The reason why I very nearly spontaneously combusted last Saturday

Many people suffer from Foot In Mouth Syndrome, myself included. However, there are some circumstances where even I manage to think very carefully before I open my mouth, or in this case, put it in writing. Unfortunately not everyone has the common sense, sensitivity or empathy to do so.

Feeling a bit fragile and regretting a decision I'd made not to go to Cornwall for the anniversary of Significant Other's death, I wrote this on Facebook:

Minutes later, after reading the comment SFB (Shit For Brains) left, my jaw dropped and I responded thus:

If anyone other than a family member had left me a comment like that, I'd have willingly explained it, but SFB is married to Bro-in-law, Significant Other's brother, and really should have known better. To me, it also speaks volumes for how oblivious she is to Bro-in-law's grief; he misses his brother terribly.

She twigged what she'd done and left another two comments - the first telling me she knew where I was coming from, the second telling me she felt terrible and that I should know she was thinking of me.

While I was battling a mixture of incredulity and disgust and trying to decide how to respond, SFB then posted this on her Facebook wall:

In my opinion, and if it were me, I certainly wouldn't be drawing attention to myself over this.

A few minutes afterwards I received a text message from her, justifying why she'd written what she had:

I read it and thought, 'Oh fuck off, you stupid bitch. You can take your huge love and hugs and shove them up your arse.'

I totally dismissed her claim that she was thinking of me, because from past experience I know better. The only reason she was 'thinking of me' was because she was waiting for me to reply by saying that it was okay, thereby absolving her.

Oh, and maybe I'm being picky here, but I believe the words 'I'm sorry' are missing.

Too angry to reply, I decided to sit on it for a while. Then a bit later I saw this had appeared underneath her status:

On seeing the 'Lol' comment, the red mist descended. What, exactly, did she think was funny? By this time I knew that if I replied in the way I wanted to, all hell would break loose. I have a good relationship with Bro-in-law and I'd hate to lose that through flying off the handle at his wife (although grabbing her by the throat really appeals at times...).

Still having received no response from me, SFB then updated her status to:

Oh well, that's alright then!

Now you may be sitting in front of your screen after reading the above, thinking to yourselves that maybe I'm being a bit overly sensitive about this, and that my anger was perhaps a tad disproportionate. If what happened on Saturday was a one-off, then I'd agree with you, but apart from catching me at a particularly vulnerable time, this came as the latest in a long list of issues - far too many to write down.

But I will tell you that her top of the list, never to be forgotten offence, was an email she sent me (which I have included in a previous post, but didn't specify who it was; now I don't give a shit), titled The Hormone Guide, which started with the words:

"Every woman knows that there are days in the month when all a man has to do is open his mouth and he takes his life in his hands! This is a handy guide that should be as common as a driver's license in the wallet of every husband, boyfriend, co-worker or significant other."

She sent it to me on the afternoon of the day of Significant Other's funeral.

To say I don't like the woman would be a serious understatement.

If only!



P.S. When I'm in a better mood, I'll catch up on my blog reading.

Goldilocks and the Three Twats

Years had passed since Goldilocks had allegedly gone to a forest, broken into a house, foraged for food, wrecked some furniture, then got scared shitless and run away when the owners of the house came back and caught her messing up their beds.

Goldilocks had grown up, got married, had two daughters, got divorced, met and married another man who, many years later, very sadly died. Her Eldest Daughter decided to move to the other side of the world, which left her Youngest Daughter still living at home, along with two cats (whose names she’d pinched from two of the seven men Snow White was shacked up with).

One evening, Youngest Daughter asked her mother if she’d like to go to a comedy night with her being held at the gym where she used to work. (Youngest Daughter had jacked her job in a couple of weeks previously, as the manager was a complete and utter arsewipe who also totally took the piss regarding working hours, days off and non-payment of overtime.)

Although Goldilocks had come to accept and was mostly at peace with her husband’s death, the second anniversary was fast approaching and she was feeling a little blue. Goldilocks thought an evening of comedy sounded like a jolly good idea, so off they went - with Goldilocks checking very carefully that she wasn’t wearing any leopard print before they left the house. Goldilocks stepped outside her front door, paused, then went back inside and looked in the mirror to double check there wasn’t even a hint of leopard print, be it outerwear or underwear.

An evening of comedy ensued, although Goldilocks, along with the rest of the audience yawned through the first so-called comedian’s act. However, again along with the rest of the audience, she thoroughly enjoyed the last of the three acts - an extremely potty mouthed comedian. So humorously foul-mouthed was he, that Goldilocks even cried with laughter a few times.

At the end of the show, Youngest Daughter and her friends decided the night was still young and wanted to go clubbing. They urged Goldilocks to go with them, although most of them hadn’t realised Goldilocks was in fact Youngest Daughter’s mother.

During the evening, Goldilocks had consumed an alcoholic beverage or three, so she agreed to go the club with them. As they all walked through the car park to get to their respective cars, it became apparent to one or two male members of the group that Goldilocks was related to Youngest Daughter.

“No way did you squeeze her out,” said a disbelieving Whopping Great Twat to Goldilocks before turning to Youngest Daughter and saying, “This is your mum? This ain’t your mum. I don’t believe it.”

Not sure whether to be repulsed or flattered, Goldilocks’ mind firmly swung in the favour of revulsion when the words, “I’ll do you first, then I’ll do your mum,” slithered out of Whopping Great Twat’s mouth in Youngest Daughter’s direction.

“Over my dead body, you fucking dickhead” muttered Goldilocks.

Goldilocks began to feel a little apprehensive about going to the club after that, but was assured that all would be okay by some of the other people there.

After being driven by Youngest Daughter to the club (because Goldilocks never drinks and drives), she was standing in the queue waiting to get in, when I-Think-I’m-Handsome-So-That-Makes-Me-Awesome-And-God’s-Gift-To-Females Twat said to Youngest Daughter, “Your mum’s well fit. How would you feel if you saw me at the breakfast table tomorrow morning?”

“Sick,” responded Youngest Daughter, rolling her eyes, while Goldilocks began to silently review her decision about entering the club.

Goldilocks and Youngest Daughter managed to avoid any further twat outbreaks once they gained admission to the club by escaping to the Ladies, although they did hear a female talking to God in one of the cubicles (more than likely Sleeping Beauty, making up for all those years she'd missed out on. Probably drugs involved, as well as alcohol), so they didn’t stay in there too long and headed for the dancefloor.

Time passed, dances were danced, Goldilocks and Youngest Daughter breathed sighs of relief and declared the dancefloor a twat free zone.

After a while Goldilocks decided she was thirsty, so she went to the bar and was patiently waiting to be served when suddenly her arse was slapped and groped by Little Twat, a friend of Whopping Great Twat.

Goldilocks didn’t appreciate her personal space being invaded.

“Back off or fuck off,” she growled at him.

Little Twat backed off, had the sense to apologise and offered to buy her a drink. Goldilocks forgave him, accepted the drink and although she kept a wary eye on him, he behaved himself for the rest of the evening. He even made Goldilocks and Youngest Daughter laugh when he started dancing, because his dance moves were like those of Albert Brennaman in the film Hitch. Except Albert Brennaman was endearing and Little Twat wasn’t.

By 1am (up yours, Cinderella), Goldilocks started to flag a bit, but more importantly she’d spotted Whopping Great Twat making his way towards her. Not keen to have her ears assaulted by so-far-over-the-line-the-line-couldn’t-be-seen-anymore crap, she grabbed Youngest Daughter, they said a few hasty goodbyes, fled the club and made their way home via MacDonalds as they both had the munchies (it was the early hours of Monday morning and the kebab shop was shut).

It’s unlikely that Goldilocks will ever return to the club, home of the Three Twats.

Sense of humour failure? No, it’s called compassion

Like millions of people around the world, I’ve watched with absolute horror the footage of the earthquake and subsequent tsunami in Japan. I’ve seen the destruction it wrought and the devastation left in its wake.

Several times I even found myself shouting, “RUN, RUN” on watching footage of the tide of water and debris heading towards people, who could most probably hear it, but couldn’t see it heading toward them.

I have a very good sense of humour, which borders on the black sometimes, but what I find unacceptable are some of the ‘jokes’ that are appearing regarding this truly dreadful event.

There is no humour to be found in an as yet unknown number of people who have lost their lives.

There is nothing funny about cities, towns and villages being destroyed.

There is nothing amusing to be seen when watching people’s distress as they search for missing loved ones.

There is no funny side to the nuclear crisis currently unfolding.

This is without mentioning the food, water and fuel shortages, the power outages, the people who have lost everything, the people who have had to flee to a safer area because of the radiation threat and other problems.

I truly wonder at some people’s lack of empathy. How can they be so lacking in even a basic amount of compassion that they joke about this disaster? Have these people had a sympathy bypass? There is nothing remotely entertaining to be had from this catastrophe. I find it disgusting to say the very least.

To end on a more positive note, while reading through news reports on Sunday, I found this on the BBC News website:

“…offers of help to the Japanese government have been pouring in from across the world. Even the poor southern Afghan city of Kandahar is chipping in – its mayor has said it is donating $50,000 to the “brothers and sisters” of Japan. “I know $50,000 is not a lot of money for a country like Japan, but it is a show of appreciation from the Kandahar people,” Ghulam Haidar Hamidi told the Reuters news agency.”

To say it brought a lump to my throat would be an understatement.

I Could Have Enjoyed Breakfast In Bed

Hello to flosears at The Rabbit Warren. She has a post here that made me laugh out loud, and it reminded me of this one – OMG WWII on Facebook! - apart from being funny, it’s very cleverly done; if you read it, look at the dates and times - they correspond with the date and year events happened.

During my early morning foray into the garden the other day, I noticed the ditch, which winds its way down to the river, was getting starting to get dammed up in places with branches, twigs and rubbish.

Why can’t people dispose of their rubbish properly?

Significant Other used to keep the ditch clear, but it has now fallen to me to do it. There’s only one other task I dislike doing more than clearing the ditch, and that’s *shudder* cleaning out the hair trap in the shower.

I did consider jumping down, but the chances of me either landing face down in a load of brambles, and/or ending up on my arse in the water were extremely high.

Jumping out of a plane?

No problem.

Jumping into a ditch?

Feck off.

Once I was safely down (the wussy way), I started picking up the crap people couldn’t be arsed to throw away in a bin.

There really is no excuse for people to do this; it’s sheer laziness and utter thoughtlessness on their part.

I gradually made my way along the ditch, but because the mud is so soft, I couldn’t actually walk along in the water – I’d have ended up sinking into the mud.

I know this for a fact, as it almost happened to Significant Other a few years ago. He was standing in the water chatting away not realising, until I pointed it out, that he was sinking. Heh.

You’ll notice from the picture above the ditch is reasonably deep, but it’s important to keep it clear because after prolonged heavy rain, it can fill with water:

Apparently in the past, flooding in gardens running alongside it has occurred. So as well as litter clearing (I felt like I was one of those people serving a Community Punishment Order – all that was missing was the fluorescent jacket, oh, and a misdemeanour), I also cleared some of the vegetation:

In the process of pulling up some pretty tall weeds and launching them onto the bank, I got splattered in stinky ditch mud.

Several times.

Lovely.

Some of the rubbish I retrieved can be seen below:

People disgust me sometimes.

So that was how I spent yesterday morning – some people get breakfast in bed, some read the Sunday papers.

Me?

I cleared other peoples shit.

This morning’s task is much more enjoyable; sorting out something to wear for my hot date tonight.

Oops.

Did I type that out loud?

*wink*

Things I Need To Get Off My Chest

Hello to Crazy Garden Lady. I hope you managed to clean your fingernails of eyeball egg membrane successfully. Eww. You haven’t got long to go now and the Crappiest Season of the Year will soon be winging its way in this direction. Hurrah! for you, blah for me.

I feel the need to vent my spleen.

1. To the wife of someone I've known a long time:

Just because I’ve known your husband for many years longer than you, does not mean I have, have ever had, or ever will have, designs on him. Thinly veiled comments to me of, “if any woman tries anything on with my husband…” were wholly unnecessary and quite frankly, distasteful.

Did you not stop to think that maybe your husband and I share many memories of Significant Other from a time when you weren’t on the scene? Not being a part of those particular memories does not in any way diminish or threaten your marriage.

I understand that you may feel left out sometimes, but the past cannot be erased to suit you, and you should not expect either I or your husband to avoid reminiscing about it.

Yes, you have memories too, and we’ve happily discussed them and will continue to do so. However, persisting in bringing the subject round to yourself, when faced with a period in time that doesn’t involve you, smacks of insecurity. You need to grow up.

I will not pussy-foot around your lack of self-confidence and your insecurity issues on the few occasions your husband chooses to talk about mine to me, or vice versa.

2. To a new acquaintance:

I’m sorry I don’t conform to your idea of how a widow should behave. Just because I don’t dress in black from head to foot, I don’t start each sentence with a sigh, I don’t break down in tears at the mention of Significant Other’s name and I don’t collapse into a crumpled heap at any opportunity, doesn’t mean I grieve any less for my husband.

Saying to me in that disapproving way, “I never knew you're a widow, the way you're laughing and joking,” after being told of my marital status by someone else, made me briefly wonder whether I ought to have a sign stamped on my forehead to mark me out.

Would you prefer it if I dragged myself around, wailed at the drop of a hat and on entering a room, hold the back of my hand to my brow with a woe-is-me look?

I choose not to wallow. I choose to keep a (mainly) positive outlook on life. I choose to keep any tears private.

3. To the few people who knew Significant Other at a housewarming I attended:

I like hearing about Significant Other and any stories about him - they make me laugh.

I found the way you avoided talking about him to me very hurtful. What I found even more hurtful was the way you changed the subject whenever I asked you questions about him. You may have thought you were being sensitive towards me, but I actually thought the complete opposite. Significant Other had a life, one that was worthy of conversation and you being unwilling to talk about him denies his very existence.

4. To the person who sent me an email at a totally inappropriate time:
(This was almost seventeen months ago, but I’m on a roll and it still rankles)

If I had been amongst a long list of recipients, I could possibly have excused what you did, but I wasn’t. You only sent it to me and one other person.

Sending me an email with the title The Hormone Guide, containing the words,

“Every woman knows that there are days in the month when all a man has to do is open his mouth and he takes his life in his hands! This is a handy guide that should be as common as a driver's license in the wallet of every husband, boyfriend, co-worker or significant other.”

on the afternoon of the day my husband was cremated was an act of sheer thoughtlessness to say the least. You had attended his funeral service that morning, yet you chose to take my breath away with a complete and utter lack of empathy and appalling insensitivity.

If pushed, I may forgive you if I really had to.

But I will never forget it.

5. To the 'idiot' who stepped in front of my car:

I did not value the experience of you stepping into the road and standing in front of my car, causing me to stop a mere foot away from you. As you stepped to the side of my car and tried the (locked) passenger door handle, I hope you lost a fingernail or two as I accelerated away.

And finally;

6. To the male sales assistant in the electrical store I purchased my brand spanking new slow-cooker from:

Whilst I did appreciate your help in my eventual choice of slow-cooker, I didn’t appreciate you looking at my chest during our conversation. Such close attention did you pay to my chest, that I thought perhaps I'd spilled something on my blouse. When you turned away, I even inspected it just in case. But no. No spillages, no marks, no stains.

Perhaps it was your birthday and you were expecting a strip-o-gram while you were at work. If so, it wasn't me. 

I don’t know if you’re aware or not, but women’s eyes are located in the facial area. Yes, that area above the neck. You’ll find the eyes located below the forehead, underneath the eyebrows. Another clue to their whereabouts might be the presence of glasses, and seeing as my glasses were not hanging on a chain leaving them resting on my bust, you really had no excuse.

Now correct me if I’m wrong, but I don’t consider my bust to be anything special, i.e. I don’t have the bust of a twenty year old (I’m in my forties – I don’t need to spell that one out. I do? Okay, bras are a fantastic invention - they lift) and I’m certainly no Jordan, so I really don’t see the fascination.

Wait a minute.

I can correct myself.

Silly me.

I have a bust.

End of.

The Woman With The Inner Dragon

My inner dragon usually looks something like this. She occasionally lets off a bit of steam, but she’s generally content to be in a world of her own. She can be a little shy, but that’s not a bad thing. At least she’s not one of those annoying inner dragons that get right up your nose.

Now and again she can be found doing this. Or shopping for shoes. A female inner dragon can never have too many shoes. Ever. She may occasionally sort out and set fire to some shoes, but that’s so she can buy more (preferably ones that fit). Note how my inner dragon knows how to colour co-ordinate and accessorize.

Once in a while, she feels like this. Looking a little bewildered and sad, she sometimes feels a bit sorry for herself, but every inner dragon has days like that. Buying another pair of shoes soon sorts that out.

                        

However, this is my inner dragon’s usual state. She’s happiest when sleeping, dreaming of George Clooney and ice-cream. But not the two together (er, maybe once. Okay, loads twice).

Today my inner dragon was woken from her peaceful slumber by someone who shall remain nameless (*cough* The Widower *cough*).

She was most definitely not happy.

 In fact, my inner dragon was distinctly angry. She’d had enough.

More than enough.

 

She let out an almighty roar to signify how enraged she was. She took a deep breath and…

Then she let rip.

My inner dragon is currently drinking milk and taking anti-acids for all she’s worth, because she has rampant indigestion (later, she'll be drinking wine; sod the indigestion).

But oh boy, was it worth it.

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.