Some of my friends have lost husbands through various means – divorce, natural death (with a small handful of divorced women holding life insurance policies on the ex and waiting anxiously — just joking), separation, illness and disappearing acts. In this emotional state, women tend to turn to experts. My warning is beware of the experts male or female although there is a tendency in our society to believe males have more expertise and power than women.

My husband was a good guy but a poor negotiator. Whenever we moved he left the management of the project to me. A number of years ago, we built a house and I worked with the foreman. There were many instances where the man answered my questions by inferring I was just a woman and didn’t understand the complex mechanics of house building. Well, that may be true, but I wasn’t asking about how to wire a house. My questions were a bit more practical like I won’t be able to open the dishwasher because the cabinet is in the way, and how can that be rectified?

When I asked the reason why my outside air-conditioning condenser was smaller than those hooked up to houses with the same square footage as mine, the foreman laughed and told me it was an engineering problem and that size was irrelevant. All units carried the same voltage/horse power and that was what counted. What would a lowly women know about that sort of thing? I slinked away, my tail between my legs, totally embarrassed.

The next day, on a whim, I went outside and checked those statistics written right on the units. Lo and behold, mine were less. Of course, I got him to make the change. He was not pleased, to say the least.

After four months of going back and forth on many issues, I told him I had to run something by my husband. The man looked at me like I’d gone berserk.

“I didn’t know you were married,” he said.

Would he have acted differently had my husband been working with him? I think so. Now, in my new place whenever I ask the contractor to come in to finish a certain job he smiles, nods and doesn’t show up or gives me an hour or two here and there. I became so discouraged that my son came in and built a closet for me. He told the contractor to come in the next day to finish some parts of it. The contractor not only showed up, he but stayed four hours – a miracle. Why couldn’t I have as much influence?

Over the years, I sometimes resented having the full responsibility of dealing with people who provided services. But, it did put me at an advantage when my husband passed away. I wasn’t exactly naïve even though I did make mistakes. Overall, my semi-awareness worked well. But, as a woman, I had to soft peddle any confrontations. Speaking loudly or demanding that mistakes be fixed, inevitably brought that certain look from men. Sometimes, I’d even hear the under-breath mumblings, accusing me of breaking balls. Deep down, it touched a nerve – pushy women were unattractive. It made me feel very uncomfortable, despite my independence.

When I had to fire anyone taking advantage of me, I’d gently say we had a personality differences instead of telling them outright they were incompetent or criminally trying to rip me off.

Once I was widowed, experts appeared from under rocks, tryng to take advantage of me — a WOMAN ALONE.

For instance, my husband’s friend, whom he hired to help with finances and business matters had never charged him for phone calls nor billed hourly. That changed when my husband got sick. When I took over the finances, our costs for the friend’s services more than doubled. If I knew he’d charge me for phone calls, I’d have never spent the time asking about his wife and kids – something that took up half the conversation.

I went along with the new unspoken rules. But the shenanigans continued. He insisted on reviewing my entire estate that had just been updated by an estate attorney. After the review, he said it was vital I see another attorney of his choosing who could put my financial house in order much better than it was. I still, foolishly, trusted him.

A meeting was arranged with the new attorney, and I was told my will needed several important elements that were missing. It would cost me $5000.00. I was floored by this amount since I’d just paid dearly for the will to be redone.

I went home and read the will myself, something, I’m ashamed to say, I hadn’t done before. Buried under the legal language I found that the elements the lawyer told me I needed had already been included. I complained to my friend, the one who had brought me to this lawyer. He had the nerve to tell me I misheard the whole thing.

“Women don’t understand complex financing,” he had said.

That might be so, but when I hear a dollar amount, I understand that quite clearly. He then told me it would only cost $1800 for another missing piece. But that, too, was contained in my will. I very nicely told him to kiss his ass goodbye. He then delivered a walloping bill to me for his time. I, not so nicely, sent him half the amount. I’ve never seen him since.

Would he have tried this with my husband? Maybe. But I think he believed I was an easier target. The upbeat note in all this was another advisor my husband occasionally used came through for me. He helped me through the maze – and the business of dying. And, it is a business. In the midst of grieving, you’re asked to know and follow all the government rules, regulations and red tape associated with death, or pay an expensive lawyer to do it for you.

We have this ever growing population of WOMEN ALONE. Women still live longer than men. Some of these women have never lived by themselves. When we are thrust into having to deal with experts who can make or break you, it’s easy to feel thrown to the wolves. And, many times, that is the case.

I urge women (and men whose wives take care of the finances) to participate. I still don’t fully understand all the ins and outs of what is required in these instances, but I hope I’ve learned enough to let the advisors know I am watching them with enough knowledge to be half a step behind them.

From the sexy G — even though this piece is not so sexy. Hey, who knows? Maybe the experts will think it’s sexy when you come prepared.
  Share

Sorry for the long interruption to my blogging. I moved recently. Not only did I move, I crossed state lines from New Jersey to Pennsylvania, and WOW. I could have climbed Mt. Everest with the energy I’ve already expended – maybe climbed twice. And I’m not through. I’ve decided to ventilate to you, dear readers, instead of sitting down and bawling.

Crossing state lines is a bureaucratic nightmare. There is a driver’s license to change which is nearly an all-day affair. If you find yourself in a similar situation, bring your lunch, snack, liquids and book of jokes so you don’t cry. I have yet to approach changing my license plates because I needed my new driver’s license first. Shockingly, to transfer my car plates, I have to find a notary. Why the license plate change can’t be done as a part of the division of motor vehicles is something I can’t understand. After I do that, I have to take the old New Jersey plates back to the DMV in person.

As for the move itself, it went something like a nightmare. Besides the onslaught of months of packing and unpacking, I was plagued by mechanical issues in the place. I can’t help thinking that some of the interminable slowness all around me was sometimes a function of being a woman alone. The apartment I bought in Center City needed lots of work. My dear contractor, who is very nice, informative and quite good at his craft, just didn’t get it done on time. I think he didn’t take me seriously or other people bugged him more so that got their work done before me. And now that I’ve moved, all the work is being done around me.

The story in short is that I didn’t want to get on my contractor’s back during the process although I saw an empty shell for a long time with little to no progress. He told me (implied that women especially don’t understand these things), he was very busy doing wiring and “stuff” in that long fallow period. Well, I didn’t exactly camp out at the apartment, but I spent days on end in that empty void, measuring and sketching layouts for furniture days and no workmen appeared.

Being a woman who didn’t understand had nothing to do with the fact he didn’t need four months for simple wiring adjustments in a moderate sized apartment that had been in usable condition by other owners for at least 40 years. But I reigned my thoughts in because I didn’t want to act too tough, didn’t want to be called a ball-breaker as has happened in the past when I disagreed with men and opened my mouth about it.

I admit I made a giant mistake by my “feminine” performance. I should have broken some balls instead of being the passive woman of the house. I finally did start to press the workmen and got some action! But I waited too long to get into the act.

When the day of reckoning arrived, I moved a month after the promised day of completion, and still, the place was no where near finished. I moved in without a working toilet and shower not to mention a non-usable kitchen. Bless my friends who offered their homes to me.My fortitude was tested, and I found myself not nearly as resilient as I thought I was. I imploded, but I got attention. I, as they say, grew a pair of brass ones and started making demands.

I found out that the most frequently used word is, “later” which translates into weeks or months. When the handymen laughed at my requests for items that needed fixing and told me things would be done later, I freaked. It worked. They returned in minutes with the proper tools. I hate myself when I do that, but I must admit it often works. Deep inside, being aggressive seems to be against my nature. It probably dates back to a time when I needed everyone to like me and women just didn’t want to appear bitchy for fear of losing their femininity. But, I have found, it’s really assertiveness that needs to be called upon in situations like this or you’re at the bottom of the pack.

“And what is your name?” “Who is the supervisor, manager, president of your company?” Those are phrases that don’t always work, but when I’m told that what I’m reporting as a problem never happened to anyone else and nothing can be done about it, those questions are my only weapons. Once in a while it gets someone’s attention.

I have a confession to make. In truly desperate times I have used, not often, drastic measures. For example, one time the state of New Jersey refused to renew my car registration because my car was reported stolen. I was driving it every day. How could it have been stolen? My township had no theft report and no one in motor vehicles would or could help me. I did something that, at one time, I would have called a despicable. I used the widow card.

It goes something like this, “Help, me. I’m a widow and all alone.” Even though it’s true, and I’m at the end of my rope, I’m very reluctant to ever say this and have to be in a near life or death situation. It reminds me of the ad when the woman falls down and cries for help. I was once amused by that ad. Not anymore. Well, after stating my circumstances, someone in middle management actually took the time to check for a theft report and got back to me saying it was all a mistake. I was then, and only then, able to renew my car registration.

The time the widow card didn’t work was after my husband had a stroke and we willingly told the state he should no longer drive. They notified us of his loss of a driver’s license, and then I found out I could not get insurance. The reason was, we never turned in the actual card. In the aftermath of his serious illness, his license got lost. Not one soul at every state or department level could help me. I spent days on the phone and ran to the main Motor Vehicles Division, crying and begging for an answer. I even called politicians.

As long as I didn’t produce the actual card, I could not get insurance. I lived in the suburbs with a sick husband. How could I not drive? What about the multiple doctor appointments each week, not to mention that I needed a car to buy even a quart of milk.

Just as I was about to run out into the streets screaming, I found it. What would have happened had I not come upon the license, accidentally, underneath a dresser? I can’t tell you how that tale would have ended.

Now that I’m on a roll, in my next blog I’d like to relay some of the experiences I’ve had once I took over our finances that my husband always handled. It might help women who suddenly find themselves alone with the responsibility of running everything by themselves.

From the sexy G. (Honestly, I’m not feeling like the sexy G at the moment. We all have our moments, don’t we? Maybe next time). I think I soon need to get back to thoughts about fun things.
  Share