Archive for marriage

Post # 157 -Our Valentine’s Day Shooting of the Non-Murdering Kind…:) A.K.A. An Upcycled Valentine’s

Posted in art, blogging, BOOKS, Family, friends, humor, life, marriage, memoir, movies, nonfiction, people, relationships, sex, true stories, uncategoried with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 16, 2016 by tenaciousbitch

Below is a photo of the beautiful bouquet that my husband, Charlie, gave me for Valentine’s. We’ve been married 16, almost 17 years (and together for 19). Yet, he never ceases to surprise me. If you’d ask me ten years ago if I’d still be getting flowers for Valentine’s at this point in our relationship, I would’ve said – probably not. However, I’m happy to say, I was wrong…:)


He also got me a much-needed item, this gigantic paper cutter for my art projects and furniture upcycling and whatnot! 🙂


I know, right? Such an odd gift, but I was thrilled! I was trying to cut some wallpaper the other day to decoupage the table below, and never did get it straight.


I wrestled with the paper for over an hour. It just kept rolling and slipping no matter what I did. It still managed to wriggle/spring out of my grip after I taped it down with shipping tape. So, I gave up. I finally just cut it the best I could, which was still a little crooked and then sanded it until it appeared relatively straight.

That said, my Valentine’s Day gift to Charlie was as nontraditional as the paper cutter. You see, he requested that we exercise our constitutional right to bear arms on President’s Day, LOL (which was yesterday for those who live outside the U.S.).

We went to a local gun range with a couple of our friends and their 17-year-old daughter, Tiffany. I was surprised that Tiffany was interested. I wouldn’t have been at that age. Are you kidding? I would’ve been at the mall, the movies or at home nursing a hanngover, LOL.

As  far as our day shooting paper people and the like, Tiffany seemed a little embarrassed by her lackluster aim with Charlie’s pistol. But I reminded her that it was her FIRST time handling a gun, after all. And she did hit the target 3 or 4 times (better than my stats the first time out, but we’ll get to that in a sec…:)).

We burned through 100 rounds of ammo with Charlie’s new Hi Point pistol, and check out my quasi successful results on my last attempt to nail the bullseye.


Not too shabby for an old lady who hasn’t touched a gun in over a decade, n’est-ce pas? Unfortunately, I forgot to snap a pic of my best efforts where I hit the ring closest to the bullseye three times. I had put all the targets in the trash, and another gun enthusiast, whom I will refer to as Mr. Special Forces who had the build and swagger of a soldier. He spilled a bottle of coffee on it 20 seconds before I thought about photographing my target.

I didn’t do as well on very last round because the grip had kind of bruised the side of my hand, from the action of the pistol – because I wasn’t holding the gun tight enough initially. But anyway….

You’re not supposed to have food or drink at the range. But Mr. Special Forces plucked his Starbucks out of his backpack and dumped it as he was leaving. An employee reprimanded him for it. He apologized, but it was too late to immortalize my most-shredded paper perp, so to speak. Ah, well, lesson learned…:)

While I didn’t hit the bullseye, I did much better than my last venture at the outdoor range when I barely hit the target ONCE out of 20 rounds or so. The best I did was barely striking the top edge, lol. In fact, the best shot merely grazed the head of the target and made a moon-shaped gouge in the top of the target’s noggin.

However, my expertise was definitely NOT as good as Mr. Special Forces…check out the photo below…


He pretty much decimated his poster proxy of a man’s torso (EEK)i.e. the target to the right of mine. Remind me to never snag his parking space.

Anywho…t’was big fun, and now I’m thinking I might want this lovely Ruger for Mother’s Day.

So appropro, is it not since purple is my favorite color?

Though it might seem like an odd Valentine’s Day gift, one romantic caveat occurred while at the range…Charlie said I looked very sexy blasting away with his weapon.

“What?” I asked. “Why?”

“You got the target.”

I replied with a shrug, not feeling particularly proud. 

Typical Charlie though. Does he get all hot and bothered when I’m wearing a little black dress? No, he gets all randy when I’m trying to bust a cap into a cardboard criminal in a noisy room full of strangers! 🙂

I guess we’re kind of like an 80s band in the romance department, LOL.

Get it?




Okay, so maybe that was funnier in my head. If you knew my husband, however, you’d know that was definitely a joke of the Charlie persuasion. He’s always spouting dumb zingers like that with a dorky play on words.

All righty then…time for something completely different…

Hope you all had a wonderful Valentine’s and are experiencing a fantastic Tuesday…or at least not a horrible one.


Tenacious Bitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies.




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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So… why do they disturb me so?


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 #142 – Jim was just hanging out of what?

Posted in college, dating, Family, family drama, friends, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, sex, true stories, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 11, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

The night I met Jim (Thompson – see my previous post –,

I was waiting tables at the Monarch Cafe in Huntington, West Virginia, when I was going to Marshall University in 1985. I was carrying a tray full of cocktails and a pitcher of beer when a man behind me called out, “Yo, babe with the legs, would you bring me a beer?”

I turned around to see Jim sitting along a row of benches in the pool room with a couple of his friends (who exactly, I don’t remember). He had this big, goofy grin widening across his face, and he was waving at me as if he knew me. Not the quote I would’ve volunteered to my grandchildren about my first encounter with my future husband…:), but I was only 19 years old! He kinda had me at YO BABE (ugh my feminist alter ego YELLS).

I went over and took their order. Later, I caught sight of a couple 8 x 10 black and white photographs on the table. As I walked over to see if he and his friends wanted another round of beer, I noticed one of the photos was of a quarry from a rather high altitude. I recognized it, but I wasn’t sure why.

“You like the photo?” Jim asked, those bedroom blue eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, and it looks really familiar,” I replied. “Where is that?”

“It’s in Ashland by the refinery,” he answered. “Ever been there?”

“Many times,” I said, smiling. “My Dad works at Ashland Oil.”

“Really? So do I. What’s your Dad’s name?”

I told him, and then I asked, “Do you work in the plant?”

“No, I’m a photographer. My Dad was a photographer there too, and he got me the job.”

“Oh, cool. So, how’d you get that picture? Did you go up in one of the towers?” I asked, meaning one of the cooling towers in Ashland’s refinery (where they make gasoline and other petroleum products).

“No, I didn’t like the angle from the cooling towers, so I went up in the company helicopter.”

“That sounds like fun. And it must’ve been challenging to get the photo since the only window surrounds the pilot.”

“The propellers obstructed my view from the co-pilot’s seat, so I laid down on the floor and had Troy hold my ankles as I hung out of the helicopter for a minute or two while I snapped away.”

“Oh, my God!” I shrieked laughing. “Who’s Troy?”

“An intern in the PR department. Should’ve seen his face when I was done, white as a damned sheet,” Jim said laughing.

“No safety harness of any kind?” I asked.

“Now, that would’ve been a good idea, but I didn’t think to ask for one,” Jim said, laughing. “And they probably didn’t have one anyway. I doubt the executives at Ashland Oil would wanna hang out of the helicopter.”

“Probably not. Well, I need to get back to work. You guys need anything else?”

“Just your phone number,” Jim said smiling.

“I’m dating someone,” I said.

“I don’t care,” Jim replied boldly with his most auspicious fuck the world attitude.

I laughed and later I gave him my phone number, and we started going out. Frankie, my boyfriend at the time, was out of town at a music festival with a couple of his friends, and things weren’t going well between us before he left anyway.

On our third date, Jim told me loved me, and we were inseparable for the next 3 years…except for the night Frankie returned.

With tears in my eyes, I broke up with Frankie, who said. “I don’t blame you” because we had a lot of serious issues in our relationship (like the fact we’d been dating for 6 months and had never had sex, but that’s another post itself). Frankie’s lack of anger and such made me feel all the worse. And he moved out that night.

That said, for those who knew James David Thompson, Jr, I’m sure you’re not surprised to learn that I fell for a guy who seemed absolutely fearless, and the hanging out of the helicopter incident kinda put him in the realm of Indiana Jones or Tony Stark on a small town scale…

But we were very young, and things didn’t work out. We divorced in 1988, and I’ve been happily remarried to Charlie since 2000. While Charlie hasn’t hung out of any helicopters, he’s been known to impersonate a Tesla Coil on occasion (hence his nickname – SPARKY), and he’s an Olympic cutter, who could cut himself in a room full of cotton! 🙂  And he’s always there when I need him…:)

~Tenacious Bitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies


Tenacious Bitch © 2014

#134 – Time to Go To Prison~Again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, he was totally fucked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He got another DUI?” Lacey gasped.

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

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

Long pause.

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

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



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

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

Over and out-

~TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies

Tenacious Bitch © 2014


Post #130 – The Sterling Stalker

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

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

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

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

I got a job working as an admin assistant at a computer sales company. While attending a trade show in Santa Monica, a handsome man swaggered over to my table at lunch. “I’ll trade you a bit for your byte?” He asked with a beguiling grin.

I stared at him, confused. Then, I noticed the trade show badge pinned to his shirtand it hit me — a joke about the PC biz…how charming. However, since he was a blonde-haired, hazel-eyed babe, I laughed…while admiring his thick-muscled arms…

“Hi, I’m Sterling,” Mr. Hottie said, extending his hand. “I’m at IBM.”

With a polite handshake and cool smile, I replied, “Kennedy, Kennedy Smith.”

After an awkward pause, the usual pleasantries evolved into a conversation cultivated via common ground. We both liked cooking ethnic meals from scratch, sci-fi books and movies, and both of us wanted to own motorcycles.  But neither of us had the cash to satisfy that yearning at the time.

A dozen dates later, I started to feel that flutter preceding those three little words that will kill or cement any liaison, but quick. However, since Sterling was likely a rebound beau, I refrained from verbalizing said “L” word. Thank God because…

Five minutes after our first blissful romp between the sheets, Sterling had a lengthy discourse with someone named Clair on the phone. I was half asleep, and even though his timing was odd, I assumed by his verbiage, he was chatting with his assistant…or maybe, his sister until…

“Love you, too.” And the cooing timbre of that phrase was definitely not the way one speaks to a sibling…

“Who was that?” I snapped.

“My wife,” he said.

“What? I’m sorry. Did you say wife?”

“Yes, Clair, my wife of six years.”

“You goddamned piece of shit!” I yelled, wanting to kick the short and curlies right off his fucking balls. “You’re  married, you filthy bag of dick?”

“Never said I wasn’t.”

“Oh, right, so that makes it okay. How could you call your wife, five seconds after you fucked another woman?”

A wide grin slithered across his face, “Cuz, it turns me on,” he said, rolling over on me and planting a succulent kiss on my neck.

“Get off me!” I hollered, shoving him sideways. I leapt out of bed and slipped into my robe. “And get the fuck out of my house!”

“Come on, you knew.”

“How could I know? You never mentioned a wife, you lame-assed cock, and you’re not wearing a ring!!”

“A guy like me, single at 30? C’mon?? What’re the odds?” he scoffed.

“GET OUT!” I screamed, so relieved that Tim (my son) was asleep at the neighbor’s next door – because he’d taken a liking to Sterling, the wanking prick.

But Sterling didn’t move. “C’mon, this is 1989. Monogamy’s dead, especially in Hollywood.”

“We live in the Valley, and we’re not celebrities, you arrogant bastard-” I shouted while dialing the phone.

“Who’re you calling?”

“Only 911,” I snickered.

Finally, that prompted his departure, but not without trying to kiss me goodbye. Instead, I gave him a sweet caress of very sharp, red nails…even drew a little blood.

The next day, Sterling called me at work. I immediately hung up on him, but that didn’t deter the cheating lout. Not two hours later, Kiki, the receptionist, strutted over with a dozen roses in a crystal vase.

“Wow, someone’s got a sweetie,” said the dull-eyed Kiki, setting the flowers on my desk.

FUCK! I glanced at the card:

 I miss you, beautiful. 
Please forgive me. 
Just say the word and I’ll file 
Love, Sterling

I dumped the roses in my trashcan, and I wanted to throw the vase at the wall, but I couldn’t exactly afford to lose my job.

And just when I started to relax a few days later, my hands turned cold, and my heart dashed about painfully in my chest…when a bottle of Dom Perignon appeared on my kitchen counter. A card bearing my name beside it.

“What’s wrong, Mommy?” Tim asked, tugging at my quivering hand.

“Nothing, honey,” I said with a weak smile, trying desperately to shield him from the terror evoked by this seemingly innocent bottle of bubbly. “You go on and watch cartoons while I, uh, make dinner. Okay?”


My beautiful blue-eyed boy toddled into the living room as I tried to collect myself. I glared at the card for a second. Then, like an idiot, I opened it:

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

“Shit…” I mumbled, leaning on the counter to steady myself. I raced to the front door and dropped to my knees. I didn’t see any marks on the door or the doorknob, and that was the only entrance to my tiny one-bedroom apartment. I checked all the windows, which were still locked.

I called the police, and two patrolmen showed up an hour later. Tim, of course, was fascinated by their badges and their guns.

“Please, can I see it, Officer, your -?” Tim pleaded from the doorway, pointing to the shorter Officer’s pistol.

“No, Tim,” I scolded. “Go watch TV in the bedroom, please.”

Frowning, he slumped away.

“I’m sorry, but,” said Officer Denton, the older of the two lawmen, “There’s really nothing we can do.”

“But he broke in!”

“There’s no sign of forced entry, and that card isn’t…it doesn’t constitute a threat-”

“I don’t understand! He doesn’t have a key!”

“I know. I’m sorry. I suggest you move.”

“But my lease isn’t up for seven months.”

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

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

Sterling XXXXXXX

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

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


Post #117 – How I almost murdered ex-husband #2…

Posted in Family, family battles, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on October 7, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

People who know me well, know I have a pretty volatile temper. And they know it’s best to don a crash helmet, and, perhaps, a bullet-proofed vest when my ugly ire reaches a combustible level. However, the good news is my threshold for tolerating bullshit is exceedingly high. In that, I don’t explode over someone forgetting to put the toilet seat down and such. So, when I go off, there’s a pretty good reason why.

That said, since my ex-husband, Ashe’s 45th birthday would’ve been tomorrow, I thought I’d share another Ashe-tale, so to speak. For the 411 on Ashe, check out this post:

We were living in a rather spacious 3-bedroom apartment in West Virginia. Ashe was unemployed and making little effort to find gainful employment. My son, Tim, had just turned two. Ashe was taking care of him and allegedly job hunting while I was doing hard time as a paralegal in one of the many cubicle prisons I labored in over the years before going freelance. My boss was an obnoxious ambulance chaser to boot, so my ability to abide Ashe’s nonsense was weakened.

I came home one hot summer evening to find my apartment completely trashed, per usual. I knew exactly what Ashe and Tim had been doing each day because the chaotic mess told the story. Whatever toys Tim had played with would be everywhere but his toy box. Their mealtime detritus strewn about: a Jeno’s frozen pizza box on the couch, a plate speckled with ketchup and fish stick crumbs on the coffee table, a couple plates awash in pancake syrup beside the couch, and sippy cups and plastic cups with rapidly drying residue from Ashe’s Mountain Dew, etc., dotted the landscape of my living room.

If that weren’t bad enough, I went back to mine and Ashe’s bedroom, sat down on the bed to take my shoes off, and what was lurking under MY pillow? A dirty diaper! No, I SHIT you not…, LOL …

Ashe had this habit of folding dirty diapers into little packages and re-taping them. They looked like sullied little footballs. And, you guessed it, ladies and gents, this little football was NOT full of pee. It was a shitty football indeed.

And that, my friends, was the shit that broke my patience meter. I stormed into the living room, screaming and fist-pumping the poopy diaper in his face.

“What the hell is this?”

“What?” Ashe asked innocently. And know that he didn’t leave that shitty little gift for me on purpose…not that it mattered.

 “I found this godammned diaper in our bed, asshole, UNDER my fucking pillow!” I screamed, shaking the foul football bomb at him – about an inch from his face.

“Really?” Ashe asked, weaving sideways to avoid getting smacked in the face with Tim’s shit ball while trying not to erupt into ripples of burping laughter he often exhibited when he knew he’d done something really stupid, and he knew I was going to go ballistic, but the image of whatever happened like my discovering the accidental poo bag under my pillow was too funny to completely curtail a couple giggles despite the life threatening hell I was about to unleash upon him.

“Yes, really! How the fuck did it get there?” I asked…and did I mention Tim was next door at the time playing with the neighbors and their new dog? So don’t be wagging your fingers and shaking your heads thinking I was swearing in front of my 2-year-old because…I wasn’t. No, no, no, that was Ashe – who, years later, got more than one enraged sermon from his Grandmother after our son, Max, called her a “bitch” not once, but twice one Thanksgiving when he was 2 or 3.

“I don’t know,” Ashe replied, his hand now cupping his mouth trying to trap the 9-year-old-ish belly laughs that were dying to escape.

If looks could kill, Ashe would’ve been dead well before winter graced the Appalachians that year.

“I see,” I replied in a rather staccato tone, still ready to strangle him. I walked into the kitchen, dropped the diaper into the over-flowing trash.

“I’ll take that out when I go get Tim,” Ashe said flashing that smile that could charm the pants off a nun.

“You better, or you’ll sleeping on the goddamned sidewalk!”

Ashe nodded, buttoning his lip – again trying to stifle his laughter. I never quite got why he thought my temper was so funny…

“And why the hell can’t you clean up more during the day?! I’m really getting sick and tired of coming home to this goddamned pig shy!”

“I was busy taking care of Tim.”

And that, my friends, was it—my bullshit barometer snapped! I picked up a steak knife in the dish drainer beside me without a thought, and I lobbed it at him.

Luckily, I have pretty decent aim anyway, and when I’m stoked on adrenalin, for some odd reason, my aim is even better. I’m sure if I ever learned archery, I could give Katniss a serious run for her money. So…the lethal weapon landed into the drywall with a THUNK about 2 inches from his big, stupid head. And it kind of wobbled from the impact. This moment kinda resembled a Bugs Bunny cartoon where there would’ve been a BOING-ing sound, but instead, peels of laughter were heard.

Most men would be livid and threaten and/or exact some serious physical damage to my person after something like that. But not Ashe. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you just did that! Look how close that is to my head,” he said looking at the knife, than back at me – amidst a gaggle of belly laughs.

And why was I so ferociously peeved that taking care of Tim was his excuse for not tidying up? Because Tim napped every day for 2-3 hours, giving him plenty of time to straighten up and wash a few dishes.

And that was life with Ashe.  When he got angry, it was often for ludicrous reasons, for example, this post:

But when you assumed he’d get pissed off, understandably so, like tossing a knife at his head, he busted out laughing. At this point, I couldn’t help but start laughing myself. Then, I shook my head—thinking…we just aren’t gonna last. Sadly, I kicked him out a month later. We reconciled briefly but finally divorced less 4-5 years later.

THEREFORE, heed these words:  Don’t cross Tenacious Bitch – cuz she won’t hesitate to cut and/or stab a bitch…

Over and out from fracked up central –


AND DON’T FORGET – if interested in doing a guest post or contributing to my book, go here  for the guidelines:

Post #109 – How Karma Bitch-Slapped the Philanderer…without kiting any CHECKS…:)

Posted in courtroom drama, marriage, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, sex, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on August 21, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

So, AFTER the initial batch of checks that Eli bounced, mentioned previously, I received a seemingly endless slew of notices announcing more ATM withdrawals/checks against our now HOLLOW joint account from him using the WRONG ATM card. The final total was $984.

However, my lawyer, Blaine Lexington, drew up a very reasonable settlement agreement requiring Eli PAY for his additional bounced checks/charges, and in exchange, I wouldn’t ask for alimony. Since he’d cheated on me, and he had no children to support, I had an excellent chance of getting alimony.

Apparently, Eli laughed at this proposal, to his detriment, I might add. You see, Eli, being the cheap bastard that he is, hired Lily Murano, who represented his employer in business matters. And Lily had NEVER handled a divorce before, LOL.

On the other hand, Blaine is the BEST divorce attorney in the state of Ohio, who charged $1500 for an uncontested divorce but I only paid $1100. Why? Well, Blaine’s wife, Felicia, is a friend of mine. We met at a paralegal seminar back in the late 80s.  And Blaine allowed me to do a lot of the legwork on the divorce to help defray the cost as well. In fact, I drafted part of the settlement agreement…:)

And, truth be known, Eli actually owed me a lot more than $984. About a month before we moved to Ohio, he asked if he could use my Visa to open an Internet account with America Online, just to use the free 800 hours.

He didn’t have a Visa because he SAID his ex-wife went uber psycho during the divorce (wonder why :)?) and opened a Mastercard in HIS name and ran up more than $5,000 in purchases, a scant $2,000 over the limit within A WEEK, allegedly ruining his credit, and his Visa got cancelled because of his plummeting credit score. And now all he had was a Sears card.

“If it’s free, why do you need my Visa?” I asked.

“To validate my identity.  You know, people would take advantage otherwise, and then AOL wouldn’t be able to collect any money or even know who to bill without a credit card. After all, I could make up any name as my email address.”

I nodded. “As long as you cancel it the SECOND the trial is over.”


He was my husband. Why wouldn’t I trust him?

Two months later, he’d added $449 on my Visa bill from using AOL!! Back then, in 1995, AOL charged $3.99 per HALF hour for Internet service after the free trial ended.

However, Eli didn’t bother to cancel after the free trial because he was too busy chatting with other WOMEN and downloading PORN all day long on weekends and such on my FUCKING DIME.

I wondered why he so-loved AOL. I knew he was playing vampire role-playing games sometimes because he would talk about the plot lines sometimes.  But since he worked nights, and I worked days, I had no idea just HOW MUCH time he’d spent online until it was too late.

However, after I found out he’d cheated on me (re: ), I SNOOPED on his PC, and not only did I find a cyber-sex conversation with Wolfbitch296, he’d saved on a Word file, but there were HUNDREDS of photos of naked women in leather masks who were shackled to a wall or, perhaps, secured with rope. Some were in elaborate costumes, save their large breasts tumbling out of what looked like PORT HOLES in body armor.

Some were on leashes on all fours. It was all rather disturbing, and I had NO CLUE that he would prematurely go WET, if you will, if I had slipped on some leather and assumed the position as the family pet. I would’ve laughed my ass off at the mere hint of anything like that because I’m not the least bit submissive. A lot of people are into that sort of thing, but it’s just not for me.

Though I cancelled his AOL account immediately, the bills just kept pouring in. And I destroyed half a dozen dishes/glasses and an ugly lamp lobbing one or the other at Eli’s head every time I exploded on him after opening yet another BLOATED Visa bill for 3/4 months. All tolled, the balance crested at $1100 over the limit because of the interest, late fees, and over-the-limit fees. He paid the MINIMUM payments until we split up, but after that, he paid ZIPPO because I allegedly charged more than that on his Sears card.

That was such bullshit. First of all, I, MYSELF, never charged one fucking cent on his Sears card, much less anything without permission. He offered to pay for new tile and new paint for my kitchen because my tile was 20 years old. He OFFERED to buy a new water heater on his Sears card when mine went kaput, so we could use my tax refund for our honeymoon. All of which was HIS idea. But the total on his Sears card was less than $1,000, so he didn’t even bother with that in court.

“It would cause an undue burden on your wife to pay the taxes on her home in West Virginia plus all the debut incurred during the marriage,” said Judge Bickely, a very attractive black woman in her 40s. “Therefore, I’m granting the Plaintiff’s Motion for Support, requiring that you pay the $1122 requested by the apartment community in unpaid rent after you relocated as well as-”

“Your honor, this will cause my client undue financial stress as well,” Ms. Murano objected.

“But your client broke the marriage vows twice, once by cheating, once by abandoning his wife in an apartment she couldn’t afford. Therefore, Mr. Costanza, you can agree to your wife’s terms, or pay $1,000 per month in alimony until she remarries. Your choice,” Judge Bickel said.

Eli glared sideways at me, then at his attorney. With a sigh, he accepted defeat and finally agreed to my demands.

In the end, because Eli refused to cover his $984 in bounced checks, he paid more than $5,000 over 28 months. DUMB ASS…should’ve taken the offer behind Door #1. If he hadn’t accepted the settlement, however, alimony would’ve cost around $40,000 by the time Charlie and I got married in 2000.  I just love when the justice system actually WORKS, don’t you?

T’was all she wrote, ladies n gents, cuz the fat lady’s singing! And singing pretty. And I hadn’t thought about Eli for a decade until seeing his SURLY self on Facebook (mentioned in my last post).

Over and out from fracked up central,

Tenacious BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…:)

© Tenacious Bitch 2013