Archive for cheaters

Post #154 – Conversation With A Mega Douche Bag!

Posted in blogging, comedy, corporations, humor, life, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, work with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on August 17, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

For years, I’ve heard certain men being referred to as Mega Douche Bags, my husband chief among them. But let me clarify. Mega Douche Bags work for Mega Bank where I was employed until a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t really understand why the Mega Douche Bag differed from an ordinary, run-of-the-mill Douche Bag until recently.

During my last week at Mega, I was walking out of the ladies restroom one night before heading out, when I noticed this guy smiling at me – from his desk about 10 feet away. As I pondered the nature of his grin, he winked at me.

He was 26 at best. I thought maybe, his flirtation was meant for someone else walking behind me. But the hallway was empty. He smiled again, so I decided to see WTF was going on with this impudent child.

He had dark, curly hair spackled together with more mousse and gel than I could ever amass within my long quaff. His shirt was a pale lavender, and he was wearing a purple tie with tiny, dark blue polka dots with a navy blue suit. So suave…so bold…guess I should’ve just taken him right there just for his grooming props alone if I were that sort of woman. Instead, I found his get-up, his hair and demeanor rather contemptuous.

“Were you winking at me?” I asked approaching Mr. Hair-Do.

He smiled even brighter, his insanely straight teeth seemed to be glaring at me.

“Um, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “We’ve all been wondering who the new hottie is. I’m Todd.”

“Mrs. Smith,” I said flatly, and those who know me well…know just HOW significant that moniker is. I NEVER call myself Mrs. – ever – nor did I do so when married previously. I couldn’t tell if this moronic Ken Doll was actually hitting on me, or if he was feigning his attentions as some kinda sick joke. And using the word “hottie” was highly inappropriate. Had he NOT taken the required sexual harassment training, or was his face buried in his Blackberry the whole time?

“Seriously?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Yes,” I said adamantly, holding up my badge for emphasis.

He glanced at it and nodded. “Sorry, you know, people, use that name when -”

“Yeah, I get it. Now, if you’ll excuse me-” I began.

“Just one more question if you don’t mind,” he said, sweetly.

“Yes?” I asked, rather agitated.

“Is that a men’s shirt you’re wearing?”

WTF? YOU PEA-BRAINED ASSHOLE. “No, it’s not,” I said in a very surly manner. “Great line there, Casanova, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” I snarled.  I turned away mumbling, “Fucking dickhead,” …which I guess his buddies heard, evidenced by the howls of laughter behind me.


The Ralph Lauren shirt in question, which I wore with a white skirt.

However, I caught a sidelong glimpse of his lovely cornflower blue eyes clouding over, and I looked away thinking MAYBE…he was the “fat” kid in school with really large glasses and crooked teeth. He wore whatever his mother told him to – yellow Izod shirt that was too small creating ugly bulges around his middle…with black pants that were too short and last but not least, white socks and black dress shoes.

He joined a gym, started drinking GREEN vegie shakes/ eating anything gluten free or made with TOFU, etc., reinvented himself – a la GQ.

Oh, but I was so WRONG. While in the elevator facing them, waiting for the doors to shut, my guilt vanished.  Instead of a mortified, late-blooming butterfly cowering in the corner, I saw him snickering with a couple of his co-worker clones. After a sneaky glance at me, his expression morphed into the unmistakable….

OOPS…she caught me, followed by giggling behind his well-manicured hand. No, no, no…this guy was the Homecoming King and very proud to be so. He played football, but wasn’t a star, or he wouldn’t be working here, right?

He had a couple girlfriends and was always trolling for another. He drives a BMW, but doesn’t own a sofa, opting for watching TV sprawled out on his bean bag chair because his image is much more important than the “comfy” couch he plans to buy with his next BIG commission check. There was no doubt about it. I had just met the infamous…MEGA DOUCHE BAG.

I hope to hell his question about my blouse was just an idle comment meant in jest, and, God forbid, not part of some stupid bet. His intentions remained a mystery until talking to Jackson, another salesman two days later. Jackson was a tall, handsome black man in his mid 30s. We met at Minelli’s, a local fast food restaurant near the office, when I inadvertently cut ahead of him in line at lunch one day. I noticed his bank badge, and we struck up a conversation. Turned out, we’re both sci-fi geeks.

I ran into Jackson in the breakroom. He was heating up his lunch in the microwave, and I walked in to buy a pop.

“Hey, Jackson, how’s it goin’?” I asked.

“Good.  Jackson smiled. “By the way, my apologies for the Neanderthals.”

Confused, I asked with a chuckle, “I’m sorry. Which Neanderthals?”

“Griffin and Gordon,” he replied.

I shrugged. These names meant nothing to me.

“Um, the guy with the dark hair, superglued with Redken’s finest gel, made some snide comment about your shirt the other day?”

“Oh….THAT GUY,” I said pursing my lips in annoyance. “He said his name was Todd.”

“Makes it much easier to cheat on his fiance.”

“That figures.”

I had shoved that retarded conversation into my mental trashcan reserved for images of outfits I should never have bought, songs I despise (like Cold as Ice by Foreigner…don’t ever play it / hum it around me if you’d like to continue BREATHING)…as well as – you guessed it…conversations with douche bags!

“First off, I’m gay.”

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly, wondering where Jackson was going with this.

“So what I’m about to tell you ain’t another lame-assed pick-up line, or nothin’,” he said with a big grin.

“Noted,” I said smiling.

“Mr. Hair who winked at you, that’s Griffin, Griffin Goetz, and the blond guy next to him, that’s Gordon.”

“I see,” I said, nodding.

“Griffin’s the worst kind of player, constantly talking about women, especially um..if they’re busty, ya know what I mean?”

“All too well,” I replied.

“Since the first time Griffin saw you walkin’ down the hallway, they all been speculating whether they’s real or not,” he said with a half nod toward my breasts. “And Griffin decided he was gonna chat you up to get a better look. But you didn’t hear any of this from me?”

“What? That your co-workers are asshole douche bags?”

Jackson busted out laughing. “Got that right.”

I just smiled. “Do they know you’re gay?”

“Hell no. I don’t want them knowing nothin’ about me, and they kinda hate me cuz my sales are usually higher than theirs.”

I smiled. “Awesome.”


“Meet me back here around 5:15,” I said.

“Why?” Jackson asked. At which point, I revealed my plan.


For the unveiling of MY REVENGE upon the Mega Douche Bags in a few days…

Over and out…


And her band of truth-spouting hippies


Post #57 – After the Reckoning…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I nodded.

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

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

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

“No luggage,” he said, calmly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footfalls in the hallway…and…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

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

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

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

“Oh, I almost forgot. Stacy called.”


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

“Oh, yeah. I’m just so tired-”

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

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

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

Shall we move on now?

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

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

Over and out from Fucked Up Central…