To Those Who Wait

“You’re just a lover out to score, and I know that I should be looking for more. What could it be in you I see?” Denise Williams, Silly

“Time has taught me that having a piece of man is better than having no man at all.” Betty Wright, After the Pain

“It’s only fair that I let you know that the man you’re in love with, he’s mine. From the top of his head to the bottom of his feet.” Shirley Brown, Woman To Woman


By listening to these song lyrics, I get the notion that females have been desperate for males since before we evolved from monkeys. And Rhonda wants to know why! First of all, I’m single and I’ve lived in Los Angeles for a little over four years. I completely, whole-heartedly, one hundred percent comprehend the viewpoints presented by women in the lyrics above. But at the same time, I have to gain a little back bone and say ‘fuck that shit’ to these songs. I mean really–what woman calls up another woman just to tell her to stop cheating with her (alleged) boyfriend so she can keep him?

I can categorize the desperation I’ve witness in two categories: there’s the woman who chases/stalks/preys on a seemingly great guy that has all the characteristics she desires in a mate (and refuses to accept his rejection). Then there’s the lady who accepts bits and pieces from whichever man will give her his time (knowing he is feeding you lies and/or you deserve better). In either case, the thirst is real and we will do what we gotta do.

I have even heard stories of ladies who are reading books (*cough cough*…by Steve Harvey), highlighting passages like they are reading the Bible, and wondering why they can’t find a husband. Bit of an oxymoron, huh?

Part of me believes these are unnecessary extremes as a result of the notion that all the good ones are taken. The other half of me wants to jump on their bandwagon to prevent becoming Carrie Bradshaw. What’s up with that?!

At the end of the day, girls, we must remain hopeful despite the odds and, uhh, what reality has presented. Just because you prayed to your deity for a tall, dapper fellow with a black Infinity and bulging biceps, doesn’t mean that’s what is BEST for you. So stop looking! Chill out, keep dating, and wait for the next man to come around. If he doesn’t sweep you away, then maybe the next one will. Or the next one. Or the next one. Or the next one.

Yes. This is what I keep telling myself and, until I’m proven wrong, it is the truth. They say good things come to those who wait…

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No Sex In The City

There it was across the room on the floor in a brown, unmarked package. The box was large enough to fit a pair of pumps, but I had received all seven of my shoe shipments already. I scattered my dresser for a pair of scissors. I snatched the box open. And behold: my complete DVD collection of Sex and the City I had patiently (anxiously) awaited coming home to for several weeks.

Like many women, I’ve seen only snippets of a single season of the show, but never really got the chance to watch it all. And the DVD set is a bit pricey unless you’re a true fan willing to spend the dough. But thanks to Groupon, I now own it plus the two movies.

So far, I’m done with the first three seasons, and boy! I had no idea the show was this…terrible.

Let’s go back. The show is skillfully and creatively put together in a way that depicts typical, modern white women.  Although it’s set in NY, I choose to believe chicks all across the USA share similar traits. So why am I disappointed? Because most of it is a HUGE LIE! I’ll break down the characters–

1) Charlotte – whore. very conservative. also rather conservative in the bedroom because she doesn’t give head and detests kinkiness in general. judges Samantha for being an overt whore, though. has a glamorized view of marriage and yearns for her fairytale fantasy. also pretty judgmental overall.

2) Miranda – whore. stiff and rude. usually horny at times when she either can’t find a man or has run a decent one away. settles easily because she isn’t pretty. stereotypical ‘successful woman with high standards and a domestic feline’. would probably lead a feminist movement in support of Madonna’s comeback.

3) Samantha – whore. open to her sexuality and doesn’t hide her urges. often has cheesy lines in the script because she’s wealthy and shouldn’t appear wiser than Carrie although she is. complete MTLF (…replace the “I” in MILF with “they”…) who sees what she wants and goes for it. if she were black, she’d be Karrine Steffans.

4) Carrie – whore. shallow, but smart. symbolizes the “every woman” archetype in that she keeps running back to the man who hurt her, while believing things between them will change. tries to change men. supposedly the lead character (or villain depending on how you look at her) in that her battles with men are the largest. true homewrecker.

Why would the writers of this show perpetuate such formulas women in only four distinct categories? Why would they lie to us, presenting these exaggerated characters with extremely distorted views of men? Why did Carrie marry Big in the first movie (if she did this in, say, season 5 no one would’ve watched the rest)? Why the hell does Charlotte land two seemingly perfect guys? It seems our lofty leaders of Hollywood stringed us along folks. And we like it.

In my opinion, Miranda and Samantha are most realistic. I have no words for how much I despise Carrie (except for “Aiden should have spit in your face at the wedding”) and Charlotte is too Disney to be in her 30s. A mess this is.

Nevertheless, I can’t wait for Blair Underwood’s character to meet Miranda and knock her boots later in the show. I mean—that’s just good TV, who wouldn’t be excited?

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).

LEGGINGS

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.

JEANS

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.

DRESSES

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!

Don’t Be A Menace to Santa Monica While Drinking Someone’s Juice In The Office

Juices

Rhonda. We're good for you.

This is what it looked like. A beautiful array of juices on a single shelf in the fridge.

Let me back up for a second. I work in an office where there’s a drink cooler similar to ones you see in a corner store. The drinks are ‘complimentary’, right? So on this particular day, I looked past the Diet Coke and Snapple to one of these delightful healthy juice choices. My guess was that some small LA-based company sent them for us to try. What I didn’t pay attention to was that each one was labeled with a number 1 through 6. I ignored them. I grabbed the Grapefriut/Mint flavored one and went back to my desk. I even called up to the receptionist to make sure they didn’t belong to anyone, she assured me they were for the office.

Minutes later, I hear what appeared to be a storm moving from door-to-door and was quickly approaching my cubicle. It arrived before my eyes.

“You took my juice? I need that, I’m starving! Can I have it back???”

Apparently, one of my male co-workers was on a new juice fast and I was drinking his #3 meal of the day. I was so embarrassed! I apologized, gave him the 7/8 full bottle of (delicious) Grapefruit/Mint juice and walked in shame the rest of the afternoon. I even heard a male co-worker in the distance say, “You drank his juice? Oh man, you ARE from St. Louis!” (Sidenote: insert my woo-sahhhh moment…he doesn’t know me.)

Did I miss something? Why didn’t he just label “Do Not Touch” on his juice like everyone else seems to do in this sort of environment? Is there an unwritten code that these types of men abide by that women seem to blatantly ignore? I know that years of research has been done on us women…because other humans just don’t understand us.

I ran across a post if you click right here you will see it on verysmartbrothas.com that got me thinking about the huge mental gap between men and women. So let me break down a few things that the Curvalicious Species does that Those Without Boobs will never wrap their minds around (I actually don’t get why/how we do these things either, just saying):

1) SWITCH INTO “HO MODE”— You’re in the club looking at a group of gorgeous women who seem to be chillin’ in the corner. They’ve gone to the bar, bought their own drinks, and appear to be a decent group of somewhat-conservative chicks having a bougie girls night out. Then the DJ plays Juvenile’s “Back That Azz Up” and each of these women are now dancing topless on the tables. Ok, maybe not topless, but you get the point. Every girl has an inner ho and it’s bound to come out at the most random moment. Usually after two drinks.

2) TALK FOR HOURS— I can’t even begin to explain this one. What in the world is so important that we run down entire cell phone batteries so we can switch to the house phone and continue the conversation? Yes, I’m guilty of this. No, I can’t comprehend it.

3) HOARD ITEMS/EMOTIONS/MEN/EVERYTHING–I was recently discussing my shoe addiction with a friend (who also shares the same addiction and we’re a force when we’re together) when she brought up a memory of her ex. Not only did she break up with this guy years ago, but our conversation had nothing to do with him. What is happening in her brain that won’t allow her to let go of that guy (or any guy)? And why do we buy four pairs of the same shoe (or shirt) in different colors?  Women.

4) ANNOYING VOICE INFLECTIONS— This happens when we first see each other in a public place. There’s a 3-second deep breath, a scream, then a OhMyGoooossshhhh-iHaventSeenYouInSoooooLooonnnnng followed by jumping up and down and hugging. Ugh. Women. Just say hi.

5) GET MAD OVER TEXT/EMAIL— Again, although guilty, I. Do. Not. know why we do this. Everybody knows words have connotations that aren’t necessarily communicated correctly in a print fashion (see #2 above). Example: Girl gets mad over Guy for not answering the phone when she called him last night while he was partying (we’ll come back to this later). It is now morning, and he texts her “what u doin?” She furiously sends him a 400-word Facebook message about how she deserves better, has sacrificed so much for Guy, he doesn’t value their relationship, blah blah blah. Guy replies “ok.” Girl storms over to his house, livid, and bangs on the door. Guy opens the door and has clearly just rolled out of bed as he’s still in pajamas. Girl screams, “So that’s all you’ve got to say is ‘ok’??? Really?” WTF just happened? Guy has no idea. But women do.

My people out there, what else do can you think of that many women do and makes no logical sense? Talk to me.

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