Archive for February, 2013

Post #90 ~The garage and its damned Leprechauns…

Posted in friends, humor, nonfiction, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

I went out with some friends this past weekend for some much-needed respite. One of my blog fans/friends, JJ, invited me to her birthday bash, which was way cool, and my birthday was 2 days later.

I met JJ about two years ago, at the party of a mutual friend, Danica (no, not THAT Danica as in Danica Patrick the race car driver – but anyway).

We all met at an Italian restaurant downtown, and nine of us were STASHED into a booth designed for a party of 5, perhaps. And it was RIGHT in front of the kitchen.

BUCCAS KITCHENSee? I wasn’t kidding…I could SPIT on the kitchen, and, yes, I totally stole this photo from JJ’s Facebook page, sorry! SO…here we are.

JEN'S B'DAY PHOTOS 038One of the cooks had to come over and kind of shove Danica’s friend, Mr. M, on the far right back into the booth a couple times. He kept spilling out onto the floor and NOT from being over-served…LOL.

Yes, that’s me in the pink jacket on the left. Don’t I look like I’m about to launch my linguini into the kitchen? It was the heat. It was SWELTERING in there, and I didn’t take off my jacket because I wasn’t wearing a belt. And my jeans are too big (HAPPY DANCE! I’ve lost 6 pounds!), and my jeans droop…whereupon you can see my skivvies…

HOWEVER, the food was scrumptious though, and I ate too much. So much for those six pounds, right?

Afterward, we went to a comedy show at the Shadowbox about a mile away. So, JJ and I walk over to the parking garage. She was on 4, and I PARKED MY CAR ON THE FIFTH FLOOR. I even wrote the number on my damned parking stub! 5C…however, I get off the elevator, and there’s only ONE car on the fifth floor, and it wasn’t mine. GODDAMMIT. Seriously, I’ve now taken a vow to never park in a garage again because  half the time, I swear to GOD, a small band of Leprechauns moves my car just to fuck with me, or…they rearrange the structure of the damned garage…which, ahem, I’m sure was at work THIS TIME…

The parking area designated as 5A was right next to the elevator. Ahem, so you’d think my car would be on the opposite side of the same floor, right? Um, no. I walk that way where I thought I’d parked, and it says 4E. WTF? So, I walked back toward 5A again, thinking I’d somehow missed it. Passed 5B…and THERE’S A FUCKING WALL…

Okay, when all else fails, use one’s tech (i.e. see the new show on sci-fi called Continuum cuz tech will save your life!). I grabbed my keys from my purse and hit the PANIC button on my key fob. And sure enough, my car started HONKING. I can HEAR IT, but I can’t see it.

I start RUNNING…got up to 6 A, and I looked down, and there, where you’d least expect it, was my car. WTF? I wouldn’t have written down 5C if I were in 6A.

GOOD LORD, ALMIGHTY, do I at least get a massage and a free glass of Merlot after all this? Meanwhile, I’ve gotten two texts from Danica wondering where the hell I am…

So, I keep walking toward my SUV’s beckoning HONK, and I get to the END of 6A in the GHETTO area of garage-land – nowhere near the LAND OF OZ, and I see my beloved Escalade. But THERE’S another fucking wall, and I can’t get to it! Maybe, if I dove over the OUTSIDE wall into the street, I’d pass through Narnia and the lion would tell me how to get to my FUCKING CAR, but I didn’t have time for that…so what did I do?

I said – FUCK IT. There’s MY CAR. I’m GOING OVER THE WALL, and I hope there aren’t any Russian spies over there.

I stepped back about 5 feet, started running and, yes – I jumped, hoisted my legs UP/vaulted over the damned cinderblock wall into the mythical land of 5C, which was, btw at the TAIL END OF 6A (go figure).

And thanks to the enormous amount of cardio that I’ve been doing lately (and lots of bicep curls), my legs cleared the three foot wall without a scratch though my arms were a tad sore from the force required to jack my fat ass 3 feet off the ground. And my 40th birthday is so far into the recesses of my rearview mirror as to be called an archived birthday, but we won’t really chat about that now.

However, needless to say, I was rather proud of myself. Unfortunately, there was one casualty. My boots. I did scratch up the left wedge heel of my awesome Kenneth Coles I bought the day before Dad’s funeral. So, someone at Nationwide Parking owes me $120 for a new pair, the bastards and their leprechauns…

However, I made it to the Shadowbox, just in time to get a FREE GLASS OF MERLOT before the show from a bartender who just happened to be a friend of my son’s. And his name is PANTS. Yes, P-A-N-T-S. I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried :).

At least ONE parking lot Hail Mary came true :)! Still waiting on the free massage though. That said, the show, called “Between the Sheets” was hilarious! A good time was had by all.

Additionally, I emailed the manager of the garage about my boots. To-wit, he replied:

“Sorry I not process claims for damage in garage. Forward to legal department.”

First of all – GOOD LORD at his verbiage. Did TANTO write that response? Or maybe, Clifford the Big Red Dog? Holy fuck balls, batman…can I buy a VERB and a SUBJECT?

AND I’m SURE the Leprechauns have infiltrated the hallowed walls of the Legal Department as well, so that’s a dead end. Perhaps, I should just be glad I didn’t break anything…

Over and out from fucked up central….



POST 89 – Life’s too short, and then you die with bubble gum in your HAIR…:)

Posted in Family, humor, memoir, mysteries, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on February 15, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

My mother died in 2007, which I’ve mentioned 2734 goats’ worth of times. My husband, Charlie, and I cleaned out her house because we couldn’t afford a cleaning service. And I heard him HOWLING with laughter not long after he started emptying the kitchen cabinets.

“Oh, my God, you’ve gotta see this,” Charlie bellowed.

I sail into the kitchen to find these little spongy things spilling out of a rather tiny drawer:


Yes…they are, in fact, Styrofoam meat trays. Yes, the packaging that hamburger, pork chops, steaks etc., live in, so to speak, until we buy them at your local grocer. Spongy trays that most people just toss into the rubbish. And there were literally, DOZENS of them squashed into a drawer big enough to hold 9 pencils and two glasses of water. Later, Max counted them for shits and giggles. There were 29 of various sizes.

Why the hell- did Mom keep them? To what end? Did she use them to make hats? Did they make good insulation for the drawers? Heaven forbid, please tell me, she DIDN’T REUSE THEM!?

Wait, no, knowing Mom, she collected them like UPC codes!! She was supposed to ship them to Logan Packing Company along with some rebate form for cash or mega coupons for GROUND ROUND…and she forgot…

OR – is this a side effect of TOO MUCH RETAIL THERAPY, perhaps?

Because the GOATS told her to? No, goats are herbivores…

Sorry. I’m just the wolf’s assistant (or something like that), hired to haul away junk. And I don’t think the ghosts did it. They’ve got too much to do in the creepy cellar with the dirt floor in the basement (YES, my parents’ house totally had a creepy cellar with ONE dusty window)…

Alas, we may never know the scandalous mystery of the meat tray STASH as it were…SO…

Or WAIT! I KNOW – did SOMEONE else put them there? JETHRO or was it BOB Lebowski?? Jeff, you know, what’s his name who lives in Santa Monica, plays guitar and forgets to cut his hair…yes, Jeff BRIDGES. No, he’s busy planning his takeover of the White House.

I don’t know what else to say…except…

LIFE’S TOO SHORT, and then you die with gum in your hair and raw MEAT china in your drawers.

Luv you, Mom…

HIPPIE Love and peace out TO ALL and to all a good NIGHT,

TENACIOUS BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies

PLEASE NOTE: ALL MATERIAL/haiku poems/prose/suggestions for better hygiene/true stories, etc. created and posted by TENACIOUS BITCH has been copyrighted by yours truly, Tenacious BITCH.

© Tenacious Bitch 2013

Post 88 – Back off, baloney spewing ass-hats or embrace THE CYBER-FIST! :)

Posted in BOOKS, Family, humor, nonfiction, relationships, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 14, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

Upon reading the incredible words of Wisdom of the fair maiden known as SWEET MOTHER, who catapults her provocative and wondrous verbiage upon our cyber pages this day regarding the subject of THE ASSHAT HATERS, I felt I must offer homage to her kind and brilliant words, which are parked here:

Ne, which is called: “HOW TO COMMENT”.  Why the kudos? Because the Shit-Munching Ass-hats who bandy about frequently ill-founded criticisms born of brain vomit don’t even deserve the title of critic! Their shite lobbed into our cyber-fans is often NOT done so with the intention of helping us improve our prose, n’est-ce pas?

Occasionally, yes, MANY comments are written with the noble cause of offering constructive criticism. And to that end, I am ETERNALLY grateful for those alms.

HOWEVER, more often, the proverbial Ass-Hat slink onto our cyber stage and flings his or her mud, merely because said Ass-Hat is angry because his/her cat went poo in his palm tree, or HER husband said she looked LUMPY in that dress! Or, perhaps, the husband asked for fallatio when the wife had the flu!!

WHO KNOWS what lurks in the bubbling cesspools of the Ass-Hat’s soul. Could be vinegar, could be the devil’s ca-ca…could be SUGAR or NOTHING. A barren soul might think he or she doth provide FACTS in lieu of OPINION.You know JUST LIKE SHELDON (if you don’t know who Sheldon is for chrissakes go watch THE BIG BANG THEORY already!).

However, most likely we shall never know the ass-hat’s rationale for his or her vile replies.

I’ve been fortunate that only ONE or TWO not-so-nice remarks have been bestowed upon my cyber feet in the 7 years and 49 days since I commenced upon this cyber journey we call BLOGGING (ahem, I was on for 8 years before I joined the hallowed cyber walls I now call home – in case you found my math to be deficient), and the ONLY one that rankled my ire was this one:


Yes. ONE. Word. One lousy, fucking word! No, twas not angered at the definition of the term and how it reflected upon my tales. I was enraged that he did not say WHY my post was lacking excitement, the post be-named- “An Ode to Barboursville”, which resides here:

No, this bard merely dropped his little plop of POOPY and ran away! I emailed him for some elaboration, not to anger him or seek revenge but to understand what was BORING about getting arrested in a hick town when you’re 17 while watching the BOBBIES (coppers/5-0/policemen) suck down YOUR FUCKING BEER??

I always thought this yarn to be hilarious. And if it is not, I would like to KNOW why, so that I can eliminate the BOREDOM and possibly breathe more fire into my tome, capiche? But, alas, I like so many, will live out eternity in the maddening state of wonder…

So, I chose to believe that The Ode to Barboursville… isn’t, in fact, boring. For what else could I do, ladies and cybermen? 🙂 Cry? Sorry, I do not cry over cyber mystery. Methinks it not worth the salt…

And with that, I shall depart. My lunch is cold, and Nana’s television is silent. And both are cause for going postal, LOL…or postal-lite by flogging Nana’s TV with old mashed potatoes…

Or maybe, I’ll find Nana’s remote under her nightstand and toss my Chinese in the nuker (psst… the microwave – I whisper)…

OH, SHIT! I ALMOST FORGOT THE FIST…here it is! Cower at the sight, dear, dear cyber ass-hats flinging insulting BLA BLA for sport or vengeance our way:


But, wait, there’s more…if you can’t see him looming in the background, said FIST was thrown in the shadow of the WORLD CHAMPION FIST CHUCKER, the one and only KING OF THE WORLD/himself:

ASS HAT MARSHALL BE FIST                             YES, his HIGHNESS, Marshall B Marsh, Marsh, III!!!!

AND THE CROWD goes wild as I dance away with Donner and Blisten…:)

Love, and oatmeal COOKIES… 🙂

Tenacious BITCH and her band of CYBER KNIGHTS…(or cats, I always forget which)…


Post 87 – I am not a lesbian, nor do I play one on TV…

Posted in Family, friends, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on February 8, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

As mentioned previously, my mother died in 2007, and Nana decided to divulge a particularly ugly secret right before Mom passed, which I talked about in this post:

However, that’s not the only shocking event that happened when mom was terminally ill. The emotional hurricane of losing my mother was bad enough. Then, after driving down to Huntington, West Virginia (my hometown/a 3-hour drive) and spending a week at the hospice facility while listening to my grandmother’s babbling complaints 24-7, I needed a break. So, I called my friend, Prissy, previously mentioned in this post:  …which is the tale of my unfortunate teenaged incarceration.

“I’m so sorry to hear about your Mom,” Prissy said when she opened the door to her apartment, cluttered with books, magazines, junk mail strewn about and lots of crafty stuff – boxes of buttons and sequins and the like, skeins of yarn in odd places like in a basket on the back of the toilet. And there were as many cats as there were molecules of oxygen (almost).

I petted Jackson, one of her calicoes, who was sashaying around my legs and mewing.

“Thanks,” I said, stroking Jackson’s head. “Hi, Jackson, have you missed me?”

“Yeah, they are a little starved for company since I kicked Tommy to the curb,” Prissy replied while strolling toward her small, dark living room with its old but comfortable furniture, her tiny feet padding along the hardwood floor.

“Really? You’ll have to tell me all about it, but first-” I said, holding up a 12-pack of Amstel Light, Prissy’s favorite beer.

“Oh, thank you,” Prissy said smiling as she darted into her small but clean kitchen, which was completely awash in various shades of white and ivory, except the black handles on the cabinets.

Prissy began rummaging through the kitchen drawers. “I don’t usually have the money to buy beer, so a bottle opener might be a challenge,” she mumbled while shuffling through spatulas, measuring cups, and such.

Prissy had lost her job at the university library 4-5 years prior.  She’d been living on disability since then (disability for what, I’m not certain), which she supplements by occasionally selling her Xanex.

“Dammit,” Prissy said, slamming a drawer. “I can’t find it.”

“No problem,” I said, grinning.

“How’s that?”

“Watch and learn, Grasshopper,” I said, grabbing a beer from the carton on the table. With the lip of the cap resting against the side of the counter top, I gave it a quick smack while rolling the beer upward and managed to dislodge the cap with a THWACK.

“Damn, that’s a handy skill,” Prissy said, giggling.

“Beer tricks 101 is a requirement in Catholic school,” I replied, smiling.

Prissy laughed. When we settled in on her couch, she immediately launched into a 40-minute monologue about life with Tommy. Though I’d never met him, being from a small town, I knew who he was. But I couldn’t have picked him out of lineup these days…and judging from her tales, his being in a lineup wasn’t entirely impossible.

“So, after his second DUI and the drug bust, he lost his apartment,” she said. “So, he moved in here. Things were going well for awhile, but then, he started getting on my nerves.  His ex-wife called a lot, and then…when he made a huge mess in the kitchen, left the house with the oven on for the third time,” she said, lighting up a joint. “That was it.”

The foul stench immediately made my sinuses swell.

“Wanna hit?”

I shook my head, surprised she didn’t remember.

“Oh, yeah,” she said, giggling again. “You’re allergic.”

“Bingo,” I replied, smiling, and that whole story is fat to feast upon another day…

“So, he begged me to take him back,” Prissy continued. “But I said, no. I’m looking for, you know, a KEEPER this time. So, I went on a diet-”

“Yeah, I noticed you’d lost some weight.” Which was true, not that she’d given me a chance to bring it up.

“Yeah, almost 20 pounds.”

“That’s great. Good for you.”

“So, what do you think?” she asked, whipping her shirt up to her neck – and she wasn’t wearing a bra, so she basically flashed her bare breasts at me. Yeah, when I decided to call Prissy, I didn’t expect to be face-to-face with her Double D’s.

I was stunned, to say the least, and I kept thinking…my mother is DYING, and this is what we’re talking about?

“Uh, well, I guess if I were a lesbian, I’d go for it, but since I’m not, and  – NOT that there’s anything wrong with being a lesbian, mind you…but-”

With a sheepish grin, she replaced her shirt over her ta ta’s and looked at me quizzically. “But what?”

I had no idea how to finish that sentence. I was double-dog flabbergasted. But I certainly didn’t want her to think she was unattractive. So, I said nothing, and, luckily, her weed-toked brain choked back into the fray, starting up where her own thoughts had been interrupted…

“So, if you were a guy, would you wanna, you know, do me?” she asked, giggling like a 12-year-old.

“Absolutely,” I said, rising in search of another beer. “You want another one?”

“Please,” Prissy replied.

The remainder of the evening, Prissy continued blathering on about Tommy and Jeff, an intermittent boyfriend, of five years or so. Jeff was currently back with his ex-wife, hence, Prissy’s diet and quest for a new man since her go-to guy was otherwise occupied.

After two hours and several beers, she finally asked, “So, how are you holding up?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see your Mom. Hospitals, you know, they kind of…freak me out.”

I nodded, knowing this was a load of CA CA. Prissy’d had a falling out with a mutual friend and feared running into her while visiting Mom though I’d told her said friend was only in town for ONE weekend and had gone back home to Lexington.

I didn’t really care because there wasn’t any excuse good enough not to see Mom – in my book, unless Prissy, herself, was DYING – especially since the hospice was about 7 blocks from her place.

I’d known Prissy since I was 12, and we were also roommates for a couple years. Mom had always treated her better than her own mother. Mom even frequently referred to her as her “other” daughter”, but whatever…

REGARDLESS, having one of my oldest friends flash me like that was so strange – just thought I’d share! 🙂

Over and out from fucked up central…where the truth is worn like a badge on one’s dirty underwear, LOL…or something like that…

Until next time, boys and girls…

TenaciousBITCH and company~


All information/stories/photos, etc., herein posted/written upon has been copyrighted by Tenacious Bitch.

© Tenacious Bitch 2013