I'm A Widow, Shag Me...

…as I must be desperate/up for it/gagging. Right?

Wrong.

Before I get to the main bit, let me give you a little background first.

After Significant Other was diagnosed, amongst other things, he wanted (for his own peace of mind) to get some of the important things done around the house for me. This meant getting someone in to do them.

Enter Nob The Builder.

We had our roof insulated (which involved taking all the roof tiles off), a window put into the roof, the bathroom changed to a wetroom, the garage door changed, and a massive shed built.

All this was done over approximately three months, while Significant Other’s health was deteriorating. He also wanted the stairs replaced and the kitchen done but I put a stop to it, knowing (unlike he did) how little time he had left.

Naturally enough, Significant Other, Nob and I would chat – Cornwall, tropical fish, children, cars, houses, all sorts of stuff.

A few weeks after Significant Other died, I got a phone call from Nob, who’d heard about it through someone one else, offering condolences.

The next time I spoke to Nob was when I contacted him to build me a staircase last November. This was done (which I still haven’t finished painting – sigh), he was paid, off he went and that’s the last time I had any contact with him.

Fast forward.

I’d been out shopping the other day and had been home literally two minutes, when there was a knock at the door.

Nob The Builder.

NTB: Hi! I’ve been working in the area today, and thought I’d pop by to see you.

Me: ???
What I Actually Said: Hello.

NTB: You’re looking really well, how’re you doing?

Me: Did I contact you to do work? No. What. Do. You. Want?
WIAS [folding arms]: I’m okay.

NTB: I just wanted to see how you are. I haven’t worked in this neck of the woods for ages, so I thought I call by.

Me: What’s that smell? Oh, I do believe it’s bullshit.
WIAS: Uh-huh.

NTB: I was thinking of you in April [anniversary of Significant Other’s death].

Me: I think he wants me to say, “ohhh, how sweet of you. Thaaaank you.”
WIAS: I wasn’t here; I went to Cornwall with Youngest Daughter.

NTB: Did you? But I was thinking of you.

Me: So? I actually couldn’t give a squeaky rats ass.
WIAS: I was thinking of Significant Other.

NTB: Oh. I’ve finally sold my mum’s house [in Cornwall – she died a couple of years ago].

Me: And?
WIAS: That’s good.

NTB: We’re thinking of moving down there, even saw a place we liked but they wanted too much for it. You’re a strong, independent woman, who knows her own mind; you’d do well on your own in Cornwall. Are you still thinking of moving down there?

Me: I may start exploring the contents of my nose to show you just how independent I am.
WIAS: No, it’s not the same there for me anymore.

NTB: Yeah, well I don’t think we’ll be moving there. [sigh] Business has been quite slow this year and money’s been tight. Me and Wife have been arguing a lot lately over money.

Me: Hang on, one minute you’re telling me you’re thinking of moving there, and then the next you’re not. Hmm. And why do I need to hear about your relationship? Ah wait. Could it be a ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ line.
WIAS: Well, money can cause arguments, but now your mum’s place is sold, that’ll help.

NTB: S’pose. So, what do you do with yourself, you know, er, during the day?

Me: What do I do? Why, I fill my days by having rampant hot monkey sex*. Come on in, you’re next. Is that what you want to hear?
WIAS: I keep myself busy, sorting through Significant Other’s stuff, meeting friends. Yup, just keeping busy one way or another.

NTB: You’re not lonely then?

Me [narrowing eyes]: ten…nine…eight…
WIAS: Nope.

NTB: Hmm. I see you’ve still got The Beastie. I need to change my car.

Me: Where are you going with this? Seven…six…
WIAS: I love The Beastie, and it’s special to me because Significant Other bought it for me.

NTB: I like Beasties. I was thinking of getting one, and even looked at an estate, but Wife didn’t like it. She's not like you, she said it was too big. She’s weird like that. I don’t know what’s the matter with her.

Me: Dissing your wife to me. Nice. Five…four…
WIAS: Not everyone likes driving a big car.

NTB [another sigh]: Me and Wife really aren’t getting on, we’re arguing loads. Mostly over Step-Daughter [she’s 20], she’s a nightmare. She’s causing so many problems, I can’t see us staying together for much longer.

Me: three...two...one. I’ve had enough of this. You need to fuck off. And you need to fuck off now. And if you think I'll be contacting you for any more building work - think again.
WIAS [hard, no nonsense voice]: Kids don’t stay at home forever, they leave home. Then it’ll be the way it should be, and you and Wife will be back to normal. Right, I’ve got shopping to put away. Bye.

And I shut the door.

Dumbass.



*Just to be clear - I DON’T!

A new follower to my witterings - welcome to Sam at I Don’t Mean To Be A Bother. In the past, I have written my welcome at the top of the post, but in this instance, given the title, I didn’t want you to think it was an invitation.

Also, I’m not sure, but I think UDG at Urban Dirt may be following me too. If you are, welcome. If you’re not, well, you’re welcome to pop by anyway! (As is anyone else of course.)

Mind Your Own Damn Business!

Or should it be 'Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here'? Ah well, whatever.

I've found that since acquiring widow status, aspects of my life now seem to be up for discussion, with me, by people who I would class as acquaintances. People who are on the edges of my social circle and with whom I do not, and don't want to have deep and meaningful, personal conversations. I have family and close friends to do that with.

The main culprit is a retired widower, who feels particularly qualified to talk to me (or rather, at me) about 'moving on', because he knows exactly how I feel (er, no you don't, see 15 Things Not To Say point number 2) as he's been there, done it. 

I also get the impression that being female (i.e. weak and feeble), Widower thinks I have shut myself away and sit here weeping and wailing all day - well pal, I haven't and I don't and trust me, I use the term 'pal' very loosely. Also, just to clarify, there is no sign above my door that says 'Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here'. I am however, considering a sign saying 'Sod Off!' for the door, to be used as and when necessary.

I've been given unwanted and unasked for advice on when and how I should sort through Significant Other's clothes, because "the best way is to sort through things like that is as soon as possible".  

Other topics recently have included sorting and clearing the contents of my garage and shed (which are mammoth tasks - another day, another post perhaps) and Significant Other's ashes. They should all have been dealt with by now, after all, it's been over a year since Significant Other died. Oh, how stupid of me, I hadn't realised there was a time limit.

Then it moves onto the biggie. As a weak and feeble female I shouldn't be on my own, I should now start a search for a new man.

As an aside, I firmly believe friendship and love are to be found when they're least expected and can be found in the most unexpected of places. I have a friend who was desperate, with a capital D, to find a life partner. He tried bars, clubs, online dating - you name it, he tried it with no success. What happened? He went shopping in a supermarket and met a lady with whom he is now very loved up. Not unusual enough? Try this. I know of a couple who met while they were both patients staying in hospital. They've been together for years now. So you see, don't go looking for it; when the time is right, friendship and love will find you.

Enough of that, back to my spleen venting.

I have been told the time is right to move on. 

I have been enlightened on the fact there is nobody decent to be found in a pub, or a club.

I have been warned online dating is a big no-no.

I have been informed the way forward is to look at personal adverts in the Telegraph because "you get a better class of person there, rather than one of the red-top newspapers".

I have been regaled with stories of who he met and how unsuitable they were for him (eh?). 

Guess what? Widower met a lady, who he now lives with (well, isn't she the lucky one...), not through a personal ad, but by pure chance at a golf club. See? It comes back to the point I made above.

But anyway...

Excuse Me? W...T...F...??

Why should I search for a man? Putting that to one side, the bigger question is, what business is it of his? I'm sitting here trying to coherently write my thoughts on this, but all I can think of are numerous expletives, varying from the mild to the outrageous, although truth be told I'm leaning heavily towards a stream of the downright offensive.

I will sort through the rest of Significant Other's clothes - a few months ago I went through them and took several bags to a charity shop. There are still some items to go through. The garage and shed have been started.

I almost scattered Significant Other's ashes a few weeks ago in Cornwall but it was too windy - I would have ended up wearing them. I had visions of being asked what I was covered in and replying, "my husband"! Cue horrified faces and much backing away. How to clear a bustling harbour in thirty seconds or less. Forgive my black humour.

When I am ready I will do what needs to be done. I have no intention of living in a time capsule, but I do not need to be told what to do, particularly by someone I don't know too well. I know myself and I know when the time is right for me to tackle things. Anybody who possesses more empathy than a toenail clipping would understand that. I will not be pushed into anything by anyone.

End of rant. Phew.