone you. But thanks for the burrito.

A promotional exam I took recently plastered my username all over the results that I must attach when applying for jobs. I googled it and found myself expressing what a drunk I am and reviewing books on suicide. Nothing says prospective employee like that.

I really wonder what I'd be happy doing for a living. Or if I'd be happy, period. I wasn't happy before I was working. I hated school. I was a miserable child. What is it that will make me happy? My father tells me my work, and my ability to give and recieve love are what it boils down to. I believe he quoted Shakespeare or Socrates or someone from Bill and Ted. Well shit, I've failed at those.

Everyone tells me to take some time for me. To make myself happy from within and not depend on someone else to do it. "Join a gym" I hear five times a day. Because the gym makes me so happy, yeah. That's another entry entirely. I find myself smiling when exchanging witty banter with someone, but that then falls on another person, right? A vendor I work with, Shannon, "the guy with the girl's name" according to his signature, sent me a quote on training DVD's and apologized for the "Magnum PI mustaches about" This caused me to laugh like a hyena and reply that he had better get me my laminated safety posters as well, so as to assure that no one succumbs to heat exhaustion or gets run over by a forklift on my watch. "...or is paid unfairly by federal standards!" he responded.

My sister says I should ask how his weekend went. I say, no, I'm never asking a dude how his weekend went or to marry me ever again.

Wednesday night I went to a mantra meditation class in East Jesus Carmichael to get out of the house and perhaps learn something/enjoy myself. I mostly accomplished using up all my gas, but I also sucessfully belted out, "Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare" with the stoned-ass instructor, a stoned-ass couple, and a social anxiety disorder-inflicted Asian girl (she volunteered this information and later ran from me in the parking lot on the way out when I attempted to make conversation). This made me think of that one George Harrison song, which I located and listened to at work the next morning on my headphones. Within seconds my boss was poking me in the shoulder. I pulled off my headphones and smiled at him.

"TURN THAT OFF, WE CAN HEAR IT OVER THERE."

I fumbled to turn it down and lost my smile. Is he serial? I can't listen to George Harrison on headphones while ordering rebar to house inmates? God dammmit, I hate my life. I turned it off, bitterly noting that he had said, "off" and not "down." I considered researching union policy to see if he could in fact, tell me to turn George Harrison off. Hell, I have to listen to Jesus Guy's conservative talk radio and his own honky tonk music day in and day out. Why is everyone always telling me to turn off what brings a modicum of joy to the meaningless sea of my existence? (Source: http://www.toothpastefordinner.com/031505).

I began angrily furrowing my brow and furiously typing in Craigslist for jobs while my boss moved on to yucking it up with fellow employees. Goldie's, Suzie's, and other part-time cashiere jobs at porn stores popped up. I quickly consulted good friend Yoga Pants via email to see what he thought of my working there instead.

"They won't let you blare George Harrison either," he broke it down for me, "and you'll meet a lot of pervs. Nostalgic pervs. I can't believe porn stores are still in business.Plus they won't pay you as much."

I chewed my pencil and mulled it over. He was right. I wouldn't be able to make my rent or Comcast bill selling DVD copies of Ass Masters 7. I hit up my other friend who suggested cam whoring. I nodded to myself. I'd already showed the goods to randoms when drunk. I think. So why not get paid for it?

And I don't give a flying fuck if my viewers don't like George Harrison.

I had hope for about two weeks. It was weird. I'd never really felt it before.One day at work, I wrote out my married name on a pink Post-It note pad all day and was happy at work! For once in my life, I had a plan. And hopes. And dreams. I was going to finish off all my business in Sacramento for a year or so and begin finding a promotion at one of the prisons in the central valley. Then I would find a house in Visalia, load all my stuff in a u-haul and go move in with my fiance. He would have proposed a year earlier (now) so we'de have a wedding on The Day of the Dead. I collected pictures of rings and dresses and sugar skull cakes on Facebook, which my sister told me was desperate, but I didn't think anything of it. He had said to me earlier on in our relationship, "I love you. I'd like to marry you." I took it to heart and held it there. Well all that was left to do was to talk to him about it. I started with his Mom first, which may have been weird, but I felt close to her. She once told me she loved me too. I texted her one morning asking if she thought her son had plans to propose to me because I'd like to move down there. She said all she knew was that I was his one and only.
But then I talked to him about it. I knew he was spending what little money he had on guitars, and wanted to know if maybe he could spare some for a ring, because I'd like to move down there and start a family with him, and his mother, and his son. And I would like to have a baby too. I just turned 33. There was no non-pathetic way to put it, and I knew that, but I wasn't prepared for the asshole-ripping I received. He'd committed all he could at the present time, and was in no hurry to "be in his 40's with a family anyway." To be fair, he cited the time he stayed up here a month and I kicked him out at week three. He'd been playing a video game late into the evening while I laid on the bed and stared at the wall night after night. "How can I propose to someone who can't committ to me for 4 weeks?" he asked. Then he said all I wanted was a ring and a piece of paper and had no idea what committment even was. He linked me to some article about ultimatums and how ridiculous it was to have to threaten someone into marrying you. My eyes filled with tears as I angrily typed explitives and told him I was done, that I didn't deserve this. Did he think I was a joke? That I was going to continue driving to Tulare to see him until he decided to marry me in his fucking 40's? He told me I was "tripping." I threw my phone so hard into the glove box the battery cracked off and left it there.
Back in the office, I sat in my cubicle hiccuping on sobs as his words sunk in. Jesus Guy came over to console me, and then to tell me to go home and that he would tell the boss I had a headache.I clambered for my things and staggered down the cold, dark hallway, realizing I would never leave this place. I would never leave the town that brought me nothing but pain and suffering. I had just lost the little family I'd created in my head and was back to my own mean, sarcastic, one. Worse, I'd lost my best friend. He didn't want me. He didn't fucking want me.
So I'm back to wandering my little house like the undead. I asked for tomorrow off so I could just be unconscious. That is all that is left to enjoy.

I'm depressed. I know, big woop. But I'm about to turn 33. Another year gone by. Another Day of the Dead approaching that I'm not getting married on. No black bridesmaid dresses and sugar skull cake. No husband.

I don't know what's going on with my central valley boyfriend. He told me he wasn't going to move up here because of his son. We've been talking less and less. He messages me once every 24 hours. A question without a question mark, like he doesn't care to hear the answer. No more I love you's. No more you're beautifuls.

I could really use them, though. I went to the doctor and they weighed me. I don't have a scale at home. She told me my weight and ushered me into a room where I sat directly across from a large mirror. Staring back at my sad, fat reflection I started to cry. I began full on weeping when she said I had to get a pap smear.

Fuck.

Woke up with a puking headache. Called in sick. Took a shower in 3 feet of standing water probably due to mine and my boyfriend's luxurious hair clogging the drain. Called the landlord. Also told her the lightbulb in the fridge continuously blows out because it's ALWAYS on because the door doesn't hit the switch. I don't know what she's going to do about that. I wish she'd trash the thing, because it's as loud as the freight train across the street. I know it's brand new though, so she's not highly likely to do that.

Realized with disgust that I'm missing the baby shower today at work. I will have to sit here and read The Hungry Hungry Caterpillar myself. Remember when it was human-sized? Yeah it's not anymore. It's sized for gerbil pigs and twice as much money. The Papyrus card I got her with the sparkles and the knit booties was just as much money and all I know is I better get this stuff to her before the damn thing pops out. I think today was her last day. It's not like she'll let me babysit, cause who the hell would do that?

My experience with children lately is limited to my boyfriend's son when I'm down in his town. He asked me to watch him in Walmart while he went to the car and of course the kid took off running after him. I left my position at the photo counter where I was trying to fit a picture in the locket I'd been given and sprinted after him in my always too small denim skirt. When I found him, he had no intention of coming back with me and struggled all the way smack into a cardboard display of that M&M chick. I looked back at the casualties (kid + M&M chick) in horror. Had I torn his arm off, I wondered as he looked up at me confused and sad. I approached him slowly before he then broke out in a grin and began tearing through the tampon aisle. Goddammnit, I thought, my skirt hiking up over my arse as I ran. I could never handle this.

Let it be known, that I am successful with gerbil pigs, however. I am watching my friend Sarah's while she's in Mexico for a week. I expect he will be alive and well upon her return.