Archive for April, 2012

Post #59 – Notes from a mostly angry woman…

Posted in Family, friends, humor, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 30, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

I did some spring cleaning over the weekend, and I found some interesting communications, which I’ve posted in various places in my house over the years.  I never thought it was a big deal that I’d typed some of them until my cousin, Shauna*, came to visit a couple of years ago, and she couldn’t stop laughing about the one over the washer, particularly, she said...because it was typed.

I’m on my computer all day long…and I work AT HOME, so when I think of something IMPORTANT I need to convey to my son, Max, for example, it’s just easier and faster to pen a memo via my PC since I type around 80-85 WPM… ☺.

Additionally, it seems the MEN in my household seem to NOTICE the typed edicts, shall we say, over the handwritten ones.

Anyway, after finding all these little gems, I thought I’d enlighten all of my wonderful readers as to the TRUE joy of living with TENACIOUS BITCH! 🙂

Also, please be aware that EVERYONE’s names have been changed, in order to protect the privacy of others. I covered the original names with white address labels on certain notes and inserted their blogospheric names (i.e. the names I’ve assigned them for the purposes of this online journal)…

That said, in peace and light, I share these messages with you… ☺

Don’t you love the addition of my smiling photo?

I posted this note at the left at the beginning of my son, Max’s, senior year of high school (fall of 2010) on the kitchen cabinet beside the dishwasher. It lasted about a year until he tore it down one night in the wee hours…but he’s much better now. YEA me!

The aforementioned set of RULES over the washer were posted because of an incident with my older son, Tim. He moved back in with us temporarily after high school when he was 22ish, and one weekend he switched the temperature setting to HOT water to wash his whites and forgot to change it back.

Since I was unaccustomed to anyone using the washer besides me or my husband, who would NEVER wash anything in hot water, I didn’t notice that the settings had been changed. Thus, I washed an entire load of jeans and sweaters in HOT water…which, of course, resulted in a good bit of shrinkage. I’m thinking even a leprechaun would have difficulty getting into one particular pair of the jeans that were reduced to a large-ish Barbie doll size…

Anyway, said MANDATE reads:

I originally taped the warning below on Max’s bathroom door a couple of weeks ago when a friend of his from high school was coming to visit for a weekend, really nice girl named Jackie.

After reading the above note, Max felt so bad, he ACTUALLY cleaned his own bathroom! It wasn’t squeaky clean, but it was a little less like a Port-A-Potty… :)… I WIN!

After catching Max and his friend smoking weed on my back porch (much to my aggravation), I felt the note below was required just in case Max happened to see this little baggie while looking for a paper clip or a pencil or something in my credenza…

The catnip came with a bag of cat litter that Max’s ex-girlfriend, Sienna, bought when she was living with us for a short time, not that anyone ASKED about adding a CAT to our ‘lil zoo.

And this next one was a WARNING I posted this morning…and, yes, I will explain…

Okay, so this one doesn’t make sense unless you see this:

This glass chicken was a gift from my husband’s grandmother. It’s not exactly the kind of knick knack we would buy, and at first-we weren’t sure exactly what to do with it.

However, the chicken’s head was actually the lid to this fine culinary ornament, so we started storing our seasoning packets in it (taco seasoning and the like)…and this morning one of the animals in our brood knocked said chicken off the counter and broke it. I know who the guilty party is, but that’s a story for another post…I put the chicken in the broom closet because I didn’t know if my husband might want to try to glue it back together since it was a gift from his grandmother. However, he determined it wasn’t fixable, so the poor little glass clucker is now in the trash…

The next communique was written a couple of years ago after SOMEONE broke a very important rule, which prompted this note in my fridge just as the photo demonstrates:

EVERYONE in my house knows NOT to touch my Diet Pepsi EVER! I buy two or three 12 packs of Orange Crush and Mt. Dew and various brands that Max likes at least once a week. And since he was old enough to speak, I’ve impressed upon him that the Diet PEPSI is for no one but me…and if he or his brother wanted their own Diet Pepsi, they could merely get a job and BUY THEIR OWN. Otherwise, drink one of the other 2 dozen cans of pop in the cabinet.

However, I woke up one fateful morning sometime last year, and one of his buddies who had spent the night, had, in fact, STOLEN and consumed my last Diet Pepsi.  Needless to say, I was none too happy to be toddling off to Kroger at the buttCRACK of 10 A.M. on Saturday morning to get more of my beloved cola before I began experiencing D.T.’s… 🙂 I drafted the above announcement the next time one of Max’s friends slept over a few weeks later…

And LAST but not LEAST, this final message is a life-altering letter I wrote to a guy lived with for two years in the mid 90s. We split up about a year before I met Charlie. I found this DEAR JOHN in my closet with a box of old checks. Go figure…

I had originally taped it to a box of ASSHOLE’S collection of porn mags and other junk, which I had packed and left by the front door when he was out of town on business. That said, here it is:

You can’t see it on the uploaded version of this quasi-relationship eviction, but there’s a smiley face beside MOM at the very end of the FUCK OFF memo. And, no, to be clear her name wasn’t really Jane.

Jane/Whore HOUND was his ex-fiance, who apparently, he never stopped seeing after moving in with me. She sent him a dozen roses to MY HOUSE, which prompted my fingers to go strolling through his hard drive… 🙂

Guess he trusted me more than he should have, which is odd. Most cheaters assume EVERYONE else is stepping out as well, which makes them paranoid. Unless, ASSHOLE just forgot to put a password or something on the pics of Jane, sans clothes, in his haste to get out of town…

So, there you have it…small chunks of my life in MEMORANDUM…

Have a good day/evening, ALL!

Over and out from the mad, MAD MEMO Mamma! 🙂


* Shauna is mentioned in several posts, in particular, Post #30, An Ode To Barboursville and Post #31, An Ode To Barboursville, Part II.


Post #58 – Ashe, the sex god…

Posted in memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 23, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

The year was 1989. I was living in Tarzana, CA, with Ashe*.

At the time, Ashe was about to go on tour with the The Rolling Stones as a member of their sound crew.  I don’t remember his actual job title, but, nonetheless, he was rather excited, of course.

Not long after moving to Cali, Ashe’s libido seemed to pretty much lack an off-switch. At 22, I didn’t complain though sometimes I was really too tired after chasing Tim** around all day.

However, Ashe was often relentless in his pursuit of getting some. One particular evening, we were lying on the floor watching TV, and I fell asleep just as Roseanne was coming on. That didn’t deter Ashe in the least. He woke me up, kneading my nether regions, trying to get his sex on :)…before the first commercial interrupted Ms. Barr’s weekly laugh fest.

I did my best impersonation of a snoozing dog on a hot day to stave off Ashe’s intentions, but Ashe refused to concede. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I threw off my t-shirt and away we went…and did we EVER.

THAT NIGHT, the earth not only moved, it rocked off its axis and bounced around the sun a couple of times. And I experienced the most powerful orgasms (yes, multiple) …I’d ever had at that point in my young life…

For those who know Ashe, I’m sure you’re shaking your head in wonder because though a good man, he was no Brad Pitt in the physical attributes department…

That said, the next morning, I woke up itching like I’d been fucking a poison ivy pole all night, and I immediately thought Ashe had given me crabs or something. I was furious to say the least.

“What the hell did you do to me?!” I snapped.

Silence from the sex god.

“Ashe, wake up, Goddammit!” I demanded, shaking his considerable frame. No easy task as he weighed circa 300 pounds back then. So, yeah, my adrenaline was working overtime.

“Ashe! Oh, my God! Look at this rash! What did you do to me? Have you been plugging some skank! Tell me, GODDAMMIT!”

“No, of course not, honey,” he said rather apologetically looking at the horrendous score of hives on my girly parts and beyond – a couple of inches down my thighs. “Holy, shit. That’s looks awful.”

“Duh, you fucking prick! What the hell is it from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, I forgot and bleached my sheets.”

Okay, at THIS point, if I weren’t ready to commit death by boiling/baking or stabbing, I would’ve been laughing my ASS OFF…MISTER Ashely NEVER washed or cleaned anything unless you harassed/cajoled/nagged/and bitched at him for days on end AND withheld sex for a week, minimum. Thus, the idea that he’d washed the sheets of his own volition, plus FORGETTING that I’m allergic to bleach was ludicrous.

“Really? Bleach? Where do you keep it, Ashe? In the closet?” I asked, quickly shimmying into my robe and hopping out of bed. I zipped toward the open, walk-in closet and turned to him expectantly.

“No, I…”

Our apartment didn’t have a washer and dryer, and the laundry room was a good 100 yards across the complex. Therefore, whatever laundry supplies we bought would have to be in our place somewhere.

“The kitchen then?”

A guilty look, and…

“Seriously, if you got drunk, and some bimbo-”

“No, Kennedy, I SWEAR to you, I didn’t cheat on you. I could never hurt you like that. You know I love you, right?”

“Okay, then tell me why the fuck I have this goddamned rash!”

“I, um… okay, sit down,” he said, hanging his head. “I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I asked, staring at him in the pose that all men loathe…fists in taut knots, perched on my waist. I was cocked and loaded, ready to dispel a right jab to the jaw or a kick to the groin at ANY moment. And he KNEW it.

The puppy dog eyes debuted in watery sorrow, but I didn’t falter.

“Ashe! Tell me!”

“It was coke.”


“Yes,” he replied, looking at me sheepishly. Then, he covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“You put cocaine on me? That’s what caused the rocket-gasms?”

“No, on my dick.”

“Oh, my God, you ASSHOLE!”

And the laughter burst forth in nervous waves of amusement.

“Ashe! It’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry, babe, really. I am. I had no idea. I just…”


Ashe had fessed up that he’d tried cocaine a few times after moving out to Cali, but I didn’t think it was a huge deal. Everyone I knew had done cocaine but me and a couple of my friends from high school.


“I just thought it would be fun. I didn’t know…”

“And it didn’t bother YOU one little bit!” I said, pointing at his unscathed privates. “Fuckin’ bastard,” I mumbled, walking into the hallway.

“I’m sorry. Really. I am. I’ll never do it again,” he called out.

“You bet you won’t, or the only dick-sucking you’ll experience will be performed by the goddamned vacuum cleaner…” I hollered from the kitchen.

Again, he laughed. Jesus, H…

Unfortunately, I had to go to the doctor the next day because the rash started to swell despite using hydro-cortisone several times. And, yeah, did I feel worse than a back alley Ho telling the doctor how I had acquired my lovely runway of red bumps, of the insanely itchy persuasion.

Luckily, the doctor was 108, at least, and I’m betting my story was dull compared to the countless tales of sexual misconduct he’d heard over the years because he seemed rather nonplussed.

He gave me two prescriptions, one for an antibiotic and one for a non-steroidal cream. I was fine in a few days.

Later, Ashe told me that coke makes you uber horny, which I didn’t know. Eventually, he mentioned the cocaine bribes when he was interning at Metal Blade Records, young kids trying to persuade him to listen to their music and such before he toured with the Stones.

Then, on tour, groupies slipped him coke hoping to meet Mick, et. al., which was a useless gesture. Ashe was on the Steel Wheels tour for 10 months and never even saw the SHADOWs of the British rock deities…all of which contributed to his “problem”, which will be the subject of a future post…

There you have it. My one and only fucked up bedtime adventure…

Lesson learned: cocaine ’tis NOT the best sex toy…

Over and out from sex-pot central…


*For more info about Ashe and our amusing meet/cute, check out Post #51, Ashe the Obnoxious.

**Tim is my son, who was 3 years old when I moved in with Ashe.

Post #57 – After the Reckoning…

Posted in memoir, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 11, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

After witnessing Ronnie shagging the babysitter bitch, I stomped down the hallway screaming, “You fucking bastard!” and other colorful adjectives and bouts of swearing. I halfway hoped that Tim (our infant son) would wake up, so he’d have to deal with him in the middle of the night since Ronnie rarely got up for late night feedings.

Instead, I heard Ronnie shambling behind me, graveling in a quasi-whiny tone, “Wait, Kennedy, please! Please, don’t leave like this.”

“Fuck you!” I stammered, still bee-lining for the front door when I heard a THUMP. Turning around, I saw Ronnie, shirtless, flailing around trying to walk while putting on his jeans. After a couple of hops and further attempts to don his jeans, he fell sideways against the wall.

I almost laughed at his thrashing around, but his pleading quelled my minutia of brevity, “I’m sorry, I…Kennedy, please, baby, can we just talk?”

“You can talk to my lawyer, you fucking worm,” I barked bitterly and continued toward the door as fast as I could.

The brutally cold wind assaulted my face and limbs when I flung open the front door. I shivered as I carefully scaled the icy steps to the sidewalk below toward my car.

I unlocked my car door just as Ronnie appeared in the doorway, still bare-chested and zipping his jeans.”Please, Kennedy, where’re you going?”

“The world is my oyster, asshole, now that you’re not in it,” I said sarcastically, dropping into the driver’s seat.

“Wait, please. Let me explain,” he shouted, just as he began his awkward descent, sliding down the steps barefoot. Whereupon, he stumbled and fell upon his ass.

I started my car with a groan, wanting desperately to leave, but, nonetheless feeling compelled to watch him struggle to stand up and hobble toward me.

Finally, I rolled down the window. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” he said, limping toward me, “I’m okay,” he said softly.

“Good. Then, fuck off,” I sputtered, the words souring my mouth. I trounced on the accelerator, speeding toward I-90 while rolling my window back up. And I did not look back…

I had no idea where I was going, but after cruising down the freeway for a few minutes, I noticed a sign for a Howard Johnson’s Hotel. Destination spotted. Full Speed Ahead.

I glanced at my watch. It was 1:26 a.m., noting the time for future reference as the moment my first marriage crashed and burned.

I slumped into the the Howard Johnson’s and was immediately struck by the lack of furniture in the outer lobby. The general atmosphere had the flavor of a county prison with its grimy white walls and dirty gray floor and a windowless steel door to my left.

It was rather disconcerting to stand in this cubicle shouting to the 80-year-old clerk sitting behind a small, cruddy rectangle of bullet-proofed glass.

The bald clerk blew out a ring a smoke from his cigar as he asked in a thick Boston brogue,”Need a room, there, Miss?”

I nodded.

As I slid my Amex card into a metal drawer under the window, I wondered if I had stumbled upon a hooker hotel. However, my fears were assuaged when he didn’t mention an hourly rate.  But I didn’t exactly evoke the image of a prostitute – without a smear of makeup and my overly large sweater and shabby-looking jeans.

After signing in, I was buzzed in to the actual lobby, where there was a homey-looking sofa, a fireplace, and other modest furnishings. While standing by the elevator, I realized the clerk was eyeing me suspiciously.

“What the hell’re you looking at?” I snapped.

“No luggage,” he said, calmly.

Too tired to conjure up a lie, I replied,”Caught my husband banging the babysitter on the couch, didn’t bother to pack.”

He nodded. “Lot of that going around. Have a good night,” He said with a sigh as if he’s tired of it all. And he went back to reading the New York Times.

The accommodations were just as blasé as the lobby. All that awaited me was a full-sized bed with a rigid mattress and its ugly, olive green bedspread, and a 19-inch TV, circa ’72.

And none of the plastic glasses were in shrink-wrap. How awesome. For $89, I bought myself a slab of sidewalk to sleep on and probably previously used plastic ware to boot.

I flopped down on the bed with a groan. In the morning, I got lost driving back to the apartment and finally found a pay phone at a gas station near Marcy Avenue in Brooklyn where I tried to call Ronnie, but after depositing my quarter, there was no dial tone. Note – no one had cell phones back then (in the early 90s)

“Goddammit!” I yelled to the empty street corner. I slammed the receiver back down into its cradle with a CLANG. After driving circles within circles and almost running out of gas, I finally made it back to the apartment.

I slipped quietly into the hallway unseen and into our bedroom. I  began tossing my clothes into my suitcase when I heard…

Footfalls in the hallway…and…

Ronnie appeared in the doorway of our bedroom. A look of surprise. A hesitant smile just as he started to speak…interrupted by –

Tim squalling from the next room. It was time for breakfast.

“Please, stop packing. Just stay a few days, so we can work this out?”

“Are you shitting me?” I said, laughing.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t…can’t we at least be roommates?”

“Yeah, right. Would you please give Tim a bottle, so I can finish packing?”

“No,” he said, hoping that would deter me from packing.

I glared at him as Tim’s wailing got louder. “We can talk after you feed him, okay?”

“Goddammit!” Ronnie sputtered as he stomped out of the room. A few minutes later, Tim stopped crying, and I smiled.

Our talk consisted of more re-hashing and his apologizing a lot, which wasn’t enough to repair the train wreck he’d made of our relationship. So, an hour later my car had transformed into a big metallic closet with two boys in car seats surrounded by carefully marked boxes and bags and suitcases full of clothing.

Ronnie stood by my car, his lower lip quivering when he rushed over and planted a rather passionate kiss on me before I could react.

“Bye, Ronnie,” I said softly, nudging him away.

“Where will you go?”he asked, wiping away a waterfall of tears.

“Haven’t decided, but I’ll let you know when we get settled,” I said.

He nodded.

Years later, he told me just didn’t have the balls to say it was over. What a fucking coward…

That night, I stayed at a Holiday Inn near Jersey City. Hotels were cheaper over there, and I called my mother, of course.

“Oh, my God, Kennedy. That’s awful. But, at least you found out now and not 20 years later,” Mom replied. I had to smile at her positive attitude, nauseating though it could be at times.

“True. So, can we talk about something else?”

“Oh, I almost forgot. Stacy called.”


“Your friend from tennis camp, remember? She lives in New York now.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m just so tired-”

“Yeah….She was surprised to hear that you and Ronnie were still together.”

I wanted to strangle my mother at this point. Stacy had dated Ronnie briefly before I did. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize he was the asshole who cheated on her as if he’d just been released from prison. Stacy had gone away to school in Chicago right after graduation, and I met Ronnie 4/5 years later…however, I was dumb enough to think…that was high school…we all did stupid things in high school, right?

Yeah, please don’t say it. I know…I was a complete idiot.

Shall we move on now?

I called Stacy after I hung up with my mother, and she uttered those life-altering words about 15 minutes into the conversation, “Ya know, my roommate, Celine, is moving back to Oregon.

Yeah, my boys and I arrived on Stacy’s doorstep the next day.  She had a big loft apartment, and she was great with my boys. She was a lifesaver and really helped me get through the divorce. We stayed with her for a couple of months until I lost my job, which is another chapter for another day.

Over and out from Fucked Up Central…



A more than public ANNOUNCEMENT….

Posted in dating, Family, memoir, narrative memoir, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on April 10, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

These days my time is stretched so thin, I’m surprised I haven’t caused the SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM to snap and go offline!  And if you don’t know what that means, GO watch a couple dozen episodes of STAR TREK (or ALL the movies) – and do it quickly, for God’s sakes before the Romulans toss us into cyberspace forever…or the Ferenge (or is it Farengue?) steal all of our GOLD/money/furniture/Hondas/Fords/Lincolns/Bentley’s/Yugos/water fountains…etc.

That said, HEAR YE, HEAR YE…the taxes are crunched AND folded and have been delivered to my HEROIC accountant, and they will be FILED forthwith. THANK YOU, GOD…

And…I’m diligently burning the midnight synapses in order to finish the SEQUEL to The Reckoning in Southie…so stay tuned all…and hopefully, tomorrow…you will be regaled by yet another crazy-assed tale of my Stop and Smell the Crazy life…or something like that… 🙂

Have a good EVENING ALL…back to the darkness from whence my words doth slithered…

Over and out from f*cked up central…


MINI Post #55 – And, then, there was a foreclosure…

Posted in Family, family battles, grandmothers, memoir, narrative memoir, relationships, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 1, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

Just wanted to apologize that I haven’t finished the sequel to the last post, entitled – The Reckoning in Boston.

We had a yard sale this past Friday and Saturday to sell the never-ending supply of Bicentennial plates, and other knick knacks that my husband inherited from his Grandfather who died in ’09, of which there were originally 25 (yes, TWENTY-FIVE) boxes of such in our attic, and now there’s only 20 (YIPPEE)…and we wanted to to sell the remnants of Nana’s* household goods, and there are still 12 boxes or so of knick knacks, etc., some of which I have to box up (again) for the Salvation Army to pick up in a couple of days. The aftermath of said yard sale now litters my living room (photo below). So, THAT took a lot of my time…and this is only a PARTIAL amount of the OTHER boxes of JUNK as there’s more in the dining rm…

Boxes cluttering up my living room AFTER the yard sale...

Prior to that, I was tied up attempting to slay the dragon known as Medicare.  Nana’s prescription drug plan had been cancelled due to ridiculous bureaucratic nonsense. After many hours of combat spent upon the telephone, and though I was re-directed down blind alleys, misinformed and given conflicting avenues to pursue, I arose victorious. And Nana has prescription coverage once again as of this date. However, of course, conquering this dragon took more of my precious time than it should have…

Then, when a bright future dawned upon the horizon, due to another miscommunication with the company that holds the reverse mortgage on Nana’s house in Georgia, her house has been mistakenly put on that dreaded list of foreclosure targets. Yes, a lawsuit was filed a couple of weeks ago, and we received notice via a gentleman bearing the word DEPUTY upon his bullet-proofed vest a couple of nights ago when he served the Complaint upon my person…though I had informed said financial institution in February that Nana wished to turn her house over to them after we emptied it, which just occurred a few days ago. So, someone DROPPED the ball, clicked the wrong checkbox, and now I have yet another mess to clean up because of Danny’s** misdeeds… and many more phone calls and headaches looming upon the morrow.

And aside from all that, I must begin preparing stacks of spreadsheets and various documentation for my CPA…in order that he can execute/file our 10-40 long form/mega complicated and daunting taxes…and last year, the paperwork that I submitted to him was around 150 pages…ho hum…off to my OWN bureaucratic hell… 🙂

Therefore, I will finish the sequel to The Reckoning in Boston as soon as I can, ladies and gents…just hated to leave you hanging…wondering if I had been offed by Colonel Mustard or that devious BUTLER with a candlestick in the library (or, perhaps, the dining room?)…so I wrote this post to assuage those fears…

THANKS! And have a great day! 🙂


*Stories/posts about my Grandmother begin with the first post entitled – As My Mother Lay Dying about how my alcoholic/crackhead brother, fleeced her for every DIME she has, which totaled somewhere around $50K…

**I.E.,Again… Danny is the crackhead brother mentioned above who pilfered all of Nana’s cash and liquidated all of the remaining equity in her house re: the Reverse Mortgage in question…