Category: Love

Alone In a Furniture Store

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I’ve done some dumb shit in my life. I’ve made some dumb ass mistakes. I’ve put my faith in the wrong people. I’ve made unhealthy choices. I’ve basically just been a human, you know. Sometimes I get it right. Most of the time I don’t.

Tuesday I had an appointment to pick out appliances for the new house. Exciting, I know. I feel about appliances pretty much the same way I feel about light fixtures – couldn’t give 2 shits. I’d like a refrigerator that keeps my food cold, freezer keeps the ice frozen, oven cooks shit, microwave heats shit up, dishwasher washes shit. Those were my requirements. Doesn’t seem complicated, right? Well, technically it was not complicated. However, I hopped in my car, turned it on (because one must turn the car on before it will actually drive in case you didn’t know) and the radio comes on. And playing on the radio is Maroon 5’s “Memories”. And that’s when the tears first started.

Ash and I loved furniture shopping. We would do it more often than was necessary in our spare time. (Just to be clear, I hated doing any other kind of shopping with Ash. And I mean HATED. I am a get in, get what you need, get the hell out type of gal. Ash was the polar opposite. He tried things on. He googled reviews. He tried things on again. He walked around aimlessly to “think” about what he just tried on. Shopping with him was my own personal hell. Some of our biggest fights happened because of these very opposite shopping habits.) However, furniture shopping together was a hobby at which we excelled. (Probably wasn’t a hobby and probably not something at which one can excel but whatever.) We had a favorite local furniture store. And if you guessed that I was headed to that favorite local furniture store to pick out appliances, well ding, ding, ding, you’ve won (absolutely nothing other than maybe a boost in your pride).

So, stupid song is on (not a stupid song, I really do like it a lot but just wasn’t what I needed to hear at that particular moment in time), headed to favorite furniture store and Kellie is crying. Again. (Same shit, different day?! Not really, I’m mostly fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.) It just got me thinking that Ash is really gone. Gone, gone. I will never see him again. Which, obviously I know that. I’m not completely crazy. Yet. But it was quite devastating to me. I will never furniture shop with him again. We will never grab a coffee and leisurely meander, holding hands, always holding hands, through the throngs of couches and recliners and end tables that we don’t need but certainly want to peruse. We will never dream of the day when we build our own home, to our own taste and outfit it just the way we want. I am doing those things, but I am doing them completely alone. And on Tuesday I felt that aloneness deep in my soul, in a way I haven’t felt it in quite a long time. Every little step I take is a step further away from him. It’s a step to the future that does not include him. And while my rational mind is always aware of that, my heart sometimes forgets. Luckily, a good friend called half way on my journey to the furniture store and I reined in my devastation and had a lovely chat for the rest of my ride.

Appliance ordering took me about 15 minutes (I told you I didn’t give 2 shits). Fridge: check. Range: check. Dishwasher: check. Microwave: check. Washer and dryer: check, check. My earlier pain wasn’t forgotten but had been put on the back burner while I checked things off the list.

However, and this is the part where I get to doing the dumb shit in my life, I figured since I’d made the 35 minute drive, and I do have a brand new house in the works that will need to be furnished with some brand new items, perhaps I should take a look around, see what they have, maybe, dare I say, order a new thing or two. And so I did. And I did order a few things that will be here sometime before my kids leave for college (thank you Covid for making everything impossible to get in a timely manner). But that earlier pain came rushing back as I couch hopped. I was doing one of my favorite things without my favorite person. And it sucked. I had to put my sunglasses on for a bit because I knew I looked pathetic, moving from couch to couch, with tears streaming down my face. Although, the sunglasses did probably made me look crazy (or hungover), and I hate to beat a dead horse here, but I am a *touch* crazy and I accepted that long ago.

I did eventually get my shit together and get the hell out of the furniture store. I let a few more tears out on the drive home and then I got on with the business of being the bad ass (ha ha) that I am. But for a few hours, I grieved. Hard core. Because I shopped for furniture alone. Because I’m making our dreams come true alone. Because I feel so alone.

Dating and Why It’s Stupid

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Ladies (and gents, I’d hate to not be politically correct here), this is a gentle reminder to clean out your purse(s) perhaps a little more frequently than once every 2 or so years. Don’t be like Kellie (I’m Kellie, in case you forgot). I just pulled out a purse that I apparently haven’t used in quite a while (as in years, this purse may not even be in style anymore, who knows?! Who cares?!). Don’t worry, there was nothing disgusting in there. I’m not a total pig. But at the bottom of it was a pill bottle. And in that pill bottle was a little something called ZenPep. And ZenPep is a prescription given to those who cannot digest food normally because their pancreas does not make enough enzymes. Any guesses on who had to take that? Any guesses on who just had a major breakdown over an orange and white pill used to aid in digestion? It was me. (I had the breakdown; I didn’t have to take ZenPep – there is nothing amiss with my digestion thus far in my life. Ash was the ZenPep taker – if you recall, he had bile duct cancer and all sorts of problems that came along with bile duct cancer and prescriptions out the ying yang to help live with bile duct cancer, which clearly did not work as he is no longer living. Thanks for being such a douchebag, life.).

Grief is a little crazy in that way. It never truly goes away. You learn to live through it. You find the happy again. But then sometimes you find a bottle of pills and it’s like the whole wound has just reopened and you have to work and fight and cauterize and stitch that wound back into submission. I know, that doesn’t make a lot of sense but you get the point.

Things have been interesting around here as of late. I have dove/dived (what’s proper here?) head first into the big bad world of dating. We’ve gone over this, I know, but for fun, let’s go over it again. And by fun, I mean torture. Because that’s what dating is. Pure torture. I thought it was bad in my teens and 20s. That shit ain’t got shit (I know what you’re thinking, damn she speaks so eloquently and I know, it’s a gift) on being a widowed mother of 2 at the ripe old age of 38. The games are just as strong now as they were then. And I can’t figure out why. I’m an honest person. I’m not going to tell you that I like you if I don’t like you. Just like I wouldn’t expect a man to tell me that he liked me if he didn’t actually like me. And it’s really easy to tell if someone doesn’t like you. Mainly because they don’t speak to you. They don’t call, text, send carrier pigeon. Nothing. They leave you with an I like, maybe a little smooch or 2, and then they disappear. Only to reappear a few days later with some nonsense you don’t really give a shit about but feel excited because they did in fact reach out, so then you feel like you can reach out next time with some nonsense that they don’t give a shit about only to be ignored again. What in the actual fuck?

You’ll also recall I was called a very bad name recently. And I’d like to shed a little light on that, lest you think that I actually am a whore. I told you I was not. Maybe naive. But definitely not a whore. Someone I have been friends with for more of my life than not was very supportive to me, well, in reality, always. We always stayed in touch, always checked in, always kept our friendship alive, if you will. He doesn’t live here but we have maintained communication throughout most of our adult lives. Once my husband passed away, he kind of turned into my rock. I leaned on him. A lot. And what was a very close friendship almost morphed into something more. I knew he was married, however, (and here’s were the dumb girl believing everything she’s told comes in; damn dumb girl) I was under the impression the marriage was not a happy one and would be ending any day now. As you have seen, that was not the case. The marriage was not over, let alone unhappy. I mean, it may be a bit unhappy now as dude was busted and stuff, but that’s not my problem.

What is my problem, though, is that I lost my rock. I lost one of my best friends. And he has not spoken to me, explained anything to me or reached out in any way. And I understand it on one hand. But on the other hand, I don’t understand it at all. My heart was broken. My heart, that has already been through so much pain and despair, was ripped to shreds by some selfish asshole that claimed to be anything but a selfish asshole. And I find that wholly unfair. What kind of human does that to another human? What kind of human does that to their own family? For what purpose? Is he sleeping well at night knowing that not only did he devastate his own family, he also crushed another human spirit? What a prick.

Here’s what I know, though. (I’m gonna get a little too self confident here, prepare yourself.) Do I have a little baggage? Of course. Who doesn’t at almost 40? Am I perfect? Obviously not. As was pointed out to me just last week, I’m not very warm and fuzzy. I can be a little standoffish at first. And I am a bit shy. And clearly, I’m a little bit too trusting. But, also, I am the prize here. I am kind. I am funny. I am a lot of fun. I’m honest. I’m financially secure. I can be cute if I try really hard. I’m open and can be adventurous with a bit of a nudge. I’m sporty. I like to go out just as much as I like to stay in. I can be sexy (probably – it’s been a while). I have a lot of love to offer and I am not willing to settle for some bullshit game playing.

My point is this – don’t mess with a broken widow. She (or he) has been through enough. And she (or he) may be gone before you realize what could have been.

Things I Do Now

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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.)