Archive for true crime

Post #158 -The Oddest, Coolest Mother’s Day Gift Ever

Posted in art, blogging, comedy, Family, Freelancing, humor, life, marriage, memoir, people, relationships, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized, work, writing with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 6, 2016 by tenaciousbitch

Those of you who know me IRL (in real life), you’re aware that I’m weird. And that such is an adjective I wear proudly. So, it won’t surprise you to know that my husband gave me a very strange gift for Mother’s Day, one that I absolutely love. However, I can’t think of one woman on earth besides me who would’ve shrieked with joy as I did when I opened it.

Obviously, it wasn’t flowers or jewelry or an expensive pair of shoes or a gift card from my favorite retailer and the like. Though, honestly, I would’ve been perfectly happy with any of the above.

So? What is it, you ask? A 6-foot alligator? No. I prefer my gifts aren’t of the man/woman – eating kind.

Was it some sort of unconventional kitchen gadget like a knife sharpener?

No…it was…

Wait for it…..

Wait for it…

Here’s a photo of the box.


Does that give you any ideas? 🙂 For all the ladies and gents out there who might’ve been to a gun store, the box might be a dead give away.

Otherwise, for  the many folks who’ve never been to a retail outlet that sells weaponry…you may not even know what it is by viewing the item itself below….


Yes, it is, in fact a STUN GUN!!! 🙂 And don’t you LOVE the fact that it’s pink? 🙂

Though I live in a very low-crime area, I wanted a stun gun because I’ve been selling my artwork (i.e. fine art photography, decoupaged coasters, hand painted vases, etc.) at various flea markets and art shows since last summer. When I had a booth over the winter at a flea market in a somewhat shabby area, I saw a man arguing with a woman in the parking lot, and he struck her so hard in the face, she almost fell down. I called the police who FINALLY showed up about 20 minutes later. And what kills me about that is – that flea market is a mile from Easton Mall/a very EXPENSIVE area to live/work, etc.

Obviously, violent crime can happen anywhere, so you never know when I might actually have an occasion to use this handy gadget in my own home.

Additionally, the outdoor flea market I’ve been going to since March is frequented by more men than women. And sometimes as I’m packing up my artwork and boxes of household items I’ve also been trying to sell (inherited from my mother/other relatives), there might only be a couple other vendors left. There are no security guards or anything, and occasionally, I meet a vendor who just evokes that vibe that he’s probably seen his share of time “inside” a local prison.

Once in awhile a male vendor or a customer will hit on me, and I’m always polite when replying that I’m happily married and not interested in cheating on my spouse. But you never know when one of those guys might take offense and turn an innocent situation into something ugly.

That said, I LOVE MY STUN GUN. And it’s all charged and ready to go, so be warned all lecherous, less-than-honorable men who might consider getting aggressive with me cuz this chick is PACKIN’, and I won’t hesitate to STUN the hair right off your  balz! 🙂

Peace out –

~Tenacious Bitch and her band of truth spouting hippies

P.S. If you’d like to do a girl a solid (and want to help me garner some more cash to GO SEE NANA – and btw, Nana is now 99 years old), feel free to check out my online store with most of my artwork and such at:



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


in garage 3


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

Cost of gas for the Escalade – driving to work: 

  Daily Monthly Yearly
Drive Alone *




Carpool with 1 other person




Cost of driving the Fiesta:

  Daily Monthly Yearly
Drive Alone *




Carpool with 1 other person




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

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

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

TENACIOUS BITCH and her band of truth-spouting hippies…

Yes, I am, in fact – LOOKING FOR CRAZY…:)

Posted in Family, friends, humor, memoir, nonfiction, true crime, Uncategorized, writing with tags , , , , , on September 12, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

I HAVE A NEW BLOG. Its purpose is to gather crazy-assed narratives, post them on WP, and eventually incorporate 4 or 5 of them into a collection/book of bizarro stories called Tales from the Lunatic Lounge, which I am going to self-publish.

Why? Well, because I realized I have way too many stories of OH, MY, GOD that did NOT just happen kind of experiences during my 40+ years of surviving this bewildering thing we call life. And I assume I’m not the only one who has had a number of too flipping weird – not to be true events that have occurred in his/her life, and I thought it would be interesting to create a space to share these yarns of madness for public perusal.

NOTE: The deadline to submit stories for the book is NOVEMBER 15, 2013.

That said, if you’re interested in contributing a CRAZY tome or two, check out the new digs at:

ENJOY, and I look forward to hearing from you! 🙂

THANKS for reading my blog!

TENACIOUS Bitch…and company


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 #101 – No justice for Trayvon…and a feather in the cap of racism

Posted in courtroom drama, nonfiction, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 15, 2013 by tenaciousbitch

Like many, I was shocked and angry to hear that George Zimmerman was acquitted of 2nd Degree Murder and the lesser charge of Manslaughter in the Trayvon Martin case in Sanford, Florida. Since the Department of Justice and the NAACP are investigating the Martin case, and given the protests that erupted across the country from Times Square in New York to the Franklin County Courthouse here in Columbus, Ohio, to the city streets of Oakland, California, much less in Florida, demonstrates that the majority of Americans do not agree with the jury’s verdict.

I, personally, am among those that feel Trayvon’s family has been robbed. It was bad enough their child’s life was stolen at the tender age of 17, but now they’ve also been denied the verdict that would’ve sent Trayvon’s murderer to jail.

I realize I wasn’t a member of the jury, but did the jury not hear the same facts that we, the people, were privy to via the newspapers and news reports on TV? Trayvon was armed with Skittles and a can of Iced Tea, not a knife. Not a gun, not even a paperclip. But he was black, so that makes it different.

Never mind that he was just a kid walking along, wearing a hooded sweatshirt like so many teens (hell so many AMERICANS) wear in February because he wasn’t Caucasian, so he allegedly posed a threat to George Zimmerman who is quite obviously a good bit bigger than the teenager was. Yet Zimmerman’s injuries were described as “insignificant” compared to that of Martin. If Martin was such a threat, why weren’t Zimmerman’s injuries worse? Perhaps, because Zimmerman lied?

According to several news reports, Zimmerman was driving home when he saw Martin and called the police. That’s right. He SAW him. He didn’t observe Martin doing anything illegal or violent. Martin didn’t march up to Zimmerman’s vehicle with a Colt .45. Zimmerman was the only armed member of this violent tango that ended the life of a 17-year-old.

The truth of the matter: Martin was merely walking home. He didn’t say ANYTHING or do ANYTHING until Zimmerman approached him after Zimmerman had described Martin as a “punk” and an “asshole” to the Dispatcher in that chilling non-emergency phone call. If Zimmerman didn’t feel the need to dial 911, did he really feel that his life was threatened? I don’t think so. I think he just wanted to open up a can of pistol whoop ass on someone/anyone because he felt violated by break-ins in the neighborhood.

Is that not evidence of a hate crime to call someone a “punk” and an “asshole” automatically lumping Martin in with the unseen, actual criminals who unlawfully invaded homes in the area when there was no proof to support Zimmerman’s assumptions? Never mind the fact that Trayvon wasn’t one of the perpetrators of the burglaries because Zimmerman had the right to “Stand his Ground” according to a new law in Florida, that will probably inflict untold mayhem on the American justice system in the Sunshine State for decades.

It was dark outside that night. Zimmerman wasn’t even sure that Trayvon was black at first because Trayvon had his back to him, strolling away from Zimmerman while talking on the phone. It was quite clear from the testimony of Trayvon’s friend whom he spoke to during his confrontation with Zimmerman and the testimony of the police dispatcher that Trayvon was not the aggressor in this situation.

Given the fact that the Dispatcher told Zimmerman to “back off” and wait for the police, in essence – telling him to STAND DOWN, which Zimmerman ignored, leads me to believe that if Zimmerman had not initiated contact with Martin, neither one of them would’ve been injured. But we all know, that’s not what happened. And I guess evidence doesn’t matter in a court of law if you’re black.

But when was the last time a man or men in WHITE HOODS spouting racial slurs and threats of racial violence was/were incarcerated? I guess that won’t happen until they assault or murder a white person. And we all know that’s probably not going to happen.

Unfortunately, there’s not much more to say or do to reconcile this decimation of justice because regardless of the results of the investigations by the Department of Justice and the NAACP, George Zimmerman cannot be tried again in a court of law for 2nd degree murder a second time because of the law of Double Jeopardy. So, we the people are left with two options:

1) Don’t let your kids leave the house after dark alone, and…

2) God forbid if they do go out at night alone, don’t let them wear hooded sweatshirts because another over-zealous Neighborhood Watcher/wanna be cop might decide to rid the world of one more innocent.

That said, as I see it, this verdict is merely a feather in the cap for Racists and an indictment of vigilantism, and for that, I’m embarrassed to be a white American, and I pray that some good may rise from the flames of this tragedy in the form of appealing the Stand Your Ground law and better legislation to prevent this sort of lawless murder from happening again.

Over and out from f’cked up central…

TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies…

© Tenacious Bitch 2013

MINI Post #55 – And, then, there was a foreclosure…

Posted in Family, family battles, grandmothers, memoir, narrative memoir, relationships, true crime, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on April 1, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

Just wanted to apologize that I haven’t finished the sequel to the last post, entitled – The Reckoning in Boston.

We had a yard sale this past Friday and Saturday to sell the never-ending supply of Bicentennial plates, and other knick knacks that my husband inherited from his Grandfather who died in ’09, of which there were originally 25 (yes, TWENTY-FIVE) boxes of such in our attic, and now there’s only 20 (YIPPEE)…and we wanted to to sell the remnants of Nana’s* household goods, and there are still 12 boxes or so of knick knacks, etc., some of which I have to box up (again) for the Salvation Army to pick up in a couple of days. The aftermath of said yard sale now litters my living room (photo below). So, THAT took a lot of my time…and this is only a PARTIAL amount of the OTHER boxes of JUNK as there’s more in the dining rm…

Boxes cluttering up my living room AFTER the yard sale...

Prior to that, I was tied up attempting to slay the dragon known as Medicare.  Nana’s prescription drug plan had been cancelled due to ridiculous bureaucratic nonsense. After many hours of combat spent upon the telephone, and though I was re-directed down blind alleys, misinformed and given conflicting avenues to pursue, I arose victorious. And Nana has prescription coverage once again as of this date. However, of course, conquering this dragon took more of my precious time than it should have…

Then, when a bright future dawned upon the horizon, due to another miscommunication with the company that holds the reverse mortgage on Nana’s house in Georgia, her house has been mistakenly put on that dreaded list of foreclosure targets. Yes, a lawsuit was filed a couple of weeks ago, and we received notice via a gentleman bearing the word DEPUTY upon his bullet-proofed vest a couple of nights ago when he served the Complaint upon my person…though I had informed said financial institution in February that Nana wished to turn her house over to them after we emptied it, which just occurred a few days ago. So, someone DROPPED the ball, clicked the wrong checkbox, and now I have yet another mess to clean up because of Danny’s** misdeeds… and many more phone calls and headaches looming upon the morrow.

And aside from all that, I must begin preparing stacks of spreadsheets and various documentation for my CPA…in order that he can execute/file our 10-40 long form/mega complicated and daunting taxes…and last year, the paperwork that I submitted to him was around 150 pages…ho hum…off to my OWN bureaucratic hell… 🙂

Therefore, I will finish the sequel to The Reckoning in Boston as soon as I can, ladies and gents…just hated to leave you hanging…wondering if I had been offed by Colonel Mustard or that devious BUTLER with a candlestick in the library (or, perhaps, the dining room?)…so I wrote this post to assuage those fears…

THANKS! And have a great day! 🙂


*Stories/posts about my Grandmother begin with the first post entitled – As My Mother Lay Dying about how my alcoholic/crackhead brother, fleeced her for every DIME she has, which totaled somewhere around $50K…

**I.E.,Again… Danny is the crackhead brother mentioned above who pilfered all of Nana’s cash and liquidated all of the remaining equity in her house re: the Reverse Mortgage in question…

Blog #46 – My Bad Influence…

Posted in Family, humor, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , on January 11, 2012 by tenaciousbitch

One sultry night in late July (circa 1981) when I was 15, I was hanging out with my friend, Sally, and Danny*, in the basement of my parents’ house. We were watching MTV when we hit a BUMP in our Friday night revelry.

“This is the last beer, guys,” I said, cracking opening the last Stroh’s from my stash.

“Seriously? I thought you’d gotten more than that?” Danny asked rather perturbed.

“‘Fraid not.” I had a system for stealing beer. Dad bought a six-pack every night and a 12-pack on weekends, but he was rarely able to stay awake past the fifth beer. So, once he passed out snoring in his recliner, I would snatch one or two and hide them in a cooler in the basement behind the water heater. As long as I didn’t take more than two, Dad never noticed. Then, we’d drink them on weekends after Mom and Dad had gone to bed, but this particular weekend, Dad was out of town.

“We need to buy more,” I said. It was past midnight, and, of course, none of us had a driver’s license…but I had a plan…“Since Sally has her Learner’s Permit now,” I said, smiling.

“Really?” Danny said, an ornery glint in his eye.

Sally nodded, smiling. “But I can’t take the test for my actual driver’s license until November. But,” Sally’s said, her blue eyes twinkling, “We’re just going to Kroger, which is only about a mile, right?”

“If that,” I said.

“Let’s do it,” Danny said, grinning.

“But you’re getting the keys,” I said, aiming a purposeful look at Danny.

“Okay,” he replied with that wild-eyed GRIN of his.

Sally and I stood in the hallway watching as he crept into the master bedroom where Mom was sleeping rather heavily by the sound of her snore, luckily with her back to us. My heart was thrashing in my chest, and my palms became mushy with sweat. I wiped them on my jeans and took a deep breath.

Just as Danny leaned down to grab her purse, one of the floorboards creaked. He popped upright, his terrified eyes bouncing back at me. She didn’t move, so I beckoned him to continue with a wave of my hand. He studied Mom for a second then he yanked her gigantic purse off the floor without making a sound.

I shut the bedroom door and turned on the hall light. Danny handed me her purse, and I started plucking through the JUNK in her bag: wads of coupons, Kleenex, newspaper clippings, her compact, lipstick, a bag of peanuts, a scarf, a screwdriver, a notebook, a wrench, a dozen ink pens, a can of Raid (really?) a pack of Pall Malls and a lighter and even an extension cord. Seriously? Why?

“My God, what DOESN’T she have in there? What’s she gonna do with a wrench?” Sally mused. “I doubt she even knows how to use one.”

I laughed as I finally laid my hands on her keys. I closed up mom’s pocketbook, holding it out to Danny with a mischievous grin,”Your purse, sir?”

With an annoyed look, he opened the door and slid Mom’s handbag over by her bed and closed the door softly.

I spent the next hour getting gussied up.  After donning a tight blue dress, I stood frowning at myself in the mirror. My eyes were heavily tarred in mascara, and my face was layered with enough of Revlon’s finest to rival the local PROS, now trolling the downtown alleys for Johns

I turned around to Sally. “Twenty-two at least,” she replied.

I grimaced. “No, I think I need more mascara.”

“No you don’t,” Danny sputtered. “You look good enough to turn a gay man. Let’s go. You look fine.”

I tossed him a skeptical look and decided my current ensemble would have to suffice. We snuck out the back door into the balmy night and the sound of a thousand crickets chirping.

“Saddle up,” I said, handing Sally the keys, and we all hopped into Mom’s goose shit brown Pontiac. Sally drove 22 miles per hour, though there wasn’t ONE soul on the road.

“Good Lord, Grandma, step it up a little,” I said . “Speed Limit’s 30.”

“Okay, but not a millimeter past 30. A cop could be hiding anywhere along this road.”

“All right,” I said, rolling my eyes, knowing both the county cops were probably at the Donut Shack down the road…

“All right. Wish me luck,” I said when we reached  Kroger, our closest grocery.

I glanced at the huge clock by the entrance that read 1:48 (AM) then nonchalantly sashayed into the beloved beer aisle. I chose a case of Natural Light. The only cashier working was 80 years old if he was a day. He was maybe five foot tall, and his HUGE black glasses seemed to squash his shiny, bald head.

“Is that all you need, Miss?” asked the old cashier.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I said smiling while thumbing through the cash in my wallet to avoid eye contact with the old man. I’d found on prior occasions if I didn’t look my target  in the eye, I was less likely to get carded.

“That’ll be four dollars and 92 cents.”

I handed him a ten dollar bill. He gave me my change and bagged my delicious, rotgut beer. “Thank you,” I said in a blasé tone as I pranced toward the door. Once outside, I walked BRISKLY to Mom’s Pontiac and slid in beside Sally, who flashed a sweet GRIN.

“Any problems?” Danny asked.

“Nope,” I replied as Sally started the car.

“You’ll have to cut the lights before pulling into the driveway,” I instructed when we began to climb the hill to my parents’ house.

“Okay,” Sally answered hesitantly.

“The lights might wake her up,” Danny said. “Lights from the driveway shine right into her and Dad’s bedroom.”

Sally nodded, taking a deep breath as she pulled into the driveway and switched off the lights. She stopped a good two feet from the side porch.

I stepped out, quickly surveying her parking skills. The car looked as if if were parallel to the yard in a straight line. “Good job,” I said, giving Sally the high five.

Once we were stretched out on the couch in the basement, and I handed everyone a beer. Danny found an old Hitchcock movie on cable. Around 4 a.m., we slurped the last of the Natty Light and went to bed.

At the butt crack of 11 a.m., Danny came charging into my room, babbling about the Pontiac, but my thick-headed hangover prevented me from interpreting his rant.

Sally and I clumsily sat up on our elbows. I turned to her and said, “What’s he talking about?”

She shook her head.

“Mom knows we took the car! You parked the car like five FEET from the sidewalk!”

“Oh, shit,” I mumbled. “How do you know? What’d she say?”

“Is she really pissed?”

“I don’t know. She’s acting all weird about it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, just as Mom appeared in the doorway behind Danny in her baggy polyester pants and her toilet paper turban. Um, yeah, in order to keep her quasi-bouffant hair in place, Mom slept with toilet paper wrapped around her hair with bobby-pins, and sometimes she didn’t toss the turban until later in the afternoon.

“Morning, Mom,” I said, trying to sound calm.

“Who MOVED my car?” Mom snapped.

“We um, uh, went out for a frozen pizza.”

“Pizza?! What the hell were you thinking?”

I said nothing.

“Neither of you have a license! Who DROVE my car?”

“Sally did, but-” I replied.

“I knew it! You’ve been a problem since the day you were born Sally Anne Harvey, and you are a BAD INFLUENCE on my DAUGHTER!”

Danny’s eyes went wide, and he cupped his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

“Mom! It was MY IDEA, not HERS!” I shouted.

“No, you’re just saying that to protect Sally!” Mom screamed, the veins in her neck pulsing so hard it looked like it might just SPLINTER/explode right out of her skin.

“No, I’m NOT!”

“Mom, it’s true. It was Kennedy’s idea,” Danny interjected.

Mom shook her head, “Nope, don’t believe it for one second. Get dressed, Sally. I’m taking you home right this minute!” Mom hollered stomping out of the room.

Sally and I both busted out laughing. “What did I do?” Sally asked.

“I have no idea. But we’ve never gotten in trouble before,” I answered. Luckily, Sally was not the type of person to hold a grudge, much less a grudge for what your MOTHER did or said.

“I just don’t understand old people. Some kids might lie to save their best friend, but Danny backed me up.”

And little did Mom know, that wasn’t the last of MY CLANDESTINE CAPERS…two years later, Sally and I stole another car…only this one was owned by Hertz… 🙂 And, yes, procuring the rental car and taking off to parts unknown was TOTALLY my idea… 🙂

Luckily, we WEREN’T hauled in front of any juvenile court or were EVER sent to any kind of juvenile center for our misdeeds…

STAY TUNED, BOYS AND GIRLS, there will definitely be MORE chaos to follow…

Over and out from Kennedy’s Beer GARDEN…


* See  for the 411 on Danny, who unfortunately, is an addict and a career criminal.

© Kennedy Smith 2012