Ann Romney, Please Have A Seat

Have a seat Ann Romney.  No seriously, you deserve to sit down after the hard life you’ve had to endure raising five boys and supporting your family while your husband pursued his career.  Your fight with multiple sclerosis and precancer earns you an even softer chair in which to have a seat.  I applaud any mother who puts their own personal interests aside for the good of their family, because putting yourself last is a difficult and occasionally noble, decision to make.  Our political views, race, and economic status separates us, but the tie that binds us – motherhood – is something that will never end.  It’s too bad that you don’t realize, Ann Romney, that your struggles don’t exactly put all of us mothers in the same place.  I will never demean what you have had to overcome, but you must understand why many of us believe you need way more people to make us believe how hard your life actually was.  Right now, you don’t have enough.

The choice to have five children and live your life as a homemaker rests solely on you and your husband (and God, if you will…which I know you will).  Many mothers don’t have a choice about their situations.  Some of us were thrust into single motherhood unexpectedly due to circumstances we could have never imagined.  Some of us are forced to work because our spouses can not find employment.  Some of us only have one child with a disability so debilitating, we are forced to stay home to raise him or her.  Many of us don’t have the luxury of being a stay-at-home mom by choice, but are STILL faced with the responsibilities of being a mother.  We don’t have the privilege of being able to witness every developmental milestone of our children’s lives; sometimes they say their first word or take their first step while we’re at work or asleep between the two jobs we work.  Some of us don’t have a choice about the situations that we are placed in, but we make do with the resources we have.  A husband with the ability to support the entire family on his own isn’t always one of those resources.

Being a stay-at-home mother is a luxury and a privilege that not everyone has.  Attending Harvard is not a privilege that everyone has.  Owing horses valued at a $250,000 is not a privilege that everyone has.  Hell, being a mother at all is not a privilege that everyone has.  Wanting the rest of us to understand and empathize with your struggle is a bit of a joke with your “women at home work” belief as the biggest punchline.  Being a working mother is difficult – mentally, physically, and emotionally.  The day I returned to work after maternity leave was the saddest day of my life.  Funny thing is, I didn’t stop being a mother because I was teaching a group of kindergarteners that weren’t my own child.  I wish I could appreciate the struggle of stay at home mothers just a little bit more.  I really wish I could, but I guess I have that working mother struggle holding me back.  Until you’ve driven to work in tears, 20 minutes late because it was so hard to say goodbye, your stay at home mother struggle means nothing to me.  Not a single bit.  I’m not saying the struggle doesn’t exist, I’m simply saying you’re going to need way more people to convince me to feel sorry for you.


Beat it, Deadbeat

My child has a deadbeat dad. It’s not because I don’t like him, he’s an actual genuine deadbeat with all the trademark deadbeat markings. I thought it was just my ex-husband, but apparently, they all do the same things letting the world know how ain’t shit they truly are. At first glance, they seem to care about their kids a great deal til you realize it was all a front, and he’s a loser, just like the rest of them. If you’re not sure what you’re dealing with, I’ve identified the top characteristics of a deadbeat dad. (Appearing on Maury didn’t make the list.)

Portrait tattoos of their offspring 97.3% of all men with their kid’s photo tatted somewhere on their body haven’t paid a dime in child support in five years. The other 2.7% have never paid child support ever.

Refer to their child as their “seed” They do this mostly because they don’t remember the poor child’s name.

Holiday Heroes Deadbeats love to show up on Easter, Christmas, graduations, birthdays, and Halloween, any day a camera might be out so they can sneak into a picture. That way, when the poor, confused child looks back, they see pictures of their father at important events. How much you wanna bet that fool don’t show up at the important event of paying for groceries?

Save texts messages These idiots will hold on to a text message of you cussing them out for being ain’t shit as “evidence” of them trying and you being difficult.

Ask for full custody 57% of men claiming they want full custody of their kid do so after they get a new girlfriend to help them take care of said kid. 38% of them plan on leaving the kid at their mother’s house 89% of the time. 98% of them don’t know what full custody actually means.

Quote Jeffrey Levin statistics Get your father’s rights ass all the way out of here. The statistics are startling and like any other statistic, used to prove the point of the statistic espouser. What?!?! A child is 50% more likely to be a drug addict without a father?!?! #minus well let her drug addict father have full custody.

Babysit their kids Real fathers never babysit their own kids nor do they refer to it as such.

Never have their kid I was “seeing” a guy who said I never had time for him because I never had a sitter. I wondered why he always had time for me because he had a kid, too.

Never has a kind word about their child’s mother At one point, he loved her enough to insert his unsheathed penis into her vagina. I seriously question a man who forgets that once upon a time, he used to love H.E.R. If he never did, then I question his judgment.

Deadbeats can be easy to miss if you don’t recognize the signs. They like to blend in amongst the real fathers doing shit like showing you pictures of their ten year old’s kindergarten graduation picture or proudly explaining that their kid is named after their grandma, God bless her soul. Luckily, I have a trained eye and can spot those fuckers a mile away.

Bitch, I Will Cut You

I will not fight over a boyfriend. I will not argue with you. I will not show up at your job and cuss you out in front of your boss over a man who is not my husband. I will, however, choke slam a ho as soon as the ink on my marriage certificate dries. Please believe Mr. Cindasmommy will feel my wrath as well, but I know how to handle that shit at the crib. I will publicly make an example out of any broad who even toes the line of disrespecting my marriage vows. I will stop her fucking heart. Make no mistake, you will rue the day that you decided that it was appropriate for you to participate in activites that are a detriment to my marital bliss. Single women don’t understand. They try to come with lines like “You should be taking care of home.” I’ll show you how I take care of home, bitch. I will fucking show you.

I have no problem with platonic relationships between men and women. I am a woman who enjoys sports way too much to not recognize that there is a possibility that a friendship based solely on the home team can exist. What I do not recognize is some women’s desire to implant themselves in situations that are clearly bordering on disrespectful. Perhaps single women are just unaware of what is okay and what isn’t, so to keep you hoes from getting stabbed by your “boy’s” wife, I’ll help you out.

Keep a 2 foot distance Do not…I REPEAT…do NOT get too close to someone else’s husband. You don’t need to touch him at all. A quick hug…don’t linger bitch. Perhaps some dap is more appropriate. But if y’all are sitting next to each other and you lean in one too many times for a private moment (and by one too many, I mean once), Mrs. might be liable to believe you’re sharing secrets and the only secrets a husband should have is with his wife. Seriously though, keep your hands off. You won’t accidentally end up sleeping with a married man if you remember to keep a two foot distance between you and someone else’s husband. If you’re not sure, carry around a ruler.

9 PM – 9 AM Remember these hours. They are important. If you look at the clock and it is between these hours, DO NOT CALL!!! Whatever you have to say can wait until morning. There is absolutely nothing you have to say to someone else’s husband after 9 PM. If it’s an emergency, call 911. If it can’t wait, call someone else. Don’t think you’re slick by texting it either. If you think you’ll forget, type it in your phone, then text it at 9:02 AM. If you really think someone else’s husband needs to hear what you have to say during this 12 hours I’ve already told you is off limits, call his wife and tell her and then she’ll relay the message. Otherwise, get some new single male friends who don’t have wives that will cut your ass for trying to communicate with their husbands during Bitch Don’t Call My House hours.

Saving Yo Ho Ass You have a flat tire. There’s a mouse in your house. Your computer has a virus. You need to call AAA, Orkin, and Geek Squad, respectively. If you’re unable to google or youtube solutions to your problem, then your independent ass should have thought about that before you decided you didn’t need no man to help you. If between the proposal and the wedding you didn’t find yourself another Captain Saveaho, you need to file that under things that are Your Bad. He has a wife and a home to take care of, and you are no longer a priority. Find someone else to get you out of your sticky situations because someone else’s husband is busy being someone else’s husband. Get your own, bitch.

If I need to ask my best friend’s husband a question, I ask her to tell him, then I talk to his ass on speaker phone. When I visited their home for the weekend, I had to purchase new pajamas because no one needs to see the bottom of my ass hanging out of my shorts. I keep our twitter/facebook exchanges to a minimum and not because she has anything to worry about. I respect the sanctity of marriage and our friendship and if she is going to be mad at me about anything, it’s gonna be because I stretched out her shoes with my big ass feet, not because I toed the marriage line. This bitch named Alejandra used to call my house just a little too much, and by my house I meant my ex-husband’s cell phone and by too much I mean more than once a week. They didn’t have that much to talk about so after she continued to call after I politely asked her ass to keep it to a minimum, I politely threatened her with bodily harm that I fully intended to carry out after she called one more time too many. I’m not married anymore, but I will let you broken home hoes know this right now, if I ever get married again and you implant your self where it doesn’t need to be implanted…Bitch, I will cut you.

So You Mad, Huh?

Last night, a man who had been refused entry to a westside club returned with a gun and opened fire into an innocent group of bystanders awaiting entry. Rejection is some serious business. A bouncer enforcing an establishment’s policies – or exercising professional judgement – can become a victim of an angry asshole who can’t deal with someone telling him no. As a result, individuals who had nothing to do with the incident are slaughtered because an idiot is unable to pop bottles of cheap moscato and nod his head to loud ass music…cuz you know niggas who shoot folks don’t dance. Far too many people become unknowing victims of someone else’s rage and seriously, this shit needs to stop…like right the fuck now.

I’ve been called all kinds of stuck up bitches by men I’ve turned down. Alcohol and testosterone provoked one man to attempt to physically assault me in front of a group of police officers outside of a club. He didn’t give a damn that they were there, that I obviously knew them AND that I was carrying a gun in my purse which belonged to the off-duty officers I had gone to the club with. They had to arrest this nigga to get him to stop following me down the street screaming profanities at 2 AM in the got damn morning. He spent a drunken night in jail because I told his ass no.

I get road rage all the damn time. Usually, I yell obscenities at the offending other driver – because it’s never my fault – from inside the safety of my car. One afternoon, while driving down North Avenue, a man in a truck cussed me clear the fuck out because I made him miss the light two blocks before. He sped up to me and through my open passenger window, with my kid in the back, told me “Just cuz you a bitch don’t mean I won’t whoop yo ass.” I insulted his mother, rolled up my window, got his plate number and called the cops. He sped off – and into Home Depot…because those nails needed him right away. I calmed down, then realized it could have ended far worse. Road rage incidents sometimes end in violence, even death and I was pissed that driving too slowly could have ended my life.

I had a fight at the club. Actually, a bitch threw a bottle of beer at me and I hit her. That ho fucked up my Halloween. They “escorted” her out. My friends made me leave. I was pissed. Halloween is my favorite holiday, besides my birthday. I was pissed. She also got my fresh flat iron wet. I was pissed. Oh yeah, she threw a bottle of beer at me because I looked at her funny years ago. Like three years ago.

Maybe it’s just that I’m a bitch who invites violence because of my bitchiness. Maybe I need to work on my poker face and not look at bitches funny. Maybe it’s me. These were all isolated incidents that happened years apart so maybe it’s not me. Maybe people need anger management. Maybe they like holding grudges. I just can’t do it. I pissed those folks off, and while their anger was extreme in comparison to the infraction, at least it was directed in the right place. Last year, my youngest brother’s best friend was shot in the head. He left behind a wife and two young children. He was shot by a man who was apparently angry about some old shit that had nothing to do with a young man I’ve known since he was eight years old. He wasn’t a thug. He was a son, a brother, a husband, a father, a friend. He didn’t deserve to be gunned down by a nigga who was mad. Folks need to get their anger in check because being mad about some shit that doesn’t matter can make people behave in a manner they will live to regret…or ruin the lives of people who didn’t deserve to be the object of their wrath.

Getting to Know Me

Last weekend, I spent 48 glorious hours with two of the most wonderful women one could have the privilege of knowing. We shopped, laughed, ate, fussed and did all of the things friends should do when spending precious
moments together. I did a little bit more, though. I learned a few things about myself that I never knew.

I’m slow My friend said, “If someone asked me what I did this weekend, I’m gonna say, ‘Waited on Jennifer.'” I was seconds off being offended til I realized she was right. The reason I give myself two hours to get ready is because it takes me two hours to get ready. I fuss at poor Cinda all the time about being slow when I move at a snail’s pace my damn self. I pace back and forth forgetting what I went into a room to do, getting distracted by a piece of glitter. I’m slow as shit. I never noticed because I hate making people wait on me, so I give myself plenty of time…unless they’re already with me. It takes a lot for me to get ready to do anything which leads me to the next thing I learned…

I’m VERY high maintenance Shower, exfoliate, shave, moisturize, brush teeth, floss, gargle, wash face, moisturize, makeup, hair, iron, dress, change clothes, choose shoes, change again. I do this EVERY DAY!! No wonder I’m so slow. I have a lot to do. And this is when I’m going to work. Add a few steps when I’m going out. I never realized how much work goes into leaving the house looking presentable, but when Kamilah whipped out her no wrinkle spray and tossed her skirt in the dryer as I ironed my dress, it hit me: I’m one of those girls. I also realized I’m one I those girls…

Who needs to work on her Ew!! face Let me preface this by saying a) I was on my fourth Jack and Coke and b) Said Jack and Cokes were scrong. Biz Markie was playing terrible club music, but that damn Love on Top made me wanna dance so I danced. A 5’3″ 250lb man walked up on me and grabbed me and started to dance. According to my friends, I “recoiled in horror” and ran away. They insist that I did it in his face, I’m sure I looked away. Either way, alcohol diminishes my ability to control my looks of disgust. Now that I’m aware of this issue, I will work to maintain a straight face when faced with the gruesomeness of an obese midget grabbing my waist. FYI: My terrified face didn’t bother him. He came back to try to dance with me moments later.

I learned a lot last weekend. I learned that wearing a sparkly tee-shirt can give someone the power to give someone else an erection. I learned that ninjas should never sneak up on unsuspecting individuals. I learned that a $20 tip keeps your bottomless mimosas even more bottomless. I learned that if you don’t shed a tear when you’re laughing, you haven’t laughed hard enough. I learned that my friends are, without a doubt, better than yours.

My Wedges Look Better Than Your Timberlands

It’s come to my attention that men don’t like wedges. I already knew they didn’t like Uggs, cold toes, makeup, no makeup, weave, short hair, natural hair, straight hair but I was unaware that wedges were turning them off as well. I guess I need to gone head and throw away those new sequin TOMS I just bought because Lord knows I’d hate to wear something men have collectively decided they find unattractive. I don’t want to be lumped into a group of undesirable women based on my footwear choices. I make sure to keep my nails done, but not too flashy, my clothes updated, but not too trendy (because they don’t like trends either), and my body curvy but not too curvy lest I be called fat and out of shape. But today, this isn’t about me. Women spend way too much time defending our fashion choices instead of telling these picky for no good reason ass men that they make some questionable decisons when they get dressed in the morning. It’s time to let these fools know because I’ll be damned if I have to stop wearing something else because the fellas don’t like it without letting them know how I feel.


A man over 25 should never in his long legged life show up anywhere with me in Tims unless we’re building a house for Habitat for Humanity. Them shits ain’t even warm enough to be considered winter boots and most men I know try really hard not to get them wet (should’ve bought that waterproof stuff the dude at the Foot Locker tried to sell you). I understand that Timberlands are a part of the hip hop culture and what not but dammit, I don’t date those types so please miss me with that nonsense. Purchase a pair of sensible winter boots that keep your feet warm and don’t come near me looking like a got damn construction worker. Timberlands are fucking ugly. Fucking UGLY.

White Tees

I giveth not a fuck if your white tee is Polo, Dolce and Gabbana, or some other brand you think might change the fact that you’re wearing an undershirt. I don’t show up on dates in a bra and panties…ok, bad example…but you get my point. Keep your undershirt under your shirt. I don’t give a shit if it’s a v-neck or it has a little horse on it. Opt for a colored version or else I’m gonna think you forgot to finish getting dressed and I’m gonna refuse to go out in public with you.


Moisturize, my brothas. Even the most repulsive man will go all the way in on a woman with ashy feet, all the while, his elbows look he can use them to clean a barbecue grill. Let one more crusty lipped, foot, elbow, hand fool say one more word to me. Your penis has nothing to do with those critters on your feet you call toes so don’t say, “I’m a MAN” like that’s an excuse for not putting lotion on your body, from head to fucking toe. Y’all already don’t remove excess hair, taco meat be damned. Y’all could at the very least throw some lotion on that shit. Ashy ass muthafuckas.

Y’all mediocre ass men better get it together trying to dictate what I wear and look like when y’all come out the house looking like what the hell and whodunit. Women don’t like all the shit y’all raggedy asses do, we just spend less time critiquing you because we have better things to do than to sit around collectively deciding what we hate about what you wear. Until men look like they stepped off the pages of GQ, they should sit the fuck down somewhere, preferably in a pedicure chair and take care of those crusty ass toes before summer hits.


It’s 2012. I decided to give dating a try. I think I might have made a mistake. I don’t leave the house often enough to meet men in normal social settings outside of the innanets so I let one of my twitter boos hustle me into joining a free dating site I’d never heard of. I dropped the “cindasmommy” moniker and went with a screen name befitting my surly demeanor, wrote a ridiculous and shallow “About Me”, posted a headshot only, and went live. Two weeks and messages from over 200 different men…and one woman later, I’m beginning to think that the only people who use this particular dating site are desperate…including me…and for good reason: they’re miserable, incompetent wretches. Before I read the messages from these men – and that woman – I scour their profiles and nine times out of ten, I come up with serious flaws, shit that can’t be corrected this late in life. Thirty-something is long past the age of fixability. Today’s public service announcement is to help the clueless make it to a first date…because out of over 200 messages, only ONE made it to the first date and not an inch past…because being almost an hour late is fucking unacceptable.

Rule #1 – Know the difference between an adjective and a noun

If I haven’t said it before, I’ll say it now: I HATE WHEN MEN CALL WOMEN FEMALES!!!!! “…kudos for you being a female with class, it’s rare. Unfortunately females have failed to see the bigger picture…” “I have found out that Females on here are SOOO DAMN MEAN/RUDE…”*I should note that this man also is a Gemini and quoted Tony Gaskins in his profile*

Calling a woman a female may seem insignificant to some, but his insistance on using the word and the foolishness that follows is indicitive of the type of boy I’m dealing with. He’s immature, self-absorbed, and fully believes that women deserve very little respect. Am I judging him before I get to know him? Perhaps. But, I seriously have no interest in getting to know someone who is unfamiliar with parts of speech.

Rule #2 – Spellcheck!!!!

Before I go off on a tangent about bad spellers, let me just say that being a teacher has totally skewed my perception of reasonable spelling errors. I know for a fact that the many people who can’t spell don’t read. Familiarity with words in print makes it easier to spell them correctly when writing. With that being said, spellcheck has made spelling correctly something even morons can do, yet people STAY ignoring that squiggly red line underneath their words. You are NOT more intelligent than your computer or your smartphone! “I would like to go to a art muzeum” *I’m gonna get to that wrong ass article in a moment, so just focus on that z for me.* When in the FUCK has museum ever been spelled with a z?!? I know that s and z are very close to each other on the keyboard and that it does sound like a z when you pronounce the word, but seriously? What in all fucks?!

Rule #3 – If your command of the English language isn’t that great, keep your messages short and sweet

“Hello. I like follow up you about the e mail I send. I would like to get to know more. Beside what on my profile I caring, free open mind person. If take time to chat with you see and know more and me.

I tall man looking for nice open mind woman who like travel alittle. Willing to hope her man at night.

Your ads open my eyes to what guys said they want in women. I want to get to you first so I send this email.

To start off you make ask me your 21 questions. You my begin.”

That is not a joke. I thought it was until I saw the subject included part of my bullshit ass screenname. A part that makes sense to stand alone. I won’t even complain about people saying use and bless when they really mean used and blessed or the neverending struggle with their/they’re/there, your/you’re and too/two/to. How can I be mad at that when folks ain’t even using verbs in these streets?

Rule # 4 – The prayer hands are NOT what’s up




I don’t know what’s going on with these dudes and their hands. It’s not even isolated. Two separate dudes posted two separate pictures with their hands in some kindergarten ass pose. I’m so done. So done.

Rule #5 – Post at least one picture that hasn’t been taken in a mirror with a cell phone

Do you have any friends? Do you go anywhere at all where someone has taken a picture of you? Do you have any friends? I question a man who can only produce mirror pics of their semi nude torso in their dirty ass bedroom with clothes all over the floor. *Note: There are clothes all over my bedroom floor at this very moment. I’m doing laundry, not taking sexy pics in the mirror* Speaking of self pics, I don’t wanna see pictures of your waves or good hair so cut that shit out, too.

Yeah, that shit happened.

The rest of the rules seem pretty obvious to me:

If you’re gay, don’t try to prove your heterosexuality with me. My gay friends have an ill ass gaydar.

Post recent pictures.

There’s a difference between athletic build and county swole.

If you say you don’t use drugs, then don’t post a picture of a lit blunt.

“Let me get your number” is not how you ask, idiot.

If u write lik dis OR LIKE THIS Or Like This, no one will take you seriously.

Hey sexy isn’t appropriate. Neither is hi cutie, wassup baby or my all time favorite, “can I lick your juicy wet pussy? I bet it tastes real sweet.” It’s really sweet, fucktard. You’re trying to modify an adjective so that means you need an adverb.

Don’t be a stalker.

Don’t ask for more pictures.

Wait…there are way too many rules to this shit. I think I’ll try my luck meeting guys at the club the old-fashioned way.

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