In case you didn’t know, this whole widowhood thing is not all it’s cracked up to be. I’m sure you are over there thinking that I’m just living the high life, what with being a single mother to 2 boys, a single mother to 2 dogs (one of which won’t stop peeing on my fucking carpet) and all these household chores all to myself. I know it sounds pretty awesome, but I’m going to let you in on a little secret, it is not.

Take today for example…I have a large yard. Part of that yard (a too small part in hindsight) is fenced in for the above mentioned 2 dogs (although, the one would be fine without the fenced in yard what with her just using the bathroom wherever she fucking pleases all over my house). The weather as of late has been cold, wet and dreary. Seriously, there’s now a creek running along the side of my house (think of stocking it with fish and charging admission…) because all it ever does is rain. Yesterday and today, we are finally looking at the sun. I woke up a little grumpy today, maybe a little weepy, knocked out kindergarten with my youngest and decided to work out. And I worked out for a really long time because sometimes it’s the best way to clear my head. So while clearing my head, I thought to myself, man, I really need to pick up dog shit. It’s been a hot minute. (I know what you’re thinking, super glamorous widow life). So, between the dog shit and all the rain, my grass is growing rampantly. In the winter. Yay.

I set about scooping poop (side note – I find it really unfair that Ash left me with all these dogs. Don’t get me wrong, I love them both dearly, but there is just way too many things to take care of around here. It’s exhausting.). It takes a good long while 1. because there’s so much (ew) and b. because my wrist keeps cramping up and I have to keep taking breaks (I’m nothing if not sexy. And so young. And so hip.). I get it all(ish) picked up and decide “you know what, I’m going to weed whack this out of control fenced in area.”

So I go get the weed whacker. Do you know what I’ve never used before? A weed whacker. Another job of that asshole who left me here to take of everything while he’s living the high life with God and shit. Sorry, I’m a little bitter today. But, I get it started and set about my mission. Now, you might be wondering why I chose weed whacking over just mowing it and I’ll tell you (I’m certain you’re on pins and needles waiting to read this if you haven’t given up on it already). 1. The grass is super wet and super thick (hey oh! That’s what she said?) and b. I’m terrible with the lawnmower and 3. as mentioned before, the space is pretty small so I figured the weed whacker was the best tool for the job. Oh. My. God! Who the fuck invented the weed whacker? First of all, that thing is the same height, if not taller, as me. Not exactly super easy to maneuver for the vertically challenged. Secondly, do you know how much that thing weighs? I don’t either, but it sure as shit ain’t light. The scooping of the poop, combined with the hellacious weed whacking may be the worst jobs I’ve had to do to date. They did not bring me joy. The yard looks like Jason Vorhees stopped by with his machete and hacked away at it. There are grass clippings all over the white vinyl fence. And my body feels like it’s been smooshed by a damn steamroller that went over once and came back once more just to make sure I was really down. Ash would be rolling in his grave (if he had a grave) if he could see what I’ve done to his yard. Sorry babe, but your fault.

You know what else I’ve done recently that is also 100% Ash’s fault? I saw that match.com commercial where the devil and 2020 met and fell and love and I thought if the devil and 2020 can find love, maybe I can, too. I’m not sure if this is taboo to talk about but since when do I care about being taboo? But I’m lonely. I miss having companionship. And I’m caught between a rock and a hard place of wanting to move on but not wanting to dishonor my husband but needing something more in my life but also still loving my husband. It’s very tricky and complicated and probably taboo. But whatever. So I had a little too much vino one night and I made a profile. Online dating is horrible. Awful. Terrible. 0 stars. Would not recommend. If you are even the slightest bit happy in your relationship, fucking stay there. Because do you know what’s out there for 30something widows with 2 children? Less than nothing. I had a near 80 year old man, claiming he was 35 hoping we could meet. Um, no. One man pushing 70 who progressively got meaner with every message he sent to which I did not respond. A lot of serial killer looking types then I’m totally judging just based on a few pictures. And then, should you meet one that maybe seems attractive and nice and normal, they get a whiff of your crazy and all your baggage and disappear faster than you can say do you think we should meet. It’s awful. Seriously. Stay where you are. Unless you’re with one of the serial killer types.

I don’t usually say this, given that I am grateful for much in my life and because I really really hate acronyms but FML. Not really. Just FTD (fuck this day.)