Archive for May, 2014

Post #133 – Love my merlot and Beck’s Light – but Keep the Ganja away from me!

Posted in Family, humor, memoir, Motherhood, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

A couple of days ago, my 22-year-old son, Max, decided to smoke a bowl of weed in his room, which he knows is NOT allowed (i.e. ) not only because it’s illegal in Ohio, but also because I’m extremely allergic to cannabis.

No, I’m not kidding, and I’ll elaborate on that momentarily.

I had feigned smoking marijuna  when I was in junior high when my friend, Cassidy, was dating a 14-year-old drug dealer.  Um, yeah, that’s a story in itself, but anyway, we were in the woods near Cassidy’s house one hot summer night, hanging out with her boyfriend and several others.

I was quite happy with my 40 ounce bottle of Schlitz Malt liquor, and when someone handed me a joint, I, like President Clinton, did not inhale. It must’ve been some pretty potent ganja though because 10-15 minutes later, no one seemed to notice that I wasn’t even pretending to take a toke.

I’d avoided cannabis because I thought it smelled like shit, and I didn’t trust anyone. I didn’t know Cassidy’s boyfriend that well, nor did I know where he procured all the product he sold each week.

I’d seen stories on the news about people who’d been hospitalized or died from smoking pot laced with Strychnine or God knows what. And I wanted no part of it. I didn’t and don’t care what anyone else does. That’s their business, and I know there are thousands of potheads who’ve never been gravely ill or died from toking it up.

Also, I’d seen my dad and other relatives rather inebriated at Christmas or whatever and understood the affects/dangers of alcohol. And I’ve loved beer from the first time my father let me have a tiny bit in my favorite blue juice glass when I was 7 (sans juice, btw).

It’s an Irish tradition to let one’s offspring lap at the liquor to stave off alcoholism. Sounds odd, but it makes sense when you think about it.

If I’d never sampled beer or chocolate, I’m sure once I’d shed my parental chains, I probably would’ve gone on a chocolate and beer bender the likes of which the world has ever seen…and once I recovered from my coma, the brain damage would most likely have been minimal…:)

When I was a teenager, the fact that  alcohol is regulated by the government and is/was sold in the very store where my mother bought all our groceries weighed heavily in its favor. You can’t say that for cannabis – at least not yet.

Granted, I did drink excessively in high school and college and beyond. But for over a decade, I’ve rarely consumed more than 2 or 3 glasses of wine or 2-3 beers. And there are even days when I abstain from spirits completely.

Anywho, as to how I discovered my allergy to cannabis, I can thank my friend, Prissy for that. She was previously mentioned in

Prissy had harassed me for years to get high with her.

“If I smoke with you, will you please leave me the fuck alone about it?”

“Promise,” Prissy said, smiling.


She was very excited. I was not. I was just relieved I’d finally found a way to shut her up. From the get-go, it gave me a headache. I took two hits and announced I was done.

Prissy shook her head, laughing, “Really? It’s so fucking smooth. Ricky’s best strain yet.” Ricky was a friend of hers who harbored a few illegal plants on his grandfather’s farm.

“It’s just not for me.” The next day I found out just how true that statement was.

I literally could not breathe through my nose at all as if it were clothes-pinned shut. And the clamoring of pain in my cranium was worse than any hangover I’d ever experienced. And, ahem, I was never really a lightweight when it came to liquor.

Not long before smoking pot with Prissy, I was late arriving at my boyfriend Reese’s apartment on New Year’s, and his friends had been drinking since noon and were all passed out well before midnight.

So, I drank almost half a pony keg by myself (after 3-4 beers beforehand) and almost a liter of champagne when Dick Clark’s ball dropped. Reese was 21, so his place was our party palace for awhile in high school. And, no, I didn’t drive home that night. My mother thought I was at Cassidy’s.

Therefore, though I haven’t stolen anyone’s tiger, I was well acquainted with the egregiously horrible condition caused by throwing back too much liquor.

The next day, after smoking with Prissy, I told Mrs. McDonald, the counselor, at school what I’d done.

“I need to see a doctor,” I said.

The counselor took one look at my puffy eyes and hearing my frog-like speech like someone with the worst of colds, and she knew I was really ill.

She was kind enough to excuse me for the rest of the day without a note from my mother. I took the city bus to see Dr. Reizner, our family doctor.

Though Dr. Riezner looked like Santa Claus -with his white hair and twinkly blue eyes, he had the gruff and blunt personality of your average drill instructor. He was a fine doctor, however, according to my mother.

“Young lady,” Dr. Reizner began, his forehead crinkling into an ugly frown. “If you’d smoked any more, you would’ve needed surgery.”

“Oh, my God,” I gasped.

He nodded. “You’re going to need a strong decongestant and Prednisone, a drug often given to cancer patients, to reduce the swelling in your sinuses.”

Now I know that he only mentioned Prednisone was a cancer drug to scare me because I’ve since learned that Prednisone is a widely prescribed medication, which my Aunt took for her allergies in the late 80s/early 90s.

But he didn’t know me well enough to know he didn’t need the dramatics to steer me away from marijuana.

So, here I am 30 years later, and my allergy to the daggone stank weed is much worse because just being exposed to the smell of it in the hallway outside Max’s room gave me another goddamned sinus infection. Since I haven’t been around it in 2-3 decades, it’s not surprising the affect is so profound.

However, I just didn’t want to deal with Max’s hysterics, so I’ve yet to say anything because he loves to wax on about how I’m full of shit, etc. But, Max, darling, these sinuses don’t lie.

That said, in my defense, my husband, Charlie, went off about the marijuana perfume when he got home from work that day…:) not that I really need any substantiation, mind you, it’s my damned house, and cannabis/crack/crystal meth/heroin/un-vaccinated squirrels/weasels/ho’s named Sienna/orange clothing or furniture/muddy feet/buffalo/snakes (except for those of the jeweled variety) cakes/brownies full of nuts, which I’m also allergic to, and tarantulas JUST AIN’T welcome!

So, AHEM…if it walks like weed/talks/smells like weed/shit, FIRE and a hole in the ground, baby, it must be weed.

Perhaps, I’ll drop by the local ER on the way home from Kentucky. Yes, I’m on holiday. Maybe, I’ll present Max with copies of my X-Rays and my script for Prednisone.

Unfortunately, he might still cry hogwash, and another blowout will ensue. Dear Lord…let this NOT be the case.


TenaciousBITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies

© Tenacious Bitch/Kennedy Smith 2014



Yes, I bought a COBRA! :)

Posted in Family, humor, memoir, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized, young adult with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on May 20, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

This past weekend, I went to the Springfield Antique Show (i.e. ) in Springfield, Ohio)…where you can buy everything from collectible china and collectible toys to homemade bread to antique furniture, knock-off purses, used books, jewelry, posters of Elvis, original artwork, and a whole lot more.

Here’s a few photos from the event to give you an idea if you’ve never been to one of these outdoor extravaganzas…


I love antiques, and probably 1/3 of the furniture in my house came from Springfield, including this lovely wardrobe that we refinished:


And I SOOOOOOOO need this couch:


But, alas, they were asking $3900, and I arrived with only $50. Sigh…I realize a lot of people may find the sofa above rather gaudy, even ugly, but I LOVE it. They re-upholstered it with Brazilian cow hide! I know…I’ll be hearing from PETA tomorrow, but what’s new? 🙂

Anywho…I did buy something rather cool. It’ll have to fight the cats for the mice in the garage though. You guessed it! I bought a snake as my title suggests…


See? A beautiful silver cobra. Don’t hate me cuz I’m wearing a serpent…no matter how much you wanna… 🙂

Since I’m terrified of snakes, it’s rather ironic that I chose this necklace from the plethora of choices offered by the dozen or so vendors last weekend who were selling jewelry.

And when I say terrified of reptiles, I mean the totally panicked, unable to breathe, primal fight or flight variety of fear. Snakes are pretty much the only animals that induce panic attacks – other than maybe scorpions or tarantulas, but I rarely venture into their territory.

My trepidation of snakes was initiated by my brother Chad, who thought it would be funny to throw green garter snakes on his ‘lil sis when I was 6 or 7. Awesome…thanks for the nightmares, bro.

As far as real-time experiences with snakes, I once refused to move, walk or exhale until my first husband, Frank, had slain a rather harmless black snake, which is another garter snake, an herbivore, I believe, who poses no threat to humans regardless of its menu choices.

We had gone to an outdoor wedding at the edge of a lake in Michigan, and I was pregnant with my son, Drew, at the time, about 2-3 weeks away from my due date.

During my pregnancy, I was afraid to drink soda or go visit a certain relative whose house always smelled of bleach, much less – walk past the very path where a snake could’ve whipped around and bit me?! I THINK NOT.  Hello…don’t f#ck with the mother bear, after all?

So, I ordered Frank to kill the poor beast, who could’ve been someone’s mother itself for all I knew. Frank plucked one of his hunting knives from a holster (or whatever it’s called) on his leg  and sliced the black snake in half with one strong swing, akin to a karate chop.

And as I recall, the damned thing was nearly 6 feet long, so I thought it was a water moccasin – though he swore that garter snakes do get that long.

“Poppycock,” I said, the ever the paranoid parent to be. Frank laughed at me, but I didn’t care. Maybe it wasn’t a water moccasin…but I wasn’t betting mine or my child’s life on it.

So, not only did I coerce Frank into murdering what might’ve been an innocent creature, but I made him throw one half in the water…and he tossed the tail portion in the weeds a good 20 feet away. Yes, I was indeed freaked out, LOL.

That said, why do I find the necklace so fascinating, given my obvious loathing of snakes? It’s silver. It’s weird and cool. Interesting combo, n’est-ce pas? It’s also unique, and it’s totally ME…:)

So, God forgive me for forcing Frank to assassinate a reptile who probably feared us more than we did him and probably meant us no ill will. And please don’t turn my necklace into some sort of demonic talisman bent upon axing me like the deluge of horror movies Hollywood churns out…that’s just so tired…:)


TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies…


Post #131 Life’s Too Short ~ and then you die with gum in your hair…:)

Posted in Family, Food and beverages, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

This story was previously published previously on, but in honor of my beloved mother, I decided to post this again…since, you know, it was Mother’s Day a couple days ago and all…:)

Sadly, my mother died in 2007 of cancer, followed by my dad in 2009, also from cancer.

I spent 5 long months commuting between my home in Ohio to Mom and Dad’s house in West Virginia cleaning out closets, etc., which is a 3-hour drive one way, so it was rather exhausting. And I had not one, but two Estate Sales because Mom had a lot of junk, some valuable, some not. But she definitely practiced a large volume of retail therapy, shall we say..:) ?

Anywho, shortly after we lost Dad, my husband, Charlie, my two boys and I went down in the spring of 2010 for the final gutting/cleaning of the ol’ homestead that had been wall-to-wall knick knacks/furniture/dishes galore and 4 closets full of clothes and 3 or 4 dozen shoe boxes full of pictures.

Not 10 minutes after we got to the house, I heard Charlie howling with laughter from the kitchen.

“Oh, my God, you’ve gotta see this,” Charlie bellowed as I strolled out of my parents’ bedroom into the hallway.

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 for beef/chicken, etc., used by your local grocer. Spongy trays that most people just toss into the rubbish.

After he discovered these used meat containers, it was like watching a clown pull scarves out of his sleeve because they just kept pouring out of the drawer.  Later, Max counted them for shits and giggles. There were 29 meat trays in various sizes… but they were all white.

Why in heaven’s name 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!? No, I’m sure that wasn’t the case. Mom’s house was always relatively clean.

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…

Because the goats told her to? No, goats are herbivores…and Mom never associated with goats much, that I recall.

Or was she just a plain ‘ol hoarder?

Sorry. I’m just the wolf’s assistant (or something like that), hired to haul away unwanted, often useless crap. 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 packaging stash as it were…so.

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/ pseudo china in your drawers. Okay, so Mom didn’t have any gum in her hair the day she passed, but you get the idea…:)

Luv you, Mom…especially since right about then, I really needed a good laugh knowing that particular day would be the last time I’d ever walk through the hallowed halls of what had been my childhood home.  And laughing about the freaky items we found in the kitchen and elsewhere made that day a little bit more bearable! 🙂

HIPPIE Love and peace out…


© Kennedy Smith/Tenacious Bitch 2014

Post #130 – The Sterling Stalker

Posted in dating, marriage, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, sex, thrillers, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 2, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

A friend of mine calls me a psycho magnet because I often found myself in peculiar circumstances/relationships with men before I met my husband, Charlie, and this event with Sterling is no exception.

In fall of 1989, I decided to move from Brooklyn, New York, to Los Angeles with my then boyfriend, Ashe (now deceased ex-husband mentioned in ). Shortly after Ashe graduated from sound engineering school, he got a job on the Rolling Stones tour.

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

I got a job 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 shirtand 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 cultivated via common ground. 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 cooing 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!” 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, and you’re not wearing a ring!!”

“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 we’re not celebrities, you arrogant bastard-” I shouted while dialing the phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Only 911,” I snickered.

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. 
Just say the word and I’ll file 
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 collect myself. I glared at the card for a second. Then, like an idiot, I opened it:

I love you. I can’t 
stand being apart.
Please call me.
Love, Always

“Shit…” I mumbled, leaning 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.”

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

And what made me think of this creep after all these years? Yep…you got it? Another…do you know –

Sterling XXXXXXX

On Facebook. And Sterling, apparently, has 3 friends in common with me who still live in L.A.  Holy Shitballs, Batman…and these are not folks I knew when I lived in Cali…they’re folks I’ve met at seminars and such…

If you’d like to read the conclusion to this story, it will be one of the chapters in my upcoming book, Tales from the Lunatic Lounge, which I hope to finish in the next month or so! 🙂