Archive for drugs

#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?


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.


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.


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? (:


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.


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 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



Post 124 – Never say DISABLED…and the acquisition of the Silver Bullet! :)

Posted in Family, family battles, grandmothers, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on January 16, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

Three years ago today, I wrecked my beloved Escalade, which is the subject of this post –

For those who are new to my Crazytown, my younger brother, Danny is a drug addict who stole between $40K and $50K from our Grandmother (Nana Maude) during 2010 when he lived with Nana in Georgia. She was 92/93 at the time, and the day I almost totaled the Escalade, I was on my way to get a Restraining Order against Danny.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, Danny was at Nana’s house the day of the crash. Nana was in a rehab hospital, and Danny was at her house using my computer to do some sort of paperwork to apply for Foodstamps. I found the fax cover sheet dated for that very day (Jan. 16, 2011) on his desk the next day.

If I hadn’t spent an hour waiting on a policeman to take the statements of everyone involved in the crash (where, luckily, no one was injured), I would’ve been at Nana’s and had to deal with Danny’s temper. He was furious at me because I’d kicked him out of Nana’s house, and I was trying to sell my Dad’s BMW (that Danny had been driving) to pay 3 or 4 months’ worth of Nana’s bills that Danny hadn’t paid while he was living with her because he’d liquidated and spent all of her equity on liquor, strippers and drugs. So, I have to wonder if there was some sort of divine intervention there, maybe, as far as my accident? 🙂

Unfortunately, Nana lost her house to foreclosure because of Danny’s thievery, and she lived with me, my husband, and my son, Max, for almost 3 years afterward, which was one of the dreariest and most stressful times in my life.

As to WHY I was none too thrilled to be Nana’s maid/cook/personal assistant/laundress/nurse, etc., check out this post:

Thankfully, she is now in a nursing home, which is the subject of this post:

Unfortunately, after the accident in 2011, the Escalade was never the same. The last six months we had around $1,200 in repairs. At one point, the electrical systems went haywire. All the warning lights were blazing as if everything needed to be replaced: the battery/change the oil/replace the air bags/the brakes/the blinkers, etc., and we’d just bought a new battery.

That repair cost over $300. But a month or so after that, it quit on me, about half a mile from my part-time job at Ann Taylor Corporate. Everything died. The engine. The lights, the brakes, the power steering, etc., right in the middle of a busy intersection between a Kroger and a McDonald’s during rush hour prime time around 4:45 PM…

I managed to get it started, but it died again about 30 feet or so later. I coasted into a parking space in front of the office and had it towed home after work that night. The next day, Charlie walked in from work and said, “Well, you better start looking for a new car.”

I’d been researching various cars online for a year, and I’d tried to get him to trade in the Escalade and his truck last fall, but he wasn’t interested. We’d planned on trading in the Escalade in the spring, but turned out, it most likely needed a new transmission, which would’ve cost, $1500, at least, I would think.

And we didn’t get nearly as much for it as we should have because the State Trooper who completed the accident report in Georgia, stated the Escalade was “disabled”, which devalued my SUV to about 1/3 of what it was worth according to It wasn’t actually disabled. It was driveable, but my insurance agency told me to have it towed, which I was more than happy to do because I was a little shaken up after plowing into a Chevy Tahoe.  They were towing the car away just as the State Trooper arrived, so he probably assumed it was disabled.

LESSON LEARNED: if you’re ever in a car crash, don’t let the cops label your car as DISABLED, unless, it is totally incapacitated and/or not driveable because that pretty much puts your car in the junkyard category.

However, there is a SILVER lining/a.k.a. THE SILVER BULLET.

When most people go through a mid-life crisis, they buy a Porsche. And I actually found a used Porsche or two I could’ve managed to squeeze into our budget, but that would’ve meant no new clothes for 2/3 years, and Ramen noodles and PB&J would’ve been on a frequent dinner rotation, which didn’t interest me.

That said, I’m such a nerd, I bought a 2014 FORD FIESTA…


in garage 3


Isn’t it pretty? I love it!!! It’s a five speed/manual transmission. It has a twin-cam engine, so it’s not like the scooter on a Ford frame like the old Fiesta, and it has heated seats. And despite the lower trade-in value of the Escalade, the new car payment is $30 less/month, and the difference in the gas mileage is staggering. I did a comparison on a commuter’s website, which summed it up like this:

Cost of gas for the Escalade – driving to work: 

  Daily Monthly Yearly
Drive Alone *




Carpool with 1 other person




Cost of driving the Fiesta:

  Daily Monthly Yearly
Drive Alone *




Carpool with 1 other person




So, the new vehicle costs about $150 less a month in petrol than the SUV…:), and the Fiesta is REALLY fun to drive.  Additionally, it’s the newest vehicle I’ve ever bought. It had 8 MILES on it when I drove it home a month ago.

That said, though I do miss the spacious interior of the Escalade somewhat, the Fiesta is a bit like the Tardis. It’s a lot bigger on the inside than it appears from the outside.

Ta for now…wishing you all shiny new chariots in the new year! 🙂

TENACIOUS BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…

Post #83 – Danny’s tightrope…

Posted in Family, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 6, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

Happy New Year, everyone! Now that my head has cleared after my Blog of the Year nomination :), I have an update on my younger brother, Danny. For those just tuning in to my matinee of madness, Danny is an addict, who stole more than $50K from my Grandmother and dumped her in a low-rent nursing home the Christmas of 2010. The 411 on that particular brand of chaos, begins at:

Unfortunately, Danny fell in love with drugs in junior high. He’s tried to quit three times in the last ten years, and after tumbling off the sobriety wagon, he, like many addicts, cried for help via suicide attempts. I’ve blogged about those events, which are not in order chronologically, but reside at:

and –

Anyway, that said, at this point in this life, Danny has chosen to, once again, embark upon that tightrope existence known as being sober. My friend, Jack (Danny’s friend also), called on New Year’s Day to give me the news.

“Where’s he living?” I asked.

“In a halfway house owned by some church. It’s affiliated with a really HUGE church in Columbus.”

“Oh, which one?” I asked, since, of course, I live in a suburb of Columbus (Ohio).

“World Harvest,” Jack replied.

“Really? That’ s over on the East side. You know, Ashe* built that church.”

“He did?”

“Yeah, back in ’96 or ’97, he lived here in Columbus, and he was a Project Manager for American Church Builders. They built World Harvest’s church. I went over there to drop Max off to see Ashe a couple of times. And somewhere there’s a picture of Max, when he was 4 or 5 sitting on a bulldozer, happy as a clam, on that construction site. Ashe and his second wife actually went to World Harvest, on occasion as well.”

“Huh, well, that’s a monstrous church, like 4,000 people or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” I answered. “I hope Danny’s serious this time, for his own sake.”

“Me too, but who knows.  He’d been staying with some guy he’d been working with last time I talked to him in October. And he was going to bartending school, and now he’s going to church and trying to get straight. Kind of a quick transition if you ask me,” Jack explained. “I’ll bet he just got kicked out of his buddy’s house and had nowhere else to go, ya know?”

“Yeah, could be, or maybe, he’s finally decided to kick the habit.”

“I’m afraid, he’s just staying there until something better comes along, but I hope I’m wrong.”

“Me too. We know how this song and dance usually ends up. He starts out doing really well, then ends up white-knuckling it the closer it gets to May when Mom died, and that anniversary always nixes his abstinence.”

“Yeah. He also got baptized the other night.”

“What? Why? We were all baptized when we were babies like everyone else in the Catholic Church.”

“Well, this particular church is Pentecostal, and-”

“That’s the church that Nana grew up in, and I won’t go there. We’ve gone to the Presbyterian church and a couple nondenominational Christian Churches, but the Pentecostal church is too out there for me. I remember going to Nana’s church in Georgia in grade school, and some woman started speaking in tongues, scared the pee out of me,” I said, chuckling.

Jack laughed. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“Nothing against the Pentecostal church, but I never went back. It’s just not for me. It’s too different from the formality of the Catholic church that I grew up in.”

“Yeah. Danny said getting baptized changed his life.”

“That’s what he said after watching Joel Osteen with Nana a few years ago when he said he was allegedly going to AA, but in reality, he was impersonating Dad and fraudulently requesting checks over the phone to pay his bills out of Dad’s account and taking out credit cards in Dad’s name.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how anyone can do that to their own family.”

“Me, neither. Dad gave me a card on his SuperAmerica Visa, and I never used it for anything but gas when it was like a buck a gallon, or sometimes I bought prescriptions for the boys when I was a single Mom back when Ashe lived here, and I didn’t have any health insurance. But I always called Dad first, and I would NEVER have opened an account in Dad’s name.”

“Yeah, I know. Wasn’t that card one of them that Danny ran up?”

“Yep. Jacked it up to around $4,000, and Dad had to close the account.”

Jack and I talked for a few more minutes about the Arnold Classic he was coming to town to attend in March. I invited him to stop by for dinner or lunch or something, and we said our goodbyes.

So, there you have it, ladies, and gents, the latest on the enigma otherwise known as my brother, Danny. Even though we haven’t spoken in two years, and I honestly don’t care whether I ever see him again because the thought is just too painful, I do hope this recent endeavor to break up with drugs and alcohol forever is legitimate.  However, every time I see Jack’s name/number on the caller i.d., I fear it’s that call…the one punctuated by Danny wearing a toe tag in some morgue somewhere in South Carolina, but I continue to pray every night that such won’t happen, that a miracle will occur, and Danny will finally be drug free.

For an amusing post about Jack, check out: Post #29 – The Prick, the proctologist and Pigin English found at this URL:

And that’s all I have to say about that –

Over and out from Crazytown…

TenaciousBitch and company…

*Ashe was my second husband/my son Max’s father who died in 2005. He’s mentioned in several posts including:  Post #58 Ashe, the sex god parked upon this URL:

and #75 – About Ashe’s logic at:

Post #81 – Interesting what you find under the cat shit…

Posted in Family, family battles, humor, memoir, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on December 12, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

The banging on my office door rattled me, axing my train of thought. “What the fuck did you do to my room?” Screamed Max, my 20-year-old son, from the doorway.

“I was looking for forks,” I said acidly, annoyed by his tone.  “I tossed your dirty clothes on top of your hamper.  And I thought it might be a nice surprise if I found your wallet under that mess since you’d had such a bad day.”

His alarm hadn’t gone off-allegedly :), but I’ll bet he forgot to set it. At 6:30, he was dead to the world, yet he was supposed to be at work at 6 AM.

“And what did you take?” He bellowed.

I stared at him for a millisecond, not sure how to answer. “Oh, you mean, the bongs that are now buried in the trash outside under five pounds of cat shit?” I said, not taking my eyes off my computer because I so wanted this conversation to end.

“They’re bowls, at least get your fucking — and you had no FUCKING RIGHT!” he hollered, slamming a ball of knotted fist into the wall. My favorite photo of our German Shepherd, Bear, tumbled off my roll-top desk. Luckily, it didn’t break, landing on the soft, black carpet.

“It’s not even illegal to have those, and you’re going to  PAY ME if you broke them!”

“I will not,” I said calmly, so hoping he would go away and scream at someone else about what a bitch I am.

One corner of Max's room.

A cozy corner of Max’s hovel/room.

“You had no right! It’s my business what I do in there.”

“Not as long as we pay the mortgage, it’s not.”

“Why the fuck were you in my room anyway?”

“I told you. I was looking for FORKS, and since your paycheck didn’t come in the mail AGAIN, I was hoping, maybe, I’d find your wallet on the floor underneath all your clothes, and -“

“Yeah, right, really convenient.”

I just sighed. He lost his wallet (with $70 in it) last week after a concert, came home high as the day is long. How stupid of me trying to be nice. Let him drown in his own mistakes, the credo  of tough love, but it’s a bumpier road for the Moms than anyone realizes – especially when they’re-

“If you don’t pay me, I’ll just start stealing your SHIT!”

“Go right ahead,” I yelled. “And I’ll file charges against you, and with your record, God knows how much time you’ll get in County this time!”

Max served five days in jail a couple of years ago when his ex-girlfriend, Sienna, shoplifted some clothes from Walmart and hopped in his car, which made him an accessory.

“This is fucking bullshit, and what the fuck?! It was only a misdemeanor anyway!”

I shrugged and kept typing. I know, right? What’s wrong with me? Dear Lord, after 27 hours of labor and 20 years of this intermittent hell, can you make him go away? I’m on deadline, and what else can I say? Ashe*, his father, died when he was 38 because of an addiction to bacon (and cigarettes) for chrissakes after kicking his addiction to cocaine, a habit he developed while smoking weed…hence, my futile efforts to quash Max’s habit.

Ashe and our son, Max, when Max was 3 days old, May 23, 1992

Ashe and our son, Max, when Max was 3 days old, May 23, 1992

Though he might never graduate from Ganja, the anguish is unbearable when I ignore a bag of pot on his window sill or rolling papers in his jeans’ pockets. And yeah, he should be washing his own damned jeans. But I get tired of him waking me up stampeding all over the house at 5 AM trying to find clean clothes.

And why do I ignore the contraband? I’ve kicked him out twice, and nothing changed. I know from experience, that every bad habit he’s ever quit takes time. And he has to be ready to quit and realize it’s necessary. It took us from the time he was 8 years old until he was 15 to realize, he had to do his homework, or he was going to flunk out of school. And he went from making at least one D or F every grading period to making all A’s and B’s his junior and senior year of high school as well as making straight A’s twice.

When he loses a job because of his habit – or doesn’t get a job he really wants – or worst yet, back to lockup, he’ll quit. Until then, I may seem like the do-nothing parent, but I’m not. I’m just waiting for him to fall on his face because yelling at him, taking away his car, kicking him out is all me/my husband. And we’re just background noise. He needs that external smack-down before he’ll finally admit, it’s time to break up with the bong.

“You will pay me! I swear to fucking Christ!” He hollered, slamming the door, which emitted a really loud smack, resulting in a new crack in the door right by the door knob.

“When pigs fly,” I muttered just as the hailstorm of banging and stomping commenced about the house.  He was so loud – I could hear him over Nana’s** monitor in the back of the house, and her door was shut all day.

And for chrissakes, it’s not like I really had to look. All of his bowls were in plain sight on his bed, under his desk, and on the floor by the bed.

The forks in question...I’m tired of washing more dishes than necessary because HE doesn’t bring his plates, etc., downstairs for days at a time. And you’d think he was a hoarder by the way his room looks, but NO, he’s just too damned lazy to throw away his trash and clean his room! 🙂

Which brings me to the circular aspect of this problem. If he brought his dishes downstairs every day, I wouldn’t need to raid his room in the 1st place, and, yes, that is a photo of the six FORKS I confiscated over here>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

I kept trying to work on one of my freelance projects when I got a text from my husband, Charlie, that said:

If I dig them out of the trash, can I give them back to him with the understanding that he CANNOT have that shit in our house again?

A ruse of diplomacy, bravo, Charlie.

Yes, I texted back. Feel free to crawl through the cat shit.

Sasha and her daughter, Samantha, whose shit was keeping company with Max's favorite toy...

Sasha and her daughter, Samantha, whose shit was keeping company with Max’s favorite toy…

Minutes later, Charlie, came upstairs. I heard the garage door opening just as Charlie walked into his office, adjacent to mine.

“Did you find his pretty little potty toys?”

Charlie laughed. “Yes, we did. He went to Aaron’s house, by the way. He’s staying the night.”

Moments after tossing his paraphernalia in the rubbish, I regretted it. He’d just buy new ones, leaving him less money for a new car and less to give us for what he owes for repairs to his first car, which we sold after he lost his job at Sears – right after his stint in the pokey.

But there’s no place for regrets when your life is all about potty toys and cat shit…:)

And that’s all I have to say about that because tonight, my life is more than a box of chocolate…it’s too frequently a box of shit…did I use the word SHIT enough in this communique? To-wit, I reply: SHIT NO…

Perhaps, if things don’t get better, I might have to turn Nana out to the nearest street corner. I’m sure there’s a market SOMEWHERE for cranky, 90+ year-old women with bad skin who hate sex, right?

Okay, so that’s my bad joke of the century…

Over and out from 420 CENTRAL…

TenaciousBITCH and her band of truth-kicking bandits, or something like that…

*Ashe, my 2nd husband was mentioned previously in Post #75 –

** For a rather amusing story about Nana, check out: ….

Post #58 – Ashe, the sex god…

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

The year was 1989. I was living in Tarzana, CA, with Ashe*.

At the time, Ashe was about to go on tour with the The Rolling Stones as a member of their sound crew.  I don’t remember his actual job title, but, nonetheless, he was rather excited, of course.

Not long after moving to Cali, Ashe’s libido seemed to pretty much lack an off-switch. At 22, I didn’t complain though sometimes I was really too tired after chasing Tim** around all day.

However, Ashe was often relentless in his pursuit of getting some. One particular evening, we were lying on the floor watching TV, and I fell asleep just as Roseanne was coming on. That didn’t deter Ashe in the least. He woke me up, kneading my nether regions, trying to get his sex on :)…before the first commercial interrupted Ms. Barr’s weekly laugh fest.

I did my best impersonation of a snoozing dog on a hot day to stave off Ashe’s intentions, but Ashe refused to concede. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I threw off my t-shirt and away we went…and did we EVER.

THAT NIGHT, the earth not only moved, it rocked off its axis and bounced around the sun a couple of times. And I experienced the most powerful orgasms (yes, multiple) …I’d ever had at that point in my young life…

For those who know Ashe, I’m sure you’re shaking your head in wonder because though a good man, he was no Brad Pitt in the physical attributes department…

That said, the next morning, I woke up itching like I’d been fucking a poison ivy pole all night, and I immediately thought Ashe had given me crabs or something. I was furious to say the least.

“What the hell did you do to me?!” I snapped.

Silence from the sex god.

“Ashe, wake up, Goddammit!” I demanded, shaking his considerable frame. No easy task as he weighed circa 300 pounds back then. So, yeah, my adrenaline was working overtime.

“Ashe! Oh, my God! Look at this rash! What did you do to me? Have you been plugging some skank! Tell me, GODDAMMIT!”

“No, of course not, honey,” he said rather apologetically looking at the horrendous score of hives on my girly parts and beyond – a couple of inches down my thighs. “Holy, shit. That’s looks awful.”

“Duh, you fucking prick! What the hell is it from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe, I forgot and bleached my sheets.”

Okay, at THIS point, if I weren’t ready to commit death by boiling/baking or stabbing, I would’ve been laughing my ASS OFF…MISTER Ashely NEVER washed or cleaned anything unless you harassed/cajoled/nagged/and bitched at him for days on end AND withheld sex for a week, minimum. Thus, the idea that he’d washed the sheets of his own volition, plus FORGETTING that I’m allergic to bleach was ludicrous.

“Really? Bleach? Where do you keep it, Ashe? In the closet?” I asked, quickly shimmying into my robe and hopping out of bed. I zipped toward the open, walk-in closet and turned to him expectantly.

“No, I…”

Our apartment didn’t have a washer and dryer, and the laundry room was a good 100 yards across the complex. Therefore, whatever laundry supplies we bought would have to be in our place somewhere.

“The kitchen then?”

A guilty look, and…

“Seriously, if you got drunk, and some bimbo-”

“No, Kennedy, I SWEAR to you, I didn’t cheat on you. I could never hurt you like that. You know I love you, right?”

“Okay, then tell me why the fuck I have this goddamned rash!”

“I, um… okay, sit down,” he said, hanging his head. “I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I asked, staring at him in the pose that all men loathe…fists in taut knots, perched on my waist. I was cocked and loaded, ready to dispel a right jab to the jaw or a kick to the groin at ANY moment. And he KNEW it.

The puppy dog eyes debuted in watery sorrow, but I didn’t falter.

“Ashe! Tell me!”

“It was coke.”


“Yes,” he replied, looking at me sheepishly. Then, he covered his mouth to stifle his laughter.

“You put cocaine on me? That’s what caused the rocket-gasms?”

“No, on my dick.”

“Oh, my God, you ASSHOLE!”

And the laughter burst forth in nervous waves of amusement.

“Ashe! It’s not funny.”

“I’m sorry, babe, really. I am. I had no idea. I just…”


Ashe had fessed up that he’d tried cocaine a few times after moving out to Cali, but I didn’t think it was a huge deal. Everyone I knew had done cocaine but me and a couple of my friends from high school.


“I just thought it would be fun. I didn’t know…”

“And it didn’t bother YOU one little bit!” I said, pointing at his unscathed privates. “Fuckin’ bastard,” I mumbled, walking into the hallway.

“I’m sorry. Really. I am. I’ll never do it again,” he called out.

“You bet you won’t, or the only dick-sucking you’ll experience will be performed by the goddamned vacuum cleaner…” I hollered from the kitchen.

Again, he laughed. Jesus, H…

Unfortunately, I had to go to the doctor the next day because the rash started to swell despite using hydro-cortisone several times. And, yeah, did I feel worse than a back alley Ho telling the doctor how I had acquired my lovely runway of red bumps, of the insanely itchy persuasion.

Luckily, the doctor was 108, at least, and I’m betting my story was dull compared to the countless tales of sexual misconduct he’d heard over the years because he seemed rather nonplussed.

He gave me two prescriptions, one for an antibiotic and one for a non-steroidal cream. I was fine in a few days.

Later, Ashe told me that coke makes you uber horny, which I didn’t know. Eventually, he mentioned the cocaine bribes when he was interning at Metal Blade Records, young kids trying to persuade him to listen to their music and such before he toured with the Stones.

Then, on tour, groupies slipped him coke hoping to meet Mick, et. al., which was a useless gesture. Ashe was on the Steel Wheels tour for 10 months and never even saw the SHADOWs of the British rock deities…all of which contributed to his “problem”, which will be the subject of a future post…

There you have it. My one and only fucked up bedtime adventure…

Lesson learned: cocaine ’tis NOT the best sex toy…

Over and out from sex-pot central…


*For more info about Ashe and our amusing meet/cute, check out Post #51, Ashe the Obnoxious.

**Tim is my son, who was 3 years old when I moved in with Ashe.

Post #52 – The RED ROOF incident…

Posted in Family, family battles, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 8, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

In the fall of 2005, way before Danny pilfered* ALL Nana’s cash, he left his wife, Belinda, and moved back home to West Virginia with Mom, Dad and Nana. But Nana wouldn’t allow him to stay with them at her house in Georgia, thank God.

Then, a year after Mom died, in the spring of 2008, Nana called me all upset because none of their mail was being forwarded to WV. And her friend, Margaret, told her that her mailbox in Georgia was always empty. Initially, Nana and Dad thought their bills had been getting lost from going back and forth between WV and Georgia. And the Post Office was no help.

It really stressed Nana out worrying about her utilities being shut off since neither of them knew how to pay their bills online on Mom’s computer. Dad had always HATED computers.

Then, about two months later, Nana told me, “Danny literally RUNS out to the mailbox every day, and he says there’s nothing but junk mail and mail for him,”. Hearing that, I knew the Post Office had nothing to do with the missing mail.

“Why would he take the electric bill, Kennedy? That doesn’t make any sense,” Dad said on the phone a couple days later.

“Maybe, he’s taking ALL the mail to make you think your mail isn’t being forwarded, but what he’s really after are the credit card bills.”

“I paid off all my credit cards except for Penney’s, and I just pay them at the store when I take your Grandmother to the mall. And if he’s run up a bunch of charges, no one’s called about any delinquent payments.”

“That you know of. What if he opened new accounts in your name and gave his cell phone number?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“And you know Danny, as long as you don’t know about it, he’ll keep on until all your cards are maxed out. You need to cancel all your credit cards.”

“Yeah, I guess, I should.” But it was too late – as evidenced by the mysterious BOX…

“When your Dad and I got back from Georgia, I noticed a HUGE cardboard box from a widescreen TV on the back porch. Danny said JACK  had bought a new TV, and the garbage men wouldn’t take the box because it wouldn’t fit in his trashcan, so he brought it over to your Dad’s house to throw away. But I think he bought a TV on your dad’s Visa and sold it to buy dope,” Nana surmised on the phone one night, and I assumed the same thing.

Interestingly, Jack**, a longtime friend of Danny’s, lives about a mile from Dad’s on Route 1. Therefore, the same garbage truck that picks up Dad’s trash also services Route 1. Said factoid places Danny’s explanation in the very lame category.

However, it was worse than Nana and I suspected. Long about the beginning of October, Danny started working during the day as Christmas help at Radio Shack at the mall. A couple weeks later, Dad called me –  absolutely livid.

“Finally got my credit card bills. And Danny bought, not ONE, but THREE TVs on my credit card! They were over $1500 each, and now the total bill is over $6,000. My limit is only $3000. God knows what else he bought. And I’ve got all kinds of over-the-limit fees and late fees because the bill hasn’t been paid in months. The minimum payment is $380!”

“Dad, I’ll be glad to lend you some money-”

“No, I can make the payment. I was hoping you could get a credit report for me, so I can figure out exactly how much I owe to whom. I can’t have one mailed because Danny quit that job at the mall, so he’s home during the day now.”


“Who knows. He got into it with the manager over something. Point is, he’s snatching the mail again, and he’ll just take my report if it’s mailed to me. But I’ve seen that ad on TV about how you can check your credit online? Can you do that?”

“Sure, Dad, I’ll get a report for you, and I’ll bring it with me when I come home Thanksgiving weekend.”

Assuming Danny was, most likely, living on beer and crack and knowing he’d be FURIOUS when he found out I’d gotten the goods on him, I decided to stay at the Red Roof Inn.  I hated telling Dad I didn’t feel comfortable staying in the very house where I grew up.

“I understand, Kennedy. It’s okay,” Dad said when I called him from the road. “It’ll be good to see you anyway, and you’re still driving my car down to Georgia, right?”

“Of course, I will. I don’t want you and Nana to make that long trip, but Dad, you need to press charges against Danny-”

“I can’t do that to my own son.”

“Yes, you can,” I said angrily, wishing I could drop kick Danny straight into county myself. “Just because he’s your son doesn’t mean he’s immune to the law, and, maybe, some time in jail would straighten him out,” I replied.

But no matter what I said, Dad wouldn’t file charges against Danny.

I arrived around noon the day after Thanksgiving, and Dad and Nana were both very happy to see me. We had a nice visit while Danny was passed out in the basement. But in my haste to leave Ohio, I’d forgotten to bring Dad’s credit report.

“That’s okay,” Dad said, but I felt REALLY shitty about it.

I promised to read it to him over the phone when I got home. And that evening, I went out with some friends and my cousin, Shauna***, who were also in town for the holiday.  We were having a great time until we walked out of Davis’s Tavern around midnight, and Shauna glanced across the street and said, “Hey, isn’t that Danny’s car over there?”

I looked over, and sure enough, there was Danny, parked at the closed dry cleaners, watching me. “Quit following me, asshole, or I’ll call the cops!” I hollered.

Five seconds later, he whipped out of the parking lot in his beat-up Chevy Malibu, gave me a contemptuous SCOWL and flipped me off.

“Fuck you, dickhead!”  I screamed after him, watching him disappear around the next corner in a squeal of brakes.

“You want me to follow you?” Shauna asked.

“No, Danny is ALL talk.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine.” And off I went. While sitting at the stoplight at Baskin Robbins on 16th Street waiting to turn onto I-64, I looked in my rearview mirror, and I saw Danny AGAIN right behind me.

I tried to tell myself that he was just driving home and just happened to end up directly behind my car- especially when I turned onto I-64 and he drove straight onto Washington Blvd., past Meadows Elementary.

However, when I arrived at the Red Roof Inn, someone called out behind me, “Hey, bitch!”

I was two steps away from the office at the motel when I turned around and spotted Danny in the Malibu, his eyes smoldering like a black panther, lying in wait.

“What the fuck’re you doing here?”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” he said in a voice that was bubbling with anger.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You know what I mean. All that bullshit you told Dad about me using his credit cards. That’s a load of horseshit, and you KNOW it.  I’ve been paying on Dad’s credit cards, you stupid bitch! He’s been really hard up since Mom died. Why do you think I’m working TWO jobs?”

“Really? I heard you were down to one.”

“You need to stop running your fucking mouth, or you’ll be sorry, cuz you don’t know what’s REALLY going on!”

“Is that right? Well, we’ll see about that after Dad reads the credit report I ran for him,” I said bitterly.

Danny’s face tightened in fear, an obvious sign he knew he’d finally screwed himself, and this time – there was no way out…I couldn’t help but enjoy watching Danny turn so pale, he could easily have given Casper a run for his money in the SPOOKY department.

“And good luck finding out WHERE I sent it, you know, to which one of Dad’s FRIENDS since he knows he can’t send it to the house.”

“I have NOT been stealing his mail!”

“Funny, I didn’t say ANYTHING about stealing the mail. What gave you that idea, Danny?”

“You fucking bitch! You better watch your goddamned step if you wanna live to see your next birthday!”

“Whatever,” I said, flatly, knowing I had Danny by the short hairs.

“I’m gonna kill you, you fucking cunt!”

I fielded that nasty moniker with a flat-eyed glare and turned away. He kept screaming insults, but I didn’t bother to listen at that point. Even still, the altercation with Danny made me go a little noodle-kneed, and I hung onto the door handle of the Red Roof Inn’s office door a little too tightly for a second.

“Hi, I’m Kennedy Smith, and I have a little problem,” I said, half dragging myself into the office.

My red suitcase trailing behind me, I shuffled into the lobby of the Red Roof Inn and slumped over to the counter where the manager, an overweight but pleasant-looking woman in her 50s, stood smiling. “Can I help you?”

“Yes, you can,” I said, “That man in the Chevy who just drove off?” I asked gesturing to the direction where Danny’s car had been.

The manager nodded.

“That’s my brother, and he threatened to kill me just now,” I said, noticing her name tag, which read: Glady’s Akins.

“Oh, dear,” Gladys said, picking up the phone, “Should I call the police?”

“There’s really not enough to charge him with anything, but, maybe, I’ll call them after I get settled.” I briefly explained that Danny is/was a crazy drug addict, and…

Gladys nodded. A few minutes later, Gladys, and her son, Jeff, who worked maintenance, both walked me to my room on the second floor.  Jeff set my bag inside the door and refused to take my $5-dollar bill.

“No tip is required for damsels in distress,” Jeff said, smiling. “Now, you let us know if you need anything or if your brother shows up again.”

“Thanks,” I replied. “I really appreciate it.”  After they left, I moved the dresser in front of the door, slipped into my pajamas and collapsed onto the bed.

At 4:12 a.m, I was awakened by what sounded like gunfire. I bolted upright, reaching for the phone when I realized the loud THUMPS were from someone banging on the door.

“Open this goddamned door, Kennedy, I know you’re in there!” Danny yelled in a slurry voice while hammering on my door with his fists.

And THUS, it began anew…

….to be continued…

STAY TUNED, ladies and gentleman…the conclusion will arrive here, same time, same channel…NEXT WEEK… 🙂


*For more info about my brother, Danny, taking all of Nana’s money, check out the first post, As My Mother Lay Dying through post #25 or so.

** For more info on Jack, check out Post #29 – The PRICK, the Proctologist and PIGIN English…..and Post #41 Run, Jack, Run…

*** For the 411 on Shauna, check out the infamous post:  #30 An Ode To Barboursville.

Blog 36 – NEW YORK or BUST…

Posted in beer, college, friends, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 12, 2011 by tenaciousbitch

A couple days AFTER my 20th birthday (Circa 1986), I started dating a guy named Morgan. With a smile that would charm the devil, better than Brad Pitt blue eyes,  and 12-pack abs from working construction, Morgan was a 22-year-old HOTTIE.

That said, one very busy Thursday night in February when I was working at a jazz club, the Monarch Cafe, Morgan swaggered in, wrapped his arms around me and whispered, “Wanna go to New York?”

I laughed and said, “Absolutely. We can get breakfast…” but the dark glint of worry in his eyes gave me pause. “You can’t be serious?”

He nodded. “Tonight. I’m…I’m in trouble, serious trouble,” he said somberly.

“What’s going on?”

“I’ll explain later, okay?”

I nodded. However, the word “trouble,” only created a minor BLIP on my anxiety barometer, like being late on his rent or pissing off a crazy neighbor who came at him with a shotgun for keeping him up all night partying or something.

“I have to work tomorrow, and I’ve got class on Monday.”

“So, do I,” Morgan said, sarcastically as if WORK/school were of no consequence. “I love you, Kennedy, please?”

I just stared at him. This was the FIRST time he’d sputtered any allusion to “LOVE” in the 30 days we’ve known each other – except to say how much he LOVED my 38D’s.

“I love you too, but…”

Like a beer fried 20-year-old, I thought about it for a moment, but the possibility of unbridled/entertaining madness with my “new love” QUASHED all sense of logic. So, I said, “Okay, okay. After last call.”

He nodded, smiling, and said, “Thank you! You won’t regret it. I promise!” And he grabbed me and planted the MOST passionate kiss upon my lips that I had EVER tasted.

After work, I rushed out to Morgan’s dark blue, rather battered Chevy van parked out front.  Morgan’s best friend, Ryan, hopped out of the front seat, so I could slide in beside Morgan.

Ryan was a good-looking, sophisticated fellow with a jagged smile, courtesy of a chipped tooth. Ryan was studying art history, and I assume he wanted to get his Ph.D. and teach.

“What happened?” I asked, gesturing to the radio now playing THE CURE, while hanging in midair from its cubby hole by a jugular of green and yellow wires.

“I walked out this morning, and someone had smashed the window,” he answered tilting his head toward the driver’s side window framed in jagged shards of glass where he’d haphazardly taped a thick wad of butcher paper. “They scarfed all my cassettes, but let go of the radio once they saw me and -”

At which point, as if ON CUE, I heard barking. I looked back, and there was Caesar, Morgan’s 45-pound dog, a beautiful blond mutt in the back of the van on a dirty mattress, wildly wagging his tail.

“You’re bringing Caesar?” I asked.

“Of course,” Morgan said, starting the van. “There’s no one to take care of him.”

I nodded, but I was worried about the furry addition to our manifest. Don’t get me wrong, I LOVE dogs, but with less than 500 bucks between us, another consumer seemed unwise. The animal shelter seemed like a better choice, but it wasn’t my call.

First stop after going to my apartment to pack a few things – was Jackson’s carryout. Morgan bought two cases of Budweiser. I would’ve bought Natty Light** to save money, but, again not MY CALL… Ryan opened three beers and passed them around, then held up his bottle and said, “Let the games begin.”

To-wit, we ALL laughed.

Long about the Pennsylvania state line, a wicked GUST of wind ripped the paper off the lower quadrant of the metal window frame. And the butcher paper began flapping wildly in rhythm to the FULL VOLUME, glass-battering WHISTLE…and the blistering COLD hit us like nobody’s business.

Morgan’s saddened eyes met mine. And I’m sure my gaze conveyed the woe my ears and my FLASH-frozen skin were experiencing.

“Shit,” Morgan said, chuckling.

“Should I sing to drown it out?” Ryan asked.

“If it’ll raise the temperature,” I said laughing through chattering teeth.

“No,” Morgan replied. “I don’t want Caesar diving over the side to 86 the screeching of your vocal chords.”

“That’s harsh,” Ryan said good-naturedly, as his laughter blended into mine.

A truck stop snaked its way onto the horizon, and Morgan said, “Let there be food!” Again, we laughed. Caesar then barked several times in complaint after jumping into the driver’s seat just as Morgan was shutting the door, but we had to ignore him.

We sat in a large booth in the crowded diner/truckstop. We all ordered burgers and fries from the double-wide waitress, who had two ink pens parked in her large tornado of gray hair atop her large head.

“I think you two should get married,” Ryan suddenly blurted out for apparently NO REASON.

“What?” I said, laughing.

Morgan gave Ryan an UGLY SCOWL.

“I told you I was going to tell her,” Ryan replied with a devilish grin.

“What the hell’re you talking about?”

“Nothing. Ryan had a stupid dream, and we-”

“You love her, don’t you?” Ryan asked.

“You know I do,” Morgan said, his eyes not wavering from Ryan’s somber face.

“Excuse me, but I’m RIGHT here, guys!” I retorted.

“Then, don’t be a coward,” Ryan said.

And that statement RANKLED my innards! 🙂

“Can we talk about this later?” Morgan asked.

I nodded.

“Okay, but it’s your funeral,” Ryan said.

Which made ABSOLUTELY no sense, especially considering what happened when we ARRIVED…

FINALLY, after slogging through 10 inches of new SNOW and 20-mile an hour traffic throughout PA and southern New Jersey, followed by getting stuck for THREE hours on I-95 behind a truck that had spilled gasoline in the wake of its WRECK, finally 18 hours or so later, we traversed the Holland Tunnel, crossing into the blessed LAND of Manhattan – at 11 a.m.

First stop, a tavern, of course, by the name of RIPLEY’S on the lower East side. We ordered some breakfast and a round of Mimosas.

We wandered about lower Manhattan and Midtown all day, trekking in and out of bookstores, swanky-ish shops and various watering holes until around 8 p.m. when we ducked back into Ripley’s. Not FIVE minutes after Morgan ordered a Tequila shooter for himself and a Heineken for me, a girl named Delilah joined us.

Delilah was a very pretty redhead, and I just ASSUMED she was with Ryan. I knew that Morgan and Ryan had spent many weekends here in the last couple of years, so I didn’t suspect anything unseemingly  was going on until Morgan turned to me around midnight and said, “I’m sorry, but I can’t stay with you tonight.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I need somewhere to stay.”

“You have a warm bed WAITING for you at our hotel  -!”

“I can’t go back to West Virginia.”

“I know that, but why-?”

“Here. Read this,” he said, handing me a very wrinkled document from his pocket.

I glanced at the legal SLOP on the document as he continued, “I stole $2800 from First Savings when I was a teller there. I’m moving in with Delilah.”

Can you say WHAT THE FUCK?

The full impact of his statement hit me like an ASTEROID on CRACK! I was COMPLETELY stunned. I stood up and stared at him for a moment. And he had the NERVE to be TEARY-EYED. I wanted to break his goddamned nose, turn those teary eyes BLACK, but instead, I yelled, “Then, why the FUCK did you bring me here?”

His only answer was to LOOK AWAY.

Delilah tossed wicked EYE darts at me, then signaled the waitress for another beer.

“And I blew off my JOB for you!? What was I then, your back up plan?”

At that, Morgan cut his gaze to mine, “I’m sorry, I really-”

“Fuck off, you low-life bastard!” I SCREAMED launching Delilah’s beer bottle against the wall. The CRASH was rather loud. Glass scattering EVERYWHERE, and at least TWO dozen CURIOUS eyes sought me out from across the room, but luckily, the 1/2 ounce of beer wash merely ran down the wall – avoiding any patrons. Thank God!

“What the fuck?” Delilah screamed. “What was that for?”

“You fucking whore!” I shouted.

A comment that brought Delilah to her feet, “What’d you call me, you stupid HICK!?”

“You heard me, SLUT DOG!” I retorted barging my way past her and POUNDING out the door as fast as I could, once again into the BRUTAL cold.

And then..



TenaciousBITCH and company…

**NATURAL LIGHT for those just joining CRAZYTOWN…