Archive for the Motherhood Category

Post #160 – About The Expiration Date and the End of the Beehive Hairdo

Posted in Family, family battles, family drama, grandmothers, humor, life, memoir, Motherhood, narrative memoir, nonfiction, people, relationships, true stories, uncategoried, work, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 29, 2016 by tenaciousbitch

Knowing that each of us has an expiration date does not make it any easier when we’re told that the end is near for a family member or a friend – even if that person is 99 years old. I got that phone call earlier today from a hospice nurse about my Grandmother. She hasn’t been able to eat more than a bite or 2 of food at a time, and she’s been sleeping pretty much since Thanksgiving.

And the nurse said she was too weak to speak to me even if she brought Nana the phone. That’s when I broke down because anyone who knows Nana – knows that the only thing in this universe that would stop her from talking would be if the Grim Reaper himself was hovering about her bed.And the nurse kept using the word “declining”, which I tend to think of as a hospice buzz word synonymous with dying. I remember hearing that term a few days before my mother passed away.

I was absolutely miserable when Nana lived with us for two very long years, i.e. check out Post #1 about what she said to me when my mother was terminally ill @ https://wordpress.com/stats/insights/tenaciousbitch.com https://wordpress.com/stats/insights/tenaciousbitch.com

And/or this post about Nana’s back-handed racisim @ https://wordpress.com/stats/insights/tenaciousbitch.com.  However, I found myself sobbing on the way to the grocery store where I went to fax some paperwork to hospice in order to secure her care for however long she has left.

Ten minutes, I was told for the confirmation that the fax went through to Vitas Hospice’s office. Ten. Long. Minutes trying not to start crying again in front of total strangers. And then, a miracle happened. I decided I’d treat myself to my favorite dessert, vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup. On my way to the beloved freezer holding my creamy comfort in a 1/2 gallon box, I realized that God knew how sad I would be at this moment, and a miracle occurred that caused me to break into a wide smile despite my melancholy mood…

ALL OF MY FAVORITE ICE CREAM TREATS WERE ON SALE…:) november-29-2016-019   And the Skinny Cow was buy one get one FREE! I don’t think that’s every happened that I can recall. 

So, despite the fact that I started bawling again in my car on the way home, I realized life really is about the little things. The ice cream miracle. The fact that my husband does the dishes without me asking him to do so as well as watching the hilarious antics of my cats, one of whom has learned to lock herself in the bathroom when she wants some downtime from the other 2 cats (funny story for another day).

And last but not least, the incredible euphoria I experience every single time I go to the beach (any beach, Florida, California, New Jersey, doesn’t matter), and I sit staring at the vast expanse of water roaring to and fro in front of me. There’s nothing in this world that I enjoy more (as far as leisure activities, that is) than lying on the beach on a hot and sunny day…except maybe lying on the beach with a good book.

And I wondered if any of those wonderful moments that Nana has experienced over her nearly 100 years were ruminating through her mind as she drifts away from this world. I hope so. And I decided that I was going to remember Nana as the crazy redheaded woman who spoiled me rotten every time we came to visit…who so loved the hairstyle shown in the photo below…which I never really understood but Nana never really understood my love of science fiction and zombie movies either…:)nana-demonstrating-shoes That said, even though she and I are very different in a lot of ways, she taught me a very valuable life lesson – just by the way she lived her life. And I’m sure she doesn’t even realize what I’ve gleaned from her in this respect.

In that, the most important ingredient to happiness is to be true to yourself. And it’s okay if you’re not like other women, or other people in general. Nana was the FIRST woman in her family and among her friends who worked after she got married.

A year or so after my mother was born, Nana took a job at the company store. My mother grew up in the coal fields of West Virginia. And Nana got to know the manager of the company store at church, and he mentioned that he needed a part-time clerk. My grandmother eagerly took the job, not because she needed the money, but because she WANTED to work. And she eventually became the manager of the store.

She wasn’t happy sitting around the house all day cleaning and changing diapers. And this was in 1936! Such just wasn’t done, but Nana did it! She didn’t care what other people thought about it either. My grandfather was shocked and confused, but he knew Nana well enough to know that it didn’t do any good to argue with her or to try to dissuade her from whatever she wanted. She was going to do it anyway. And she worked until she was 78 years old. She retired 3 times before she finally decided it was time to give work a rest.

I hope that I’m able to see Nana again before she’s ushered from this world.  When taking care of Nana got to be too much, and she needed full-time care, she didn’t want to be in a nursing home here in Ohio where I live because she hates the weather here. She requested to move back down South where she’d lived for more than 50 years.

So, we put her in a nursing home about 5 miles from the house where she had lived from 1976 until she moved in with me and my husband in 2011. And they’ve taken very good care of her though they refer to her as “the Diva”, which is more than appropriate because I’ve never encountered anyone more spoiled than she is, God Bless Her…:) And there are quite a few posts herein that will more than quantify that nickname.

And so with that, I will say adieu so that I can make travel plans to see the crazy redhead one more time before her lights go out in Georgia for the last time.

Over and out from CASA DE CRAZY…

~TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies

#156 – Five Reasons Why I Sometimes Hate Living With Men…:)

Posted in blogging, cats, comedy, Family, family drama, humor, life, marriage, memoir, Motherhood, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, uncategoried with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 3, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

As I’ve mentioned before, I have son named Max, who is now 23.

Meanwhile Max’s best friend, Taylor, moved in with us about a month ago. Taylor’s roommates kicked him out because their landlord had sold the house they were renting. With 2 weeks left to vacate, they hadn’t packed anything because in Taylor’s words, “Because all they cared about was doing drugs, and that’s just not me.” So, he came home from work to find himself locked out and homeless (awesome).

As much as that sucked, GOOD FOR HIM that he didn’t follow them down that life-crushing rabbit hole. He’s a great kid, so I don’t mind that he’s staying with us until he and Max find an apartment.

That said…however, living with 3 men often makes me wanna go POSTAL. Don’t get me wrong. all of them are rather amicable fellows, and Taylor, who is 21, is a good influence on Max’s bad temper, but I’ll leave that nightmare for another day.

My husband does do laundry and help with dishes (and he actually does a decent job cleaning bathrooms when he has time to assist). However, all you men people have habits that drive all of us ladies to the brink of madness at times. I know I’m not perfect, but this post ISN’T about me…:), i.e. it’s my blog, and the BITCH will bitch if I want to, LOL.

So… why do they disturb me so?

1 – THEY’RE ALL PIGS IN THEIR OWN WAY. For example:

forks and mt dew

There’s always some kind of trash in Max’s room. The last time he cleaned it, he hauled out five 30-gallon trash bags full of pop cans, fast food trash and the like.

JUNK MAIL

My husband’s junk mail piles up to such a sprawling stack on the kitchen table that it even irritates the CAT, who will occasionally push it off onto the floor when it gets in her way from her favorite window seat/across the table to the floor. It’s pretty hilarious. I’ve tried to videotape her, but she’s camera shy.

NUZZLES GIFT ON HARDWOOD FLOOR

Max was dating a girl who had an adorable dog, who constantly pooped on the floor when he visited. Guess who cleaned that up most of the time? (:

PATHFINDER BOX

Max leaves his junk all over the house. This book for some roll playing game, sat on this marble chest by the front door for months until…you guessed it, Samantha (the cat) knocked it into the floor. No, I’m not kidding, she REALLY hates clutter. At which point, I took it upstairs and left it by Max’s door…and he FINALLY put it away.

BROKEN GLASS

Max broke a glass a couple days ago in the wee hours after he got off work around 2:30 a.m. I realize he was tired, but he didn’t clean it up very well, and the largest shard in this photo was sitting on a pot holder on the counter where one of cats could easily get a hold of it, and off I’d go to the vet with a bloody, yowling kitty cat, which Max would’ve felt HORRIBLE about.

MAX'S SHORTS IN THE BATHROOM

Max and Taylor leave their dirty clothes on the bathroom floor…Max more than Taylor, BUT STILL. And the other day, Max had left his dirty underwear ON THE FRICKIN’ SINK!!!

And last but not least.. the kitchen ISSUES. All of the items in the sink were from Max making his lunch and/or dinner. And don’t you love the fact that my sign threatening certain death for creating this unholy mess is in plain view and completely ignored?DIRTY DISHES - MESS WITH MY KITCHEN SIGN It’s hanging from the cabinet beside the sink. And no matter how much I bitch and scream and politely ask them to load their own fucking dishes into the dishwasher, it rarely, if ever, happens – though occasionally Taylor and my husband will load their own dishes.

2. Aside from all that, they’re rather noisy and obnoxious at times…

The sound of cars crashing and/or exploding from their videogames often disturbs my zen while trying to refinish furniture, etc., in my exercise/craft room or work in my office during the day… since both Taylor and Max work at night.

 

3. Then, there are my husband’s television viewing choices. I hate when I’m cutting fabric for an art project or something in the dining room, and I catch a glimpse of some unbelievably nasty house full of dead cats (literally) and God knows what else on the big screen in the family room while my husband is watching HOARDERS. Egad…he says he likes watching these poor obsessive, usually mentally ill individuals get help. Fortunately, those momentary visions of horror haven’t given me nightmares (yet).

He also likes Bar Rescue, which is a worthwhile show helping bar owners to redecorate, and/or change their irresponsible ways to become more profitable, etc., but I just can’t stand listening to John Tafford scream at people, though his anger is justified. While innocently walking by toward the laundry room, I caught a scene where a horse walked into a bar and actually shit on the floor while the drunken owner laughed hysterically, which is why I don’t watch this crap (no pun intended!). I watch TV to escape reality, not be bludgeoned by it.

4. Men can be so rude!

I can’t tell you how many times while preparing breakfast Taylor has walked in and farted rather loudly. And he just doubled-over in laughter because the stench was so foul that Samantha, our senior cat, gave him a dirty look and sashayed out of sight. I often set my breakfast in the fridge for a bit until my nausea subsides.

Hello…they make medication that renders your disgusting TOOTS, MOOT and void, a cure that costs less than $5.00!!!

5. And if all that weren’t enough to make me load up a couple shotguns and start laying some ground fire of the buckshot persuasion…they can be so CLUELESS. This morning I started to walk upstairs to get dressed, and there was Taylor going to the loo at the top of the stairs WITH THE DAMNED DOOR OPEN! WTF? Luckily, I saw his face and rushed back into the kitchen before I saw anything else, thank God. How embarrassing!

Excuse me, but I LIVE HERE TOO, and just because I was downstairs five minutes ago doesn’t mean that I’m going to remain downstairs the rest of my fucking life….so CLOSE THE DAMNED DOOR…(she says shaking her head in disbelief).

OH AND P.S./BONUS – my husband blows his nose in the shower. UGH, ugh, and double ugh. Don’t even get me started on that…:)

And that’s my rant for the day.

Over and out…

TenaciousB and her Band of Truth-Spouting Hippies

~TB/KS

Post #150 – About the Life and Death of James Thompson

Posted in BOOKS, Family, family drama, marriage, Motherhood, nonfiction, relationships, true stories with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

For those who didn’t read my previous post last August –

http://tenaciousbitch.com/2014/08/04/about-james-thompson-author-of-snow-angels-my-ex-husband-who-died-last-weekend/

My ex-husband, James Thompson (author of Snow Angels) died in an accident in Helsinki, Finland where he had lived for the last 16 years. Initially, the details of his passing were sketchy.  However, I’ve since learned more about the circumstances on that dark night when Jim departed this world.

Unfortunately, Jim had suffered with severe migraines for years, and the medication he was taking made him drowsy, and it can also cause dizziness. The night he died, he took a walk after dinner by a lake near his house, which he’d done many times before. From what I understand, he lost his balance on the pier bordering the lake, and he drown.

He also had a head injury, so he either struck his head on the pier as he fell or he might’ve hit a rock or something in the water. They’re not really sure. However, he had always been a strong swimmer, so he had to have been unconscious, or he’d still be with us today.

Annika, his widow was just here in the states a few weeks ago. They had a memorial for him in Kentucky. Our son and his fiance were able to attend, but, unfortunately, I just started a new job in March, so I wasn’t able to get time off work. I also didn’t want to make Annika, uncomfortable – especially since I’ve never met her.

They buried his ashes in the family cemetery on his father’s farm. As I mentioned in a previous post, he and his third wife, Many, lived on the farm in a mobile home for a couple of years before they moved to Helsinki in ’98. It’s really beautiful there with acres and acres of lovely green grass and lush foliage, a very fitting place for his remains. He spent a lot of time there as a kid when his Uncle lived on the property before his father built a house there in ’98 or ’99. Some day, when I’m driving down to West Virginia to see friends or something, I’ll take a detour to Kentucky to visit his grave. I’d like to see the headstone that my son and his father’s family chose to honor him.

It’s odd being the ex-wife in these situations. I sent sympathy cards to his father and stepmother and his mother and stepfather. I emailed Annika and several of Jim’s friends a few words of condolence, but it still doesn’t seem real to me because I haven’t experienced any of the usual ceremonies of closure since I wasn’t able to go to the memorial or anything.

The last time I saw him was in 1998 when I picked up our son from the farm a few days before Jim and Many (pronounced money) set out for Helsinki. And our last conversation a few years later was fraught with anger and animosity – and our last email in 2003 was just as ugly.

I was 20 years old when we got married, and it took me a couple of years to realize that we were very different people with opposing priorities. I knew that neither of us was going to change, so I left him, and he was devastated.

He moved to Boston the week after our divorce was final, but things didn’t end there. He used to call me all the time and tell me how lonely he was. By that I don’t mean, he wasn’t alone all the time. He was knockin’ boots with a different girl every night, which he felt the need to share (awesome). What he missed was the connection and camaraderie we shared, a connection that was brutally severed after we attempted to reconcile in ’89, but we shall not knock upon that dreadful door at present – or ever.

I had wanted to move to Boston for graduate school after finishing my B.A. in English so that our son could spend time with his father. However, I just couldn’t afford to do so. The cheapest daycare I could find was $800/month, and quite honestly, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving my dog there. And it would’ve been impossible to squeeze $200/week into a budget based on the pittance I was offered as a TA (teaching assistant), which was around $9,000/year (plus free tuition).

I also didn’t know anyone in Bean Town that I could share an apartment with, and you can’t just move in with a stranger you met through an ad on a bulletin board at UMass (University of Massachusetts at Boston) when you have a child. Jim was very upset that I moved to New York instead because I had a friend there who was in need of a roommate, and that also happened to be where I found a job first.

Of course, when I ended up moving to Ohio in 1995…well, let’s just say – we won’t go there. His fury and frustration were understandable. And guilt was my constant companion, but I truly felt that Ohio was a better place for me and my children (i.e. my son, Max, was 5 when we settled in the Buckeye state).

Anywho…it is what it is.

Oddly, Jim used to joke around about his demise, quoting the infamous James Dean all the time:

“Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse.”  Sadly, that’s just what he did. A tad bit eerie when you think about it.

Adieu, Mr. Thompson, may you rest in peace.

If anyone’s interested, I’ve got some photos of Jim for sale on Ebay – which I’m selling to either add to the monetary wedding gift for our son who is getting married in 6 weeks or to help with travel expenses for the wedding, which is taking place in Florida (1,000 miles away).

To see a photo of Jim with long hair when he was 26 or 27, go here:

http://www.ebay.com/itm/252079424659?ssPageName=STRK:MESELX:IT&_trksid=p3984.m1555.l2649

To see a photo of Jim in a hard hat when he was working construction, go here:

http://www.ebay.com/itm/252079483379?ssPageName=STRK:MESELX:IT&_trksid=p3984.m1555.l2649

And for one of me and Jim when we were dating when we were both 20 years old, go here:

http://www.ebay.com/itm/252079435979?ssPageName=STRK:MESELX:IT&_trksid=p3984.m1555.l2649

Over and out from the island of chaos that never seems to close… 🙂

~TB

Post #138 – Wish I Could Boil My Fingers…an Adventure in Sink Surgery

Posted in college, Family, family drama, humor, memoir, Motherhood, mysteries, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 8, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

One Saturday, a couple of weeks ago, Susan, my mother-in-law, came down to visit from Cleveland. On the Monday prior, I asked Max, my 22-year-old, to clean his bathroom by Thursday, so she wouldn’t have to either traipse through mine and my husband’s bedroom to the master bath (which she’d never do) or trek downstairs to the half bath in the wee hours.

I gave him until Thursday so that if it wasn’t sanitary, which is usually the case, I could kick his ass back in there to clean it again on Friday. WARNING – if you have a weak stomach, turn away now! Go back to the pristine premises from which you hail because the images below ain’t pretty or for the faint of heart. No, they’re not as disturbing as, perhaps, the latrine at a concentration camp but probably not a whole lot better.

On Thursday afternoon around 4:00, I was in my office down the hall working, and I heard him shuffling around in in his sorry excuse for a loo. After about 15 minutes, I heard the unmistakable sound of an explosion in the vicinity of his room, and I heard him shout, “Dammit! What the fuck?”

Not to worry. It was a fake bomb, accompanied by rather impressive graphics – all courtesy of his XBox.

I crept into his bathroom for a peek at his progress, and I was bitterly disappointed. Check out his sink…

BAX'S SINK JUNE 2014

And, then, there was the toilet…

BAX'S NASTY TOILET - FLOOR

I marched down the hall to his room and beat my fist against his door rapidly, which I’m sure sounded like machine gunfire from outside, LOL.

“What?” he asked in a rather annoyed tone.

I opened the door to find him lounging on his bed, his Xbox controller in his hand, but luckily, his game was paused, so he was at least listening to me.

“You can’t possibly think your bathroom is clean?” I snapped.

“Well, what’s wrong with picking up all the trash first?” He whined in a defensive tone.

“Nothing, but you were supposed to be finished by now. Please get back in there and scrub your sink, the tub and your toilet, and I’ll do the floor to make sure it’s clean.”

Yes, I know, he should’ve done it all himself, but I knew such was asking too much of the universe that he do a decent job on the floor as well because his idea of cleansing the tile was swooshing a mop around for 3o seconds, paying no attention to the grime on the floor around his toilet or the weird crud huddled up under the canopy of the cabinet under the sink.

“Okay. Okay.”

“Now, please. I’ve got enough to do before she gets here.”

He frowned, and I slammed out of the room.

The next day around 3 p.m, I went downstairs to get a glass of water, and he was in his bathroom again. And this time, I could smell the effervescent perfume of SCRUBBING BUBBLES. My relief was tempered by my skepticism that his toilet would be hygienic enough for any woman to park her behind upon it.

Unfortunately, while I was eyeball deep in work, he managed to slip out of the house before I could inspect his janitorial efforts. And goddamit – his toilet was still filthy. The counter was clean, but everything else was still dirty, and he hadn’t even touched his bathtub, which had a smattering of dead bugs layering the bottom. Awesome!

He’d been showering in the guest bathroom downstairs (at the back of the house) because his tub wasn’t draining properly. No wonder. There’s probably a family of insects clogging up the pipes or something.

I left several vitriolic messages on his phone and a few angry texts to boot, but I knew I wouldn’t hear from him. And I didn’t. He said his phone died. WHATEVER…DICKHEAD!

Funny thing though, he hadn’t mentioned his sink wasn’t draining either…didn’t take a genius to figure out why…

BAX'S SINKThere was something stuck in the drain.And he might not show up until 2:00 the next afternoon, and Susan was supposed to arrive around 11 a.m., so, of course, it was all on me.

I donned my hazmat gear, an old t-shirt, ratty shorts and a pair of vinyl gloves. I stuck my finger down inside the sink, but I couldn’t seem to get a hold of the object. It was about the size of a quarter, and it kept flipping around between my gloved fingers.

First, I tried a pair of tweezers, but they weren’t long enough. Next, I grabbed a pair of salad tongs, but they were too wide.

I finally realized, the only way I was going to fish this thing out was to use my fingers – sans the protective vinyl. I ripped off the gloves and stuck my fingers into the drain, and I managed to pluck it out on the first try. It was, in fact, a very hairy and grimy quarter…but, alas, there was something else wedged in the sink.

After a momentary bout of cursing, I took the plunge again, and this time I snatched a penny from the bowels of the sink.

COINS FROM BAX'S SINK

You’d think my time playing sink surgeon was over, right? Oh, but, of course, you’d be dead wrong because there was still something else stuck in the curve of the pipe.

“Holy fuck balls, Max!” I shouted.

The last tidbit appeared to be a tiny bottle of some sort. I tried several times to pull it out, but it was plastic, and it kept slithering out of my grasp. At which point, I went into my bedroom, grabbed a sewing machine needle from my chest full of sewing junk. And I stuck the needle into the teeny, tiny bottle…and voila…

THING IN BAX'S SINK 2

It’s a little bottle of eye drops, a sample from the eye doctor, perhaps?

We had a robust shouting match about him shirking his responsibilities when he returned very late that night. And I told him that he’d have to clean his bathroom once/week from now on because I was not going to spend another two hours on my hands and knees scouring his bathroom floor ever again. And for chrissakes, if you drop something in the sink, remove it before it turns into a waterlogged bit of rusty goo!

He apologized later, but the damage was done. And the worst part was – though I washed my hands repeatedly, I couldn’t shake the phantom slime lingering upon my skin after my dissection of his sink.

Yeah, wish I could’ve boiled my fingers!

And I seem to be cursed by nasty plumbing mishaps, i.e., http://tenaciousbitch.com/2011/05/16/like-a-really-bad-sit-com/   …when Nana’s toilet imploded…:)

Hope all is better in your world than that auspicious day was for me!!!

Over and out from insanity central…

And for my wonderful fans who keep emailing me about my memoir, I’m getting close to finite! 🙂

TenaciousB and her band of truth-spouting hippies~

TB/ks

© Tenacious Bitch 2014

#134 – Time to Go To Prison~Again!

Posted in college, Family, family battles, family drama, friends, marriage, memoir, Motherhood, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 2, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

My son Rory’s first DUI occurred when he was 21, not long after he got married. He was working at Chase bank, and he’d been partying with some friends one night and fell asleep at the wheel and crashed into a tree. No one was injured, thank God. All of which happened in Upper Arlington, a very ritzy, old money suburb not far from Ohio State University.

He couldn’t remember who was in the vehicle with him. However, his unnamed drinking buddies were seen scattering into the darkness when the police arrived.

Apparently, not only had he thrown back quite a few cocktails, he’d probably taken double the recommended dosage of Dexedrine, his ADD medication, and he’d been awake for around 36 hours straight. So, yeah, he was a mess. And he shouldn’t have been anywhere near a car.

Long story short, he was shuffled off to the drunk tank downtown and was later sentenced to six months probation and attending some sort of group therapy. Rory hadn’t augmented his Dexedrine intake to get high. He did it to increase his productivity and stay awake longer in order to get more accomplished – because he’s always been an overachiever.

Besides his job at Chase, he started moonlighting at Victory’s bar and restaurant downtown after Lacey lost her full-time job at a bakery. They had accumulated a massive credit card debt, and he was attempting to stave off foreclosure on their house. Lacey was unemployed for six months and had just started working part-time as a receptionist at Mt. Carmel hospital when he’d gotten the first DUI.

Three or four months later, he was out drinking and decided to give Kim, a co-worker at Victory’s, a ride home.  According to his friends, she was rather inebriated.

Kim didn’t doze off en route to her apartment as expected. No, she attempted to seduce him. Fending off her her advances caused him to swerve into the opposite lane where, thank heaven, there wasn’t an oncoming car. But a cop just happened to be right behind him.

Yeah, he was totally fucked.

On the advice of a friend/attorney who handles a lot of DUI’s, Rory refused the breathalyzer. But, apparently, when he passed the field sobriety test, the cop didn’t believe he was sober. So, the officer snuck up behind him, popped the breathalyzer in his mouth and told him to “blow”.

His blood-alcohol level was high enough for an arrest, but if I’d known how the cop had obtained his probable cause, I would’ve helped Rory prepare a Motion to Dismiss since all the evidence against him was fruit of the poisoned tree nullifying the policeman’s probable cause.

It might not’ve have been a Supreme Court-worthy document, but having been a paralegal for almost 7 years, I think it would’ve sufficed for a Pro Se defendant.

It might’ve eliminated or at least truncated Rory’s 2nd turn in County. Either way, worst case scenario – the judge could’ve denied the Motion to Dismiss. No harm. No foul. But I didn’t know what the police officer had done until a few days ago when I asked Rory about the specifics of his arrests to confirm all the details.

He pled guilty to the 2nd DUI because he couldn’t afford an attorney. He was sentenced to 5 days in lockup for violating his probation in the Upper Arlington case, and 5 days for the 2nd DUI.

Additionally, he lost his driver’s license for 2 years. However, at least the judge was kind enough to allow Rory to serve his time on his days’ off so that he wouldn’t lose his job. And since he was on flex time, his days’ off varied.

Rory’s 2nd prison term began in mid-summer. He had moved back home temporarily because he and Lacey were separated. (They divorced about a year later).  Since he didn’t have a driver’s license, I drove him to the corrections facility, which was only 4 miles away from our house.

I didn’t mind providing transportation. Plus, I could make sure he clocked in at at 9 a.m. sharp as required by his sentencing agreement. I was concerned he’d be late or not show up at all because he’d started drinking even more after he and Lacey split up. I knew that if he was a no-show, he could get thrown in the clink for 3 months to a year.

So, I’m sure you can guess what happened next. One particular morning in August, I got  up to take Rory to serve his time, and he wasn’t sleeping peacefully in his room. He wasn’t steeped in Jameson, dead to the world, on our couch downstairs in front of the TV. He was nowhere to be found.

I called and texted him a dozen times, but all I got was his voicemail and no reply to my texts. I texted every single friend of his whose contact info was on my cellular Rolodex. No one had heard from him, and none of his friends had a reason to lie, especially given the severity of the situation.

Finally at 9:45, I decided to toss out a Hail Mary. I suspected Rory might’ve spent the night with Lacey because he’d been talking to her a lot on the phone lately. She and I have a rocky history because I never wanted Rory to marry her. Don’t get me wrong, she’s a beautiful girl, and she can be extremely sweet when she wants to be. But I just didn’t think either of them was ready for marriage since he was barely 21 and she 22.

I also didn’t think they were a good match. He’s very serious and intellectual, and Lacey is not. And as I feared, they split up eight months into their marriage.

Therefore, it was a delicate proposition to contact Lacey. God forbid, I didn’t wanna call and wake her up unnecessarily since she works night or embarrass her if she happened to be with another guy. So, I chose a different route.

I called Rory’s friend, Nelson, who is probably Rory’s most responsible friend. By the time Nelson was 21, he’d already completed his BA in automotive technology from Ohio State. He works at a local Chevy dealership, and he’s got his own side business repairing/restoring old muscle cars. Yeah, I like Nelson. He’s a good egg.

So, I explained Rory’s incarceration dilemma and asked Nelson to contact Lacey. Not ten minutes later, he texted me confirming that Rory was at Lacey’s apartment somewhere downtown. I took a deep breath and dialed Lacey’s number.

“He got another DUI?” Lacey gasped.

Score another fuck up for me. Sorry, Dude, I thought to myself, didn’t mean to turn up the temp on the hot water you’re swimming in, Rory, but it ain’t my fault.

“Yeah, right after my Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer, Rory, got a DUI downtown,” I explained. “Is he with you?”

Long pause.

“Look, Lacey…” I began in an apologetic tone while looking at my watch. “He was supposed to be at the jail an hour ago. Is he there?”

“I see,” Lacey sputtered. “Thanks for letting me know.” And she hung up.

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

***

The conclusion to this story will be in my upcoming book – Tales From the Lunatic Lounge – which I hope to finish in a couple of months wherein you can read all the dirt on Rory’s last stint in the pokey! 🙂

And if you’re searching for some summer reads, check out my list of favorite books at:

http://tenaciousbitch.com/my-favorite-books/

Over and out-

~TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies

Tenacious Bitch © 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.  http://tenaciousbitch.com/2012/12/12/interesting-what-you-find-under-the-cat-shit/ ) 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   http://tenaciousbitch.com/2011/08/29/blog-30-%E2%80%93-an-ode-to-barboursville-and-the-days-of-yore/

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.

“Fine.”

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.

~Ciao

TenaciousBITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies

© Tenacious Bitch/Kennedy Smith 2014

 

Post #122 – Words of Wisdom from the WEE ones…

Posted in art, BOOKS, Family, family battles, friends, humor, memoir, Motherhood, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

My cousin recently posted a conversation on Facebook that she’d had with her 4-year-old after telling her son that she had to punish him so that he would learn how to be a good human being.

His reply was, “You need to try something else because this isn’t working.”  TOO FUNNY, right? These days my conversations with Max, my 21-year-old, are all too often merely my asking questions, and his grunts, shrugs, and/or one-word replies.

So, I long for the days of dazzling and thought-provoking conversations between me and my children like one particular day when Max was eight. His homework was to write a one-page essay on someone from a different culture or a different religion. Max was hell bent on making his best friend, Alex, the subject of his paper. But Alex, who lived across the street, was also in third grade, was born in America, and his family is Protestant.

“You can’t do a paper on Alex because he was born in America,” I replied.

“So was Oscar.”

“Yes, but Oscar [another 8-year-old friend] is Mexican, and his family moved here when his mom was pregnant with him. They’re Catholic, which is not like our Presbyterian church, and the Mexican culture is very different as well.”

“But Oscar doesn’t have a moped, and Alex does. And he’s the only kid on the street who has a moped.”

I smiled. I could see his point if the inventory of one’s toys was considered one of the factors for his homework, but such was not the case.

“That doesn’t matter. His moped was a birthday gift. Where you were born, the language you speak, the way you dress, your religion, that’s what matters when defining someone’s culture.”

Max frowned. “Oscar doesn’t wear jeans, and Alex does.”

I shook my head, trying not to laugh because I knew that Max didn’t give a rat’s ass what the cultural differences were. He wanted to write about Alex’s moped, and he wanted to turn in photos of the moped also (because you got extra credit for photos). You see, Max was in love with that moped. He’d been begging for one since the moment he caught a glimpse of Alex tooling around on it in front of his house. But at the same time, he obviously didn’t understand the difference between one culture and another.

“Yes, he does. Don’t be silly. All your friends wear jeans.”

“Nuh, uh, he does not,” he sputtered, his lower lip puffing out in disappointment.

I smiled. “Try again, Sport. How about doing your paper on your friend, Kareem?”

Another frown. “Why?” He retorted angrily. “Does he speak Martian or something?”

I laughed, and Max smiled, knowing he was just being goofy.

“No, people from South Africa speak English and Farsi, I think. But Kareem doesn’t speak another language, right?”

“No,” Max said grumpily.

“And he’s Muslim, so that’s very different, and–”

“So, what? Who cares if Oscar is Mexican, and they go to another church, and Karim was born in another country and isn’t a Christian. We’re all Americans, right, Mom?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my teacher said because of your culture, your family is different – like some people in Africa sometimes all live together with their moms and dads and grandmothers and cousins and uncles, all in one house. Most people in America don’t do that.”

“Right.”

“So, Alex is the only one who lives with his dad and his Dad’s girlfriend,  instead of his mom and Dad. And he’s the only one who doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and I’ve got four brothers. And Oscar has two brothers and a sister, and Kareem has a sister and a baby brother, right?”

“Right.”

“And if we’re all Americans, we’re all the same, doesn’t matter where you go to church or what language you speak you’re still an American, but Alex’s family is different, and he’s the only one of my friends with blue eyes, and my teacher said that sometimes the way you look makes a difference. So, I don’t see why I can’t do my paper on Alex.”

Man, it was hard to argue with that logic…if only most Americans felt that way, it’d be a better place, would it not?” 🙂

Max ended up writing his paper on Oscar-albeit begrudgingly. As I recall, he got a B- on it, and then, he ripped it up and threw it in the trashcan. I didn’t say anything. I just let that go, but, apparently, Max could not let this issue fade into the night. Finally, when I thought Max had forgotten all about it, his teacher, Mrs. Childers, called about the other paper Max wrote.

“What other paper?” I asked.

“Another essay about someone named Alex. He handed it to me saying all that culture stuff is a bunch of ca ca, and this the one he should’ve done and that it was an A+ paper!” Mrs. Childers explained cheerily. “Afterward, he stomped over to his desk, crossed his arms, and fumed until recess. He didn’t do any work, but he didn’t bother anyone, so I just let him be. Eventually, he started drawing pictures of  Alex’s Moped. After lunch, he was fine on the playground and very attentive all afternoon.”

“I’m sorry to hear that he blew up like that,” I replied, trying not to laugh. “Is he in trouble? Did he say or do anything else?”

“No, I just wanted you to know how much this unit on culture upset him, but I think he vented his frustration in a very positive manner.”

“Well, thank you,” I said with relief because too often Max expelled his aggravation by screaming at people, breaking things, kicking his desk, or unfortunately, slugging a classmate, on occasion. “That was very nice of you to call and let me know.”

And…as they say…was that…

Over and out from CRAZYTOWN – where the CRAZY store never closes…:)

Tenacious BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies

Kennedy/tb