Why I Like Being A Bitch

I say, heffa say what?! Get yo' life.

Given the state of black cinema, and by “state of” I mean “lack of quality,” I was somewhat excited for the opening of Think Like A Man. I wasn’t overjoyed because the casting department got way too excited and put everybody and their Wendy Williams in it. But I wasn’t lackluster since hilarious Kevin Hart flooded the advertising. So I expected a pretty decent film, and that’s what I got. But when it was over, all I could think of was the mistakes that were made from a production viewpoint and obvious bloopers. Why couldn’t I just be proud of this–accomplishment?

Then just a few weeks before, an associate of mine invited me out for drinks. I declined. Twice. Why? Because I have nothing nice to say to this person. I don’t hate them, I just have ill feelings & sincerely don’t want to entertain them for even 15 minutes. So I chose the avoidance route. Why can’t I just sit down, get those issues off my chest, and shoot the shit for a few hours?

Because I don’t want to.

Either I want to be (humanly) upset and in my zone for a while, or I’ve got to say what’s on my mind. And in my eyes, there is a decent explanation behind it (I know you couldn’t wait for me to say it). I’m mid-20s, so I’ve got a lot to learn. But that doesn’t discredit the trials of life that have already beat me up. Remember high school? Sure you do. That was probably the best four years of your life! You kicked it, saw it, drank it, smoked it, did it, and all of the above. Well I didn’t. I fucking hated high school with a passion! It was miserable deep down inside, but no one knew. I always covered it up because I was the ‘happy’ friend. Didn’t matter what day it was, I had a smile. I made someone laugh. I helped somebody with their work. I decorated for Homecoming. I was a cheerleader. I did all these things to boost my image and to maintain popularity. Didn’t get me any real friends, though (we’ll talk about that later). I was just trying to remain the girl who people liked. That means I hid a lot of bad days!

Fast forward to college, and Mr. Nice Rhonda disappeared by the end of the first semester. There’s only so much a person can take!!! (breathe…inhale…exhale) My dorm roommate was pushing the right WRONG buttons and I went loco on her ass. I used so many curse words at the top of my voice that the Resident Assistant came to see if we were fighting. Yeah, it was that bad. But you know what? I had never felt so good.

That one experience, yes that one, taught me not to hold in anger towards people. Why? Because I can crush them with my words (a skill that continues to develop!) and not lay a hand on them. That keeps me out of prison. And releasing those ill feelings makes me happier. Sounds messed up, but it’s the truth.

Lately, I try not to take things out on the wrong people, so I keep my distance. And you know what that makes me look like? A bitch.

Here’s an example. Months ago I was at a bowling alley with a group of friends and… long-story-short, some guy there made me upset to the point where I wanted to fight him. But he was a cool 300+ lbs so I wasn’t about to be stupid. Instead, I stormed away and didn’t speak to anyone the rest of the night. I was still mad. He pushed the right WRONG button. But my attitude in the situation toward my friends was quite bitchy. Oh well.

Now that I’ve lived a little, I’m tired of apologizing when someone has wronged *me* just to mend the bridge. I’m sick of picking up the phone to reconnect with people who *used* to call me all the time. And I’ve worn myself thin with fake hellos and goodbyes. I’m just fed up. I’m gonna be a bitch about it.

I know what you’re thinking: Rhonda, that’s not the way to be, don’t bow down to these people’s low behavior. Guess what? Fuck you, too LOL! What’s done is done. I’m tainted. There’s something like 7million or so people in this town, so I don’t feel the need to stroke a handful of egos just to keep them as “friends.” Honey I’ve got 6,999,995 more people to meet so step aside.

But I do look forward to the day when I’m nice to everyone again and their actions toward me aren’t a bother. That’ll be the day when I’m assured I’ll grow into a sweet old lady and not a mean one. Because eventually, someone’s gotta change my diapers again, and they deserve the utmost respect. So let me be a bitter bitch now while I’ve got the time. And when my inner Nene Leakes/Stasi Quinn surfaces, don’t say you weren’t warned.


“I mean, is there something wrong with society that’s making us so pressurized, that we cannot live without guarding ourselves against it?” -John Lennon
“It’s not the events of our lives that shape us, but our beliefs as to what those events mean.” -Tony Robbins
“No matter how dull, or how mean, or how wise a man is, he feels that happiness is his indisputable right.” -Helen Keller

Twenty-inch Blades on the Impala

I’ve been cursed with the gift of stupid intelligence. That means I can figure out the square root of -1 in less than five seconds, and maybe even invent the world’s first triangular wheel. But my stupidity comes into play because I can never answer the ‘why’ or ‘how’. For example, duh, when cool air meets warm air, it creates a tornado. But how? Does the warm air never get the chance to cool down before it meets cold air? And vice versa? Why doesn’t the tornado make it out of the Great Plains area to places like California? I’m so smart, but I always wonder way too much and that creates stupid questions.

My biggest headache is trying to decode the lives of groupies, rich guys’ girlfriends/wives, and the like. I’m puzzled! I can not–for the life of me–figure out what makes a woman abandon her goals and dreams for instant (or long term) gratification ’cause I know it ain’t love. Put on your seatbelts; I’m about to go there.

Ever heard of NBA All-Star Weekend? Good. So I don’t need elaborate on why it’s nicknamed The Gold-Digger Convention. Chicks spend their time, money, and hard-earned resources to get dolled up in hopes of snagging a baller. And I use the term baller lightly ’cause that major league money is bound to run out & he’ll need another source of income (see: Magic Johnson or Bob Whitfield). Women attend all the parties with the hottest stars, you know nobody goes to the game, and the ultimate goal is what? To wiggle your way into VIP for free drinks? Or the notion that somebody like Rick Ross or Russell Westbrook will wife you for the night? You mean to tell me all that’s all they want? It can’t be.

Let’s just say, ok, Russell sees you from afar and invites you to his booth. Score: liquor and some dark, blurry pics. He’s so captivated by you that he wants to take you out the next day, so you give him your number. That date leads to several dates, and he eventually proposes. Follow this picture I’m painting… Years later you’re living the high life with 2.5 kids by him and all the luxuries your closet can hold. Marble kitchen counters, manicured lawns, Louis bags, and all that jazz. Congratulations! On the outside, it seems you’ve gotten everything many people only wish for. Who knows what’s REALLY going on behind closed doors, though.

But now what? What do you do all day? Where’s your job? What happens when Russell retires and your vag dries up, how will you sustain? Do a lot of people comment on the pictures when you upload them to Facebook? Are you happy that the losing women might be jealous of you? I seriously don’t get it.

Let’s not forget the pretend-ballers also. These are the guys who get girls by association. They “look” the part, or they were seen “hanging” with Drake. Nah, son. Women don’t really like you, you just smell good and might get them closer to Drake. (Note: they ALL wear great cologne, trust me. It helps them get more cooch). Now that I think about it…the pretend-ballers are the real winners here. But back to my point.

All that glitters isn’t gold, but I’m convinced I’m missing the bigger picture. It’s the reason so many NFL’ers have multiple kids my multiple women in multiple states. And I overuse “multiple” because they’ve gone beyond 2 or 3. It’s the reason shows like Basketball Wives and Love & Hip Hop are even created. Hell, it’s probably the reason springtime tax refunds produces Christian Louboutins in the projects.

Ladies and gentlemen, I’m on a quest for knowledge. I’ve got to get closer to them. I need to interview the gold-diggers just so I can sleep better through the night. It makes my stomach turn, flip, and flop to know that there are chicks who thrive in these I-Might-Land-A-Baller environments! All I can say is, “Man up and buy your own damn drink.”

Sidenote: the Child Tax Credit is about to be sliced next year by 50% so that you only get $500 per eligible child vs. $1000. Did y’all know that? Crooks, pay attention, and check the news. The government is finding creative ways to fund EBT and unemploymen! Don’t shoot the messenger.



Panty Problems? Solved.

I don’t support hoes. However, I do support hoe tendencies. I consider myself to be a rather classy woman, but sometimes…at certain moments…my inner-hoe (her name is Trixie) comes out. Allow me to explain.

There are RULES to being a classy woman in public. One of these rules is that underwear should remain under where? Under your clothes. At no point should a man (or anyone in public) be able to guess what color they are, see them through anything, or even guess what type of cut they are! The point, the blank, the period. I know some of you ladies out there have huge knockers, so the jury is still out on how to handle bra issues. But when it comes to panties? The verdict is in: take them off and they won’t show! Please note none of the following applies to my plus-sized fashionistas. For you all, the answer to every dilemma is Spanx and more Spanx (if I’m wrong, leave a note in the comments section).


Problem: This one is major. Personally, I’ve gone back and forth in my mind on how to deal with hiding panties while wearing leggings. If you wear boyshorts or cheeksters, then your panty-lines show. And briefs are definitely out of the question. If you wear a thong, either the imprint shows or in many cases, your cheeks show through the thin material. Major no-no (this girl was at the gym in leggings and clearly wasn’t wearing any under garments at all. You know we can see your flower bomb through those things!). We shouldn’t see your crack in broad daylight.

Solution: There are a couple of options in this case. If they’re really thin leggings, double up. Wear some black or brown tights underneath and they provide a good barrier for thongs or cheeksters. They also give the necessary protection so you can go commando without your camel toe peeking. Or you can just cough up the money for a nice, thicker pair of leggings. You know, the kind that gives great cellulite control. Some of these can be worn with lace-back or lace trim panties and you’re good to go.


Problem: Undies like to poke from the top of low-rise jeans. Very distasteful. And jeans are a go-to for that time of the month, so we need a great pair of strong soldiers underneath to handle the day. No one said being classy is easy, but it’s understood that panty lines must not show through.

Solution: In this case, I recommend boyshorts or cheeksters. There are some good brands of seamless briefs that will do the trick, however, so invest in a good pair. And thank me later. For my edgy girls, thongs will cooperate with jeans but they’ve got to be low-rise. If you’re not in a Britney Spears video, then thongs shouldn’t be revealed when you sit down or bend over.


Problem: You have a banging dress that hugs your body the way you want it. It’s a guaranteed winner in the game of catching husbands (Note that Rhonda Mae does not condone adultery in any situation). But the fabric isn’t friendly to any cut of panties so that the lining shows or you can see underwear through the dress.

Solution: Take them off. That doesn’t mean we should see your crack (refer to ‘leggings’ above) through your dress either. If we do, then I’m afraid your hoe tendencies are too extreme for this post. But please note that this also doesn’t apply to “t-shirt dresses,” ones you know are way too short and you flash flower bombs with each step. No-no boo-boo.

Of course my solutions aren’t set in stone, but they definitely prove to be winners on my end. And all of the above mentioned garments can be purchased at Victoria’s Secret. But at the end of the day, if all else fails what do you do? Let your inner hoe shine through and be open to a good inner-thigh breeze!


I’m writing this through watery eyes and a series of uncontrolled sneezes. It’s gross. Let’s just say I learned the hard way that I’m allergic to cats. We’ll talk about that later.

I joke a lot about being The Golden Child simply due to the fact that the most random things happen to me. And only me. Like what, you say? Well I’m glad you asked!

Recently I went to deposit a payroll check into my bank. I was smokin’ hot that day. For some reason, I was really feeling my slick edges & new pedicure. That means ‘all this’ would go to waste if I had deposited the check into the ATM. In retrospect, that would’ve been a much better idea. An-tyhow, I go inside the branch, walked up to the teller with a big smile on my face, and slid her my signed check. We held small talk. I blushed at the security camera. Few minutes later, I pranced back to my car & drove to Chipotle. Ballin’.

The next morning, I had big plans to spend at least half of that money between Target and Trader Joe’s. Okay, not half, but you get my point. I checked my account (which I freakishly do every single morning—no lie) only to find my balance was SIGNIFICANTLY lower than it was the day before. I hopped online. I called customer service. I went back to the branch…they were closed…I went to another one. Thank God I kept my deposit receipt as proof. After four long, draining hours, they all confirm there is no record of my transaction! Hell to the naw.

I was furious. And I also had to wait until Monday morning when the branch was open in order to complete my dispute. Long story shorty, there was an “encoding error” and the check was rejected from my account. So then they credited my account and things seemed okay. For the moment. Not only had they given me my money, but the transaction posted three times and—basically I heard my bank account sing “Rack City” through the ATM. Hell to the naw.

So what did I do to overcome the stress of these financial ‘issues’? I went to church! What else? I’m kidding, I don’t run to church every time something bad happens, rather I do the opposite. I don’t even GO to church (we’ll talk about that later) but this particular Sunday, the sun was tapping me on my shoulder. So I got up & went.

There was a church I’d heard about when I first moved to LA. I probably visited six different ones in just a few months. Well a group of buddies decided we should all go to this particular church together. Okay, I’m in.

I get there and while walking across the parking lot, a grandpa-looking man stopped me. “Hey sistah! This must be yo first time herre, I ain’t seent you befo!” He reached for a handshake. “Yes, this is my first time.” He smiled big, “Well come on in herre so we can sho ya some love!!” His enthusiasm scared me.

I sat down in an open row near the middle. Not too close, but not too far in the back. And I’ve already made up my mind not to stand during the recognition of visitors. The service begins and suddenly, I’m pushed aside. Wayyyy aside…for some lady and her two kids. I couldn’t help but notice all the flashy jewelry she was wearing and her Gucci purse she placed by her feet (Gucci on the floor?). Her curly-haired little girls were quietly drawing on their iPads. I’m thinking I’ve seen this lady somewhere before. Somewhere.

And whaddya know, she was the first person to stand up when the pastor inquired about visitors. All eyes on me her now. As I hear her voice, it took me 2 seconds to remember where I knew her from. Basketball Wives LA. That explains her gaudy bracelets and perfected praise clap.

The whole situation made me laugh. I’m looking at her, the kids, that Gucci bag (it was nice, y’all) and thinking about all the viewers who envy the lives of women like this and would love to trade places with me. Trust me, I read their comments on Twitter. And here I was sitting next to her… with a banking error in my favor… and an attitude! In all the open seats, I had to move for her?!

So I lived in that moment, although I didn’t make it rain, I felt a complete sense of peace. I stopped worrying about my minor crisis & tried to open my eyes to the bigger picture. And don’t ask me what the big picture is because I was too distracted to pay attention to the preaching. Kidding.

But I hear there’s a lot to be said about where a woman places her purse; I picked mine up off the floor and put it on the bench right next to me.

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