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

For those of you who are new to my brand of Crazy Town, I’m married and have 2 boys, one of whom still lives with us. His name is Max (of the famed – post from December 2012), and he’s now 23.

Meanwhile, Taylor, his best friend, moved in with us about a month ago. Taylor’s roommates kicked him out because of a ridiculous disagreement. Their landlord had sold the house, and they had 2 weeks to move out, and he kept bugging his roomies to pack because they weren’t doing much to prepare for this event because in Taylor’s words, “All they cared about was doing drugs, and that’s just not me.”

So, 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 can be extremely challenging. 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. In that, Taylor is quite adept at drawing Max toward the light of reason when he’s wandering around in a dark, fist-clenched cloud of rage.

My husband, on the other hand, is usually a laid back and calm individual, and we get along really well. However, you men people…you all have habits that drive all of us ladies to the brink of madness at times. And I know I’m not perfect, but this post ISN’T about me…:) In other words, 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 shit 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/guide whatever the hell it is for some game, sat on this marble chest by the front door for months until…you guessed it, Samantha (the cat) knocked it into the floor. (Yeah, she REALLY hates clutter, LOL). 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 last but not least…the lack of attention to common courtesy in the kitchen. 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 beg and politely ask them to load their own fucking dishes into the dishwasher, it never happens. My husband, however, helps A LOT with dinner dishes…but he ignores the sign as well and frequently leaves his plastic bowls and whatnot from his lunch for ME to load, which really pisses me off.

2. Aside from all that, they’re rather noisy at times…

The sound of cars crashing/sirens blaring/and God know what exploding from their videogames often disturbs my zen while trying to work in my office during the day (since losing my job at Mega Bank in July)… since both Taylor and Max work at night.

3. Then, there’s my husband’s TV viewing choices. I’ve been creating various items to sell at flea markets, which I call my art from junk…i.e. the box below for keepsakes…


While sitting at the dining room table gluing fabric to shoe boxes and such, my brain is bombarded by the awesome sights of whatever freakish shit people like to hoard! Yes, my husband watches “Hoarders”, which I don’t get. He says he likes watching the therapists/relatives/friends of these folks, etc., help these individual with their obsessive need to retain garbage/old newspapers and such.

However, there are 2 shows that I cannot tolerate besides Hoarders. South Park and Bar Rescue. I know a lot of people LOVE South Park, and it’s often funny, but Cartman’s voice grates on me to the point that my entire body cringes.

While Bar Rescue is a worthwhile show in that they help people as well, I just can’t stand listening to John Tafford scream at people. Yes, he has every reason to be angry. I once saw an episode where the owner let a horse into his bar and laughed his ass off while the huge creature dumped a load of excrement onto the floor, which is why I don’t watch this crap (no pun intended!). I watch TV to escape reality, not be bludgeoned by it.

4. They can be so rude!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve walked into the kitchen in the morning, and Taylor has just expelled a blast of flatulence so foul that Samantha, our senior cat, give him a dirty look and sashayed out of the kitchen with a sigh. And I couldn’t eat my breakfast. I set it in the microwave for a bit until my nausea subsided.

Hello…they make medication that renders your disgusting TOOTS, MOOT and void, a cure that costs less than $5.00. Alternatively, there’s a bathroom not THREE feet away, could you not have held it until you were not in “shooting range”/a.k.a. at a safe distance?

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 eating breakfast 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 #155 – Revenge is best served via Taye Diggs or something like that…

Posted in blogging, comedy, dating, life, memoir, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, uncategoried, work with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 24, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

“Is your phone all set?” I asked when Jackson waltzed in the breakroom all giddy and smiling at 5:15 as promised earlier that day after he’d unveiled Gordon’s despicable motive (see my last post).

“Yes, ma’am, armed and ready,” he replied as I slipped my arm through his.

“Take one,” Jackson said laughing, encircling my waist with his other arm.

“One’s all we’ve got,” I said giggling as we sauntered into the hallway, gazing at each other as if en route to the nearest boudoir. Quite a performance since he’s gay, and I’m happily married with no intention of cheating. But Griffin and Gordon didn’t know that.

“After this, the whole office will think we’re having a thing,” I said grinning.

“Except, pardon me, but I’m pretending you’re Taye Diggs right now,” Jackson mumbled.

“Whatever works for you, baby,” I said with a giggle. “And when you’re done with him, I’ll take a turn,” I said jokingly,

Jackson busted out laughing but managed to stifle himself by buttoning his lip so as not to over-dramatize our scene.

Out on the sales floor, I could feel a dozen eyes on us. But I couldn’t tell how close we were to Griffin’s desk.

“Are they looking?” I asked.

“Yep, 2 blond idiots at 6:00,” Jackson murmured.  “And about 1/3 the sales force is gawking our way as well,” Jackson said as his dark eyes swept back to mine.

“Can’t wait for the video.”

“Oscar-worthy I’m sure,” I replied.

Jackson nodded with a giggle.

To make this moment all the sweeter, I had instructed Jackson to turn on the video camera on his phone before we embarked upon our scandalous stroll down the hallway. While only part of it is on camera (momentarily), the dialogue that ensued is hysterical.

I stole a sidelong glance at the 2 Douche Bags (Griffin and Gordon). They were slumped over their desks, their eyes plucked wide open with shock and, perhaps, exasperation by mine and Jackson’s display of manufactured enrapture.

For the coup d’etat, I batted my eyes at Jackson seconds before passing Griffin’s desk and in a sultry voice, I said, “See you round 7:00, then.”

“You bet,” Jackson said softly as I sashayed toward the elevator, shaking my ass as if it were on fire… :)

Seconds later, I heard Griffin say, “Hold up, Jackson, what’s goin’ on?”

I snuck a glance over my shoulder just as Griffin stood up and wedged himself between his desk and Gordon’s, so Jackson couldn’t pass by to his own cubicle cage, not 3 feet away.

A broad, devilish smile broke out on Jackson’s face, which I’m sure the miscreants believed was from basking in the glow of our lust.

“So, what’s the story with you and Mrs. Smith?” Gordon snapped.

Jackson leaned down and quietly replied, “Well, she won’t be Mrs. Smith much longer.”

“Yeah?” Griffin asked.

“She left her husband a month ago.”

“Really?” Griffin asked. “Then, why was she such a bitch when I tried to talk to her?”

“Maybe, because you’re an asshole,” Jackson quipped, still grinning.

Gordon laughed. Griffin scowled.

At which point, I was standing at the elevator sending Jackson a text.

When Jackson’s phone made that obnoxious DING notifying him of my communique, he took his phone out and held it up so that while reading my text, he was also simultaneously recording Griffin and Gordon on video. And Jackson was so kind as to enlighten me later that evening on the phone – with the details that weren’t captured on film.

Griffin’s angry eyes cut to Gordon – when suddenly, Jackson erupted into laughter. I hadn’t mentioned the particular verbiage for my text.

“She is a naughty girl,” Jackson said.

“Who, Mrs. Smith, aka Kennedy?” Griffin demanded sarcastically. “What’d she say?”

“Not much, just how much…uh, she can’t wait to cover me in peanut butter and lap me up and down,” Jackson said, laughing.

“Seriously? The uptight woman with dark hair who just left?” Griffin sputtered. “Said THAT to you?”

“The one and only,” Jackson answered, wearing a bemused grin elicited by the two confused dimwits, whose eyes were all aglow with ideas of sexual weirdness between me and the gay man.

“Bullshit,” Gordon barked.

Jackson smiled. “Whatever. See you two dickheads later,” he said pushing past Griffin.

A couple cords of laughter rippled in the background, but Griffin and Gordon were auspiciously silent.

“Prove it,” Griffin said contemptuously.

“You didn’t hear her say she was looking forward to seeing me?”

“So what?  You could be going to Bible study for all I know.”

“Oh, it’ll be biblical all right,” Jackson said with a chuckle.

Gordon laughed, but Griffin just glared at my imaginary beau.

“Okay. Let me see your phone,” Griffin insisted.

“No, that’s private. Besides, I’ve got work to do.” Jackson said, barging toward his desk.

Griffin moved closer to Jackson, growling in a low voice, “Oh, right, because there’s nothing on your phone but photos of you whackin’ off.”

Jackson and Gordon both cracked up at such a ridiculous statement. “Why the fuck would I have photos of THAT on my phone when I’ve got photos of…” Jackson began. “Never mind,” Jackson said, sitting down at his desk, while clicking over to the photo gallery on his phone. Meanwhile, the video camera was still recording every morsel of conversation.

“I don’t think so. You’re not getting off that easy,” Griffin said, grabbing Jackson’s arm.

Jackson spun around, beaming, “Well, apparently, I do, according to you…”

Gordon collapsed into nearly convulsive laughter.

“Shut up, Gordy, And yet, I’m the asshole,” Griffin said sourly…his first intelligent comment… :)

“Fine,” Jackson said with a sigh as if exhausted by their taunts, “Check this out,” he continued, thrusting his  phone in Griffin’s face. Whereupon, they saw a photo of me from when I was still modeling 5 years ago. I’m lying on a pink satin bedspread in a black negligee, my double D’s tumbling forward, almost completely exposed. And, funny thing, Gordie and Griffie didn’t notice I’m 20 pounds heavier now. Their brains only registered my “boobage”.

“Oh, my God, she’s…”

“I think the word you’re looking for is beautiful, dumb ass,” Jackson said. Awwwww, Jackson, bet you say that to all the girls.

“Okay, dude,” Gordon said. “How the hell did you score a woman like that?”

“I was nice to her,” Jackson said.

At that point, Jackson said the look on Dumb and Dumber’s faces was priceless. Unfortunately, all we have on film is a shot of everyone’s shoes. However, t’was a joint epiphany for my 2 blond adversaries, revealing that, perhaps, chicanery and stupid attempts at humor are not the best way to win a woman. And apparently, Griffin’s asinine question about my blouse was his convoluted attempt at humor.

For fuck’s sake, really?

The next day Gordon or Griffin’s team went on a company retreat, and I never saw them again because my assignment at Mega ended (due to lack of work) while they were gone. So, I didn’t even get to say goodbye to those who brought me so many BELLY laughs at their expense.

But I dare say, I’ll survive.

Over and out from CASA DE CRAZY…

~TenaciousBitch and her band of truth-spouting hippies


Post #154 – Conversation With A Mega Douche Bag!

Posted in blogging, comedy, corporations, humor, life, nonfiction, relationships, true stories, work with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on August 17, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

For years, I’ve heard certain men being referred to as Mega Douche Bags, my husband chief among them. But let me clarify. Mega Douche Bags work for Mega Bank where I was employed until a couple of weeks ago. I didn’t really understand why the Mega Douche Bag differed from an ordinary, run-of-the-mill Douche Bag until recently.

During my last week at Mega, I was walking out of the ladies restroom one night before heading out, when I noticed this guy smiling at me – from his desk about 10 feet away. As I pondered the nature of his grin, he winked at me.

He was 26 at best. I thought maybe, his flirtation was meant for someone else walking behind me. But the hallway was empty. He smiled again, so I decided to see WTF was going on with this impudent child.

He had dark, curly hair spackled together with more mousse and gel than I could ever amass within my long quaff. His shirt was a pale lavender, and he was wearing a purple tie with tiny, dark blue polka dots with a navy blue suit. So suave…so bold…guess I should’ve just taken him right there just for his grooming props alone if I were that sort of woman. Instead, I found his get-up, his hair and demeanor rather contemptuous.

“Were you winking at me?” I asked approaching Mr. Hair-Do.

He smiled even brighter, his insanely straight teeth seemed to be glaring at me.

“Um, yeah,” he said awkwardly. “We’ve all been wondering who the new hottie is. I’m Todd.”

“Mrs. Smith,” I said flatly, and those who know me well…know just HOW significant that moniker is. I NEVER call myself Mrs. – ever – nor did I do so when married previously. I couldn’t tell if this moronic Ken Doll was actually hitting on me, or if he was feigning his attentions as some kinda sick joke. And using the word “hottie” was highly inappropriate. Had he NOT taken the required sexual harassment training, or was his face buried in his Blackberry the whole time?

“Seriously?” he asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Yes,” I said adamantly, holding up my badge for emphasis.

He glanced at it and nodded. “Sorry, you know, people, use that name when -”

“Yeah, I get it. Now, if you’ll excuse me-” I began.

“Just one more question if you don’t mind,” he said, sweetly.

“Yes?” I asked, rather agitated.

“Is that a men’s shirt you’re wearing?”

WTF? YOU PEA-BRAINED ASSHOLE. “No, it’s not,” I said in a very surly manner. “Great line there, Casanova, I’ll bet you say that to all the girls.” I snarled.  I turned away mumbling, “Fucking dickhead,” …which I guess his buddies heard, evidenced by the howls of laughter behind me.


The Ralph Lauren shirt in question, which I wore with a white skirt.

However, I caught a sidelong glimpse of his lovely cornflower blue eyes clouding over, and I looked away thinking MAYBE…he was the “fat” kid in school with really large glasses and crooked teeth. He wore whatever his mother told him to – yellow Izod shirt that was too small creating ugly bulges around his middle…with black pants that were too short and last but not least, white socks and black dress shoes.

He joined a gym, started drinking GREEN vegie shakes/ eating anything gluten free or made with TOFU, etc., reinvented himself – a la GQ.

Oh, but I was so WRONG. While in the elevator facing them, waiting for the doors to shut, my guilt vanished.  Instead of a mortified, late-blooming butterfly cowering in the corner, I saw him snickering with a couple of his co-worker clones. After a sneaky glance at me, his expression morphed into the unmistakable….

OOPS…she caught me, followed by giggling behind his well-manicured hand. No, no, no…this guy was the Homecoming King and very proud to be so. He played football, but wasn’t a star, or he wouldn’t be working here, right?

He had a couple girlfriends and was always trolling for another. He drives a BMW, but doesn’t own a sofa, opting for watching TV sprawled out on his bean bag chair because his image is much more important than the “comfy” couch he plans to buy with his next BIG commission check. There was no doubt about it. I had just met the infamous…MEGA DOUCHE BAG.

I hope to hell his question about my blouse was just an idle comment meant in jest, and, God forbid, not part of some stupid bet. His intentions remained a mystery until talking to Jackson, another salesman two days later. Jackson was a tall, handsome black man in his mid 30s. We met at Minelli’s, a local fast food restaurant near the office, when I inadvertently cut ahead of him in line at lunch one day. I noticed his bank badge, and we struck up a conversation. Turned out, we’re both sci-fi geeks.

I ran into Jackson in the breakroom. He was heating up his lunch in the microwave, and I walked in to buy a pop.

“Hey, Jackson, how’s it goin’?” I asked.

“Good.  Jackson smiled. “By the way, my apologies for the Neanderthals.”

Confused, I asked with a chuckle, “I’m sorry. Which Neanderthals?”

“Griffin and Gordon,” he replied.

I shrugged. These names meant nothing to me.

“Um, the guy with the dark hair, superglued with Redken’s finest gel, made some snide comment about your shirt the other day?”

“Oh….THAT GUY,” I said pursing my lips in annoyance. “He said his name was Todd.”

“Makes it much easier to cheat on his fiance.”

“That figures.”

I had shoved that retarded conversation into my mental trashcan reserved for images of outfits I should never have bought, songs I despise (like Cold as Ice by Foreigner…don’t ever play it / hum it around me if you’d like to continue BREATHING)…as well as – you guessed it…conversations with douche bags!

“First off, I’m gay.”

“Okay,” I said, hesitantly, wondering where Jackson was going with this.

“So what I’m about to tell you ain’t another lame-assed pick-up line, or nothin’,” he said with a big grin.

“Noted,” I said smiling.

“Mr. Hair who winked at you, that’s Griffin, Griffin Goetz, and the blond guy next to him, that’s Gordon.”

“I see,” I said, nodding.

“Griffin’s the worst kind of player, constantly talking about women, especially um..if they’re busty, ya know what I mean?”

“All too well,” I replied.

“Since the first time Griffin saw you walkin’ down the hallway, they all been speculating whether they’s real or not,” he said with a half nod toward my breasts. “And Griffin decided he was gonna chat you up to get a better look. But you didn’t hear any of this from me?”

“What? That your co-workers are asshole douche bags?”

Jackson busted out laughing. “Got that right.”

I just smiled. “Do they know you’re gay?”

“Hell no. I don’t want them knowing nothin’ about me, and they kinda hate me cuz my sales are usually higher than theirs.”

I smiled. “Awesome.”


“Meet me back here around 5:15,” I said.

“Why?” Jackson asked. At which point, I revealed my plan.


For the unveiling of MY REVENGE upon the Mega Douche Bags in a few days…

Over and out…


And her band of truth-spouting hippies

Post 153 – Teach me how to be that BRAINLESS and still have a job…

Posted in corporations, life, memoir, nonfiction, people, relationships, true stories, work with tags , , , , , , , , , , on August 7, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

As mentioned previously, I started working at a large bank in March (2015), which I referred to as Mega Bank. I was recently downsized from this position a couple of weeks ago. But while I was there, one of my jobs was to obtain credit supplements. This involved ordering more detailed credit reports on a particular account or accounts held by one of our borrowers as part of the bank’s assessment of their credit worthiness when they applied for a business loan or something like that.

All too frequently, though they were advised NOT to do so, our customers would take out new credit during the loan process. At which point when the sales people made us aware of this new debt, the underwriter would request a supplement to get the particulars of a new tradeline. Such was done because people often lie about how much they might owe on a new vehicle or the current balance of a credit card, or they just don’t realize how much they owe.

Alternatively, they thought they owed $26,000 on their shiny new Prius, but they forgot about the $3000 they had to tack on to the new loan because they wrecked the Subaru a couple of years ago before trading it in for the Prius, which meant the Subaru’s trade-in value was about as much as, you know, a nice dinner at Outback Steakhouse.

Okay, so I’m exaggerating, but you get the idea…

ANYWHO…On more than one occasion, when requesting verification of a new tradeline, invariably the same hilarious situation would happen with Intrinsic Information. They’re one of the third-party vendors who provided credit reports and credit supplements for Mega.

I’d frequently get an email from Intrinsic that stated:


I would usually call them, and EVERY single time, the conversation went like this:

“Thank you for calling Intrinsic Information. This is Gretchen, how can I help you today?”

“Hi, Gretchen, this is Kennedy from Mega Bank, and I just received an email that you all need some sort of documentation in order to complete the credit supplement I requested. However, the email doesn’t list the borrower’s name, the name of the creditor we were trying to verify or the loan number in question.”

“Do you have the report number?”

“I do. It’s 754xxxxxxxx.”

And their report # was of NO HELP to us in identifying which loan or which request they’re referring to because they don’t provide THEIR REPORT # when you asked for a supplement on their system. There’s just a message onscreen stating they’ll email you when the report is ready to download.

“Okay, I see. That’s for Jane and John Miller, is that right?”

“Yes, that’s correct, and we just need a verification of the tradeline for their new car.”

“Oh, I see, well, we need a bill from BMW or the account number,” Gretchen said in such a serious tone, it was all I could do to hold my breath for the 5 seconds it took me to reach across my desk and hit the MUTE button before I busted out laughing.

And, then, I’d hear her say, “Are you still there? Can you fax a bill to us?”

I’d collect myself and say, “Um, if we had a bill, we wouldn’t need the supplement.”

Dead silence from Gretchen. “Oh, well, uh…”

“All we know is that Mr. Miller bought a new BMW. He hasn’t gotten a bill yet. He doesn’t know the balance, but he said the payment was supposed to be around $400 a month. We need to obtain all that information before the underwriter will approve his loan.”

“I see,” Gretchen said, followed by, “Then, we need…”

I could hear the synapses firing as she struggled to MANUFACTURE A CLUE.

“Can you call BMW and ask them to fax an invoice or something to you, or maybe a copy of the contract?”

“We’ll need to talk to the borrower,” Gretchen replied. “And then we’ll set up a conference call with BMW.”

“All righty, then. I’ll have Mr. Miller call you. Thank you.”

It often made me wonder how in God’s name this company stayed in business. First of all, it’s bad customer service NOT to provide your customer with some sort of reference number. Those blind emails drove me crazy because I’d have to note on the borrower’s account that Intrinsic had emailed, so I had to call or email them in order to find out which freakin’ loan they were talking about.

I also pondered how Gretchen arrived at work every day with her shoes on. Since she seemed to be lacking in logical thought processes (and I spoke to her frequently), and logical thinking dictates shoes are required in the workplace. Thus, walking about the office in her socks waiting for her shoes to arrive just wouldn’t suffice…:)

And Gretchen wasn’t the only one who would send emails like that and then ask for documentation to basically verify the very information we had requested from THEM. There were several CSR’s that were that brilliant.

After spending way too much time on the phone with them answering stupid questions, I just decided in order to preserve my insanity, I’d just email them that we had no documentation. There’s only so many conversations one can conduct with those who have the I.Q. of a cactus before you begin wishing you could run them over with a tractor or that new Beemer that Mr. Miller just procured.

Yet, I’m the one who got the sack/downsized? E- F-ING GAD…


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 # 151 -HALLELUJAH! The Supreme Court FINALLY legalized same sex marriage in America!!!

Posted in relationships on June 27, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

In a world where women can be astronauts, a traditionally male role, and men can be nurses ( a traditionally female role of course) without anyone batting an eye, I have to wonder why it took 40+ years for the Supreme Court to finally proclaim that it’s the Constitutional Right of EVERY citizen to marry whomever you want, regardless of gender. However, for those whose heart’s desire is to marry your toaster, the Supreme Court won’t hear your argument until a toaster or maybe a generator get elected to the highest court in the land. So, you’ll still have to continue hooking up with your bread browner on the down low for now.

Why do I make such a statement about cavorting with and/or being in love with an inanimate object in the same breath as discussing gay marriage? Because the idea of banning someone from marrying their toaster is as ludicrous to me as banning gay marriage.  Additionally, love has no boundaries, and it shouldn’t have unless such love included sexual conduct with a child.

Whether the evangelical churches agree with it or not, from a legal perspective, you cannot say it’s legal for a man to marry a woman but make it illegal for that same man to marry a man or that woman a woman, n’est-ce pas?

Such is and always has been unequivocally DISCRIMINATION, is it not? Which was, key word WAS, totally within the purview of the law until yesterday. If we had a law that men over 50 couldn’t marry women under 30, how would that be any different than banning same sex marriage? Banning older men/younger women (or older women/younger men) from saying “I do” would be discrimination based on the age of both parties.

Outlawing gay marriage is just as much sexual decriminalization as it would be to NOT hire someone because of their sexual orientation. And I don’t think even the worst of lawyers could find a legal argument that definitively says such is not the case – especially now, given the Supreme Court’s decision yesterday.

There’s a lot of people who would be disgusted if an 80-year-old man married a 21-year-old woman, and many might find it morally repugnant, but no one’s ever tried to ban such unions. But, unfortunately, same sex couples couldn’t get hitched in the state of Ohio (where I live) and many other states a mere 48 hours ago, a ban that I did NOT vote for, btw. And now, those lawmakers are all sportin’ egg on their faces. To-wit I say – HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, GUFFAW, AND LOL.

Sorry, but I assume you noticed my name is TENACIOUS BITCH, not Tenacious Princess, did you not? So, pardon my snicker, but I’m just so delighted that the ban on gay and lesbian marriage is now finally MOOT in the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA…:)

And the thing is, I don’t like broccoli, but I’m not bothered by those who love it. I just avoid encountering the sulfur-rich stank weed of the vegetable world (a.k.a. broccoli). I just move to the opposite end of the table from them broccoli lovers. And I guess I don’t understand why those who oppose gay marriage can’t do the same.

I realize same sex marriage is against the religious beliefs of a huge population of folks, but this law doesn’t extend to churches. In that, its verbiage doesn’t declare that same sex couples must be allowed to attend churches that oppose same sex unions. That said, you’re free to avoid contact with gay married folks and be as affronted and religiously outraged as you’d like.

I realize this tirade will probably garner all kinds of hate mail and such to my inbox, but I don’t care. Feel free to BRING IT ON because, in my opinion, IT’S ABOUT FRICKIN’ TIME that America truly joined the human race in every, single gay, lesbian, straight and/or transgender way without prejudice!

Besides, regardless of what the bible says and/or a million Christian ministers/a million rabbis or a million prejudiced neighbors, that little same-sex marriage bill/idea, etc., has now grown up into a full-fledged American LAW. And there’s no higher court to appeal to. It could be overturned. However, that’ll require enough red tape and petitions/briefs/documents/precedents/and forms out the yingyang from a couple dozen attorneys or so – enough paper to choke a small planet. And I don’t see that happening anytime soon. So, gay haters, you’re just gonna have to WALK IT OFF.

Alternatively, everyone will just have to learn LIVE and let LIVE – gay or otherwise. But as mentioned previously, you toaster-lustin’ folks will just have to wait your turn.

Over and out from Tenacious B and her band of truth-spouting hippies…:)

And Merry Christmas to All and to All a GOOD NIGHT!



Post #150 – About the Life and Death of James Thompson

Posted in BOOKS, Family, family drama, marriage, Motherhood, nonfiction, relationships, true stories with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 25, 2015 by tenaciousbitch

For those who didn’t read my previous post last August –

My ex-husband, James Thompson (author of Snow Angels) died in an accident in Helsinki, Finland where he had lived for the last 16 years. Initially, the details of his passing were sketchy.  However, I’ve since learned more about the circumstances on that dark night when Jim departed this world.

Unfortunately, Jim had suffered with severe migraines for years, and the medication he was taking made him drowsy, and it can also cause dizziness. The night he died, he took a walk after dinner by a lake near his house, which he’d done many times before. From what I understand, he lost his balance on the pier bordering the lake, and he drown.

He also had a head injury, so he either struck his head on the pier as he fell or he might’ve hit a rock or something in the water. They’re not really sure. However, he had always been a strong swimmer, so he had to have been unconscious, or he’d still be with us today.

Annika, his widow was just here in the states a few weeks ago. They had a memorial for him in Kentucky. Our son and his fiance were able to attend, but, unfortunately, I just started a new job in March, so I wasn’t able to get time off work. I also didn’t want to make Annika, uncomfortable – especially since I’ve never met her.

They buried his ashes in the family cemetery on his father’s farm. As I mentioned in a previous post, he and his third wife, Many, lived on the farm in a mobile home for a couple of years before they moved to Helsinki in ’98. It’s really beautiful there with acres and acres of lovely green grass and lush foliage, a very fitting place for his remains. He spent a lot of time there as a kid when his Uncle lived on the property before his father built a house there in ’98 or ’99. Some day, when I’m driving down to West Virginia to see friends or something, I’ll take a detour to Kentucky to visit his grave. I’d like to see the headstone that my son and his father’s family chose to honor him.

It’s odd being the ex-wife in these situations. I sent sympathy cards to his father and stepmother and his mother and stepfather. I emailed Annika and several of Jim’s friends a few words of condolence, but it still doesn’t seem real to me because I haven’t experienced any of the usual ceremonies of closure since I wasn’t able to go to the memorial or anything.

The last time I saw him was in 1998 when I picked up our son from the farm a few days before Jim and Many (pronounced money) set out for Helsinki. And our last conversation a few years later was fraught with anger and animosity – and our last email in 2003 was just as ugly.

I was 20 years old when we got married, and it took me a couple of years to realize that we were very different people with opposing priorities. I knew that neither of us was going to change, so I left him, and he was devastated.

He moved to Boston the week after our divorce was final, but things didn’t end there. He used to call me all the time and tell me how lonely he was. By that I don’t mean, he wasn’t alone all the time. He was knockin’ boots with a different girl every night, which he felt the need to share (awesome). What he missed was the connection and camaraderie we shared, a connection that was brutally severed after we attempted to reconcile in ’89, but we shall not knock upon that dreadful door at present – or ever.

I had wanted to move to Boston for graduate school after finishing my B.A. in English so that our son could spend time with his father. However, I just couldn’t afford to do so. The cheapest daycare I could find was $800/month, and quite honestly, I wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving my dog there. And it would’ve been impossible to squeeze $200/week into a budget based on the pittance I was offered as a TA (teaching assistant), which was around $9,000/year (plus free tuition).

I also didn’t know anyone in Bean Town that I could share an apartment with, and you can’t just move in with a stranger you met through an ad on a bulletin board at UMass (University of Massachusetts at Boston) when you have a child. Jim was very upset that I moved to New York instead because I had a friend there who was in need of a roommate, and that also happened to be where I found a job first.

Of course, when I ended up moving to Ohio in 1995…well, let’s just say – we won’t go there. His fury and frustration were understandable. And guilt was my constant companion, but I truly felt that Ohio was a better place for me and my children (i.e. my son, Max, was 5 when we settled in the Buckeye state).

Anywho…it is what it is.

Oddly, Jim used to joke around about his demise, quoting the infamous James Dean all the time:

“Live fast, die young, and leave a beautiful corpse.”  Sadly, that’s just what he did. A tad bit eerie when you think about it.

Adieu, Mr. Thompson, may you rest in peace.

If anyone’s interested, I’ve got some photos of Jim for sale on Ebay – which I’m selling to either add to the monetary wedding gift for our son who is getting married in 6 weeks or to help with travel expenses for the wedding, which is taking place in Florida (1,000 miles away).

To see a photo of Jim with long hair when he was 26 or 27, go here:

To see a photo of Jim in a hard hat when he was working construction, go here:

And for one of me and Jim when we were dating when we were both 20 years old, go here:

Over and out from the island of chaos that never seems to close… :)



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