Archive for men

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



Posted in Family, family battles, relationships with tags , , , , , , , on July 26, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

I previously mentioned my irritation in regard to the amount of housework I do and/or about the nasty grime my son creates in this post…

Well, there’s another issue that makes me wanna start throwing shit out the windows. What is that, pray tell, you ask?

The. FUCKING. CLUTTER. First of all, I know that I have a good bit of clutter too.


My dilapidated excuse for a closet, LOL.

But it’s not by the front door or in the living room…it’s in my office or my closet, which is a total disaster because I’ve run out of room. However, I gave six, 30-gallon trash bags full of clothes to the Volunteers of America last month. And now, I know I still have a lot of dress clothes and such to sort through, etc.

However, NO ONE ever sees my disheveled untidiness because it’s all tucked away upstairs.  You can’t even get to my office without walking through mine and Charlie’s bedroom, so…yeah, it gets pretty much 0 traffic beyond me, Charlie and Max.


The wall adjacent my desk in my office. Pretty, ain’t it? 🙂

And, yes, much of the mounds of God knows what in manila folders throughout my little hovel where I toil away on my writing and such – could be tossed…if I had time to clean it after vacuuming, dusting, putting away laundry and doing an ungodly amount of dishes and/or and cleaning 3 of the 4 bathrooms cuz I’ll never touch Max’s bathroom again after THIS incident –

While my closet and office are contained areas of chaos, the difference is the messiness of my office is from not having time to file/sort and get rid of old bills or bank statements of my Grandmother’s, receipts that I may or may not need to keep for our taxes, etc.

And the disorder of my closet is from an abundance of clothes that are too small, worn out, out of season (winter clothes), or I just decided I didn’t like them after wearing them a time or two (particularly thrift store clothes).

But Max and Charlie’s clutter is comprised of objects they use every day that they’ve just neglected to put away. And Charlie constantly buys electronics and car parts, and he’ll leave the packaging on the kitchen table for 2 weeks/a month. I hesitate to throw it out the box or whatever in case it’s under warranty, and he might want to save the packaging in case he needs to send it back for some reason. Usually, when I finally remember to ask him, he says he doesn’t need it. Then, WHY THE HELL didn’t you chuck it 3 weeks ago?

So…shall we take a walk down Max and Charlie’s CLUTTER LANE?

The photo below is from my living room, right by the front door. The rectangular item in the chair is a fan from an old server that Charlie brought home from work. They were moving their offices, and he saw it in the trash. He snapped it up, thinking it would make an interesting knick knack for the basement, but he left it sitting there in the wing chair for almost 2 weeks.


To the right of the chair is Charlie’s bass amp, which sat there for 3 weeks after he came home from their “Word of Mouth” tour in June.

Next to the wing chair is his bass amp, which was sitting up against a marble topped linen chest for more than two weeks. I couldn’t open the linen chest that whole time to put placemats away and such and/or retrieve a clean tablecloth, and the cats LOVED trying to scratch it up, the bass amp, I mean.

I don’t know why they so love raking their nails across that hard vinyl-ish plastic, but they did.  And the sound was so pleasant late at night while doing dishes or making my lunch (to take to work) not 10 feet away in the kitchen when they suddenly began ratcheting their claws against that thing, a sound akin to fingernails on a chalkboard. I would jump and cringe every time,

OH, AND THEN, there’s the shoe farm right by the front door…yeah. I bought this really nice coat rack with a bench underneath for shoes, but they obviously don’t use it, n’est-ce pas?


I suspect you’re starting to GET why I get so pissed off about this kind of slovenliness, and maybe some people wouldn’t be bothered by this issue. But it makes me wanna start breaking shit (namely the shit they leave all over the fucking house).


And this view of the toilet downstairs is another prime example. Max frequently takes a shower and just leaves his towel piled up on the Kleenex on the back of the toilet – instead of on the shower door, forgetting that I’m allergic to perfume. His towel is saturated with the pungent odor of the body wash he uses (Old Spice Matterhorn, or something like that), or it might be fumigating the tissues with the fragrance of Pantene shampoo. Any kind of perfume, good or bad, makes my sinuses swell, and I get a horrible headache, and/or I can’t breathe. So, I had to throw out that box of Kleenex. Then….there’s his clothing…MAX'S SHORTS IN THE BATHROOM

He’ll leave a filthy shirt on the kitchen table or his dirty shorts with his sweat-soaked, stanky underwear attached on the floor of the bathroom almost every time he takes a shower. Awesome…because he can’t use his own shower upstairs, but don’t even get me started on that. 

Okay, I’m DONE. Just know that if you hear about a woman in Ohio shooting her son’s backside full of buckshot…it just might be ME if they don’t heed my warnings to put their CRAP WHERE IT BELONGS…

Over and out…:)


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve overdrawn our joint account.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

People you may know:

Allen Costanza

Red Bank, Wyoming

4 mutual friends…

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

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

Love and chocolate chip cookies – from fracked up central –

TenaciousB and her band of truth-spouting HIPPIES

Tenacious Bitch © 2013


Post #93 – Death, taxes and don’t judge my BOX…:)

Posted in Family, Food and beverages, humor, marriage, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , on April 10, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

When you’re self-employed, preparing one’s taxes is a colossal bitch, and I’d rather walk to California barefoot than do one more goddamned spreadsheet. However, in 2005, when I finally convinced my husband to hire a CPA and itemize everything, our federal refund TRIPLED. Thus, the nightmare of cataloging receipts, drafting spreadsheets and such is totally worth it.

As mentioned previously, my husband, Charlie, plays in a band (see  )….and one night, while I was eyeball deep in tax prep, he had a gig that I didn’t attend. I was exhausted, and I didn’t have a sitter for Nana.

About ten o’clock that night, I discovered Charlie had made a truly egregious error, and I left him this note taped to the KEG in question…

BUSTED UP KEG NOTEFirst of all, the word SPODA is a family joke. When Max was 5 or 6, and he got really angry, he’d say – that’s not SPODA happen when, you know, some kid took his ball or something. And don’t you love the spelling of HUSBAND? LOL…

To answer the obvious, no, I don’t sit around draining a keg of Natty Light (a.k.a. Natural Light) which I haven’t had since ’97, or Beck’s Light, my current brew of choice – ALL by myself.

Occasionally, when we’re low on cash, we buy a box of red wine. To be honest, Peter Vella’s Merlot is rather tasty. It’s not as luscious as even a cheap Pinot Noir or anything, but it’s good, cheap wine.  KEG is our code word, so Nana won’t know what we’re talking about because she’s Pentecostal. They do NOT partake of spirits, and at 95, she doesn’t necessarily equate a KEG with a large barrel of beer. However, she used to drink in the 60s…check out the photo below…

MIMI JUDY CIRCA 63 - JUDY SMOKINGThe lovely blonde smoking a cigarette is my Aunt Jackie, my Mom’s sister, and the redhead is Nana, both with a cocktail, of course. And, no, that’s not a weird tattoo on Nana’s knee. It’s a bit of dirt on it from years of shuffling around that wouldn’t come off with a damp cloth. I feared I’d ruin it if I used Windex or something.

Anyway, Nana currently believes imbibing alcohol is akin to shooting heroin at a daycare center.  However, I hail from a long line of Irish, Catholic drunks. Despite such, I rarely consume more than 2-3 glasses of wine cuz any more than that, and Nana will find me asleep in strange places (like the coat closet) when she comes toddling along with her walker wondering where her breakfast is. And it’s really embarrassing after the cats steal my clothing, which they’ve done before.

JUST JOKING, of course. I actually have a relatively high tolerance for booze, and I’ve never passed out in a closet (at least not since college 🙂 ). But the idea of Nana finding me in a Merlot coma, curled up around my raincoat was too funny not to use.

When Charlie saw the note, he chuckled, especially upon seeing the battered box…

KEGWTF, you ask? Looks like it’s been mauled by a Grizzly bear, doesn’t it? 🙂

You see, it used to be that no matter if I used an electric, fancy automatic wine bottle opener or a regular handheld corkscrew, I COULD not open a bottle of wine without either chipping the hell out of the cork, yet managing NOT to dislodge it. OR the cork would end up bobbing around inside the bottle. Though at least then, you could drink it.

THEN, I got stuck living with Nana for a month in Georgia (see Post # …). Boxes of wine were too difficult to smuggle into the house without her spotting my contraband. So, I went shopping one morning and hid 5 bottles of wine in my beach bag. Then, while Nana was napping, I sat in the kitchen wrestling with the vino and an ordinary corkscrew. Finally, I got the hang of it on the FOURTH try.

However, the GODz frowned upon my new found cork-springing superpower because NOW, I cannot, should my life depend upon it, open a BOX of wine without breaking 3 or 4 fingernails.

And I don’t mean, the DAMMIT, that smarts, and go on with your life kind of scenario. I mean shredding them in half and showering the box, the bar, my t-shirt, my jeans and one of the dogs (or cats) in an OCEAN of blood.

I have to open the box with a screwdriver or something in order to avoid exsanguinating myself and/or traumatizing one of the animals beyond the repair of any feline/canine therapist. In the process, invariably, I decimate the cardboard.  My husband, of course, is aware of my ghoulish curse/disability, and we agreed LONG ago, that he’s NOT allowed to leave the house without tapping MY KEG. But, alas…he forgot, and we’re all here to laugh at the consequences.

A couple days later, I completed and submitted ALL the 1040A nonsense to our accountant. WOOHOO! 🙂 But I guess, you can’t have one without the other. Again, WTF? Feel free to say that as often as you like during my posts. I don’t mind…:)

We Americans say you can’t avoid DEATH and taxes. Well, some countries don’t have the fucked up ritual of completing 27 pages of fiscal rubbish in order to prove to the government that you paid your legal share (in all of its loophole glory) in INCOME TAX…or frequently we OVERPAY and garner that much-coveted refund.

However, the Grim Reaper is no Uncle Sam. You can’t hide from him in Mexico. So…after grinding away until 1AM finishing my last spreadsheet, my cat Samantha (below)…

Samantha, Sasha's daughter and partner in crime.

Woke me up with a panicked YOWL around 7AM, which I mistook as friendly spatting with her mother, but she wouldn’t let up. I went downstairs and found our beloved Bart, A 14-year-old Chow/Shepherd mix, had died in the middle of the dining room. Samantha was dancing awkward circles around him while our other dog, Raven, was in the kitchen, totally unaware. A little later though, she became rather distraught seeing her lifeless Bart being hauled away in an old blanket.

I bawled my eyes out for awhile, but I’m better now. He was a rescue dog. We adopted him when he was 3 months old. Here’s a sweet photo of him when he was about a year old.

Image Data

We had Bart cremated, and I have to go to the vet to retrieve his urn now. He was a very good dog, an excellent security guard, and he shall be greatly missed. Love you, Bart. Hope your days are full chewing on ham bones and chasing squirrels..:)

And after all THAT, is it any wonder that I occasionally HIT the box for another glass of Vella? 🙂

All the best,

TenaciousBitch and her band of sad-eyed hippies…

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.

Blog #39 – The Psychotic Soldier…and then some…

Posted in beer, college, friends, relationships, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on November 30, 2011 by tenaciousbitch

So, there I was, squatting down behind my car, watching for signs of Mark, the letch/wanna be rapist* …when I felt the WORST cramp in my calf! And no ordinary TWINGE! This pain cut sideways into the bone!

DAMMIT to dog bane…

Finally, the level NINE assault on my right gam was UNBEARABLE, and I involuntarily shot upward into the night air. I limped away from my Volkswagen toward the refuge of several pine trees a few feet away – when I heard:

“What the fuck’re you doing? Playing hide and seek, stupid bitch?” Mark SCREAMED in an onslaught of Kentucky twang, a new shade of tones in his voice. He stood, hands on his hips, on my front porch.

Stymied by his hostility, I struggled to think of a reply as Mark sailed down the two dozen steps at top speed from my porch to the street.

“Sorry, Mark, I…it was just uh, joke-” I sputtered.

“Well, it wasn’t fucking funny to stand me up in your own goddamned living room, you goddamned cunt!”

I lurched toward him. My bone-headed temper always flares a the C-WORD. And forgetting he could splinter my bones with his thumb, much less what he could do with his bionic biceps, I stammered, “Look, you brainless piece of shit, keep talking about me like that, and you’ll be wearing your dick as BOW TIE!”

My face flushing RED HOT, watching his hulking frame hurling toward me as I quickly reversed directions, slinking awkwardly backward. And remember, this was in the late 80s…no cell phones to ring up the men in BLUE!

“Is that so?” he barked, his gait slowing to a stroll, braking beside his truck. Without a word, he unlocked the driver’s side door.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” I stammered, feeling rather unnerved by his sudden calmness. Seeing his flattened glare in the glow of the streetlight created spasms along my spine, and I shivered, wondering what he was fumbling for inside his truck. “Why don’t we just call it a night, okay?”

“Yeah, let’s,” he said, popping back up with a GUN! A large pistol, a mini canon of sorts.

“Mark! What the hell’re you doing?” I shrieked, my feet stolidly still.

“Teaching you a lesson, little bitch!” he said, cocking the gun.

I turned around and charged toward the cluster of pines just as he FIRED, my right foot tripping over the left, stiffened by my lower leg now knitting itself into a ball of sharp pangs again. I landed sideways in a haze of green needles and sap with a WHOOSH and a grunt.

He laughed at my lack of grace, treading HEAVILY in my direction. “Where ya goin’, sweetheart? We ain’t done yet.”

My breath a hard lump in my chest, I rolled up onto my knees, watching him leering toward me. Then, when he was an inch from the throng of trees, I took off in a crouching run along a row of bushes as the second bullet went ZINGING over my head. “Jesus, H, Mark! What the fuck is wrong with you? You really wanna go to jail?”

Again, he chuckled. I turned left beside a small brick house, willing my marbled leg to unfurl and propel me FORWARD to the backyard where Mark couldn’t see me for a few seconds where maybe, just maybe I could find some kind of shelter. I peered into the gloom and saw a shed in the corner. I pressed on, my meaty limb still taut but slightly more supple.

I slid behind the shed and stood there BREATHING, trying to sway my lungs and heart to slow down. Rustling leaves preceded Mark’s loud sing-songy whisper, “Come on out, sorority Sue. I gotta kiss goodnight for you…” …followed by a hound dog-ish giggle.

WTF? I was NOT a sorority girl!

Beyond rattled, I peeked around the corner of the shed. Mark stood in the side yard of a brick house next door, gun to his side, stalking toward the street.

“Come here, you little pussy! If I can find rag-heads in the sewers of Lebanon, I can find your ugly ass, let me tell ya!” he croaked, a little louder.

I looked left. Miraculously, I saw a LIGHT. I haphazardly hobbled toward the warm glow in a small window in the back of the house at the end of the road where Mrs. Simon, a daffy old crone, lived.

I crept away from the shed, heading for the light. Staggering sideways, praying Mark had given up the chase, he spotted me in front of blue house next to Mrs. Simon’s, a mere 10 feet from Mrs. Simon’s porch.

“There you are, pumpkin,” Mark said sweetly from the street where he stood by an old Buick, “I was beginning to worry,” he laughed.

I dropped down to my knees to avoid the flock of bullets I expected to jet my way when I spied several mid-sized stones that looked to weigh around two pounds encircling a line of azaleas, not a foot away. I half-crawled to the azaleas and grabbed one of the rocks.

Meanwhile, Mark was swaggering up the sloping wide lawn in front of the blue house, gun trained ON ME.

I rushed to the side of the blue house. Standing upright, hugging the wall, I leaned back, then stepped out far enough to see Mark, and LOBBED that rock at my predator as hard as I could. It hit Mark in the gut. He buckled to his knees moaning. His arms cuddled his waist for a moment, then he flopped gently onto his back, with a groaning, “Fuck n, A!”

I took OFF for Mrs. Simon’s little white house. When I FINALLY plopped down on her porch with rubbery legs, my breath still punched in and out of my lungs in a hard rhythm.

I banged on the screen door, my eyes cutting to Mark, sitting up, holding his middle with both arms. His gun appeared to be lying on the ground next to him.

I gasped seeing the porch light blaze across me when the screen door opened. Mrs. Simon appeared. She looked no less than 400 years old. She had pink spongy curlers in her stark white hair and grooves so deep under her eyes, her face had the appearance of a fleshy skeleton

“Kennedy, is that you? What are-?”

“That guy! He’s got a gun!” I said breathlessly, pointing toward the barren area where Mark had been.

“What?” she asked, obviously confused.

“Mark, my date,” I sputtered, “He had a gun! I swear!”

She looked past me. “What are you doing, there in my yard at this hour?!” Mrs. Simon squawked.

There was Mark slumped against a tree. I couldn’t locate the gun in the darkness until…he raised the barrel, and…

“Is that a gun? Oh, my God!” Mrs. Simon shrieked ushering me inside, tugging at my arm with her bony hand.

“Get down!” We both rushed into the house swooping down behind an armchair when a bullet came CRASHING through her front window

“Oh, my God, will he pay for that?” she whispered.

“Shhh…” I said… I slowly inched up close enough to peer over the window sill at Mark when I saw him trudging toward his truck. He opened the passenger door, squatted down, then…

“Dammit to hell!” Mark blustered, tossing his pistol onto the seat and stomping over to the driver’s side.

“What’s he doing?” she whispered.

I shook my head and said, “Shh…” YES! He slipped into the front seat and drove away, tires squealing. “He ran out of ammo,” I said laughing.


“No more bullets, I’ll bet, so he left. Thank you, God!” I sputtered smiling. Feeling rather jelly-kneed and hollow, I collapsed into the armchair, displacing a rather agitated black cat…

“Oh, I see. That’s good. Will he be back?”

“I don’t know.” I took a deep breath, catching my first whiff of the excruciatingly foul stench of…

(to be continued… :))

OVER and OUT from a tad more mellow crazytown…


*See Blog Post #38 – THE GREAT ESCAPE for the 411 on Mark.

** Again, see Blog Post #38 RE: my friend, Anna…