Post #160 – About The Expiration Date and the End of the Beehive Hairdo

Knowing that each of us has an expiration date does not make it any easier when we’re told that the end is near for a family member or a friend – even if that person is 99 years old. I got that phone call earlier today from a hospice nurse about my Grandmother. She hasn’t been able to eat more than a bite or 2 of food at a time, and she’s been sleeping pretty much since Thanksgiving.

And the nurse said she was too weak to speak to me even if she brought Nana the phone. That’s when I broke down because anyone who knows Nana – knows that the only thing in this universe that would stop her from talking would be if the Grim Reaper himself was hovering about her bed.And the nurse kept using the word “declining”, which I tend to think of as a hospice buzz word synonymous with dying. I remember hearing that term a few days before my mother passed away.

I was absolutely miserable when Nana lived with us for two very long years, i.e. check out Post #1 about what she said to me when my mother was terminally ill @ https://wordpress.com/stats/insights/tenaciousbitch.com https://wordpress.com/stats/insights/tenaciousbitch.com

And/or this post about Nana’s back-handed racisim @ https://wordpress.com/stats/insights/tenaciousbitch.com.  However, I found myself sobbing on the way to the grocery store where I went to fax some paperwork to hospice in order to secure her care for however long she has left.

Ten minutes, I was told for the confirmation that the fax went through to Vitas Hospice’s office. Ten. Long. Minutes trying not to start crying again in front of total strangers. And then, a miracle happened. I decided I’d treat myself to my favorite dessert, vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. On my way to the beloved freezer holding my creamy comfort in a 1/2 gallon box, I realized that God knew how sad I would be at this moment, and a miracle occurred that caused me to break into a wide smile despite my melancholy mood…

ALL OF MY FAVORITE ICE CREAM TREATS WERE ON SALE…:)    And the Skinny Cow was buy one get one FREE! I don’t think that’s every happened that I can recall. 

So, despite the fact that I started bawling again in my car on the way home, I realized life really is about the little things. The ice cream miracle. The fact that my husband does the dishes without me asking him to do so as well as watching the hilarious antics of my cats, one of whom has learned to lock herself in the bathroom when she wants some downtime from the other 2 cats (funny story for another day).

And last but not least, the incredible euphoria I experience every single time I go to the beach (any beach, Florida, California, New Jersey, doesn’t matter), and I sit staring at the vast expanse of water roaring to and fro in front of me. There’s nothing in this world that I enjoy more (as far as leisure activities, that is) than lying on the beach on a hot and sunny day…except maybe lying on the beach with a good book.

And I wondered if any of those wonderful moments that Nana has experienced over her nearly 100 years were ruminating through her mind as she drifts away from this world. I hope so. And I decided that I was going to remember Nana as the crazy redheaded woman who spoiled me rotten every time we came to visit…who so loved the hairstyle shown in the photo below…which I never really understood but Nana never really understood my love of science fiction and zombie movies either…:) That said, even though she and I are very different in a lot of ways, she taught me a very valuable life lesson – just by the way she lived her life. And I’m sure she doesn’t even realize what I’ve gleaned from her in this respect.

In that, the most important ingredient to happiness is to be true to yourself. And it’s okay if you’re not like other women, or other people in general. Nana was the FIRST woman in her family and among her friends who worked after she got married.

A year or so after my mother was born, Nana took a job at the company store. My mother grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia. And Nana got to know the manager of the company store at church, and he mentioned that he needed a part-time clerk. My grandmother eagerly took the job, not because she needed the money, but because she WANTED to work. And she eventually became the manager of the store.

She wasn’t happy sitting around the house all day cleaning and changing diapers. And this was in 1936! Such just wasn’t done, but Nana did it! She didn’t care what other people thought about it either. My grandfather was shocked and confused, but he knew Nana well enough to know that it didn’t do any good to argue with her or to try to dissuade her from whatever she wanted. She was going to do it anyway. And she worked until she was 78 years old. She retired 3 times before she finally decided it was time to give work a rest.

I hope that I’m able to see Nana again before she’s ushered from this world.  When taking care of Nana got to be too much, and she needed full-time care, she didn’t want to be in a nursing home here in Ohio where I live because she hates the weather here. She requested to move back down South where she’d lived for more than 50 years.

So, we put her in a nursing home about 5 miles from the house where she had lived from 1976 until she moved in with me and my husband in 2011. And they’ve taken very good care of her though they refer to her as “the Diva”, which is more than appropriate because I’ve never encountered anyone more spoiled than she is, God Bless Her…:) And there are quite a few posts herein that will more than quantify that nickname.

And so with that, I will say adieu so that I can make travel plans to see the crazy redhead one more time before her lights go out in Georgia for the last time.

Over and out from CASA DE CRAZY…

~TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies

Post #159 -His Name is Jar-Jar the Terrible

Had trouble sleeping last night. Nothing new to read, and I couldn’t turn on the TV for fear that my horrible recurring nightmare had come true. Jar-Jar Binks, aka Jar-Jar the Terrible, just bought himself the Presidency. You know Jar-Jar, the Narcissist with the bad Comb-Over? Holy shit. It wasn’t a dream? There isn’t enough Merlot to stomach the headlines in the morning. Sigh. Perhaps, some strychnine or Drano with a side of cyanide will suffice instead. Glug. Glug.

All joking aside, my only solace in terms of coping with the deplorable and mind-boggling election of Jar-Jar the Terrible is that Hillary Rodham Clinton finally shattered a glass ceiling that is not only 240 years thick, but heretofore thought to be impenetrable by ANY woman, triumphing despite all odds to become the first woman nominated by the democratic party to run for President of the United States. Such is not only an historic event but an event unseen in a high percentage of the industrialized world as is common knowledge that there are very few heads of state who are female on this rock we call earth.

 

And despite Senator Clinton’s devastating loss, she’s a commendable example of what women can achieve because now, we finally have NO door that is closed to us despite whatever she may or may not have done with her Godforsaken emails and despite whatever political shenanigans she may or may not have committed as alleged by Jar-Jar’s smear campaign and by various coverage of the media.

The thing is, regardless of whether you like her or not, she’s got a helluva more experience than Donald Trump because we all know who really ran the White House back in the day when Bill was traipsing about the Hallowed Halls of our nation’s capital chasing after interns. And while many might have seen Hillary’s current plan for the country as more of the same, I saw it as a familiar journey with goals that are in alignment with what the people need and what the people want. Jobs. Prosperity. Equal Rights. More research and development to reduce our carbon footprint. A makeover of the disaster known as Obamacare. The end of legal bigotry and immigration reform, not the building of a wall to keep out “those People”.

I daresay our founding forefathers are grumbling and shouting from their graves in protest and frustration knowing a man has just been elected to the highest office in the land, and by his own words would like nothing more than to shatter the constitution and to “make this country great again” by refusing the matriculation of the poor, the hungry, the disenfranchised, the flat-chested (perhaps? :)) and to bar those whose religion or ethnicity offends Jar-Jar’s narrow-minded sensibilities, thereby decimating the principles this country was built upon.

However, I can’t help but hope that should that ludicrous boundary be built, that someone pushes Trump over his wall into a pit of Mexican Zombie Rapists.

Okay, maybe not. Sorry, I had to intervene with a little levity in order to survive the mere idea that the Donald, Jar-Jar the Terrible, is really going to be running this country in 10 short weeks. I’m ashamed and embarrassed to call myself an American with him at the helm, and I’m terrified that in 2021, I won’t recognize the country to which I was born.

Then, there’s Hillary Rodham Clinton, like Rosa Parks, who also suffered at the hands of ignorance and injustice, both of whom paved the way for more changes to come. While Mrs. Clinton, of course, hasn’t been wrongly imprisoned, I believe she was wrongly convicted in the court of public opinion, which I’m sure hurt her elect-ability immensely. So, maybe, Senator Clinton hasn’t done anything as significant as Rosa Parks’ defiance on that historic bus ride during the infancy of the Civil Rights Movement, but Senator Clinton had the potential to do so, in my opinion, and crossing over into the No-Man’s Land of Running for President, I believe she took her first step.

That said, I will tell my grandchildren that though Hillary Clinton lost, she won a huge victory for just being in the race. And, unfortunately, all too often adults are just like children, they have to learn the hard way what’s best for themselves and for their country and that I have faith that after 4 years of Mr. Trump, the country will be begging Hillary to run again, and I pray she will do so!! If not, she’s created a wide berth for another woman to walk in her shoes in 2021.

However, whatever happens, I cannot believe Trump will be elected twice. If so, I’ll be boarding a plane for Ecuador or some other distant and sunnier shore because I can’t bear the thought of Trump calling himself President again.

And regardless of what happens in the future, I feel proud and honored that I took part in an historical event when I voted for the first female candidate for President in the history of our great nation. And I honestly believe that Jar-Jar the Terrible will only be a sad footnote in the historical record of the U.S. like that of John Wilkes-Booth, known pretty known only as the man who killed a great leader who changed the lives of millions with one signature on the Emancipation Proclamation. In the same but slightly different vein, though Jar-Jar might’ve killed Hillary’s dream to be our Commander and Chief in 2017, I can’t believe that this electoral defeat has dashed her aspirations permanently. She’s too stubborn and too ambitious for that.

Therefore, I don’t believe this electoral debacle will be the last mention of First Lady, Secretary of State, and Senator Hillary Rodham Clinton and for that I am also hopeful and eternally grateful for what Hillary has done thus far and feel indebted to her in doing what no woman has ever done before. Beat several men at what has traditionally been a man’s game. Now get back on the horse Hillary and figure out how to crush Jar-Jar the next time around! 🙂

 

Post #158 -The Oddest, Coolest Mother’s Day Gift Ever

Those of you who know me IRL (in real life), you’re aware that I’m weird. And that such is an adjective I wear proudly. So, it won’t surprise you to know that my husband gave me a very strange gift for Mother’s Day, one that I absolutely love. However, I can’t think of one woman on earth besides me who would’ve shrieked with joy as I did when I opened it.

Obviously, it wasn’t flowers or jewelry or an expensive pair of shoes or a gift card from my favorite retailer and the like. Though, honestly, I would’ve been perfectly happy with any of the above.

So? What is it, you ask? A 6-foot alligator? No. I prefer my gifts aren’t of the man/woman – eating kind.

Was it some sort of unconventional kitchen gadget like a knife sharpener?

No…it was…

Wait for it…..

Wait for it…

Here’s a photo of the box.

Does that give you any ideas? 🙂 For all the ladies and gents out there who might’ve been to a gun store, the box might be a dead give away.

Otherwise, for  the many folks who’ve never been to a retail outlet that sells weaponry…you may not even know what it is by viewing the item itself below….

Yes, it is, in fact a STUN GUN!!! 🙂 And don’t you LOVE the fact that it’s pink? 🙂

Though I live in a very low-crime area, I wanted a stun gun because I’ve been selling my artwork (i.e. fine art photography, decoupaged coasters, hand painted vases, etc.) at various flea markets and art shows since last summer. When I had a booth over the winter at a flea market in a somewhat shabby area, I saw a man arguing with a woman in the parking lot, and he struck her so hard in the face, she almost fell down. I called the police who FINALLY showed up about 20 minutes later. And what kills me about that is – that flea market is a mile from Easton Mall/a very EXPENSIVE area to live/work, etc.

Obviously, violent crime can happen anywhere, so you never know when I might actually have an occasion to use this handy gadget in my own home.

Additionally, the outdoor flea market I’ve been going to since March is frequented by more men than women. And sometimes as I’m packing up my artwork and boxes of household items I’ve also been trying to sell (inherited from my mother/other relatives), there might only be a couple other vendors left. There are no security guards or anything, and occasionally, I meet a vendor who just evokes that vibe that he’s probably seen his share of time “inside” a local prison.

Once in awhile a male vendor or a customer will hit on me, and I’m always polite when replying that I’m happily married and not interested in cheating on my spouse. But you never know when one of those guys might take offense and turn an innocent situation into something ugly.

That said, I LOVE MY STUN GUN. And it’s all charged and ready to go, so be warned all lecherous, less-than-honorable men who might consider getting aggressive with me cuz this chick is PACKIN’, and I won’t hesitate to STUN the hair right off your  balz! 🙂

Peace out –

~Tenacious Bitch and her band of truth spouting hippies

P.S. If you’d like to do a girl a solid (and want to help me garner some more cash to GO SEE NANA – and btw, Nana is now 99 years old), feel free to check out my online store with most of my artwork and such at:

https://www.etsy.com/shop/TenaciousImages

 

Post # 157 -Our Valentine’s Day Shooting of the Non-Murdering Kind…:) A.K.A. An Upcycled Valentine’s

Below is a photo of the beautiful bouquet that my husband, Charlie, gave me for Valentine’s. We’ve been married 16, almost 17 years (and together for 19). Yet, he never ceases to surprise me. If you’d ask me ten years ago if I’d still be getting flowers for Valentine’s at this point in our relationship, I would’ve said – probably not. However, I’m happy to say, I was wrong…:)

He also got me a much-needed item, this gigantic paper cutter for my art projects and furniture upcycling and whatnot! 🙂

I know, right? Such an odd gift, but I was thrilled! I was trying to cut some wallpaper the other day to decoupage the table below, and never did get it straight.

I wrestled with the paper for over an hour. It just kept rolling and slipping no matter what I did. It still managed to wriggle/spring out of my grip after I taped it down with shipping tape. So, I gave up. I finally just cut it the best I could, which was still a little crooked and then sanded it until it appeared relatively straight.

That said, my Valentine’s Day gift to Charlie was as nontraditional as the paper cutter. You see, he requested that we exercise our constitutional right to bear arms on President’s Day, LOL (which was yesterday for those who live outside the U.S.).

We went to a local gun range with a couple of our friends and their 17-year-old daughter, Tiffany. I was surprised that Tiffany was interested. I wouldn’t have been at that age. Are you kidding? I would’ve been at the mall, the movies or at home nursing a hanngover, LOL.

As  far as our day shooting paper people and the like, Tiffany seemed a little embarrassed by her lackluster aim with Charlie’s pistol. But I reminded her that it was her FIRST time handling a gun, after all. And she did hit the target 3 or 4 times (better than my stats the first time out, but we’ll get to that in a sec…:)).

We burned through 100 rounds of ammo with Charlie’s new Hi Point pistol, and check out my quasi successful results on my last attempt to nail the bullseye.

Not too shabby for an old lady who hasn’t touched a gun in over a decade, n’est-ce pas? Unfortunately, I forgot to snap a pic of my best efforts where I hit the ring closest to the bullseye three times. I had put all the targets in the trash, and another gun enthusiast, whom I will refer to as Mr. Special Forces who had the build and swagger of a soldier. He spilled a bottle of coffee on it 20 seconds before I thought about photographing my target.

I didn’t do as well on very last round because the grip had kind of bruised the side of my hand, from the action of the pistol – because I wasn’t holding the gun tight enough initially. But anyway….

You’re not supposed to have food or drink at the range. But Mr. Special Forces plucked his Starbucks out of his backpack and dumped it as he was leaving. An employee reprimanded him for it. He apologized, but it was too late to immortalize my most-shredded paper perp, so to speak. Ah, well, lesson learned…:)

While I didn’t hit the bullseye, I did much better than my last venture at the outdoor range when I barely hit the target ONCE out of 20 rounds or so. The best I did was barely striking the top edge, lol. In fact, the best shot merely grazed the head of the target and made a moon-shaped gouge in the top of the target’s noggin.

However, my expertise was definitely NOT as good as Mr. Special Forces…check out the photo below…

He pretty much decimated his poster proxy of a man’s torso (EEK)i.e. the target to the right of mine. Remind me to never snag his parking space.

Anywho…t’was big fun, and now I’m thinking I might want this lovely Ruger for Mother’s Day.

http://www.vanceoutdoors.com/products2.cfm?id=123906

So appropro, is it not since purple is my favorite color?

Though it might seem like an odd Valentine’s Day gift, one romantic caveat occurred while at the range…Charlie said I looked very sexy blasting away with his weapon.

“What?” I asked. “Why?”

“You got the target.”

I replied with a shrug, not feeling particularly proud. 

Typical Charlie though. Does he get all hot and bothered when I’m wearing a little black dress? No, he gets all randy when I’m trying to bust a cap into a cardboard criminal in a noisy room full of strangers! 🙂

I guess we’re kind of like an 80s band in the romance department, LOL.

Get it?

GUNS

and

ROSES…..

Okay, so maybe that was funnier in my head. If you knew my husband, however, you’d know that was definitely a joke of the Charlie persuasion. He’s always spouting dumb zingers like that with a dorky play on words.

All righty then…time for something completely different…

Hope you all had a wonderful Valentine’s and are experiencing a fantastic Tuesday…or at least not a horrible one.

~Ciao

Tenacious Bitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies.

TB/ks

 

#156 – Five Reasons Why I Sometimes Hate Living With Men…:)

As I’ve mentioned before, I have son named Max, who is now 23.

Meanwhile Max’s best friend, Taylor, moved in with us about a month ago. Taylor’s roommates kicked him out because their landlord had sold the house they were renting. With 2 weeks left to vacate, they hadn’t packed anything because in Taylor’s words, “Because all they cared about was doing drugs, and that’s just not me.” So, he came home from work to find himself locked out and homeless (awesome).

As much as that sucked, GOOD FOR HIM that he didn’t follow them down that life-crushing rabbit hole. He’s a great kid, so I don’t mind that he’s staying with us until he and Max find an apartment.

That said…however, living with 3 men often makes me wanna go POSTAL. Don’t get me wrong. all of them are rather amicable fellows, and Taylor, who is 21, is a good influence on Max’s bad temper, but I’ll leave that nightmare for another day.

My husband does do laundry and help with dishes (and he actually does a decent job cleaning bathrooms when he has time to assist). However, all you men people have habits that drive all of us ladies to the brink of madness at times. I know I’m not perfect, but this post ISN’T about me…:), i.e. it’s my blog, and the BITCH will bitch if I want to, LOL.

So… why do they disturb me so?

1 – THEY’RE ALL PIGS IN THEIR OWN WAY. For example:

There’s always some kind of trash in Max’s room. The last time he cleaned it, he hauled out five 30-gallon trash bags full of pop cans, fast food trash and the like.

My husband’s junk mail piles up to such a sprawling stack on the kitchen table that it even irritates the CAT, who will occasionally push it off onto the floor when it gets in her way from her favorite window seat/across the table to the floor. It’s pretty hilarious. I’ve tried to videotape her, but she’s camera shy.

Max was dating a girl who had an adorable dog, who constantly pooped on the floor when he visited. Guess who cleaned that up most of the time? (:

Max leaves his junk all over the house. This book for some roll playing game, sat on this marble chest by the front door for months until…you guessed it, Samantha (the cat) knocked it into the floor. No, I’m not kidding, she REALLY hates clutter. At which point, I took it upstairs and left it by Max’s door…and he FINALLY put it away.

Max broke a glass a couple days ago in the wee hours after he got off work around 2:30 a.m. I realize he was tired, but he didn’t clean it up very well, and the largest shard in this photo was sitting on a pot holder on the counter where one of cats could easily get a hold of it, and off I’d go to the vet with a bloody, yowling kitty cat, which Max would’ve felt HORRIBLE about.

Max and Taylor leave their dirty clothes on the bathroom floor…Max more than Taylor, BUT STILL. And the other day, Max had left his dirty underwear ON THE FRICKIN’ SINK!!!

And last but not least.. the kitchen ISSUES. All of the items in the sink were from Max making his lunch and/or dinner. And don’t you love the fact that my sign threatening certain death for creating this unholy mess is in plain view and completely ignored? It’s hanging from the cabinet beside the sink. And no matter how much I bitch and scream and politely ask them to load their own fucking dishes into the dishwasher, it rarely, if ever, happens – though occasionally Taylor and my husband will load their own dishes.

2. Aside from all that, they’re rather noisy and obnoxious at times…

The sound of cars crashing and/or exploding from their videogames often disturbs my zen while trying to refinish furniture, etc., in my exercise/craft room or work in my office during the day… since both Taylor and Max work at night.

 

3. Then, there are my husband’s television viewing choices. I hate when I’m cutting fabric for an art project or something in the dining room, and I catch a glimpse of some unbelievably nasty house full of dead cats (literally) and God knows what else on the big screen in the family room while my husband is watching HOARDERS. Egad…he says he likes watching these poor obsessive, usually mentally ill individuals get help. Fortunately, those momentary visions of horror haven’t given me nightmares (yet).

He also likes Bar Rescue, which is a worthwhile show helping bar owners to redecorate, and/or change their irresponsible ways to become more profitable, etc., but I just can’t stand listening to John Tafford scream at people, though his anger is justified. While innocently walking by toward the laundry room, I caught a scene where a horse walked into a bar and actually shit on the floor while the drunken owner laughed hysterically, which is why I don’t watch this crap (no pun intended!). I watch TV to escape reality, not be bludgeoned by it.

4. Men can be so rude!

I can’t tell you how many times while preparing breakfast Taylor has walked in and farted rather loudly. And he just doubled-over in laughter because the stench was so foul that Samantha, our senior cat, gave him a dirty look and sashayed out of sight. I often set my breakfast in the fridge for a bit until my nausea subsides.

Hello…they make medication that renders your disgusting TOOTS, MOOT and void, a cure that costs less than $5.00!!!

5. And if all that weren’t enough to make me load up a couple shotguns and start laying some ground fire of the buckshot persuasion…they can be so CLUELESS. This morning I started to walk upstairs to get dressed, and there was Taylor going to the loo at the top of the stairs WITH THE DAMNED DOOR OPEN! WTF? Luckily, I saw his face and rushed back into the kitchen before I saw anything else, thank God. How embarrassing!

Excuse me, but I LIVE HERE TOO, and just because I was downstairs five minutes ago doesn’t mean that I’m going to remain downstairs the rest of my fucking life….so CLOSE THE DAMNED DOOR…(she says shaking her head in disbelief).

OH AND P.S./BONUS – my husband blows his nose in the shower. UGH, ugh, and double ugh. Don’t even get me started on that…:)

And that’s my rant for the day.

Over and out…

TenaciousB and her Band of Truth-Spouting Hippies

~TB/KS

Post #155 – Revenge is best served via Taye Diggs or something like that…

“Is your phone all set?” I asked when Jackson waltzed in the breakroom all giddy and smiling at 5:15 as promised earlier that day after he’d unveiled Gordon’s despicable motive (see my last post).

“Yes, ma’am, armed and ready,” he replied as I slipped my arm through his.

“Take one,” Jackson said laughing, encircling my waist with his other arm.

“One’s all we’ve got,” I said giggling as we sauntered into the hallway, gazing at each other as if en route to the nearest boudoir. Quite a performance since he’s gay, and I’m happily married with no intention of cheating. But Griffin and Gordon didn’t know that.

“After this, the whole office will think we’re having a thing,” I said grinning.

“Except, pardon me, but I’m pretending you’re Taye Diggs right now,” Jackson mumbled.

“Whatever works for you, baby,” I said with a giggle. “And when you’re done with him, I’ll take a turn,” I said jokingly,

Jackson busted out laughing but managed to stifle himself by buttoning his lip so as not to over-dramatize our scene.

Out on the sales floor, I could feel a dozen eyes on us. But I couldn’t tell how close we were to Griffin’s desk.

“Are they looking?” I asked.

“Yep, 2 blond idiots at 6:00,” Jackson murmured.  “And about 1/3 the sales force is gawking our way as well,” Jackson said as his dark eyes swept back to mine.

“Can’t wait for the video.”

“Oscar-worthy I’m sure,” I replied.

Jackson nodded with a giggle.

To make this moment all the sweeter, I had instructed Jackson to turn on the video camera on his phone before we embarked upon our scandalous stroll down the hallway. While only part of it is on camera (momentarily), the dialogue that ensued is hysterical.

I stole a sidelong glance at the 2 Douche Bags (Griffin and Gordon). They were slumped over their desks, their eyes plucked wide open with shock and, perhaps, exasperation by mine and Jackson’s display of manufactured enrapture.

For the coup d’etat, I batted my eyes at Jackson seconds before passing Griffin’s desk and in a sultry voice, I said, “See you round 7:00, then.”

“You bet,” Jackson said softly as I sashayed toward the elevator, shaking my ass as if it were on fire… 🙂

Seconds later, I heard Griffin say, “Hold up, Jackson, what’s goin’ on?”

I snuck a glance over my shoulder just as Griffin stood up and wedged himself between his desk and Gordon’s, so Jackson couldn’t pass by to his own cubicle cage, not 3 feet away.

A broad, devilish smile broke out on Jackson’s face, which I’m sure the miscreants believed was from basking in the glow of our lust.

“So, what’s the story with you and Mrs. Smith?” Gordon snapped.

Jackson leaned down and quietly replied, “Well, she won’t be Mrs. Smith much longer.”

“Yeah?” Griffin asked.

“She left her husband a month ago.”

“Really?” Griffin asked. “Then, why was she such a bitch when I tried to talk to her?”

“Maybe, because you’re an asshole,” Jackson quipped, still grinning.

Gordon laughed. Griffin scowled.

At which point, I was standing at the elevator sending Jackson a text.

When Jackson’s phone made that obnoxious DING notifying him of my communique, he took his phone out and held it up so that while reading my text, he was also simultaneously recording Griffin and Gordon on video. And Jackson was so kind as to enlighten me later that evening on the phone – with the details that weren’t captured on film.

Griffin’s angry eyes cut to Gordon – when suddenly, Jackson erupted into laughter. I hadn’t mentioned the particular verbiage for my text.

“She is a naughty girl,” Jackson said.

“Who, Mrs. Smith, aka Kennedy?” Griffin demanded sarcastically. “What’d she say?”

“Not much, just how much…uh, she can’t wait to cover me in peanut butter and lap me up and down,” Jackson said, laughing.

“Seriously? The uptight woman with dark hair who just left?” Griffin sputtered. “Said THAT to you?”

“The one and only,” Jackson answered, wearing a bemused grin elicited by the two confused dimwits, whose eyes were all aglow with ideas of sexual weirdness between me and the gay man.

“Bullshit,” Gordon barked.

Jackson smiled. “Whatever. See you two dickheads later,” he said pushing past Griffin.

A couple cords of laughter rippled in the background, but Griffin and Gordon were auspiciously silent.

“Prove it,” Griffin said contemptuously.

“You didn’t hear her say she was looking forward to seeing me?”

“So what?  You could be going to Bible study for all I know.”

“Oh, it’ll be biblical all right,” Jackson said with a chuckle.

Gordon laughed, but Griffin just glared at my imaginary beau.

“Okay. Let me see your phone,” Griffin insisted.

“No, that’s private. Besides, I’ve got work to do.” Jackson said, barging toward his desk.

Griffin moved closer to Jackson, growling in a low voice, “Oh, right, because there’s nothing on your phone but photos of you whackin’ off.”

Jackson and Gordon both cracked up at such a ridiculous statement. “Why the fuck would I have photos of THAT on my phone when I’ve got photos of…” Jackson began. “Never mind,” Jackson said, sitting down at his desk, while clicking over to the photo gallery on his phone. Meanwhile, the video camera was still recording every morsel of conversation.

“I don’t think so. You’re not getting off that easy,” Griffin said, grabbing Jackson’s arm.

Jackson spun around, beaming, “Well, apparently, I do, according to you…”

Gordon collapsed into nearly convulsive laughter.

“Shut up, Gordy, And yet, I’m the asshole,” Griffin said sourly…his first intelligent comment… 🙂

“Fine,” Jackson said with a sigh as if exhausted by their taunts, “Check this out,” he continued, thrusting his  phone in Griffin’s face. Whereupon, they saw a photo of me from when I was still modeling 5 years ago. I’m lying on a pink satin bedspread in a black negligee, my double D’s tumbling forward, almost completely exposed. And, funny thing, Gordie and Griffie didn’t notice I’m 20 pounds heavier now. Their brains only registered my “boobage”.

“Oh, my God, she’s…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is beautiful, dumb ass,” Jackson said. Awwwww, Jackson, bet you say that to all the girls.

“Okay, dude,” Gordon said. “How the hell did you score a woman like that?”

“I was nice to her,” Jackson said.

At that point, Jackson said the look on Dumb and Dumber’s faces was priceless. Unfortunately, all we have on film is a shot of everyone’s shoes. However, t’was a joint epiphany for my 2 blond adversaries, revealing that, perhaps, chicanery and stupid attempts at humor are not the best way to win a woman. And apparently, Griffin’s asinine question about my blouse was his convoluted attempt at humor.

For fuck’s sake, really?

The next day Gordon or Griffin’s team went on a company retreat, and I never saw them again because my assignment at Mega ended (due to lack of work) while they were gone. So, I didn’t even get to say goodbye to those who brought me so many BELLY laughs at their expense.

But I dare say, I’ll survive.

Over and out from CASA DE CRAZY…

~TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies

TB/ks

Post #154 – Conversation With A Mega Douche Bag!

For years, I’ve heard certain men being referred to as Mega Douche Bags, my husband chief among them. But let me clarify. Mega Douche Bags work for Mega Bank where I was employed until a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t really understand why the Mega Douche Bag differed from an ordinary, run-of-the-mill Douche Bag until recently.

During my last week at Mega, I was walking out of the ladies restroom one night before heading out, when I noticed this guy smiling at me – from his desk about 10 feet away. As I pondered the nature of his grin, he winked at me.

He was 26 at best. I thought maybe, his flirtation was meant for someone else walking behind me. But the hallway was empty. He smiled again, so I decided to see WTF was going on with this impudent child.

He had dark, curly hair spackled together with more mousse and gel than I could ever amass within my long quaff. His shirt was a pale lavender, and he was wearing a purple tie with tiny, dark blue polka dots with a navy blue suit. So suave…so bold…guess I should’ve just taken him right there just for his grooming props alone if I were that sort of woman. Instead, I found his get-up, his hair and demeanor rather contemptuous.

“Were you winking at me?” I asked approaching Mr. Hair-Do.

He smiled even brighter, his insanely straight teeth seemed to be glaring at me.

“Um, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “We’ve all been wondering who the new hottie is. I’m Todd.”

“Mrs. Smith,” I said flatly, and those who know me well…know just HOW significant that moniker is. I NEVER call myself Mrs. – ever – nor did I do so when married previously. I couldn’t tell if this moronic Ken Doll was actually hitting on me, or if he was feigning his attentions as some kinda sick joke. And using the word “hottie” was highly inappropriate. Had he NOT taken the required sexual harassment training, or was his face buried in his Blackberry the whole time?

“Seriously?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Yes,” I said adamantly, holding up my badge for emphasis.

He glanced at it and nodded. “Sorry, you know, people, use that name when -”

“Yeah, I get it. Now, if you’ll excuse me-” I began.

“Just one more question if you don’t mind,” he said, sweetly.

“Yes?” I asked, rather agitated.

“Is that a men’s shirt you’re wearing?”

WTF? YOU PEA-BRAINED ASSHOLE. “No, it’s not,” I said in a very surly manner. “Great line there, Casanova, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” I snarled.  I turned away mumbling, “Fucking dickhead,” …which I guess his buddies heard, evidenced by the howls of laughter behind me.

The Ralph Lauren shirt in question, which I wore with a white skirt.

However, I caught a sidelong glimpse of his lovely cornflower blue eyes clouding over, and I looked away thinking MAYBE…he was the “fat” kid in school with really large glasses and crooked teeth. He wore whatever his mother told him to – yellow Izod shirt that was too small creating ugly bulges around his middle…with black pants that were too short and last but not least, white socks and black dress shoes.

He joined a gym, started drinking GREEN vegie shakes/ eating anything gluten free or made with TOFU, etc., reinvented himself – a la GQ.

Oh, but I was so WRONG. While in the elevator facing them, waiting for the doors to shut, my guilt vanished.  Instead of a mortified, late-blooming butterfly cowering in the corner, I saw him snickering with a couple of his co-worker clones. After a sneaky glance at me, his expression morphed into the unmistakable….

OOPS…she caught me, followed by giggling behind his well-manicured hand. No, no, no…this guy was the Homecoming King and very proud to be so. He played football, but wasn’t a star, or he wouldn’t be working here, right?

He had a couple girlfriends and was always trolling for another. He drives a BMW, but doesn’t own a sofa, opting for watching TV sprawled out on his bean bag chair because his image is much more important than the “comfy” couch he plans to buy with his next BIG commission check. There was no doubt about it. I had just met the infamous…MEGA DOUCHE BAG.

I hope to hell his question about my blouse was just an idle comment meant in jest, and, God forbid, not part of some stupid bet. His intentions remained a mystery until talking to Jackson, another salesman two days later. Jackson was a tall, handsome black man in his mid 30s. We met at Minelli’s, a local fast food restaurant near the office, when I inadvertently cut ahead of him in line at lunch one day. I noticed his bank badge, and we struck up a conversation. Turned out, we’re both sci-fi geeks.

I ran into Jackson in the breakroom. He was heating up his lunch in the microwave, and I walked in to buy a pop.

“Hey, Jackson, how’s it goin’?” I asked.

“Good.  Jackson smiled. “By the way, my apologies for the Neanderthals.”

Confused, I asked with a chuckle, “I’m sorry. Which Neanderthals?”

“Griffin and Gordon,” he replied.

I shrugged. These names meant nothing to me.

“Um, the guy with the dark hair, superglued with Redken’s finest gel, made some snide comment about your shirt the other day?”

“Oh….THAT GUY,” I said pursing my lips in annoyance. “He said his name was Todd.”

“Makes it much easier to cheat on his fiance.”

“That figures.”

I had shoved that retarded conversation into my mental trashcan reserved for images of outfits I should never have bought, songs I despise (like Cold as Ice by Foreigner…don’t ever play it / hum it around me if you’d like to continue BREATHING)…as well as – you guessed it…conversations with douche bags!

“First off, I’m gay.”

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly, wondering where Jackson was going with this.

“So what I’m about to tell you ain’t another lame-assed pick-up line, or nothin’,” he said with a big grin.

“Noted,” I said smiling.

“Mr. Hair who winked at you, that’s Griffin, Griffin Goetz, and the blond guy next to him, that’s Gordon.”

“I see,” I said, nodding.

“Griffin’s the worst kind of player, constantly talking about women, especially um..if they’re busty, ya know what I mean?”

“All too well,” I replied.

“Since the first time Griffin saw you walkin’ down the hallway, they all been speculating whether they’s real or not,” he said with a half nod toward my breasts. “And Griffin decided he was gonna chat you up to get a better look. But you didn’t hear any of this from me?”

“What? That your co-workers are asshole douche bags?”

Jackson busted out laughing. “Got that right.”

I just smiled. “Do they know you’re gay?”

“Hell no. I don’t want them knowing nothin’ about me, and they kinda hate me cuz my sales are usually higher than theirs.”

I smiled. “Awesome.”

“Why?”

“Meet me back here around 5:15,” I said.

“Why?” Jackson asked. At which point, I revealed my plan.

STAY TUNED BOYS AND GIRLS…

For the unveiling of MY REVENGE upon the Mega Douche Bags in a few days…

Over and out…

~TB

And her band of truth-spouting hippies

Post 153 – Teach me how to be that BRAINLESS and still have a job…

As mentioned previously, I started working at a large bank in March (2015), which I referred to as Mega Bank. I was recently downsized from this position a couple of weeks ago. But while I was there, one of my jobs was to obtain credit supplements. This involved ordering more detailed credit reports on a particular account or accounts held by one of our borrowers as part of the bank’s assessment of their credit worthiness when they applied for a business loan or something like that.

All too frequently, though they were advised NOT to do so, our customers would take out new credit during the loan process. At which point when the sales people made us aware of this new debt, the underwriter would request a supplement to get the particulars of a new tradeline. Such was done because people often lie about how much they might owe on a new vehicle or the current balance of a credit card, or they just don’t realize how much they owe.

Alternatively, they thought they owed $26,000 on their shiny new Prius, but they forgot about the $3000 they had to tack on to the new loan because they wrecked the Subaru a couple of years ago before trading it in for the Prius, which meant the Subaru’s trade-in value was about as much as, you know, a nice dinner at Outback Steakhouse.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but you get the idea…

ANYWHO…On more than one occasion, when requesting verification of a new tradeline, invariably the same hilarious situation would happen with Intrinsic Information. They’re one of the third-party vendors who provided credit reports and credit supplements for Mega.

I’d frequently get an email from Intrinsic that stated:

DOCUMENTATION IS NEEDED TO COMPLETE YOUR REQUEST for a CREDIT SUPPLEMENT

I would usually call them, and EVERY single time, the conversation went like this:

“Thank you for calling Intrinsic Information. This is Gretchen, how can I help you today?”

“Hi, Gretchen, this is Kennedy from Mega Bank, and I just received an email that you all need some sort of documentation in order to complete the credit supplement I requested. However, the email doesn’t list the borrower’s name, the name of the creditor we were trying to verify or the loan number in question.”

“Do you have the report number?”

“I do. It’s 754xxxxxxxx.”

And their report # was of NO HELP to us in identifying which loan or which request they’re referring to because they don’t provide THEIR REPORT # when you asked for a supplement on their system. There’s just a message onscreen stating they’ll email you when the report is ready to download.

“Okay, I see. That’s for Jane and John Miller, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s correct, and we just need a verification of the tradeline for their new car.”

“Oh, I see, well, we need a bill from BMW or the account number,” Gretchen said in such a serious tone, it was all I could do to hold my breath for the 5 seconds it took me to reach across my desk and hit the MUTE button before I busted out laughing.

And, then, I’d hear her say, “Are you still there? Can you fax a bill to us?”

I’d collect myself and say, “Um, if we had a bill, we wouldn’t need the supplement.”

Dead silence from Gretchen. “Oh, well, uh…”

“All we know is that Mr. Miller bought a new BMW. He hasn’t gotten a bill yet. He doesn’t know the balance, but he said the payment was supposed to be around $400 a month. We need to obtain all that information before the underwriter will approve his loan.”

“I see,” Gretchen said, followed by, “Then, we need…”

I could hear the synapses firing as she struggled to MANUFACTURE A CLUE.

“Can you call BMW and ask them to fax an invoice or something to you, or maybe a copy of the contract?”

“We’ll need to talk to the borrower,” Gretchen replied. “And then we’ll set up a conference call with BMW.”

“All righty, then. I’ll have Mr. Miller call you. Thank you.”

It often made me wonder how in God’s name this company stayed in business. First of all, it’s bad customer service NOT to provide your customer with some sort of reference number. Those blind emails drove me crazy because I’d have to note on the borrower’s account that Intrinsic had emailed, so I had to call or email them in order to find out which freakin’ loan they were talking about.

I also pondered how Gretchen arrived at work every day with her shoes on. Since she seemed to be lacking in logical thought processes (and I spoke to her frequently), and logical thinking dictates shoes are required in the workplace. Thus, walking about the office in her socks waiting for her shoes to arrive just wouldn’t suffice…:)

And Gretchen wasn’t the only one who would send emails like that and then ask for documentation to basically verify the very information we had requested from THEM. There were several CSR’s that were that brilliant.

After spending way too much time on the phone with them answering stupid questions, I just decided in order to preserve my insanity, I’d just email them that we had no documentation. There’s only so many conversations one can conduct with those who have the I.Q. of a cactus before you begin wishing you could run them over with a tractor or that new Beemer that Mr. Miller just procured.

Yet, I’m the one who got the sack/downsized? E- F-ING GAD…

JUST HAD TO SHARE THE JOY!

Over and out______________________

~TenaciousB and her band of truth-spouting hippies

Post #152 – CLUTTER ME CRAZY!

I previously mentioned my irritation in regard to the amount of housework I do and/or about the nasty grime my son creates in this post…

http://tenaciousbitch.com/2015/03/04/post-148-the-toilet-promise-from-the-kitchen-bitch/

Well, there’s another issue that makes me wanna start throwing shit out the windows. What is that, pray tell, you ask?

The. FUCKING. CLUTTER. First of all, I know that I have a good bit of clutter too.

My dilapidated excuse for a closet, LOL.

But it’s not by the front door or in the living room…it’s in my office or my closet, which is a total disaster because I’ve run out of room. However, I gave six, 30-gallon trash bags full of clothes to the Volunteers of America last month. And now, I know I still have a lot of dress clothes and such to sort through, etc.

However, NO ONE ever sees my disheveled untidiness because it’s all tucked away upstairs.  You can’t even get to my office without walking through mine and Charlie’s bedroom, so…yeah, it gets pretty much 0 traffic beyond me, Charlie and Max.

The wall adjacent my desk in my office. Pretty, ain’t it? 🙂

And, yes, much of the mounds of God knows what in manila folders throughout my little hovel where I toil away on my writing and such – could be tossed…if I had time to clean it after vacuuming, dusting, putting away laundry and doing an ungodly amount of dishes and/or and cleaning 3 of the 4 bathrooms cuz I’ll never touch Max’s bathroom again after THIS incident –

http://tenaciousbitch.com/2014/07/08/post-138-wish-i-could-boil-my-fingers-an-adventure-in-sink-surgery/

While my closet and office are contained areas of chaos, the difference is the messiness of my office is from not having time to file/sort and get rid of old bills or bank statements of my Grandmother’s, receipts that I may or may not need to keep for our taxes, etc.

And the disorder of my closet is from an abundance of clothes that are too small, worn out, out of season (winter clothes), or I just decided I didn’t like them after wearing them a time or two (particularly thrift store clothes).

But Max and Charlie’s clutter is comprised of objects they use every day that they’ve just neglected to put away. And Charlie constantly buys electronics and car parts, and he’ll leave the packaging on the kitchen table for 2 weeks/a month. I hesitate to throw it out the box or whatever in case it’s under warranty, and he might want to save the packaging in case he needs to send it back for some reason. Usually, when I finally remember to ask him, he says he doesn’t need it. Then, WHY THE HELL didn’t you chuck it 3 weeks ago?

So…shall we take a walk down Max and Charlie’s CLUTTER LANE?

The photo below is from my living room, right by the front door. The rectangular item in the chair is a fan from an old server that Charlie brought home from work. They were moving their offices, and he saw it in the trash. He snapped it up, thinking it would make an interesting knick knack for the basement, but he left it sitting there in the wing chair for almost 2 weeks.

To the right of the chair is Charlie’s bass amp, which sat there for 3 weeks after he came home from their “Word of Mouth” tour in June.

Next to the wing chair is his bass amp, which was sitting up against a marble topped linen chest for more than two weeks. I couldn’t open the linen chest that whole time to put placemats away and such and/or retrieve a clean tablecloth, and the cats LOVED trying to scratch it up, the bass amp, I mean.

I don’t know why they so love raking their nails across that hard vinyl-ish plastic, but they did.  And the sound was so pleasant late at night while doing dishes or making my lunch (to take to work) not 10 feet away in the kitchen when they suddenly began ratcheting their claws against that thing, a sound akin to fingernails on a chalkboard. I would jump and cringe every time,

OH, AND THEN, there’s the shoe farm right by the front door…yeah. I bought this really nice coat rack with a bench underneath for shoes, but they obviously don’t use it, n’est-ce pas?

I suspect you’re starting to GET why I get so pissed off about this kind of slovenliness, and maybe some people wouldn’t be bothered by this issue. But it makes me wanna start breaking shit (namely the shit they leave all over the fucking house).

And this view of the toilet downstairs is another prime example. Max frequently takes a shower and just leaves his towel piled up on the Kleenex on the back of the toilet – instead of on the shower door, forgetting that I’m allergic to perfume. His towel is saturated with the pungent odor of the body wash he uses (Old Spice Matterhorn, or something like that), or it might be fumigating the tissues with the fragrance of Pantene shampoo. Any kind of perfume, good or bad, makes my sinuses swell, and I get a horrible headache, and/or I can’t breathe. So, I had to throw out that box of Kleenex. Then….there’s his clothing…

He’ll leave a filthy shirt on the kitchen table or his dirty shorts with his sweat-soaked, stanky underwear attached on the floor of the bathroom almost every time he takes a shower. Awesome…because he can’t use his own shower upstairs, but don’t even get me started on that. 

Okay, I’m DONE. Just know that if you hear about a woman in Ohio shooting her son’s backside full of buckshot…it just might be ME if they don’t heed my warnings to put their CRAP WHERE IT BELONGS…

Over and out…:)

~TB

Post # 151 -HALLELUJAH! The Supreme Court FINALLY legalized same sex marriage in America!!!

In a world where women can be astronauts, a traditionally male role, and men can be nurses ( a traditionally female role of course) without anyone batting an eye, I have to wonder why it took 40+ years for the Supreme Court to finally proclaim that it’s the Constitutional Right of EVERY citizen to marry whomever you want, regardless of gender. However, for those whose heart’s desire is to marry your toaster, the Supreme Court won’t hear your argument until a toaster or maybe a generator get elected to the highest court in the land. So, you’ll still have to continue hooking up with your bread browner on the down low for now.

Why do I make such a statement about cavorting with and/or being in love with an inanimate object in the same breath as discussing gay marriage? Because the idea of banning someone from marrying their toaster is as ludicrous to me as banning gay marriage.  Additionally, love has no boundaries, and it shouldn’t have unless such love included sexual conduct with a child.

Whether the evangelical churches agree with it or not, from a legal perspective, you cannot say it’s legal for a man to marry a woman but make it illegal for that same man to marry a man or that woman a woman, n’est-ce pas?

Such is and always has been unequivocally DISCRIMINATION, is it not? Which was, key word WAS, totally within the purview of the law until yesterday. If we had a law that men over 50 couldn’t marry women under 30, how would that be any different than banning same sex marriage? Banning older men/younger women (or older women/younger men) from saying “I do” would be discrimination based on the age of both parties.

Outlawing gay marriage is just as much sexual decriminalization as it would be to NOT hire someone because of their sexual orientation. And I don’t think even the worst of lawyers could find a legal argument that definitively says such is not the case – especially now, given the Supreme Court’s decision yesterday.

There’s a lot of people who would be disgusted if an 80-year-old man married a 21-year-old woman, and many might find it morally repugnant, but no one’s ever tried to ban such unions. But, unfortunately, same sex couples couldn’t get hitched in the state of Ohio (where I live) and many other states a mere 48 hours ago, a ban that I did NOT vote for, btw. And now, those lawmakers are all sportin’ egg on their faces. To-wit I say – HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, GUFFAW, AND LOL.

Sorry, but I assume you noticed my name is TENACIOUS BITCH, not Tenacious Princess, did you not? So, pardon my snicker, but I’m just so delighted that the ban on gay and lesbian marriage is now finally MOOT in the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA…:)

And the thing is, I don’t like broccoli, but I’m not bothered by those who love it. I just avoid encountering the sulfur-rich stank weed of the vegetable world (a.k.a. broccoli). I just move to the opposite end of the table from them broccoli lovers. And I guess I don’t understand why those who oppose gay marriage can’t do the same.

I realize same sex marriage is against the religious beliefs of a huge population of folks, but this law doesn’t extend to churches. In that, its verbiage doesn’t declare that same sex couples must be allowed to attend churches that oppose same sex unions. That said, you’re free to avoid contact with gay married folks and be as affronted and religiously outraged as you’d like.

I realize this tirade will probably garner all kinds of hate mail and such to my inbox, but I don’t care. Feel free to BRING IT ON because, in my opinion, IT’S ABOUT FRICKIN’ TIME that America truly joined the human race in every, single gay, lesbian, straight and/or transgender way without prejudice!

Besides, regardless of what the bible says and/or a million Christian ministers/a million rabbis or a million prejudiced neighbors, that little same-sex marriage bill/idea, etc., has now grown up into a full-fledged American LAW. And there’s no higher court to appeal to. It could be overturned. However, that’ll require enough red tape and petitions/briefs/documents/precedents/and forms out the yingyang from a couple dozen attorneys or so – enough paper to choke a small planet. And I don’t see that happening anytime soon. So, gay haters, you’re just gonna have to WALK IT OFF.

Alternatively, everyone will just have to learn LIVE and let LIVE – gay or otherwise. But as mentioned previously, you toaster-lustin’ folks will just have to wait your turn.

Over and out from Tenacious B and her band of truth-spouting hippies…:)

And Merry Christmas to All and to All a GOOD NIGHT!

~TB

/KS