Archive for cheating

Post #155 – Revenge is best served via Taye Diggs or something like that…

Posted in blogging, comedy, dating, life, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, uncategoried, work with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

“Is your phone all set?” I asked when Jackson waltzed in the breakroom all giddy and smiling at 5:15 as promised earlier that day after he’d unveiled Gordon’s despicable motive (see my last post).

“Yes, ma’am, armed and ready,” he replied as I slipped my arm through his.

“Take one,” Jackson said laughing, encircling my waist with his other arm.

“One’s all we’ve got,” I said giggling as we sauntered into the hallway, gazing at each other as if en route to the nearest boudoir. Quite a performance since he’s gay, and I’m happily married with no intention of cheating. But Griffin and Gordon didn’t know that.

“After this, the whole office will think we’re having a thing,” I said grinning.

“Except, pardon me, but I’m pretending you’re Taye Diggs right now,” Jackson mumbled.

“Whatever works for you, baby,” I said with a giggle. “And when you’re done with him, I’ll take a turn,” I said jokingly,

Jackson busted out laughing but managed to stifle himself by buttoning his lip so as not to over-dramatize our scene.

Out on the sales floor, I could feel a dozen eyes on us. But I couldn’t tell how close we were to Griffin’s desk.

“Are they looking?” I asked.

“Yep, 2 blond idiots at 6:00,” Jackson murmured.  “And about 1/3 the sales force is gawking our way as well,” Jackson said as his dark eyes swept back to mine.

“Can’t wait for the video.”

“Oscar-worthy I’m sure,” I replied.

Jackson nodded with a giggle.

To make this moment all the sweeter, I had instructed Jackson to turn on the video camera on his phone before we embarked upon our scandalous stroll down the hallway. While only part of it is on camera (momentarily), the dialogue that ensued is hysterical.

I stole a sidelong glance at the 2 Douche Bags (Griffin and Gordon). They were slumped over their desks, their eyes plucked wide open with shock and, perhaps, exasperation by mine and Jackson’s display of manufactured enrapture.

For the coup d’etat, I batted my eyes at Jackson seconds before passing Griffin’s desk and in a sultry voice, I said, “See you round 7:00, then.”

“You bet,” Jackson said softly as I sashayed toward the elevator, shaking my ass as if it were on fire… 🙂

Seconds later, I heard Griffin say, “Hold up, Jackson, what’s goin’ on?”

I snuck a glance over my shoulder just as Griffin stood up and wedged himself between his desk and Gordon’s, so Jackson couldn’t pass by to his own cubicle cage, not 3 feet away.

A broad, devilish smile broke out on Jackson’s face, which I’m sure the miscreants believed was from basking in the glow of our lust.

“So, what’s the story with you and Mrs. Smith?” Gordon snapped.

Jackson leaned down and quietly replied, “Well, she won’t be Mrs. Smith much longer.”

“Yeah?” Griffin asked.

“She left her husband a month ago.”

“Really?” Griffin asked. “Then, why was she such a bitch when I tried to talk to her?”

“Maybe, because you’re an asshole,” Jackson quipped, still grinning.

Gordon laughed. Griffin scowled.

At which point, I was standing at the elevator sending Jackson a text.

When Jackson’s phone made that obnoxious DING notifying him of my communique, he took his phone out and held it up so that while reading my text, he was also simultaneously recording Griffin and Gordon on video. And Jackson was so kind as to enlighten me later that evening on the phone – with the details that weren’t captured on film.

Griffin’s angry eyes cut to Gordon – when suddenly, Jackson erupted into laughter. I hadn’t mentioned the particular verbiage for my text.

“She is a naughty girl,” Jackson said.

“Who, Mrs. Smith, aka Kennedy?” Griffin demanded sarcastically. “What’d she say?”

“Not much, just how much…uh, she can’t wait to cover me in peanut butter and lap me up and down,” Jackson said, laughing.

“Seriously? The uptight woman with dark hair who just left?” Griffin sputtered. “Said THAT to you?”

“The one and only,” Jackson answered, wearing a bemused grin elicited by the two confused dimwits, whose eyes were all aglow with ideas of sexual weirdness between me and the gay man.

“Bullshit,” Gordon barked.

Jackson smiled. “Whatever. See you two dickheads later,” he said pushing past Griffin.

A couple cords of laughter rippled in the background, but Griffin and Gordon were auspiciously silent.

“Prove it,” Griffin said contemptuously.

“You didn’t hear her say she was looking forward to seeing me?”

“So what?  You could be going to Bible study for all I know.”

“Oh, it’ll be biblical all right,” Jackson said with a chuckle.

Gordon laughed, but Griffin just glared at my imaginary beau.

“Okay. Let me see your phone,” Griffin insisted.

“No, that’s private. Besides, I’ve got work to do.” Jackson said, barging toward his desk.

Griffin moved closer to Jackson, growling in a low voice, “Oh, right, because there’s nothing on your phone but photos of you whackin’ off.”

Jackson and Gordon both cracked up at such a ridiculous statement. “Why the fuck would I have photos of THAT on my phone when I’ve got photos of…” Jackson began. “Never mind,” Jackson said, sitting down at his desk, while clicking over to the photo gallery on his phone. Meanwhile, the video camera was still recording every morsel of conversation.

“I don’t think so. You’re not getting off that easy,” Griffin said, grabbing Jackson’s arm.

Jackson spun around, beaming, “Well, apparently, I do, according to you…”

Gordon collapsed into nearly convulsive laughter.

“Shut up, Gordy, And yet, I’m the asshole,” Griffin said sourly…his first intelligent comment… 🙂

“Fine,” Jackson said with a sigh as if exhausted by their taunts, “Check this out,” he continued, thrusting his  phone in Griffin’s face. Whereupon, they saw a photo of me from when I was still modeling 5 years ago. I’m lying on a pink satin bedspread in a black negligee, my double D’s tumbling forward, almost completely exposed. And, funny thing, Gordie and Griffie didn’t notice I’m 20 pounds heavier now. Their brains only registered my “boobage”.

“Oh, my God, she’s…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is beautiful, dumb ass,” Jackson said. Awwwww, Jackson, bet you say that to all the girls.

“Okay, dude,” Gordon said. “How the hell did you score a woman like that?”

“I was nice to her,” Jackson said.

At that point, Jackson said the look on Dumb and Dumber’s faces was priceless. Unfortunately, all we have on film is a shot of everyone’s shoes. However, t’was a joint epiphany for my 2 blond adversaries, revealing that, perhaps, chicanery and stupid attempts at humor are not the best way to win a woman. And apparently, Griffin’s asinine question about my blouse was his convoluted attempt at humor.

For fuck’s sake, really?

The next day Gordon or Griffin’s team went on a company retreat, and I never saw them again because my assignment at Mega ended (due to lack of work) while they were gone. So, I didn’t even get to say goodbye to those who brought me so many BELLY laughs at their expense.

But I dare say, I’ll survive.

Over and out from CASA DE CRAZY…

~TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies



Post #108 – Thank You for reminding me of the Supreme Philanderer and my check kiting days…

Posted in Family, humor, marriage, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 13, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

Round about 1993, I met an asshole named Allen through the personals in the newspaper.  Stop laughing and smirking. After all, the Internet was in diapers then, and dating websites were sketchy, clunky and relatively unknown.  Besides, I didn’t own a computer until ’96.

Long story short, after dating for almost two+ years, Allen and I got married in August of ’95. Not long after, Allen accepted a job at Ohio State as a chemical engineer or something like that. I don’t speak geek, badly or otherwise. And off we went to Ohio.

At first, Allen’s rendition of the devoted stepfather was Oscar worthy. Max was 4, and Rory was 9. Taking them to the park, going camping, helping them build model airplanes and other father-feigning activities.

Then, came our first marital blowout, on Valentine’s Day, a mere six months into our marriage.

“You should give up custody of Max, to his dad, Allen said, his hazel eyes darkening to a murky, turd-water green. And his voice was stern and authoritative as if this crucifixion of my life and Max’s were an order, not a suggestion. Max was a little hellion, but he was FOUR! It’s not like he’d just wrecked Allen’s car or something.

*And for those who are new to my corral of crazy, Ashe is ex #2, mentioned in this post:

“NO FUCKING WAY!” Was my swift, blood-curdling reply.

And so it began, the first of many vicious brawls between us. This one ended with him slinging me into a cinder-block wall. He then barricaded me in our bedroom with a chair under the doorknob. I sat stunned on the scratchy, sculptured carpet for a moment, completely bewildered. My back and arms were wallpapered with sharp-edged bruises. But, luckily, no broken bones.

Taking a deep breath, I bit down on the anger, and ran into the door, shoulder first like a battering ram. I heard the wood splintering and made a second charge into the door. With a SPLAT, the door gave way, and I landed, sprawled across the door, which had plunked down atop the washer across the hall.

And there was Allen, holding a wooden shard from the kitchen chair I’d bashed into with the door.  I think God saved me from breaking my pelvis that night, or the adrenalin padded my fall, who knows. Later, Allen confessed, he’d grabbed the chair just before I sacked it with the door a second time to lessen any acute injuries. How sweet – trying to minimize the blood bath he’d started. And I’d broken and dislocated his thumb to boot. Allen was a South Paw. After that, he had to learn to write with the opposite hand. Served him right…the bastard … 🙂 I was still raw from such a brutal exchange, so I called the police.

By the time the Sheriff arrived, Allen had gone to a motel to avoid “Anymore of my insolence.” Really? Interesting word choice. I was 26, not 12, and the word OBEY was not among our marital promises, but I guess in the warped world of Allen Costanza, I was still beholden to his whims, wants and rules. Fuck that. I didn’t alter my custody agreement with Ashe who had visitation on weekends. If Allen didn’t like it, too frickin’ bad!

A couple weeks later, Allen and I made a tentative truce of sorts. In that, I no longer wanted to boil him alive.  Not two weeks later, I developed what I thought was a yeast infection. But I was SO wrong.

“I’m sorry, but you have a rash that is most likely from,” the Nurse said with a heavy sigh, her eyebrows twitching nervously, “Well, often caused by a spermicidal product used with a diaphragm,” the nurse continued delicately.

“But I’ve been on the pill since Max was born…” I couldn’t finish that sentence as the realization sunk in. I stared at the nurse speechless and slack-jawed.  I didn’t own a diaphragm, nor had I ever used one.

I broke down sobbing knowing that I’d suffered with these damned hives that made me wanna sandpaper my crotch because of another woman’s birth control bullshit! Can you say DICKHEAD with a capital D?

And that was the end of Mr. and Mrs. Allen. I drove straight to his office, flung open the door and started screaming every disdainful adjective and four-letter word in my vast vocabulary. And I didn’t give a shit who heard me.

“See you in court, you lousy prick,” I sputtered sashaying my vindicated ass past his dough-eyed assistant, who’d been white-knuckling it the whole time while easing backward against a file cabinet as if fearing she was my next target. But she could drain his little ding dong dry for all I cared. I was DONE. However, I found out years later from a mutual friend, Allen had been boinking an ex-girlfriend who dumped him right after I did! Karma’s a bitch, is she not? 🙂

If all that weren’t bad enough, the month before our divorce was final, Allen darkened my doorway one sunny afternoon with claims of fiduciary misconduct.

“You’ve overdrawn our joint account.”

“I have not.  I just balanced my checkbook yesterday after I got paid, and there was $75 left over.”

“Well, I suggest you straighten it out because they might debit my fucking business account for your mismanagement of funds.”

“I didn’t mismanage anything, you fucking ass hat. I’d bet my life it’s your fuck-up, not mine!” I hollered in a huff, slamming the door in his face.

When Allen and I split up, we agreed, through our lawyers, that I’d use the joint account, and he’d use his business account at the SAME BANK.  And the $50 in our sad little savings was used to pay the fee for filing for the divorce.

While the neighbor watched my boys, I headed to the bank. When I walked in, there was Allen sitting with Brenda, a blonde in customer service, just lambasting me all to hell.

“And she kites checks all the time, so it’s no wonder. ” Allen explained in a very flat tone.

“Hello, Allen, what’s up?” I asked, smiling, wanting to bludgeon the smug off his face with a sledge hammer, but there wasn’t one handy.

His head snapped around, a sour face glaring up at mine. Not a word, just rolled his eyes.

For those unfamiliar with check kiting, according to, it’s “the unlawful practice of drawing checks against a bank account containing insufficient funds to cover them, with the expectation that the necessary funds will be deposited before such checks are presented for payment.”

  1. Guilty as charged.When you have two kids, and your ex-husband is behind on child support because he’s unemployed, and you make all of $14,000/year, kiting checks is the only way to avoid eating McDonald’s ketchup packets for dinner the night before payday. And I NEVER wrote checks for anything but groceries.

The ONLY time I ever bounced a check was because of  Mountain State Savings’ jack-leg practices in 1990. Though I deposited my paychecks every Friday at noon, they weren’t credited until 12:01 AM Monday/hog-tying one’s cash until Tuesday. To-wit, I covered the bad check, closed the account and went to Bank One.

So, ANYWHO…I sat down beside Allen as Brenda explained, “Well, sir, the problem is your paychecks are being direct-deposited in your business account, but you’re withdrawing funds from the joint account with this debit card,” she said, holding up one of Allen’s GREEN ATM cards that he’d already given her. “This is the card for your business account,” she continued picking up a different GREEN card.

“So, you’ve mismanaged my account, Allen! How shocking,” I said, with a much deserved gigle.

“Shut up, you stupid cow!” Allen countered, his face glowing red.

Sticks and stones, my friend. Sticks and stones. When we opened our accounts with 1st National, all three ATM cards were green. I warned Allen to request a different colored card for his business account, so he wouldn’t mix them up. But he poo-pooed me. However, I ordered a flowered bank card for the joint account to avoid such issues.

Yes, t’was Christmas come early! He had to write a check for $440 to cover his debits from the WRONG ACCOUNT.  In the end, our divorce cost him almost $5,000.

How’s that, you ask? Well, this post is long enough to choke a horse as it is…so tune in next time…for the conclusion of the Allen Fiasco and all its juicy…:)

And I’d like to THANK Facebook who sent me FLYING backward into the mental shadows of this shitty relationship after seeing its algorithmic prompt yesterday, which innocently said:

People you may know:

Allen Costanza

Red Bank, Wyoming

4 mutual friends…

WITH A PHOTO of his ugly mug staring at me from cyber space.

He’s currently separated from wife #8, and he’s rather bald. He also weighs somewhere north of 400 pounds! Meanwhile, I’ve lost 40 pounds since our demise. I hope that FB’s mystical auto friend prompter flung him the same message, so he can see how awesome I look in comparison. Regardless, I’d rather be horse-whipped than send him an invite!

Love and chocolate chip cookies – from fracked up central –

TenaciousB and her band of truth-spouting HIPPIES

Tenacious Bitch © 2013


Post #75 – About Ashe’s logic…

Posted in Family, nonfiction, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on September 7, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

Today, I’d like to regale you with a story about Ashe. For those who are new to the 31 flavors of madness that is my life, Ashe is/was ex-husband #2, God rest his soul. Sadly, he died in 2005 at the age of 37 from a heart attack. His widow told me he’d been eating a pound of bacon/day when he died. Yeah, I know, right? Ewwww…the mere thought makes me nauseous. Regardless, we were always good friends, and I shed many tears at his passing.

For the 411 on Ashe, check out this previous post:

AND/or for a rather shocking incident regarding Ashe, check out: 

ANYWHO, back to the matter at hand… Ashe and I started dating in ’89, and he came to visit me in Brooklyn* over July 4th weekend that year, not long after I graduated from college.

“I really don’t like this place,” Ashe said.

We were gingerly trekking along the broken sidewalk on Marcy Avenue toward my loft apartment just over the George Washington Bridge. We’d just been to dinner at an Irish pub in Midtown.

“This is your first night here!” I said, smiling.

Ashe shrugged.

“I love it here.” I said, glancing at Tim, who was two at the time. He was tired, so he quietly limped along without his usual nonstop chatter.

It was around 8:30. The sun was starting to droop below the horizon. Sweat drooled down the side of my face from the caldron of heat engulfing the city.

“What’s wrong with New York?”

Ashe grimaced, “Too much crime, and it’s just…oppressive, too many people.”

“Um, yeah, like L.A. has no crime and a sparse population.”

Ashe REALLY wanted to move to Los Angeles after college, the following September, and he’d already been offered an internship with Metal Blade Records.

“Yeah, but everyone’s not crammed onto one tiny, island. I feel like I’m suffocating,” he replied.

“It’s just the 90-degree temperatures.”

“No, it’s not. I don’t get what you see in this concrete graveyard.”

I laughed. “Graveyard?”

“Yeah, I feel like I’m dying. Everything here is so old.”

I shook my head, grinning at his seemingly bizarre description of my beloved town. “We both grew up in West Virginia. Do you really have to ask me WHY I like it here? Good Lord, I was waiting tables back home praying I’d get a teaching job for $15,000 a year, and now I work at a bank on Wall Street making 23 grand a year! And the sky’s the limit, ya know?”

“Yeah, I know, but how do you stand pushing through throngs of people all day?”

I shrugged  “Doesn’t bother me.”

I didn’t know where our relationship was going since we’d lived no less than 1,000 miles apart the whole time we’d been dating. I’d never been to L.A., so who’s to say I wouldn’t like it better, should I choose to follow him.

Either way, I didn’t feel like debating the whole East Coast/West Coast thing right then, not knowing if our relationship would survive until he finished school, so I changed the subject….

We were both dead asleep in my twin bed while Tim slept on a mattress on the floor on the other side of the room. Yeah, that was so comfortable, considering Ashe was 6′ 4″ tall and weighed somewhere north of 250 pounds. I could barely roll over without tumbling into the floor.

Around 2:00 that morning, Ashe woke me up screaming, “You fucking bitch! How could you do that to me?”

“What the hell’re you talking about?” I asked, rather flabbergasted, my sleepy eyes rolling around in my head.

“You cheated on me!”

“What the fuck’re talking about? I did not! Even if I wanted to go out with someone else, I have no one to watch Tim. Why the fuck would you think that?”

“Well, I dreamed it, so it must be true.”

“What?” I snapped, laughing.  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. I’ve had dreams where I can fly and others about being swallowed by a tidal wave. Obviously, I can’t fly, and I’ve yet to be crushed by a tsunami, so why in the hell would you think I cheated on you just because of a dream?”

“Well, there must be some truth to it, or why would my subconscious conjure up that idea?”

“Because you’re paranoid.”

“I’ve dreamed that you meet some guy, some skinny blonde guy and you bring him back here and screw him, and I walk in on you THREE different times.”

“Really? The same dream?”

“The same one, and he’s like a lawyer or some bullshit.”

“Yeah, okay, how’d you have the same dream in THIS apartment when you’ve never been here? Did you suddenly become clairvoyant and forget to mention it?”

“No, once it was my apartment in Florida, once it was on Pogue Street back home, and tonight it was here, THIS bed.”

“Like I said, paranoia. You’re AFRAID I’m gonna cheat, but I’m not that kind of person. I didn’t cheat on Joe with you when you asked me out the first time, remember? So, why would I cheat on you now?”

“I don’t know, but if you haven’t, you will.”

Famous last words. I was never unfaithful. And when I filed for divorce, Ashe had been living with Renee, his widow, for six months. Not that I cared. I often joke that I should’ve thanked Renee for taking him off my hands because he drove me bonkers…(her too, occasionally)…

So, there you have it…the delusional musings of a very GOOD man, who was sometimes a tad unbalanced…:)

Over and out from my STOP and SMELL the CRAZY life…

TenaciousBITCH and company…

*For an interesting GIRL meets GUY story that happened in NYC, check out: ….

Post No. 60 My Confession…

Posted in memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on May 11, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

I’m ashamed to write about this after all my blustering about infidelity, but now that my husband knows, I’ve decided to come clean. I’m a philanderer. I’ve been carousing with a long-haired lover. It wasn’t planned. It just happened. Yeah, I know, so cliche, practically stolen from an episode of Desperate Housewives.

Go ahead. Say it. I’m worse than a hypocrite, maybe, worse than STERLING* though I never lied to anyone about my situation.

It all started so innocently because she was homeless and rather gaunt from not eating properly. The thought of her going hungry just gnashed at my conscience. So, I started giving her leftovers and such, for which she was very grateful-even buying certain things at the store specifically for her, which my husband didn’t notice, of course.

And, well, one thing led to another. Then, she’d disappear for a few days, and I’d think she was gone from my life forever or dead in a ditch when she’d suddenly emerge from the shadows once again.

Yes, I apologize to all the women for getting their men all in a dither since I’ve been carrying on with another girl. But I just couldn’t help myself. She’s so beautiful. And when you’ve been married for nigh on 15 years, things just occur that you don’t expect.

Plus, the heart wants what the heart wants. We really have NO control over that life-giving and life-crushing organ and mysterious harbor of our emotions, do we?

I think not.

I was trying to save a life, basically. I made several phone calls in the hope of finding alternative accommodations for her since she doesn’t have a cell phone with no luck…so, believe it or not, she’s now living with us. I know. It’s ludicrous, but so far…things are actually going better than expected.  Anyway, without further adieu, below is a photo of my new love…

Wait for it…

Wait for it…


Here she is…

Yes, I’ve been speaking about a cat, whose name is Sasha, and there is, indeed, a story behind my bait and switch. How is it, you ask, could I characterize time spent fawning over and feeding a stray kitten possibly be considered cheating?

Because my husband HATES cats, and he only speaks of them as if he were going to fricassee them in time for dinner. Okay, NOT really, but he does make ugly jokes, on occasion. For example, one night after dinner when Sasha decided to drink from a pot full of tomato-soaked water that had contained a red meat sauce from my husband’s awesome baked ravioli – thereby dousing her lovely white fur in the orange remnants of the sauce (i.e. the photo below)…my husband suggested that I toss Sasha

The marinara soaked face...into the toilet, shut the lid and flush in order to wash her little face…which, of course, I didn’t find the least bit amusing.

I, however, used to have SIX cats when I owned a farmhouse in WV back in the day before becoming MRS. CHARLIE. And sadly, tying the knot meant chucking the cats into the cold, cold world of someone else’s house… :) And funny thing, back in ’96…all I did was call the local Animal Shelter in WV, and a hot-looking guy who looked more like a fashion model than a civil servant (sorry…I digress, but memory is an unforgiving hottie-clutcher)…who came out to my house and gingerly carried my six furry babies off to the shelter, no problem.

However, when Sasha and her pitiful cries landed on my doorstep, I couldn’t find ONE shelter who was accepting cats except one who couldn’t promise she wouldn’t be euthanized if she wasn’t adopted within a couple of weeks.

Charlie, however, scolded me when he caught me sitting cross-legged on the porch while Sasha was devouring bits of fried chicken…

“You’re not FEEDING that cat, are you?” he snapped.

So, of course, I said, “Well, if you won’t let me keep her, at least let me feed her. I can’t stand to see an animal starve to death.”

And what could he say to that?

Additionally, Charlie opposed my keeping said Sasha because our finances are a mess. After my Grandmother moved in with us 15 months ago, our electric has been $200/more a month from the space heaters she runs 24-7, not to mention the inflated water bill. Plus, the extra groceries, and I can only work 5-10 hours/week with all the demands of taking care of Nana***.

Therefore, the cost of feeding our two dogs AND another animal and the thought of more cash for veterinary bills were cause for concern. But I found a rescue Vet who charges 1/3 of our regular vet, so now ALL the animals are going to see him.

Aside from all that, he was worried about Sasha getting along with our dogs, but as you can see by the photo below, Raven, our black lab, pays Sasha no heed, and Bart, our Shepherd/Chow mix pretty much ignores her.

Strange bedfellows, and they lay like that almost every day for HOURS…

All worries of inter-species CONFLICTS aside, after my husband, Charlie, saw Sasha sleeping on my lap during our yard sale…he realized how much this little furball meant to me, and he caved…:)

Additionally, NANA adores her as well, and I think Sasha makes her feel less lonely since the cat often naps on Nana’s lap…and, I thought Nana would worry herself into the hospital when I opened the door to sign for a package, and Sasha dashed past me  –  chasing my competition, a gray-haired cat whose lost his tail, poor thing. He’d been circling the porch railing and yowling demurely until she went sprinting past me.

But, Thank God, at 3:30 the next afternoon, I went out to check the mail, and here comes Sasha loping toward me with those big innocent eyes as if she were just stopping by for tea and hadn’t been missing and presumed dead for almost a day, little BRAT. We live three blocks from a very busy 4-lane, the main drag of our suburb, in fact, which is bumper-to-bumper traffic from 3:00 pm on…and I feared she’d become roadkill…

But she was fine save for a tail full of what looked like foam from a couch cushion.  I scooped her up and gave her tuna. I know. I’m such a schmuck…should’ve given her un-brand cat food or week-old bacon for running off…(DON’T TELL PETA…that was a JOKE…). Either way, she’s now sleeping peacefully on my feet, yawning intermittently without a care in the world…

Ta for now…have a great weekend ALL…cat lovers and all you other people too… :)…and enjoy the other photos of Sasha in my photo gallery…ENJOY!

Over and out from misfit central…


Post #54 – The RECKONING in Brooklyn…

Posted in Family, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on March 23, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

After many agonizing hours considering my situation, I finally forced myself to admit my hamster wheel of misery was no way to live. Since I was raised Catholic, deciding to ax my marriage to Ronnie Ray (one of my 3 ex-husbands, two of whom were musicians).

However, the last six months, if we weren’t arguing, we were pretty much silent. And for some odd reason, I thought our move to New York would help because he would have more opportunities with his music, but I was so wrong.

To his credit though, during the worst spats, Ronnie never spouted such degrading  monikers as “ugly bitch” or “stupid cow” as some men do.

However, on the dark side, there were many nights characterized by a bawdy game of dodging the dishes that Ronnie lobbed in my direction. In fact, he once kicked the loveseat so hard, it rolled end over end during this conversation:

“Okay,” I said calmly, “If you spend our entire tax refund ($1700) on a new amplifier, then  can I buy a new couch with our refund next year?” Sounded reasonable to me…but Ronnie  did not agree…

“How dare you compare what I need for my music to fucking furniture! I’m an artist, a musician! What the fuck?!” he screamed, and there went the loveseat bumbling toward the dining room.

But, unfortunately, guilt is an unyielding witch. After a brief separation, Ronnie’s late night phone calls from New York lamenting his loneliness prompted me to try again. I feared he’d be back to punting furniture in no time, despite his promises, but like a dumb-ass, I caved.

The first few weeks after I moved to Brooklyn were better than any honeymoon, complete with roses, stolen from a nearby park, LOL. Until our 3rd anniversary a month later. We went to dinner at Salvano’s, his favorite Italian haunt, even though Ronnie had been sick with the flu all week. Jody, a friend of his from work, came over to babysit our son Tim, who was 8 months old and my son, Rory, who was almost 4.

Jodie was an odd duck, I thought. She was barely 5′ tall. She had unkempt light brown hair and the figure of a 12-year-old boy. And her nose occupied quite a bit of real estate on her face. But she was very pleasant, and  she really fawned over the boys. So, she seemed like the perfect Nanny. Unattractive and crazy about my kids…right? Um, no…

Anyway, Ronnie was overly affectionate at Salvano’s, kissing my hand, laughing too loudly at my jokes, his eyes rarely straying from mine. However, in the middle of dinner, he asked if we could just go home instead of going to The Jazz Alley on the lower East Side, his favorite club, where we’d planned to hang out and check out a new Punk band playing there that night. He had been sick with the flu all week, so I didn’t think anything of it.

As soon as we got home, Ronnie called a cab for Jody, and I went to bed with a good book and a glass of wine, assuming he’d be along shortly. And he didn’t give me the wink, wink, caress my ass – I’ll be right in to harass you into having sex with me look (LOL), which I thought was odd. It didn’t matter to him if he didn’t feel well. He was still always in the mood for sex, but I dismissed that clue as well.

Anyway…at 1:00 A.M., I woke to the sound of rattling plastic.  I hopped out of bed thinking maybe he was getting a snack in the kitchen. I tossed my black nightie to the floor – thinking I’d sneak in on him sans clothing, which he loved.

Grinning, I stepped out into the hallway where Ronnie walked out of the bathroom and was sauntering away – buck naked in the opposite direction. There was a condom in his hand. That’s what made the rattling plastic sound! He was going to FUCK HER, the ugly babysitter in our living room?! OMG! How could this be happening? How could he do this after begging me to take him back? WTF? And my heart splintered into a million pieces…

On gelatinous legs, I hobbled back into the bedroom and began trekking back and forth. I shivered from the cold November wind blasting against the windows, and I collapsed onto the floor, weeping quietly while praying to God that Ronnie and his BITCH-SLUT couldn’t hear me. I didn’t want them to know that I knew…not yet…

I was certain they would share a few belly laughs (naked belly laughs) over how they were so sly, and I was so blind that night.  Above all, I didn’t want that atrocious ho-bag to see me cry.

I started to snatch my nightgown when I heard a soft moan.  And the anger spiked.  I couldn’t remain there one more second while he drilled another woman on that goddamned green couch where I nursed our baby boy – where we’d been sitting when he proposed to me, the fucking prick!

I struggled to my feet and turned on the light. I slipped into a pair of jeans and a sweater when I was hit with the realization that my boots were not in the bedroom. They were in the living room closet – 3 feet away from the fornicating fuckheads. There was two feet of snow on the ground. Tennis shoes wouldn’t do. And, oh, God, my purse was in there too!

I took a deep breath and stormed through the living room and beyond into the kitchen, not sure why. I was out of my mind, capiche?

Trying to block out their urgent whispering and the sound of blankets shifting, I opened the fridge and stared at the contents. What now?

I heard Ronnie’s beer bottles rattling on the door of the fridge, and I grabbed two bottles with a smile, trouncing back into the living room.

“Don’t mind me, you fucking assholes!” I screamed, turning on a lamp. “I just need my boots and,” I stammered, opening the closet.

“Kennedy, this is not what it looks like,” Ronnie mumbled.

I laughed. “Don’t give me that, you piece of shit!”

I looked over at them despite myself. All I could see was Ronnie’s sweaty forehead in the glow of the streetlight streaming in through the window. Yes. With HER sweat!

WHY? Does he hate me that much? It had to be premeditated sex because I heard shuffling sheets! There were no sheets on that couch last night, more evidence of his premeditation…


“Here, you look a little thirsty,” I said, lobbing the first beer over Ronnie’s head. The crash of the glass was very satisfying as was the waterfall of beer that now soaked them and the horrific couch and the thrift store sheets :)! I hurled the second beer over her head and said, “Have a nice, fucking life!”

And what happened then? Stay tuned, boys and girls, there’s more sin and FUN to come…(not to be confused with cum – wink, wink)…

Until next time at the same bat time and the same bat channel…

~TENACIOUS BITCH and her truth-spouting psycho hippies! 🙂