Archive for January, 2012

Blog #49 – The Sterling Stalker…

Posted in dating, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, siblings, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on January 23, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

In 1989, I’d grown weary of the brutally COLD winters in NYC, so I decided to move to Los Angeles with my boyfriend, Ashe, a sound engineer, when he got a job on the Rolling Stones tour.

Unfortunately, four months later, Ashe brought home a new BFF, her majesty cocaine. Our relationship imploded, and I was a single Mom again with a 3-year-old Tim in tow. Sigh…

Shortly after, I started working as an admin assistant at a computer sales company. While attending a trade show in Santa Monica, a handsome man swaggered over to my table at lunch. “I’ll trade you a bit for your byte?” He asked with a beguiling grin.

I stared at him, confused. Then, I noticed the trade show badge pinned to his shirt, and it hit me — a joke about the PC BIZ…how charming. However, since he was a blonde-haired, hazel-eyed BABE, I laughed…while admiring his thick-muscled arms…

“Hi, I’m Sterling,” Mr. Hottie said, extending his hand. “I’m at IBM.”

With a polite handshake and cool smile, I replied, “Kennedy, Kennedy Smith.”

After an awkward pause, the usual pleasantries evolved into a conversation revealing a union of like souls. We both liked cooking ethnic meals from scratch, sci-fi books and movies, and both of us wanted to own motorcycles.  But neither of us had the cash to satisfy that yearning at the time.

A dozen dates later, I started to feel that FLUTTER preceding those three little words that will kill or cement any liaison, but QUICK. However, since Sterling was likely a rebound beau, I refrained from verbalizing said “L” word. Thank GOD because…

Five minutes after our first blissful romp between the sheets, Sterling had a lengthy discourse with someone named Clair on the phone. I was half asleep, and even though his timing was odd, I assumed by his verbiage, he was chatting with his assistant…or maybe, his sister until…

“Love you, too.” And the soft timbre of THAT phrase was definitely NOT the way one speaks to a sibling…

“Who was that?” I snapped.

“My wife,” he said.

“WHAT? I’m sorry. Did you say WIFE?”

“Yes, Clair, my wife of six years.”

“You goddamned piece of shit!” I yelled, wanting to kick the short and curlies right off his fucking balls. “You’re  married, you filthy bag of dick?”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

“Oh, right, so THAT makes it okay. How could you call your wife, five seconds after you fucked another woman?”

A wide grin slithered across his face, “Cuz, it turns me on,” he said, rolling over on me and planting a succulent kiss on my neck.

“Get off me, you low-life asshole!” I hollered, shoving him sideways. I leapt out of bed and slipped into my robe. “And get the fuck out of my house!”

“Come on, you knew.”

“How could I KNOW? You never mentioned a WIFE, you lame-assed cock!”

“A guy like me, single at 30? C’mon?? What’re the odds?” he scoffed.

“GET OUT!” I screamed, so relieved that Tim (my son) was asleep at the neighbor’s next door – because he’d taken a liking to Sterling, the wanking PRICK.

But Sterling didn’t move. “C’mon, this is 1989. Monogamy’s dead, especially in Hollywood.”

“We live in the VALLEY and work for computer companies, you arrogant bastard-” I shouted while dialing the phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Only 911,” I said with a snicker. Finally, that prompted his departure, but not without trying to kiss me goodbye. Instead, I gave him a sweet caress of very sharp, red nails…even drew a little blood.

The next day, Sterling called me at work. I immediately hung up on him, but that didn’t deter the cheating LOUT. Not two hours later, Kiki, the receptionist, strutted over with a dozen roses in a crystal vase.

“Wow, someone’s got a sweetie,” said the dull-eyed Kiki, setting the flowers on my desk.

FUCK! I glanced at the card:

 I miss you, beautiful.
Please forgive me.
Love, Sterling

I dumped the roses in my trashcan, and I wanted to throw the vase at the wall, but I couldn’t exactly afford to lose my job.

And just when I started to relax a few days later, my hands turned COLD, and my heart dashed about painfully in my chest…when a bottle of Dom Perignon appeared on my kitchen counter. A card bearing my name beside it.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Tim asked, tugging at my quivering hand.

“Nothing, honey,” I said with a weak smile, trying desperately to shield him from the terror evoked by this seemingly innocent bottle of bubbly. “You go on and watch cartoons while I, uh, make dinner. Okay?”


My beautiful blue-eyed boy toddled into the living room as I tried to tether enough courage to open the card taped to the champagne. It was a lovely white card with a red heart on the front. No Hallmark verse inside, just a few words in Sterling’s impeccable scrawl:

I love you, Kennedy.
Say the word, and I’ll file for divorce.
Forever yours,

“Oh, shit…” I mumbled laying my hand on the counter to steady myself. I raced to the front door and dropped to my knees. I didn’t see any marks on the door or the doorknob, and that was the only entrance to my tiny one-bedroom apartment. I checked all the windows, which were still locked.

I called the police, and two patrolmen showed up an hour later. Tim, of course, was fascinated by their badges and their guns.

“Please, can I see it, Officer, your -?” Tim pleaded from the doorway, pointing to the shorter Officer’s pistol.

“No, Tim,” I scolded. “Go watch TV in the bedroom, please.”

Frowning, he slumped away.

“I’m sorry, but,” said Officer Denton, the older of the two lawmen, “There’s really nothing we can do.”

“But he broke in!”

“There’s no sign of forced entry, and that card isn’t…it doesn’t constitute a threat-“

“I don’t understand! He doesn’t have a key!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I suggest you move.”

“But my lease isn’t up for seven months.”

And with that, the nightmare with the STERLING STALKER was just beginning…

Stay TUNED, BOYS and GIRLS…cuz it’s gonna get a little ROUGH going forward :)…



Blog #48 – I don’t get it…

Posted in friends, grandmothers, relationships, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 20, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

There are many things I don’t understand, i.e. why the media has been rabidly dissecting the overpriced finery that graced the red carpet at the Golden Globes and the frenemy fire between Madonna and Elton John…for 10 days+?  Why does anyone care? The next day, I couldn’t have told you what Madge was wearing anymore than I could explain dark matter…

Anywho, the topic with the most votes in the I don’t get it category is the unfathomable rudeness of people sometimes…

Last week, I was rather riddled with anxiety one day because Nana was dressed, ready to go by 11.52 for a doctor’s appointment at 1:20. And she kept mumbling, “Isn’t it time to go yet?” – every 4-5 minutes for an HOUR…Then, in the last HALF HOUR, she followed up with “Kennedy, have you started the car yet? It’s nine degrees out there…” All of which I had the pleasure of listening to over the baby monitor in her room the entire time.  While the monitor is a great safety device, between her caustic/annoying mumbling and the Food Channel crunching in my ear 24-7, I swear, it will cause the death of me YET…

Meanwhile I was attempting to finish a report on a screenplay I’d just read (i.e. coverage for the few film industry folks in attendance) for one of my clients so that I could get paid before 2014…

That said, we get to Dr. Renco’s office, and an older nurse took one look at my shoes and said, “Honey, are you on the crack or something?” Yes, she’s also older than DIRT and from the SOUTH (Alabama, I believe) just like Nana, and…so, yeah, I guess, it’s now called THE CRACK…

“What?” I asked, feeling rather confused…

“Your shoes, one’s black and one’s dark blue.  See, Navy…” she announced pointing to the right shoe, “And black,” she said, with a sarcastic swagger to her tone while nodding to the LEFT shoe as if I were completely brain deprived…

Okay,  sure enough, in my haste to leave, I had slipped into a navy blue canvas loafer and a pair of black flats that were very similar in style.

“Yes, I see that now,” I said, wanting to smack the fat lips off her puss. I’m a runway faux paus/nightmare. Can we move on to the doctor-patient portion of the program? “So, Nana had-”

The rude nurse squelched my reply with, “Seriously, don’t they even FEEL different?

As a matter of fact, they do…hadn’t noticed until you activated your fashion 5-0 comments.

“Or is your feet totally numb from all the cookin’ sherry in your biscuits, right, Maude?” Nurse Ratchet surmised with a laugh and a wink at my Grandmother.

“What’re talking about? There’s no sherry in my biscuits. They’re frozen,” Nana retorted.


That elicited a hefty guffaw from Nurse Ratchet BITCH…”Okay, okay, but seriously how’d you leave the house without noticing?” Again, with a wily SMILE goading me to fess up that I had, in fact, been guzzling gin and the CRACK since dawn…

“The light’s out in my closet {which is true}. Plus, I’m color blind, so-”

“Color blind? That’s a GOOD ONE!”

At which point, I wondered if she were REALLY a nurse. Online BOGUS diplomas, anyone? Because I was having trouble swallowing any medical professional being this OBTUSE!

“Trina, did you hear that? C’mere,” Nurse Ratchet said, beckoning a 20-something blonde nurse who was mulling over a chart at a nearby desk. But Trina didn’t seem interested in my malady.

But Ratchet Bitch was insistent, “C’mere, you gotta see this.”

“What is it?” Trina asked, walking toward me, chart in hand.

“Look at her shoes!”

“Oh,” Trina answered, staring at my ill-styled feet with a nod and a grin, “Bet you feel like a real Klondike?”

WTF? Which prompted Nurse Ratchet Bitch to wax on and on about kids wearing pajamas to school, and people buying their clothes at thrift stores (which I do – FUCK YOU VERY MUCH! SO what?).

My face plumed red with RAGE at this self-BLOATED, thoughtless hag…and I really WANTED to shout – Who the fuck cares? Can you do your job now? Nana just had surgery three days ago. Can we talk about THAT, you horse-mouthed ASSHOLE?

But I was raised in a household where TACT and politeness were cemented into my gray matter thoroughly by the age of FIVE…

“And girls, they don’t even wash their hair sometimes,” Nurse Ratchet Bitch when Nana finally SAVED us both…

“Well, am I gonna see the doctor today, or are we gonna stand around yammering about Kennedy’s shoes and fashion advice all day long. It’s snowin’ out there. And I don’t cotton to wading around in THAT since it’s supposed to snow harder as the day goes on…, so is Dr. Renwinkle here, or what?”

LOL…his name is Renco…not to be confused with RONCO…or is it RONKO (as in the infamous Ginsu KNIVES!)??

FINALLY, Nurse Ratchet Bitch ushered my Grandmother into a holding cell (or an examination room, whatever)…

But I ask, why couldn’t NURSE RATCHET BITCH have been like the SWEET savior that I met in NYC who alerted me to the fashion disaster going on with my skirt w/out insulting me?*

I have NO explanation or reply to that preponderance. I only hope and pray that I never go to Dr. Renco’s office EVER again with a hair out of place much less with unmatched shoes/clothes/snot and saliva, etc.

And with that and a colossal sigh of VEHEMENCE and dismay, I bid you adieu…

Happy Friday and MUCH Merlot to you and yours…and may you never meet a fashion judge/jury and executioner as wretched as Nurse Ratchet BITCH if you happen to be wearing something that doesn’t quite “go” together :)…

KS/Tenacious BITCH…(no relation to Ratchet BITCH, of course)…

*See Blog #45  The Meet Cute Gone Completely Awry…

Blog #47 – Happy Guar Gum to you!

Posted in Family, humor, memoir, nonfiction, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 15, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

Today, I have a very important subject to discuss. One that is VERY close to my heart: The possible demise of the Hostess Corporation. Yes, I know that many of you must feel the same despair that I do. It’s a heart-wrenching subject for certain as I cannot bear the idea of strolling down Las Vegas Blvd. without the blessed goodness of a fried Twinkie waiting for me at the end of the road.

The idea of wobbling into a 7-11 at 3 in the morning and NOT being able to buy a bag of chocolate DONETTES is simply unthinkable. For what else would one eat at that hour of the morning after a night of slamming back beer and vodka? There is NO SUBSTITUTE! And I’m sorry, but if the Hostess Corporation collapses, what will I eat on Easter morning if there are no more Snowballs?

And though I do not care for Suzy-Q’s, who am I say they have no right to exist?

We allowed the Do-Do Bird’s Extinction. We stood by and watched New Coke get decimated by a brutal world, but we CANNOT abide by the annihilation of the precious line of confections known as the HOSTESS DYNASTY to be beaten back by the likes of RICE CAKES and TOFU TARTS!

However, I, Tenacious Bitch have a plan, a MISSION, if you will! Go forth, steadfast consumer and BUY as many Hostess products as we/you/and the general public can afford and/or stack into your grocery cart –because we, and we alone CAN SAVE Hostess! We must try to prevent the death of yet another American DELICACY that WILL NOT fall upon its own sword and disappear like the McRib, which COMES and goes at the whim of dastardly corporate mongrels!

FRIED TWINKIES for everyone!!!! Eat Zingers for breakfast! And Ho Ho’s for dinner and do NOT, brave solder, give in to the poisonous/treasonist words of  that bastardly organization known as the ATKINS CounterCult!

Long LIVE THE TRANS FAT! Long live CORN SYRUP and LONG LIVE HOSTESS as we will not GO QUIETLY into the dumpster of change!!!

Because we have what no other has!! The unfathomably LOVE of Twinkiedom and the solidarity and commitment to buy a chocolate HOSTESS FRUIT PIE whenever we WANT as long as we have change in our pockets and breath in our lungs!

WILL YOU JOIN ME? Will you open your hearts and that jar of change in your underwear drawer? Will you go to COINSTAR and trade in all of those dusty dimes and quarters and pennies and support OUR BELOVED HOSTESS CORPORATION?

Think about the DO DO BIRD and answer that question again! YES, yes, we will ALL BUY Twinkies and Zingers because if Hostess goes, what’s next?  Will Tofu fall from the sky? Will Chrysler bring back that death machine known as the Delorean? Will ALL restaurants become Taco Bell? Will Donald Trump simply GO BALD?

Will that Nun in the second grade who smacked our little hands for biting our nails appear upon our door every single day asking for a Hostess treat that we cannot provide?

Will all cable channels suddenly start broadcasting re-runs of Hee Haw and NOTHING ELSE? It’s possible! PERISH THE THOUGHT and buy some DING DONGS for heaven’s sake!

Maybe even worse could occur if you do not act now!! Perhaps, even another outbreak of ZOMBIES?

WE CANNOT take the chance that such abominations will occur…and I think that you, dear reader, will enjoy every SINGLE ounce of potassium sorbate, soy protein isolate, and guar gum in every delectable BITE.

Go forth and buy Hostess, friends. The safety of our children and the well-being of our society depends on it…

Your Mistress of Sugar and Darkness…


Blog #46 – My Bad Influence…

Posted in Family, humor, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 11, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

One sultry night in late July (circa 1981) when I was 15, I was hanging out with my friend, Sally, and Danny*, in the basement of my parents’ house. We were watching MTV when we hit a BUMP in our Friday night revelry.

“This is the last beer, guys,” I said, cracking opening the last Stroh’s from my stash.

“Seriously? I thought you’d gotten more than that?” Danny asked rather perturbed.

“‘Fraid not.” I had a system for stealing beer. Dad bought a six-pack every night and a 12-pack on weekends, but he was rarely able to stay awake past the fifth beer. So, once he passed out snoring in his recliner, I would snatch one or two and hide them in a cooler in the basement behind the water heater. As long as I didn’t take more than two, Dad never noticed. Then, we’d drink them on weekends after Mom and Dad had gone to bed, but this particular weekend, Dad was out of town.

“We need to buy more,” I said. It was past midnight, and, of course, none of us had a driver’s license…but I had a plan…“Since Sally has her Learner’s Permit now,” I said, smiling.

“Really?” Danny said, an ornery glint in his eye.

Sally nodded, smiling. “But I can’t take the test for my actual driver’s license until November. But,” Sally’s said, her blue eyes twinkling, “We’re just going to Kroger, which is only about a mile, right?”

“If that,” I said.

“Let’s do it,” Danny said, grinning.

“But you’re getting the keys,” I said, aiming a purposeful look at Danny.

“Okay,” he replied with that wild-eyed GRIN of his.

Sally and I stood in the hallway watching as he crept into the master bedroom where Mom was sleeping rather heavily by the sound of her snore, luckily with her back to us. My heart was thrashing in my chest, and my palms became mushy with sweat. I wiped them on my jeans and took a deep breath.

Just as Danny leaned down to grab her purse, one of the floorboards creaked. He popped upright, his terrified eyes bouncing back at me. She didn’t move, so I beckoned him to continue with a wave of my hand. He studied Mom for a second then he yanked her gigantic purse off the floor without making a sound.

I shut the bedroom door and turned on the hall light. Danny handed me her purse, and I started plucking through the JUNK in her bag: wads of coupons, Kleenex, newspaper clippings, her compact, lipstick, a bag of peanuts, a scarf, a screwdriver, a notebook, a wrench, a dozen ink pens, a can of Raid (really?) a pack of Pall Malls and a lighter and even an extension cord. Seriously? Why?

“My God, what DOESN’T she have in there? What’s she gonna do with a wrench?” Sally mused. “I doubt she even knows how to use one.”

I laughed as I finally laid my hands on her keys. I closed up mom’s pocketbook, holding it out to Danny with a mischievous grin,”Your purse, sir?”

With an annoyed look, he opened the door and slid Mom’s handbag over by her bed and closed the door softly.

I spent the next hour getting gussied up.  After donning a tight blue dress, I stood frowning at myself in the mirror. My eyes were heavily tarred in mascara, and my face was layered with enough of Revlon’s finest to rival the local PROS, now trolling the downtown alleys for Johns

I turned around to Sally. “Twenty-two at least,” she replied.

I grimaced. “No, I think I need more mascara.”

“No you don’t,” Danny sputtered. “You look good enough to turn a gay man. Let’s go. You look fine.”

I tossed him a skeptical look and decided my current ensemble would have to suffice. We snuck out the back door into the balmy night and the sound of a thousand crickets chirping.

“Saddle up,” I said, handing Sally the keys, and we all hopped into Mom’s goose shit brown Pontiac. Sally drove 22 miles per hour, though there wasn’t ONE soul on the road.

“Good Lord, Grandma, step it up a little,” I said . “Speed Limit’s 30.”

“Okay, but not a millimeter past 30. A cop could be hiding anywhere along this road.”

“All right,” I said, rolling my eyes, knowing both the county cops were probably at the Donut Shack down the road…

“All right. Wish me luck,” I said when we reached  Kroger, our closest grocery.

I glanced at the huge clock by the entrance that read 1:48 (AM) then nonchalantly sashayed into the beloved beer aisle. I chose a case of Natural Light. The only cashier working was 80 years old if he was a day. He was maybe five foot tall, and his HUGE black glasses seemed to squash his shiny, bald head.

“Is that all you need, Miss?” asked the old cashier.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I said smiling while thumbing through the cash in my wallet to avoid eye contact with the old man. I’d found on prior occasions if I didn’t look my target  in the eye, I was less likely to get carded.

“That’ll be four dollars and 92 cents.”

I handed him a ten dollar bill. He gave me my change and bagged my delicious, rotgut beer. “Thank you,” I said in a blasé tone as I pranced toward the door. Once outside, I walked BRISKLY to Mom’s Pontiac and slid in beside Sally, who flashed a sweet GRIN.

“Any problems?” Danny asked.

“Nope,” I replied as Sally started the car.

“You’ll have to cut the lights before pulling into the driveway,” I instructed when we began to climb the hill to my parents’ house.

“Okay,” Sally answered hesitantly.

“The lights might wake her up,” Danny said. “Lights from the driveway shine right into her and Dad’s bedroom.”

Sally nodded, taking a deep breath as she pulled into the driveway and switched off the lights. She stopped a good two feet from the side porch.

I stepped out, quickly surveying her parking skills. The car looked as if if were parallel to the yard in a straight line. “Good job,” I said, giving Sally the high five.

Once we were stretched out on the couch in the basement, and I handed everyone a beer. Danny found an old Hitchcock movie on cable. Around 4 a.m., we slurped the last of the Natty Light and went to bed.

At the butt crack of 11 a.m., Danny came charging into my room, babbling about the Pontiac, but my thick-headed hangover prevented me from interpreting his rant.

Sally and I clumsily sat up on our elbows. I turned to her and said, “What’s he talking about?”

She shook her head.

“Mom knows we took the car! You parked the car like five FEET from the sidewalk!”

“Oh, shit,” I mumbled. “How do you know? What’d she say?”

“Is she really pissed?”

“I don’t know. She’s acting all weird about it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, just as Mom appeared in the doorway behind Danny in her baggy polyester pants and her toilet paper turban. Um, yeah, in order to keep her quasi-bouffant hair in place, Mom slept with toilet paper wrapped around her hair with bobby-pins, and sometimes she didn’t toss the turban until later in the afternoon.

“Morning, Mom,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“Who MOVED my car?” Mom snapped.

“We um, uh, went out for a frozen pizza.”

“Pizza?! What the hell were you thinking?”

I said nothing.

“Neither of you have a license! Who DROVE my car?”

“Sally did, but-” I replied.

“I knew it! You’ve been a problem since the day you were born Sally Anne Harvey, and you are a BAD INFLUENCE on my DAUGHTER!”

Danny’s eyes went wide, and he cupped his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Mom! It was MY IDEA, not HERS!” I shouted.

“No, you’re just saying that to protect Sally!” Mom screamed, the veins in her neck pulsing so hard it looked like it might just SPLINTER/explode right out of her skin.

“No, I’m NOT!”

“Mom, it’s true. It was Kennedy’s idea,” Danny interjected.

Mom shook her head, “Nope, don’t believe it for one second. Get dressed, Sally. I’m taking you home right this minute!” Mom hollered stomping out of the room.

Sally and I both busted out laughing. “What did I do?” Sally asked.

“I have no idea. But we’ve never gotten in trouble before,” I answered. Luckily, Sally was not the type of person to hold a grudge, much less a grudge for what your MOTHER did or said.

“I just don’t understand old people. Some kids might lie to save their best friend, but Danny backed me up.”

And little did Mom know, that wasn’t the last of MY CLANDESTINE CAPERS…two years later, Sally and I stole another car…only this one was owned by Hertz… 🙂 And, yes, procuring the rental car and taking off to parts unknown was TOTALLY my idea… 🙂

Luckily, we WEREN’T hauled in front of any juvenile court or were EVER sent to any kind of juvenile center for our misdeeds…

STAY TUNED, BOYS AND GIRLS, there will definitely be MORE chaos to follow…

Over and out from Kennedy’s Beer GARDEN…


* See  for the 411 on Danny, who unfortunately, is an addict and a career criminal.

© Kennedy Smith 2012

Blog #45 – The Meet/Cute Gone Completely Awry…

Posted in college, relationships, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 5, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

As I mentioned previously, I moved to New York right after I graduated from college*, and I was staying with Stacy, a friend who lived in Brooklyn.

“You ever heard of Fifth Avenue Personnel?” I asked Stacy, plopping down on our comfy couch when I returned from my disastrous interview at Pratt & Pratt**. I took a can of Heineken out of a bag from A & P where I stopped to buy a couple of things on the way home. I offered the beer to Stacy.

“Yeah, thanks,” she said, opening the beer. “Fifth Avenue is one of the biggest employment agencies in Manhattan. I temped for them a couple of times. Why?” Stacy asked, taking a sip of her beer.

I took another beer from my bag, popped it open, then recapped how I met Tom Blazell, a recruiter from that agency**.

Stacy broke into convulsive laughter when I recalled how I thought Tom was looking for a prostitute. “I can see where you might’ve thought that, but we’ve got a labor shortage going on.”

I shook my head, “Wow, I can’t imagine that. I went to apply for a clerk’s position at the card shop in the mall back home last year, and there was a line of about 500 people there, most of whom were out in the mall. They ran out of applications before I got inside.”

“Yeah, it was the same way in Kentucky,” Stacy said nodding. She’s from Ashland, Kentucky, about 20 minutes away from my hometown in WV.

The next day, I decided to call The Fifth Avenue Guy as well as a several other staffing agencies. And the next time I emerged from the subway in Midtown, it was a sizzling hot summer day, a double deodorant kind of day as one of my BFF’s from high school used to say. I still had an umbrella just in case…not gonna make that mistake again.**

A block or so later, a section of the sidewalk was surrounded by orange and white barricades where three very large and sweaty men in orange vests were using jackhammers and such to repair the sidewalk. A tall man with intense B.O. rushed past me, knocking me into the edge of a hole in the sidewalk surrounded by the barriers. I lost my balance, wobbled sideways, but, thankfully, I didn’t fall. All the while, the early morning commuters  meandered around me, completely oblivious.  I collected myself and went on to the infamous Fifth Avenue Personnel, which was in a 30-story building next to an elegant Italian Restaurant.

An overweight security guard told me that the staffing agency was on the 19th floor, and he directed me to the elevators. “Make sure you go to the second set of elevators. The first bank only goes to the 15th floor,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, wondering if I have NEWCOMER stamped on my forehead since most EVERYONE in New York talked to me like I’m retarded. But as much as I try to abolish the WV twang, I guess you can’t completely eliminate it from your speech no matter how dutifully you remove the ya’lls and those long I’s (i.e. like Paula Dean  might say, I really like PIE…emphasis on the “I”)…

I stepped into the elevator, turned around with my back to the wall, and five seconds later, a REALLY hot-looking guy walked in.  Late 20s, dark hair, about 6 foot 3, at least, slightly broad shoulders and sparkling blue eyes.

“What floor?” he asked with a smile that would light up Vegas.

“Nineteen, thanks.”

“Fifth Avenue Personnel?”

“Yeah?” I said, slightly surprised. “How’d you know?”

“They have the whole floor.”

“Oh,” I said, my face reddening, that Newcomer tattoo now beaming in NEON lights.

“What kind of job are you looking for?”

“Hopefully, something in publishing.”

He nodded, “Where are you from?”

“West Virginia,” I replied.

“Wow, that must’ve been some serious culture shock when you first moved here?” he asked grinning.

“Not exactly. I had been here several times in college,” I said as the elevator stopped on the 12th Floor to pick up two more passengers, a black woman, late 50s, in a red suit, her glasses dangling on a rather worn-looking chain and an older man, in a wrinkled suit who REEKED of cigar smoke.

I stepped sideways, a little closer to Mr. Handsome to get away from the cigar fumes that were already starting to make my eyes burn and water.

“So, what about you?” I asked.

“I’m from Jersey. I’m interviewing for a paralegal position at Rodgers & Ficklestein on 41st.  I’m Kevin, by the way,” he said, extending his hand.

I nodded, shaking his hand, “Kennedy, Kennedy Smith.”

He flashed that dazzling smile again, and I felt the temperature in my face rise a little. Dammit! Don’t go all school girl now

When the elevator doors opened onto the 19th floor, I started to walk out when Kevin said, “Well, it was nice meeting you.”

“You too,” I said smiling over my shoulder when I noticed an odd look cross his face. He was looking down, presumably at my behind.  I started to ask him what the hell he was looking at when the black lady in the red suit came up to me and mumbled, “Honey, the whole back of your skirt is split in two.”

“Oh, my God, thank you,” I gushed to the older woman, my face flushing crimson as Kevin sped past me, with an embarrassed nod and wave.

I nodded, looking down, totally wishing a moon-sized crater would indeed swallow up me up! Or aliens would decide I had to be the next probing victim, ANYTHING, to get me OUT of this moment in time! 🙂

“Follow me. I have a sewing kit in my desk,” said the lady in the red suit.

“Thank you!” I said. But…FUCK! When I almost fell in the hole, my skirt ripped, and I didn’t hear the telltale RIPPING sound because of the noise of the construction workers. Jesus, H, can I NOT go to ONE interview without some sort of freakish calamity occurring?

After thanking the very nice lady in the red suit THREE times, I scurried into the ladies room. I sat on the toilet in one of the stalls sewing up the back of my skirt. THANK YOU, Mom for teaching me to sew!!. After meeting Tom, I took a typing test, and went on about my day.

I never ran into Kevin/Mr. Handsome again, but that was best. Just KNOWING he’d seen me walking around without a care in the world while exposing my pantyhose-covered ass to all of New York City was enough to make my cheeks burn when the memory involuntarily surfaced while all alone. If I actually saw him again, I’m sure the fire in my facial epidermis would likely make me faint, which heaven forbid, he might take as a swoon, and then I’d have yet ANOTHER humiliating scene to suppress! 🙂

Upon leaving Tom’s office with my haphazardly sewn skirt, I was accosted by not ONE but TWO recruiters from rival agencies…sorry, guys…I’m already registered with SIX staffing firms…take a hike… 🙂

TA for now…


*See Blog #42 – The Fifth Avenue Guy

** Again refer to the aforementioned Blog #42

All My Favorite Things

Posted in relationships on January 1, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

TOTALLY love the fact that you started out the new year with Spock and man’s best friend, two of the best creatures in the universe! Thanks!

Ashley Jillian

I wanted to start 2k12 by posting a picture of all my favorite things. And I am going to have no regrets. Here it is:


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