Archive for motherhood

#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 #148 – The Toilet Promise from the Kitchen Bitch…

Posted in Family, family drama, Food and beverages, humor, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 4, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

Like many women, I got tired of constantly being put upon to do shit tons of housework that I shouldn’t be doing because, well, the men in my house don’t always clean up after themselves, so I posted this note above the sink in the kitchen a few days ago…which I did TYPE, btw.


 The dishwasher is dirty! PLEASE LOAD your dishes. Please do me the courtesy of not ignoring this request. And I mean EVERY single dish that you use whether it’s only a bowl or a cup. It all adds up. And when I do the dishes in the morning, and the sink is EMPTY, and I go downstairs at dinnertime, and the sink is bulging with dirty dishes – like so…

DAMNED DISHES FEB 18 11It really pisses me off! And that’s exactly how it happens—a bowl here, a skillet there, a couple of plastic containers, and POOF – 20 or 30 minutes have been added to my daily chores.

I realize you both help out a lot with the dishes and such. However, I spend anywhere from 15-30 hours/week cleaning, which I’m sure you didn’t realize because I do most of it while you’re asleep, or you’re not here. Last Friday, for example, I spent 2 hours doing laundry and doing dishes, vacuuming, sweeping the floor and dusting. And I would greatly appreciate it if the two able-bodied men in this household would not add to the HOURS I spend cleaning by loading your own dishes! 🙂 It doesn’t take that long!!!!!

Therefore, from now on, if you leave your dishes in the sink for me to load, it will be with the understanding that you’ll clean both the downstairs bathrooms in exchange. And I realize that often there are dishes that need to soak, and that’s fine, but PLEASE load them before DINNER, so, again, I won’t have such a monstrous mess after dinner because it frequently takes me an hour to get the kitchen cleaned up, and if you both loaded your own dishes—that wouldn’t be the case. And if you spill your drink, or get a dab of mayo, or ketchup or something on the counter, PLEASE CLEAN IT UP as well. I’m not your maid, so please stop treating me like one.

THANKS for all your help as always! 🙂 🙂 


The Kitchen Bitch


*And isn’t that just the loveliest, most condescending smile?

And my son Max’s reaction? He was “tired of doing everyone else’s work”.

?? Excuse me, but I don’t think bringing you into this world means I’m required to wash your dishes and do your laundry once you reach the age of say 13/14, and he’s now 22 – YES, TWENTY TWO!  WTF? And this was after my husband, Charlie, had spent FOUR days helping Max, clean his room. Then, Charlie spent four more days washing Max’s clothes while Max finished cleaning his room, which I opposed, btw. I thought Max should launder his own frickin’ togs. And this is the mess that’s been in the hallway since Max’s room was cleaned 3 weeks ago. However, the mattress was thrown away, thankfully, and the computer monitor disappeared. Otherwise, I don’t know if the rest of it is to be given away, or what.

JAN - FEB 2015 088JAN - FEB 2015 089JAN - FEB 2015 090

So since Charlie helped clean his room and did his laundry, how is it he’s doing everyone else’s work?

Perhaps, because Max unloads the dishwasher more than I do? But he doesn’t vacuum, scour his bathroom or either of the bathrooms downstairs, which he also uses. He’s never dusted or mopped the kitchen or the tile by the front door. He doesn’t sweep the kitchen floor with a broom if he spills 1/3 a package of Ramen noodles or macaroni or something, nor does he put his shoes or coat away unless I harass him. And when Charlie does the laundry, Max’s clothes might sit on the back of the couch for weeks before he finally takes them upstairs – except for times when he decides he’ll wear a shirt or two from the pile.

Therefore…once again, dude, explain how you’re doing everyone else’s work cuz I guess I’m just not smart enough to see the correlation here. On the flip side, he did unload the dishwasher without my asking a couple days later. So, perhaps, he was merely grandstanding/spouting off out of guilt?

However, regardless of what he thinks, I am SOOOOOO going to keep to my promise about him and Charlie both cleaning toilets if they dare leave dirty dishes in the sink when the dishwasher is empty or DIRTY…Just so we’re clear.

Over and out,

A rather FED UP, PISSED OFF, ready to stomp her little feet and kick some ass –


TenaciousB’s cousin, doncha know…:)


P.S. MUCH OF THE HALLWAY DEBRIS HAS BEEN REMOVED! Apparently, the clothing in the hamper under the balls (as in a basketball and a football) was slotted to be given away. So, they’ve now found a new home at our local Volunteers of America donation center! YIPPEE!!

Post #138 – Wish I Could Boil My Fingers…an Adventure in Sink Surgery

Posted in college, Family, family drama, humor, memoir, Motherhood, mysteries, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 8, 2014 by tenaciousbitch

One Saturday, a couple of weeks ago, Susan, my mother-in-law, came down to visit from Cleveland. On the Monday prior, I asked Max, my 22-year-old, to clean his bathroom by Thursday, so she wouldn’t have to either traipse through mine and my husband’s bedroom to the master bath (which she’d never do) or trek downstairs to the half bath in the wee hours.

I gave him until Thursday so that if it wasn’t sanitary, which is usually the case, I could kick his ass back in there to clean it again on Friday. WARNING – if you have a weak stomach, turn away now! Go back to the pristine premises from which you hail because the images below ain’t pretty or for the faint of heart. No, they’re not as disturbing as, perhaps, the latrine at a concentration camp but probably not a whole lot better.

On Thursday afternoon around 4:00, I was in my office down the hall working, and I heard him shuffling around in in his sorry excuse for a loo. After about 15 minutes, I heard the unmistakable sound of an explosion in the vicinity of his room, and I heard him shout, “Dammit! What the fuck?”

Not to worry. It was a fake bomb, accompanied by rather impressive graphics – all courtesy of his XBox.

I crept into his bathroom for a peek at his progress, and I was bitterly disappointed. Check out his sink…


And, then, there was the toilet…


I marched down the hall to his room and beat my fist against his door rapidly, which I’m sure sounded like machine gunfire from outside, LOL.

“What?” he asked in a rather annoyed tone.

I opened the door to find him lounging on his bed, his Xbox controller in his hand, but luckily, his game was paused, so he was at least listening to me.

“You can’t possibly think your bathroom is clean?” I snapped.

“Well, what’s wrong with picking up all the trash first?” He whined in a defensive tone.

“Nothing, but you were supposed to be finished by now. Please get back in there and scrub your sink, the tub and your toilet, and I’ll do the floor to make sure it’s clean.”

Yes, I know, he should’ve done it all himself, but I knew such was asking too much of the universe that he do a decent job on the floor as well because his idea of cleansing the tile was swooshing a mop around for 3o seconds, paying no attention to the grime on the floor around his toilet or the weird crud huddled up under the canopy of the cabinet under the sink.

“Okay. Okay.”

“Now, please. I’ve got enough to do before she gets here.”

He frowned, and I slammed out of the room.

The next day around 3 p.m, I went downstairs to get a glass of water, and he was in his bathroom again. And this time, I could smell the effervescent perfume of SCRUBBING BUBBLES. My relief was tempered by my skepticism that his toilet would be hygienic enough for any woman to park her behind upon it.

Unfortunately, while I was eyeball deep in work, he managed to slip out of the house before I could inspect his janitorial efforts. And goddamit – his toilet was still filthy. The counter was clean, but everything else was still dirty, and he hadn’t even touched his bathtub, which had a smattering of dead bugs layering the bottom. Awesome!

He’d been showering in the guest bathroom downstairs (at the back of the house) because his tub wasn’t draining properly. No wonder. There’s probably a family of insects clogging up the pipes or something.

I left several vitriolic messages on his phone and a few angry texts to boot, but I knew I wouldn’t hear from him. And I didn’t. He said his phone died. WHATEVER…DICKHEAD!

Funny thing though, he hadn’t mentioned his sink wasn’t draining either…didn’t take a genius to figure out why…

BAX'S SINKThere was something stuck in the drain.And he might not show up until 2:00 the next afternoon, and Susan was supposed to arrive around 11 a.m., so, of course, it was all on me.

I donned my hazmat gear, an old t-shirt, ratty shorts and a pair of vinyl gloves. I stuck my finger down inside the sink, but I couldn’t seem to get a hold of the object. It was about the size of a quarter, and it kept flipping around between my gloved fingers.

First, I tried a pair of tweezers, but they weren’t long enough. Next, I grabbed a pair of salad tongs, but they were too wide.

I finally realized, the only way I was going to fish this thing out was to use my fingers – sans the protective vinyl. I ripped off the gloves and stuck my fingers into the drain, and I managed to pluck it out on the first try. It was, in fact, a very hairy and grimy quarter…but, alas, there was something else wedged in the sink.

After a momentary bout of cursing, I took the plunge again, and this time I snatched a penny from the bowels of the sink.


You’d think my time playing sink surgeon was over, right? Oh, but, of course, you’d be dead wrong because there was still something else stuck in the curve of the pipe.

“Holy fuck balls, Max!” I shouted.

The last tidbit appeared to be a tiny bottle of some sort. I tried several times to pull it out, but it was plastic, and it kept slithering out of my grasp. At which point, I went into my bedroom, grabbed a sewing machine needle from my chest full of sewing junk. And I stuck the needle into the teeny, tiny bottle…and voila…


It’s a little bottle of eye drops, a sample from the eye doctor, perhaps?

We had a robust shouting match about him shirking his responsibilities when he returned very late that night. And I told him that he’d have to clean his bathroom once/week from now on because I was not going to spend another two hours on my hands and knees scouring his bathroom floor ever again. And for chrissakes, if you drop something in the sink, remove it before it turns into a waterlogged bit of rusty goo!

He apologized later, but the damage was done. And the worst part was – though I washed my hands repeatedly, I couldn’t shake the phantom slime lingering upon my skin after my dissection of his sink.

Yeah, wish I could’ve boiled my fingers!

And I seem to be cursed by nasty plumbing mishaps, i.e.,   …when Nana’s toilet imploded…:)

Hope all is better in your world than that auspicious day was for me!!!

Over and out from insanity central…

And for my wonderful fans who keep emailing me about my memoir, I’m getting close to finite! 🙂

TenaciousB and her band of truth-spouting hippies~


© Tenacious Bitch 2014

Post #122 – Words of Wisdom from the WEE ones…

Posted in art, BOOKS, Family, family battles, friends, humor, memoir, Motherhood, nonfiction, parenting, relationships, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on November 19, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

My cousin recently posted a conversation on Facebook that she’d had with her 4-year-old after telling her son that she had to punish him so that he would learn how to be a good human being.

His reply was, “You need to try something else because this isn’t working.”  TOO FUNNY, right? These days my conversations with Max, my 21-year-old, are all too often merely my asking questions, and his grunts, shrugs, and/or one-word replies.

So, I long for the days of dazzling and thought-provoking conversations between me and my children like one particular day when Max was eight. His homework was to write a one-page essay on someone from a different culture or a different religion. Max was hell bent on making his best friend, Alex, the subject of his paper. But Alex, who lived across the street, was also in third grade, was born in America, and his family is Protestant.

“You can’t do a paper on Alex because he was born in America,” I replied.

“So was Oscar.”

“Yes, but Oscar [another 8-year-old friend] is Mexican, and his family moved here when his mom was pregnant with him. They’re Catholic, which is not like our Presbyterian church, and the Mexican culture is very different as well.”

“But Oscar doesn’t have a moped, and Alex does. And he’s the only kid on the street who has a moped.”

I smiled. I could see his point if the inventory of one’s toys was considered one of the factors for his homework, but such was not the case.

“That doesn’t matter. His moped was a birthday gift. Where you were born, the language you speak, the way you dress, your religion, that’s what matters when defining someone’s culture.”

Max frowned. “Oscar doesn’t wear jeans, and Alex does.”

I shook my head, trying not to laugh because I knew that Max didn’t give a rat’s ass what the cultural differences were. He wanted to write about Alex’s moped, and he wanted to turn in photos of the moped also (because you got extra credit for photos). You see, Max was in love with that moped. He’d been begging for one since the moment he caught a glimpse of Alex tooling around on it in front of his house. But at the same time, he obviously didn’t understand the difference between one culture and another.

“Yes, he does. Don’t be silly. All your friends wear jeans.”

“Nuh, uh, he does not,” he sputtered, his lower lip puffing out in disappointment.

I smiled. “Try again, Sport. How about doing your paper on your friend, Kareem?”

Another frown. “Why?” He retorted angrily. “Does he speak Martian or something?”

I laughed, and Max smiled, knowing he was just being goofy.

“No, people from South Africa speak English and Farsi, I think. But Kareem doesn’t speak another language, right?”

“No,” Max said grumpily.

“And he’s Muslim, so that’s very different, and–”

“So, what? Who cares if Oscar is Mexican, and they go to another church, and Karim was born in another country and isn’t a Christian. We’re all Americans, right, Mom?”


“Well, my teacher said because of your culture, your family is different – like some people in Africa sometimes all live together with their moms and dads and grandmothers and cousins and uncles, all in one house. Most people in America don’t do that.”


“So, Alex is the only one who lives with his dad and his Dad’s girlfriend,  instead of his mom and Dad. And he’s the only one who doesn’t have any brothers or sisters, and I’ve got four brothers. And Oscar has two brothers and a sister, and Kareem has a sister and a baby brother, right?”


“And if we’re all Americans, we’re all the same, doesn’t matter where you go to church or what language you speak you’re still an American, but Alex’s family is different, and he’s the only one of my friends with blue eyes, and my teacher said that sometimes the way you look makes a difference. So, I don’t see why I can’t do my paper on Alex.”

Man, it was hard to argue with that logic…if only most Americans felt that way, it’d be a better place, would it not?” 🙂

Max ended up writing his paper on Oscar-albeit begrudgingly. As I recall, he got a B- on it, and then, he ripped it up and threw it in the trashcan. I didn’t say anything. I just let that go, but, apparently, Max could not let this issue fade into the night. Finally, when I thought Max had forgotten all about it, his teacher, Mrs. Childers, called about the other paper Max wrote.

“What other paper?” I asked.

“Another essay about someone named Alex. He handed it to me saying all that culture stuff is a bunch of ca ca, and this the one he should’ve done and that it was an A+ paper!” Mrs. Childers explained cheerily. “Afterward, he stomped over to his desk, crossed his arms, and fumed until recess. He didn’t do any work, but he didn’t bother anyone, so I just let him be. Eventually, he started drawing pictures of  Alex’s Moped. After lunch, he was fine on the playground and very attentive all afternoon.”

“I’m sorry to hear that he blew up like that,” I replied, trying not to laugh. “Is he in trouble? Did he say or do anything else?”

“No, I just wanted you to know how much this unit on culture upset him, but I think he vented his frustration in a very positive manner.”

“Well, thank you,” I said with relief because too often Max expelled his aggravation by screaming at people, breaking things, kicking his desk, or unfortunately, slugging a classmate, on occasion. “That was very nice of you to call and let me know.”

And…as they say…was that…

Over and out from CRAZYTOWN – where the CRAZY store never closes…:)

Tenacious BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies


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 #96 – The Legend of the Blue Notebook – in Honor of Mother’s Day

Posted in Family, humor, Motherhood, nonfiction, parenting, true stories, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , on May 13, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

Since yesterday was Mother’s Day, I decided to divulge a story about my dearly departed Mother, whose life, sadly, was truncated by cancer in 2007. I miss her terribly, but her magic Mommy mojo still affects my life to this day.

When I was 12 years old, I wrote my very first, horribly written novel called DREAMS. Yes, I know…so fabulously original :). It was basically a teenaged soap opera/romance, and this was in the pre-historic era of the late 70s, way before 90210 or Dawson’s Creek, so I guess I was ahead of my time, LOL…

That said, we didn’t have a typewriter, so I was writing this magnificent yarn long hand in a blue notebook. One day my mother walked in just after I’d finished drafting a chapter. She saw me cramming my manuscript under my mattress.

I was embarrassed. In that I was afraid everyone would think it was stupid, first of all because I was 12, secondly for fear someone would deduce that one of the main character’s love interest was based on someone in REAL LIFE, my first crush, a boy named Bobby. So, this treatise was kind of my fantasy too because Bobby and I might’ve exchanged less than a paragraph of conversation from junior high through high school. I was the shy bookworm while he was very outgoing and popular and dating a beautiful cheerleader instead of me :). He’s bald now and has a really boring corporate job, but he looks happy in his Facebook photos with his lovely blonde wife.

But I digress…my mother gave me an odd look noticing my conspicuous behavior with the blue notebook and said, “What’re you hiding under there?”

“It’s, um, it’s a story I’m writing,” I replied sheepishly, avoiding eye contact.

At that, Mom frowned. “You’re a good writer, Kennedy. If you want to be a writer when you grow up, then, be a writer. Don’t let other people’s opinions keep your from your dreams,” Mom continued, smiling.

And that WORD – DREAMS, of course, seemed like a hint from the GREAT beyond that I should make some effort at this writing thing – since it was, after all, the title of my wickedly awful tome.

I nodded, but Mom could tell I wasn’t convinced.

“You should be proud of your writing. Take it out. Show it off because, otherwise, you’re never going to get anywhere if it stays under the bed. And if a couple of people don’t like it, so what? That’s ONE or two people in a 1,000 who might read it and love it.”

I chewed on that thought for a second when she followed up with…

“After all, they thought Edgar Allan Poe was a lunatic, and we’re still reading his work more than 100 years later.”

I had yet to discover the awesomeness of Poe, whom I would devour after reading MASK OF THE RED DEATH about a year later, so I asked, “Who’s that?”

“He’s a famous writer, kind of a Stephen King of the 1800s.”

“Oh,” I stammered, “I see.” Having just finished reading CARRIE by Mr. King, I nodded again. Those words of encouragement became my mantra. If Mom hadn’t been so supportive at such a vulnerable time in my life, I’m not sure I would’ve majored in Creative Writing or had the nerve to send my first sci-fi novel out to more than 200 publishers or to go out to Los Angeles and pitch my screenplays to film execs 2-3 times/year, one of whom worked for BAD ROBOT. I chatted with him for a few minutes about the sci-fi thriller I wrote in 2007.

Even though he passed on my script because it wasn’t a Tentpole project like The Dark Knight, the experience was invaluable. And he referred me to someone at Warner Brothers who eventually read my script. Unfortunately, they had one like it in the works, but STILL. I’ve been putting myself out there because of a 5-minute conversation with my mother more than 20 years ago.

Without Mom convincing me that I had the ability to craft a story…one of my short scripts wouldn’t have won First Place in Fade In Magazine’s Competition in 2011 because I probably would’ve done something else with my life. Maybe, I would’ve just continued teaching grade school, which I began to hate after a couple of years (long story for another post) or, perhaps, I would’ve become a nurse since they’re always in demand.

While I don’t make tons of money, I’m much happier at home editing, writing and doing script consulting than I EVER was in corporate America as a paralegal or working in HR. The entire 15+ years I was shackled to a desk in a cubicle, I felt like I was wearing someone else’s life. And it was a life-sucking/soul-crusing experience. And despite the agony of dealing with Nana, I’d still rather be at home arguing with her about why she should eat potato skins (see the previous post – for the joys of living with my 96-year-old Grandmother) than day-walking through that malarkey of cubicle misery again.

So, THANK YOU, MOM! And to all the parents out there: When your child comes to you and says they want to be an actress/play for the NFL/or become a rock star, etc., tell them to GO FOR IT. Why? As my mother always said: “‘Tis better to have tried and failed than never to have tried at all”…because if you don’t, you never know, you might deprive your kid of their Oscar or a Superbowl ring, and, yes, I plan to make this my acceptance speech at the Oscars, should I EVER win such an auspicious title.

And if I never sell a screenplay, at least I won’t look back on my death bed wishing I’d given it a go…

Love and chocolate chip cookies…

TenaciousBITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…

All comments/posts/photos and the like on are the property of TENACIOUSBITCH –

© TenaciousBitch 2013


Posted in Family, Food and beverages, humor, Motherhood, nonfiction, relationships, true crime, true stories, true stories, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on April 29, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

My husband and I have been together almost 16 years, and we just celebrated our 13th wedding anniversary. As such, I have to pay homage to my better half – especially after reading these sweet words of adoration he posted on Facebook:

“Happy anniversary to my best friend and the best wife any guy could ask for. Who else would put up with all my crap? Love you with all of my heart.”

Okay, go ahead and say it – AWWWWW…except he posted this romantic and honest sentiment on April 20th, and our anniversary was April 22nd! LOL…However, in his defense, this is the FIRST time he’s ever been wrong about the date of our anniversary, my birthday or any other important date.

So, in turn, I’d like to share a couple of anecdotes from when we were dating about what a great guy he is/was and why we click, so to speak.

The first weekend that Charlie stayed at my apartment in Dublin (Ohio) back in ’97, we had been to a party where the only grub was chips and pretzels, and we were both hungry when we got back to my place. So, I’m scrounging around for something to eat, and I was about to suggest we order a pizza because Tim was going through a growth spurt (he was 10 at the time), and he’d eaten all the leftovers after school that day – when as a JOKE, I said…

“I’ve got Spaghettios.” Followed by a giggle, and, yes, I meant – Chef Boyardee spaghetti in a can with meatballs.

“Cool. I love Spaghettios,” he replied smiling.

“Really?” I asked, totally surprised because I assumed he’d rather have Domino’s or Pizza Hut.


“All righty, then,” I replied, grabbing the can opener.

After I artfully microwaved our canned pasta, we sat down in the living room. In the middle of a conversation about why we both liked the plot of the TV show Babylon 5 but couldn’t watch it because the acting was so bad, he suddenly stopped talking. He was staring at my bowl of cheapo pasta with an ODD smirk.

“What?” I asked, hoping to GOD there wasn’t a bug in my cuisine or food in my hair.

“Um, I do that,” he replied nodding toward the way I was dumping Spaghettios on an ordinary piece of white bread.

“Oh, that,” I said smiling. “I’ve done that since I was 5 or 6. I think they taste better on bread.”

“Me too. I’m always afraid to do that around people I don’t know very well, afraid they’ll make fun of me,” he said, smiling.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass. This is the way I like it, and this is the way I’m going to eat it. If you’ve got a problem with that, there’s the damned door,” I said, laughing again.

He nodded…and that was our first BONDING moment.And here’s my favorite photo of Charlie, taken about a week later after the Spaghettio incident…

Image Data

In his hockey jersey – taken sometime in the Winter of 1998.

About six months after that, the boys and I moved in with Charlie. He’d just finished building his first house on the westside of Columbus, and I was REALLY happy that he’d asked us to move in with him. The lease was up on my apartment, and they’d jacked the rent up to way more than I could afford. And we spent most of our time at Charlie’s house anyway.

About a month after that, Max, who was 5 at the time, got the stomach flu and threw up ALL over Charlie’s obnoxiously ugly, orange plaid couch.

Max always got really upset when he lost his lunch like that, and that day was no exception, and he was bawling his eyes out. “You’ll be all right, buddy,” I said between Max’s howling cries.

“No, I won’t,” Max blubbered, “I need to go to the hospital.”

“You have the stomach flu,” I replied, “Just like that kid in your class, Tyler, did last week.”

“No, I’m much worse. It’s probably that cancer that Aunt Ramona had.”

I had to stifle a laugh at that one while helping Max take off his soiled shirt and wincing at the milky mix of regurgitated potato soup and red Kool-Aide all over Charlie’s sofa, and I couldn’t help but worry that Charlie might be upset that Max had barfed all over HIS love seat.

However, Charlie walked in a couple minutes later and upon seeing the YUCK in Max’s hair and on the couch, he said, “Well, which one do you want? The couch or the kid?”

Before I could answer, Max replied, “I want Charlie to give me a bath, not you, Mommy.”

“Okay,” I said as Charlie scooped the smelly boy up in his arms, heading for the bathroom.

Some Moms would be upset that the new boyfriend had usurped her motherly duty that day. Not me! I was thrilled that Max was so accepting of Charlie in our new family dynamic. And I was relieved that Charlie was not the least bit concerned about his furniture and dropped everything to help take care of a sick kid, who wasn’t biologically his and for the record he’s never ONCE used the term – stepson since the day we got married. It was always – “OUR SON, OUR BOYS.” Except on legal documents like insurance forms and tax returns.

I knew at that moment as Charlie carried Max upstairs, I knew that Charlie should be my lawfully wedded love/best friend/chef extraordinaire/fixer of all things mechanical/finder of lost remotes/awesome supporter of my writing career/tapper of my kegs (see previous post at ), voodoo master who makes my computer behave by merely standing behind it/and the first one to laugh at my dumb jokes.

Luckily, three years later, he came to the same conclusion (that we should get hitched…:)…

And though, of course, it hasn’t been like Christmas every day, it’s pretty damned good. And I guess I should thank Max for vomiting on Charlie’s sofa that day…:)..oh, and the LOVE, honor and will buy Ford?

Um, yeah, the only sort of Pre-Nup we had was a verbal agreement that Charlie would never have anything but a vehicle manufactured by FORD (or at the very least – an American car) in his name or his garage…and until buying the Escalade…such was the case. Though I’d always bought Japanese vehicles, buying American was definitely worth having a man at my side who doesn’t get bent out of shape by a little bit of throw up…:)

Over and out from Fucked Up Central…

~TenaciousBITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…