Archive for April, 2013


Posted in Family, Food and beverages, humor, Motherhood, nonfiction, relationships, true crime, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

My husband and I have been together almost 16 years, and we just celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary. As such, I have to pay homage to my better half – especially after reading these sweet words of adoration he posted on Facebook:

“Happy anniversary to my best friend and the best wife any guy could ask for. Who else would put up with all my crap? Love you with all of my heart.”

Okay, go ahead and say it – AWWWWW…except he posted this romantic and honest sentiment on April 20th, and our anniversary was April 22nd! LOL…However, in his defense, this is the FIRST time he’s ever been wrong about the date of our anniversary, my birthday or any other important date.

So, in turn, I’d like to share a couple of anecdotes from when we were dating about what a great guy he is/was and why we click, so to speak.

The first weekend that Charlie stayed at my apartment in Dublin (Ohio) back in ’97, we had been to a party where the only grub was chips and pretzels, and we were both hungry when we got back to my place. So, I’m scrounging around for something to eat, and I was about to suggest we order a pizza because Tim was going through a growth spurt (he was 10 at the time), and he’d eaten all the leftovers after school that day – when as a JOKE, I said…

“I’ve got Spaghettios.” Followed by a giggle, and, yes, I meant – Chef Boyardee spaghetti in a can with meatballs.

“Cool. I love Spaghettios,” he replied smiling.

“Really?” I asked, totally surprised because I assumed he’d rather have Domino’s or Pizza Hut.


“All righty, then,” I replied, grabbing the can opener.

After I artfully microwaved our canned pasta, we sat down in the living room. In the middle of a conversation about why we both liked the plot of the TV show Babylon 5 but couldn’t watch it because the acting was so bad, he suddenly stopped talking. He was staring at my bowl of cheapo pasta with an ODD smirk.

“What?” I asked, hoping to GOD there wasn’t a bug in my cuisine or food in my hair.

“Um, I do that,” he replied nodding toward the way I was dumping Spaghettios on an ordinary piece of white bread.

“Oh, that,” I said smiling. “I’ve done that since I was 5 or 6. I think they taste better on bread.”

“Me too. I’m always afraid to do that around people I don’t know very well, afraid they’ll make fun of me,” he said, smiling.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. This is the way I like it, and this is the way I’m going to eat it. If you’ve got a problem with that, there’s the damned door,” I said, laughing again.

He nodded…and that was our first BONDING moment.And here’s my favorite photo of Charlie, taken about a week later after the Spaghettio incident…

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In his hockey jersey – taken sometime in the Winter of 1998.

About six months after that, the boys and I moved in with Charlie. He’d just finished building his first house on the westside of Columbus, and I was REALLY happy that he’d asked us to move in with him. The lease was up on my apartment, and they’d jacked the rent up to way more than I could afford. And we spent most of our time at Charlie’s house anyway.

About a month after that, Max, who was 5 at the time, got the stomach flu and threw up ALL over Charlie’s obnoxiously ugly, orange plaid couch.

Max always got really upset when he lost his lunch like that, and that day was no exception, and he was bawling his eyes out. “You’ll be all right, buddy,” I said between Max’s howling cries.

“No, I won’t,” Max blubbered, “I need to go to the hospital.”

“You have the stomach flu,” I replied, “Just like that kid in your class, Tyler, did last week.”

“No, I’m much worse. It’s probably that cancer that Aunt Ramona had.”

I had to stifle a laugh at that one while helping Max take off his soiled shirt and wincing at the milky mix of regurgitated potato soup and red Kool-Aide all over Charlie’s sofa, and I couldn’t help but worry that Charlie might be upset that Max had barfed all over HIS love seat.

However, Charlie walked in a couple minutes later and upon seeing the YUCK in Max’s hair and on the couch, he said, “Well, which one do you want? The couch or the kid?”

Before I could answer, Max replied, “I want Charlie to give me a bath, not you, Mommy.”

“Okay,” I said as Charlie scooped the smelly boy up in his arms, heading for the bathroom.

Some Moms would be upset that the new boyfriend had usurped her motherly duty that day. Not me! I was thrilled that Max was so accepting of Charlie in our new family dynamic. And I was relieved that Charlie was not the least bit concerned about his furniture and dropped everything to help take care of a sick kid, who wasn’t biologically his and for the record he’s never ONCE used the term – stepson since the day we got married. It was always – “OUR SON, OUR BOYS.” Except on legal documents like insurance forms and tax returns.

I knew at that moment as Charlie carried Max upstairs, I knew that Charlie should be my lawfully wedded love/best friend/chef extraordinaire/fixer of all things mechanical/finder of lost remotes/awesome supporter of my writing career/tapper of my kegs (see previous post at ), voodoo master who makes my computer behave by merely standing behind it/and the first one to laugh at my dumb jokes.

Luckily, three years later, he came to the same conclusion (that we should get hitched…:)…

And though, of course, it hasn’t been like Christmas every day, it’s pretty damned good. And I guess I should thank Max for vomiting on Charlie’s sofa that day…:)..oh, and the LOVE, honor and will buy Ford?

Um, yeah, the only sort of Pre-Nup we had was a verbal agreement that Charlie would never have anything but a vehicle manufactured by FORD (or at the very least – an American car) in his name or his garage…and until buying the Escalade…such was the case. Though I’d always bought Japanese vehicles, buying American was definitely worth having a man at my side who doesn’t get bent out of shape by a little bit of throw up…:)

Over and out from Fucked Up Central…

~TenaciousBITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…


Post #93 – Death, taxes and don’t judge my BOX…:)

Posted in Family, Food and beverages, humor, marriage, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on April 10, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

When you’re self-employed, preparing one’s taxes is a colossal bitch, and I’d rather walk to California barefoot than do one more goddamned spreadsheet. However, in 2005, when I finally convinced my husband to hire a CPA and itemize everything, our federal refund TRIPLED. Thus, the nightmare of cataloging receipts, drafting spreadsheets and such is totally worth it.

As mentioned previously, my husband, Charlie, plays in a band (see  )….and one night, while I was eyeball deep in tax prep, he had a gig that I didn’t attend. I was exhausted, and I didn’t have a sitter for Nana.

About ten o’clock that night, I discovered Charlie had made a truly egregious error, and I left him this note taped to the KEG in question…

BUSTED UP KEG NOTEFirst of all, the word SPODA is a family joke. When Max was 5 or 6, and he got really angry, he’d say – that’s not SPODA happen when, you know, some kid took his ball or something. And don’t you love the spelling of HUSBAND? LOL…

To answer the obvious, no, I don’t sit around draining a keg of Natty Light (a.k.a. Natural Light) which I haven’t had since ’97, or Beck’s Light, my current brew of choice – ALL by myself.

Occasionally, when we’re low on cash, we buy a box of red wine. To be honest, Peter Vella’s Merlot is rather tasty. It’s not as luscious as even a cheap Pinot Noir or anything, but it’s good, cheap wine.  KEG is our code word, so Nana won’t know what we’re talking about because she’s Pentecostal. They do NOT partake of spirits, and at 95, she doesn’t necessarily equate a KEG with a large barrel of beer. However, she used to drink in the 60s…check out the photo below…

MIMI JUDY CIRCA 63 - JUDY SMOKINGThe lovely blonde smoking a cigarette is my Aunt Jackie, my Mom’s sister, and the redhead is Nana, both with a cocktail, of course. And, no, that’s not a weird tattoo on Nana’s knee. It’s a bit of dirt on it from years of shuffling around that wouldn’t come off with a damp cloth. I feared I’d ruin it if I used Windex or something.

Anyway, Nana currently believes imbibing alcohol is akin to shooting heroin at a daycare center.  However, I hail from a long line of Irish, Catholic drunks. Despite such, I rarely consume more than 2-3 glasses of wine cuz any more than that, and Nana will find me asleep in strange places (like the coat closet) when she comes toddling along with her walker wondering where her breakfast is. And it’s really embarrassing after the cats steal my clothing, which they’ve done before.

JUST JOKING, of course. I actually have a relatively high tolerance for booze, and I’ve never passed out in a closet (at least not since college 🙂 ). But the idea of Nana finding me in a Merlot coma, curled up around my raincoat was too funny not to use.

When Charlie saw the note, he chuckled, especially upon seeing the battered box…

KEGWTF, you ask? Looks like it’s been mauled by a Grizzly bear, doesn’t it? 🙂

You see, it used to be that no matter if I used an electric, fancy automatic wine bottle opener or a regular handheld corkscrew, I COULD not open a bottle of wine without either chipping the hell out of the cork, yet managing NOT to dislodge it. OR the cork would end up bobbing around inside the bottle. Though at least then, you could drink it.

THEN, I got stuck living with Nana for a month in Georgia (see Post # …). Boxes of wine were too difficult to smuggle into the house without her spotting my contraband. So, I went shopping one morning and hid 5 bottles of wine in my beach bag. Then, while Nana was napping, I sat in the kitchen wrestling with the vino and an ordinary corkscrew. Finally, I got the hang of it on the FOURTH try.

However, the GODz frowned upon my new found cork-springing superpower because NOW, I cannot, should my life depend upon it, open a BOX of wine without breaking 3 or 4 fingernails.

And I don’t mean, the DAMMIT, that smarts, and go on with your life kind of scenario. I mean shredding them in half and showering the box, the bar, my t-shirt, my jeans and one of the dogs (or cats) in an OCEAN of blood.

I have to open the box with a screwdriver or something in order to avoid exsanguinating myself and/or traumatizing one of the animals beyond the repair of any feline/canine therapist. In the process, invariably, I decimate the cardboard.  My husband, of course, is aware of my ghoulish curse/disability, and we agreed LONG ago, that he’s NOT allowed to leave the house without tapping MY KEG. But, alas…he forgot, and we’re all here to laugh at the consequences.

A couple days later, I completed and submitted ALL the 1040A nonsense to our accountant. WOOHOO! 🙂 But I guess, you can’t have one without the other. Again, WTF? Feel free to say that as often as you like during my posts. I don’t mind…:)

We Americans say you can’t avoid DEATH and taxes. Well, some countries don’t have the fucked up ritual of completing 27 pages of fiscal rubbish in order to prove to the government that you paid your legal share (in all of its loophole glory) in INCOME TAX…or frequently we OVERPAY and garner that much-coveted refund.

However, the Grim Reaper is no Uncle Sam. You can’t hide from him in Mexico. So…after grinding away until 1AM finishing my last spreadsheet, my cat Samantha (below)…

Samantha, Sasha's daughter and partner in crime.

Woke me up with a panicked YOWL around 7AM, which I mistook as friendly spatting with her mother, but she wouldn’t let up. I went downstairs and found our beloved Bart, A 14-year-old Chow/Shepherd mix, had died in the middle of the dining room. Samantha was dancing awkward circles around him while our other dog, Raven, was in the kitchen, totally unaware. A little later though, she became rather distraught seeing her lifeless Bart being hauled away in an old blanket.

I bawled my eyes out for awhile, but I’m better now. He was a rescue dog. We adopted him when he was 3 months old. Here’s a sweet photo of him when he was about a year old.

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We had Bart cremated, and I have to go to the vet to retrieve his urn now. He was a very good dog, an excellent security guard, and he shall be greatly missed. Love you, Bart. Hope your days are full chewing on ham bones and chasing squirrels..:)

And after all THAT, is it any wonder that I occasionally HIT the box for another glass of Vella? 🙂

All the best,

TenaciousBitch and her band of sad-eyed hippies…