Could You Date a Howard Hughes?

I’m having a high maintenance rant – so please just bear with me . . .

I was running late for a cocktail party last night and as usual I ran into some small catastrophes which set my mood to “annoyed.”

As I was rushing to get dressed, I was on the phone talking to someone to run down my spare set of car keys and talking on the phone to two lines – one to locate some keys and the other to advise some inquisitive fucker my itinerary for the evening while reminding them that I had no time for bullshit – so they were to cut it while they were ahead. I don’t recall who the person was on the other end – it could have been a cop, or it could have been my mother. Mind you –I’m naked and clumsily applying lotion to my skin and balancing the phone on my shoulder and engaged in two separate conversations. Some might call it multi-tasking, others would call it “schizophrenia.”

I proceeded to spray on my perfume – the usual spots: the back of the neck, the front of the chest and the abdomen. Why on Earth was I being so meticulous about personal hygiene and grooming? Because I have Germophobe OCD. No other reason at all. Then all of a sudden a strong stinging sensation practically blinds from the subsequent white light and I see every star in the cosmos paralyzing my ass for a complete fifteen seconds. Turns out, in my haste and compulsive dressing regimen - I had inadvertently sprayed DKNY Red Apple on my Peach. A freshly shaved Peach. [Side Note: I never spray perfume on my privates as there is absolutely no need for me to do so. It’s clean.] I am generally a Brazilian waxer – however, prior to this special occasion I went to a new salon and the Bermuda Triangle seemed not quite straight and a little wider than usual. So I took care of it with a razor – to be consistent. Again OCD emerged. It really was bugging the shit out of me! When my legs regained composure, I spouted every vulgar expression that I never knew I could ever concoct without premeditation. I realized I was running out of time and nursing my blazoned pum pum would have to wait. So I abruptly ended both conversations (the scream probably did that . . .) and continued to get dressed slowly. Painfully, I perfected my ensemble with the pink and cream suit with pink patent leather pumps and coordinating jewels. My hair was curled and styled and make-up in proper order. I was out.

I arrived at the cocktail party (hiding my limp) and began to mingle through the crowd. Now, if anyone knows me – I don’t play cute. I eat. I had a plate full of delicious sandwiches, brownies crackers, cheese and white wine. There was fruit too, but I don’t eat fruit, wine and cheese because –to put it mildly –it makes me fart. There I said it. I was standing with my plate and talking to a gentleman having a nice professional discussion about our professions when I decided to taste a wrap that unknown to me had the dreaded ingredient of Sun Dried Tomato [insert music from the movie Psycho]. The way I reacted to the sun dried tomato blaspheming my palate, you would have assumed I had just swallowed its weight in Wasabi. My automatic Sun Dried Tomato Gag Reflexes had sounded the internal alarm and I was fighting my body from abruptly evicting the vile food product in a chaotic, very gross and rude manner. However, I knew that I also absolutely could not actually swallow the fucking thing or else I was taking a chance on shitting my cream white Donna Karan trousers. I thought about just passing out on the floor to save face and gain some sympathy; but in order to pull that off successfully – I would most definitely have to shit my cream white pants. Completely mortified and with a trembling hand whilst profusely sweating, I managed to do the napkin thing with the un-masticated “food.” I excused myself with tears in my eyes noticing that the gentleman I was talking to didn’t even offer some kind of compassion and ask if I was okay. After all, I could have been having an extreme allergic reaction and asphyxiated. Give it 30 more seconds and I would have. Asshole.

I moved over to the sofa area to sit down with my plate after refilling my wine glass – I had to gulp down the last one for the obvious reason. I sat about two feet away from a guy who had he not been in there, would probably have not been acknowledged by yours truly. He introduced himself to me attempting to spark up conversation. Now, I had my sandwich in my damn hand and his hand was extended out for me to shake it. The last fucking thing I want to do when I’m eating is shake anyone’s hand. And his hand I had already spied was dirty. Very dirty. I wondered if he was a vagrant that had managed to charm his way in to the shindig for the free food. It was not an “Open To the Public” kind of event. It was invitation only. I was even more annoyed that I had gone stag. To be polite, I shook his hand and then grabbed my sandwich with the napkin and ate while he talked (and me praying that he wouldn’t accidentally spit in my direction).

This guy was fascinating. He actually piqued my interest with his intelligent conversation. Because he was so articulated, I naturally upgraded him from Vagrant to Hippie. The little respect he earned from this Glamour Girl – still did not place him in my “Possible” list even though he truly impressed me. He was safe in the “Friend” zone. Then I asked him where was he staying (as he had indicated that he was visiting from the UK. As I waited to hear the response of “at a friend” or “by my family” – to my shock – he named one of the most prestigious and expensive hotels New York City has to offer (and go to great lengths to not offer to just any old body). My neck almost snapped. Turns out – that grungy motherfucker is literally filthy rich. He inherited his money from his damn wealthy and prominent family.

This is where I started twisting around with inner turmoil. Most women’s panties just disintegrate when they are in the company of a wealthy man they think they have a chance at. Not me. There was something in his conversation that confirmed that this man was not only interested in speaking with me, but was attracted to me too. WHAT?! It is no secret I am a serious germophobe. I don’t care to be in the presence of grime. I’m also unattached. This fucking bum was far more educated that I am AND had more money jingling in his dirty pockets than I have to my name. It was also apparent that he had a very kind and sweet spirit. But he was Pig Pen from the Peanuts gang damn it! EWWWWW! I know most gold diggers out there are saying – “Girrrl, get him and then put his ass in the bath!” Look the maintenance guy in my grandmother’s neighborhood is just as nice as this guy. I don’t look twice at the maintenance guy in that aspect because he bags garbage all day long and I have some serious issues with a guy handling trash and then later on handling me. I mean – there just is not enough hot water and bleach in the world! Let’s get real – you gold diggers know damn good and well – you don’t get the gold until he gets to dive in your Gold Mine. I’m fucking skeeving just at the thought of doing it with Pepe Le Pew (by the way – I didn’t smell him at all – my sinuses clogged at sight of the yellowy teeth). I remember laughing hysterically at a story of a friend who went car shopping with his sister and her weird Daddy Big Bucks husband –his treat- and while they were sitting in the salesman’s office negotiating, Brother-in-law whipped out a nail clipper and started clipping his toenails. The words of comfort I offered were, “at least he didn’t clip his nose hairs.”

Dani’s blog the other day was about women with money picking up broke ass men for “love.” *snort* What about Wealthy Men that are either not aesthetically pleasing or downright unappealing? From the above info and my other blogs – it is already established that I don’t do stinky . . funky . . dirty or anything near nasty. Would it be shallow to forego my values and fuck a Howard Hughes? The past men in my life were jerks but they were clean jerks. Okay even it the dumpiness was overlooked – people would see a well-dressed and groomed woman with a dumpy guy – and automatically come to the conclusions: “She only wants the money,” or “Wow! He must lay some pretty good pipe to be hooked up with her.” I should let you know that while I wouldn’t be bringing the same amount of money to the relationship- I’m not walking in with a change purse either. I personally will not class up with a loving pauper. Not a gold digger – viewing certain men that don’t have the same aspirations as I do.

Could you do Howard Hughes? Would I have to conform and become *shudder* a Nasty Girl? I gotta know! This is just my personal issue . . . Just how much could you be bought for?

Come play with me at www.myspace.com/gighumor

I AM The Redheaded Step-Child!

Purchase an Advance Review Copy of I Didn't Sign Up For This! at

www.barnesandnoble.com or www.amazon.com




Whenever the word "step" precedes either of the words "child" or "father" or "mother" the first thought that pops into mind is "evil." Not just because of reading and watching the fairytale Cinderella, but usually because we have our experiences with step-parents that further enhance the impugned reputation of the step-parent. In this day in age with the high rate of divorce and "previous relationship" category sex, almost everyone on the planet has some association or connection with a step-parent. Even some frozen popsicle babies waiting to be thawed and baked in a uterus have a step-parent waiting for their arrival.

I myself have step parent(s). My step-father and mother have been married since I was nine and my father has tormented me with three step-mothers since the age of six. My parents were high school sweethearts which bionic hormones who started a family prematurely which led to the demise of their marriage. Unfortunately, like most dimwitted kids who suddenly find themselves with added responsibility they were too immature to handle, they bitterly parted ways. The young, good looking, healthy and unattached people –and oh yeah my parents – decided to yield to human nature and seek out companionship. Who wouldn't? I mean, little kids can be aggravating. Getting laid every now and then can ease up some of that tension caused by a toddler's day-to-day activities. However, my father went off to serve in the U.S. Navy, my mother went to work and I ended up with my paternal grandparents with regular visits to my mother and maternal relatives.

My father came home from the Navy and bedded the first on the list of step-mothers. He became a step-father to her daughter from a previous relationship and they all ended up moving in together when she got pregnant. They all lived together in a nice apartment (a REALLY nice apartment on the rare occasion she cleaned it) in a section of Brooklyn about three miles away from the nice apartment I lived with my elderly and still working grandparents. WTF? Question: Why would a man who was living in what appeared to be a wholesome and traditional family environment complete with the cookie-cutter Mother figure, sibling and Father figure (all that was missing was a dog, white picket fence and a minivan) play daddy to someone else's child (even paying for her to attend private school) while his own biological child was going to public school and living with his parents. I won't use my words. I'll give you my grandmother's: "because she was a bitch, that's bloody why!" The "bitch" my grandmother referred to? The woman my father refused to marry (technically he couldn't, he was still legally married to my mother . . .) couldn't stand me (trust me, the feeling is more than fucking mutual). I was 6-years-old and she tried every way she could to annihilate my father's relationship with me. It even irked her to her evil core that I lived with my grandparents at all – after an episode where her horns sprouted my grandfather instilled a ban preventing her from being a guest in his home altogether. That woman always presented a façade of being the sweet and nice June Cleaver and as soon as she felt no one was looking – her true persona: Low-Budget Cruella DeVille would quickly fade in. She constantly verbally assaulted me to make me cry. I was a smart cookie though – I told everyone about her bullshit. One day she graduated to physical and it was over from there. My aunts got involved. HAHA! My grandparents' relationship with their son was even strained as they constantly reprimanded him for "throwing away his child." After a year or so of allowing her jealousy to control and manifest her maniacal manipulating games – my father hit her with walking papers. What would have happened to me had my grandparents not been there to take care of me while my mother was MIA? Would that "bitch" have succeeded in whatever her demented mind plotted against little me?

Next was my mother's turn. After she floated through a series of loser boyfriends, she landed a sucker that was not only willing to put up with her high-maintenance drama, but loved her so much – he accepted the fact that she had a daughter from a previous marriage. I'm not going to speak too ill of my step-father. He was just weird. I attribute it to the fact that he grew up the last child of five kids and didn't get out much. This is not one of those step-daddy horror stories involving sexual abuse. This is was another kind of abuse. Neglect. My mother catered to his every desire. I truly believe, the only reason my mother insisted I live with her was to benefit from the tax deduction. Other than that I was on my own. They have been married twenty something years and I still consider that man to be a completely separate entity bearing no kind of emotional attachment. I truly believe that should he kick the bucket, I'd probably just send my mother a condolence card call it day. We just never clicked like that and we lived in the same house for a number of years. I spent a lot of time with my next door neighbor – eating, sleeping, movies, mall, etc. (that neighbor is on my Top Friends list . . . whoever figures it out first; I'll send you a signed copy of my book) – we even watched our Saturday morning cartoons with the big bowls of sugary cereal together. If it weren't for my good friend and her parents that took me along with them everywhere – I'd probably be nuttier than I am today. I still love them dearly. From early on – I always knew that my mother's marriage was her first priority. By any means necessary. I had stay quiet and do as she said. I can tell you- it wasn't long before that rebellious blood kicked in and I was back on that one-way flight to Brooklyn. What happened to the Brady Bunch? If it weren't for the folks in Brooklyn, I know I would have married the first motherfucker that looked my way to get the hell away from them.

When I got involved with my baby daddy – who is eight years my senior – he was already a father. I figured I loved him – I had to love his kids – and I did. I never had problems with them. However, when we broke up and he bagged his last live in – she had problems with his kids. I won't go into the things she has done but to put it in a nutshell, let's just say – she is not well liked, well received or even welcomed. She reminded me of my second step mother. Ms. Hateful and Selfish. Ms. Hateful and Selfish can't stand to have anyone near the Man. She wants him all for herself. Like my father – my baby daddy spent a lot of years with the hateful and selfish woman. This is something I don't understand – could a pussy with heavy mileage turn a man out so bad that he forsakes his family and children for it? Or was it voodoo? Man, that's bull doo doo . . . (couldn't help that *snicker*)

My own kids reacted to a step-father differently. Rick was six when I got married so he felt it more. Rick was not a bratty kid – just a kid. He needed love and attention. My husband was too immature and selfish to understand that. I kept bombarding me with comments like "that boy needs to know that we need to have a life too!" I responded to Mr. Hateful and Selfish, "You met me as a mother and you knew we all were a package deal. You accepted it and now you want to talk shit! He's too young to think about acknowledging your damn sex needs." I wasn't willing to do to my son what my mother did to me. I would never say that my kids caused a rift in my marriage because they didn't. My husband, figured I would do like my mother and what his mother did and probably a whole bunch of other mothers did - get married and shift the responsibility to another relative. Fat Fucking Chance. My kids didn't ask to be born.

DISCUSSION: There are too many stories of step parents harming and even killing the offspring of their significant other. How did a "step" relationship affect you? Step-parents are notorious for all kinds of abuse including sexual. What would you say to your natural parent if you could? There are lots of good step-families. Will & Jada Pinkett-Smith has even deleted the word "step" from their extended family unit and re-dubbed it "Bonus Parent" or "Bonus Child" – I want to hear the POSITIVE stories too!

Why Do Women Cheat?

Why Do Women Cheat?

If you read TCOOO’s blog Why do men cheat?,

you know my book I Didn’t Sign Up For This! (available September 2007!!) was featured and the excerpt The Cheating Man’s Theory was put to the test and became a hot discussion forum. While many men admitted in different ways that the Cheating Man’s Theory was more reality than theory, the discussion raised the question –and rightfully so – Why do Women Cheat?

I have heard tons of stories from women as to why they cheated –none of them are good, but I understand. We are all very well aware of that some women cheat simply because their vaginas go through cock withdrawal and require pacifying with the first available phallus. While I’m not one to condone infidelity as I wholeheartedly believe that one should depart the relationship instead of playing games with someone else’s emotions. I too have cheated in the past. Here are my stories and the reasons why I cheated.

The First Time

Junior and I were going through a rough time about a year and half after our son was born. Although I was dedicated and was head over heels in love with him – he wanted out. So he did. Did I do anything wrong to make him want to leave? According to him now - no. At that time – he had a compulsive habit of nagging the shit out of me and accusing me of sleeping with every Tom, Dick Larry, Moe and Curly. One day – I responded to him, “Yeah I fucked him! It was the best fuck of his life!” He up and went to New York and cut himself completely off from his son and me. Now – I’m not going to bullshit you. That was part of his con to justify his fucking around with some other broad(s).

I had to hold down the fort on my own and raise this kid – oh yeah -finish school while working a shitty job at American Express where I had a supervisor that I often sat and meditated her demise which involved piano wire and gasoline. She didn’t think busting my balls was enough so she cut my hours back and gave me a weird schedule to not only cut my check short – it was too screwed up to get 2nd job. Nobody in their right mind with a small child would quit a job that paid 100% benefits. So I had to keep pretending that it didn’t bother me to be a modern day slave so that I could get promoted within the company. Bitch. So not only was baby daddy’s support money non-existent, my paycheck was getting smaller. One day, I was driving back from my cousin, Winsome’s house (to eat her food and charm some free babysitting out of her) and I spotted an old very good friend of Junior’s who happened to be a legend in the reggae community just as he was leaving another friend’s house. I hadn’t seen him since I was pregnant with Rick, so we began to chat about things and life and I subsequently ended up confiding just how sour things had gotten. When I realized what I had done – I made an excuse to leave and sped out of there like a thief. The next morning, The Man showed up bright and early at my door. He had several bags of groceries. I was shocked and grateful. While he was standing in the foyer of my one bedroom apartment and my son sat on the kitchen floor eating an popsicle – he pulled me aside and handed me enough cash to pay my rent and some left extra for myself. I immediately handed it back to him because I just knew he was going to expect me to put out for it. I didn’t have to do things like that. I had a father with a healthy bank account and some uncles who would strong arm my landlord if need be. He laughed at me and said to me he didn’t want anything from me. He knows firsthand what a piece of shit Junior was and expressed that I deserved a whole lot better. He admitted that he always admired me and liked that I had a brain. Who the hell could resist that? Then he said he had to go – as he was on his way home from being out all night, but just felt the need to tell me that and help out a little. I thanked him and as soon as the door closed, I called my cousin to tell her what had happened. She called me an idiot for not taking him on as he is a nice guy.

We ended up getting involved in a stronger friendship with an intense sexual relationship up until Rick was almost two – during which he continued to pay my rent and bills never once declaring any love for me. He was good to me the entire time. Rick even ended up in the hospital after suffering a seizure and it was The Man who took him there. How is that cheating? About three months into it – Junior and I started talking again with the intention of reconciling. I played them both because I didn’t trust either one of them. Of course, I ended up following my heart and never discussed with him just how I spent the time away from him. I actually got pregnant shortly after our reunion, but miscarried in the second month. Was I a whore?

The Second Time

I was married to my now ex-husband and we were on the verge of recalling the Date of Doom – our 2nd wedding anniversary. After I had Jon Jon, I was portlier from a weight gain of about forty pounds. Not from overeating in gluttony – but because of a collapsed lung I suffered during the pregnancy and was on some heavy steroids up until a year after he was born (why is it that when people suddenly gain weight, we always feel the need to explain it?!). I actually met my ex in GNC while I was looking for diet pills to help me drop the weight that had me walking with a continuous wheeze.

As soon as the honeymoon was over the Prince turned into a lazy ass croaking fucking frog. He just let it all hang out – the real boozing, partying, philandering him. Not to mention a control freak – he manipulated me with my friends and family. Every fight we had, was witnessed by a close friend or relative to ensure a humiliating experience and of course, all the females took his side. Then he felt the need to remind me that I was fat – as if dragging up the parachute-like panties every day wasn’t reminder enough. I argued with him until I was hoarse about his bullshit and then he would explain that my un-comeliness was the reason for his malicious behavior. Every day – the fat jokes increased and my self-esteem simply nose-dived and I was trapped. I wanted to burn him alive in the house that he insisted he stay in. He hated me, but wouldn’t fucking leave! I eventually limited my time with him by avoiding him every waking chance I got. When a position in his job opened up for an evening shift – I encouraged him to take it. That would mean that I worked during the day and he worked nights. I was probably the only person on the planet that dreaded weekends because that would mean I would see my husband. I only went into his bedroom four times a month for personal maintenance. Fifteen minutes for each occurrence. Nothing less, nothing more. We all have needs right? He had to be of at least one good use, didn’t he?

One day, after another one of our lovely spats – I discovered something was wrong with the CD player in my car. I had to take it to the kind folks at Volvo, but that would require an appointment. I went over to my uncle’s house instead – he can fix anything. He put me on the phone to his guy. The guy happened to be an ex of mine. Not just any ex – the first guy I had ever been with. He told me to call him in the morning and we will arrange to meet up so he could fix the stupid CD player –which, by the way, I was acting as it was as an important necessity as blood. Where did we meet up? At a hotel room ten minutes away from my job. Would you believe that was the only place for him to check out my car? No, I didn’t think so. He opened the door to the room and it was like time had suddenly jumped back ten years and stood still. I was seventeen again. He was still cute – only his hair was shorter. I felt an ache in my face as I looked at him. I was smiling . . . wide. I only smiled with my kids, but most of the time forced. I didn’t want to tell him about the troubled marriage, but he wasn’t shocked about the two kids and the baby daddy. He told me things were good with him and the mother of his children and he was happy . . . just that it’s not me. When we were together – we used to have fun. We once stole my uncle’s prized Camaro (I have TONS of jokes on that Camaro) on a dare as it was a superstition to steal my uncle’s car and not crash it on the way home. We did it and returned safe. I, of course, closed the door hard while cheering and shattered the passenger side glass window. We laid there on the bed listening to music and talking and eating fries and burgers with Sprite. He suddenly pulled me into a hug provoking all these old feelings to resurrect- and I was like, “hold a sec –this is not supposed to be going like this.” I was still very conscious of my weight and knew I was too fat for his taste. I asked him what was the deal – was he was desperate. He responded,

“Just because you gained weight doesn’t mean that you’re gone through. I mean – look, you’re still a pretty girl. Your hair and nails are neat and done, you have nice clean clothes on and you’re driving a RED VOLVO – how hot is that?! You still got it going on Gi! I almost fell off the bed and cried. Somebody had said something nice and kind to me and not because I fed and clothed him! Maybe all he wanted was to get laid – but hey, he wanted to get his rocks off with me. He moved in closer and kissed me and the tough-as-nails-holds-no-prisoners chick that was crouched next to him was softened like a newborn kitten. “ . . . and your breath doesn’t stink either.” “Shut up asshole.” [Insert Aretha Franklin’s “Natural Woman”] We officially segued into a heated make-out session. I knew what I was doing was dead wrong but was trying to get more into the motions of what was happening so that the guilt wouldn’t commandeer my body. However, my body was in a world of its own. It refused to resist the responses to the affection it was finally receiving after years of strongly craving it. The warm considerate hands that were caressing every inch of desire it created; the lips that were teasing and delightfully coordinating with its counterparts as made contact. With his body blanketing mine and my blouse removed with my zipper opened –as he had left it- he got up to retrieve a condom. My brain took advantage of the opportunity from the five seconds it was given having been clouded by his passion to get logical. This was wrong. I wanted a relationship – he wanted to fuck. A good fuck worthy of awards, but that’s all it would have been for him. He still had to go home to his woman and he wasn’t going to leave her for me. If I had stayed with him when I was seventeen –I would have been the baby mother that he cheated on regularly. I had to get out of there, but there was weight throbbing in my big drawers that was screaming for action and I almost couldn’t walk away. However, I had to. So I did. How is this cheating? I did not go through with the final encounter, but I did get real personal. It would hurt me if my man were to get that far with someone else.

The Third and Final Time

After my husband and I split, I started going out with a new guy – I mentioned him in my previous blog – Interracial Dating. This happened in the very beginning our relationship. I was in like with him and he was very good to me. He showed me that I deserved to be treated with respect and didn’t have to go about demanding it as harsh as I did. He completely understood – why I was so abrasive towards men – as his mother was the same way after his dad died. He had a major impact in the role to my overall change. So why did I cheat on him early on in the relationship? Because I was selfish. I didn’t trust men and that poor guy ended up being a victim of my insanity. I couldn’t enjoy the sex. It was boring. He was very affectionate but all that only makes an “O”-less incident more frustrating especially since I was shit-faced drunk. He couldn’t find my G-Spot with a GPS giving him turn-by-turn instructions! I hated it. I knew what the problem was and tried to teach him how to please me, but being older and stubborn – he didn’t appreciate my tutorials. Asshole. Guys – did you know that when you jerk off too much, you adopt a method of thrusting with your legs in lieu of your waist. Instead of applying the necessary pressure on the g-spot to induce a tailspin, you just run a breeze on it. So I’d saddle him up; which to him fine but too often and it was emasculating. I was getting annoyed as I am someone who refuses to indulge in tickling my pink parts with imitations when the real fucking thing was RIGHT THERE!

Then my Baby Daddy came to town. I caved. I told Mr. Lover Man about it in a heart to heart talk. I hurt him. I felt guilty, but I truly believe there was a physical issue involved that kept me twisting in my seat and my back hurting. That one two minute shot – ended weeks of tension. But we moved on and I introduced him to BDSM so that he wouldn't have a problem learning new tricks then. Asshole. I never cheated after that.

These were my reasons and the only times I ever cheated, what are yours - or why were you cheated on?

I Bought My Son His First Cup The Other Day - A Hustler Single Mom's Story Part I

I took my 12-year-old son to the sporting goods store the other day to get the ever so important football gear which thankfully growing up with neurotic mother and a sporadic father for most of his life; he’s learned to be prepared and organized when it comes to the purchase of items pertaining to his sports career. In his wallet, he carried his debit card, $20 in cash, his school ID and the long list of items needed in addition to the cost of each item. I was basically there to provide transport service and extra cash if necessary. However, he stumbled up a little problem. The brand of cup he chose from the Internet, the store was not in stock of -totally screwing up his itinerary. I had to help because there is no way I will allow him to play the game fully armored up with his privates playing the vulnerable position of Achilles Heel. Not happening. I went into the aisle and looked around at the selection of cups which I really couldn't’t even tell the difference between a cup and a chin guard or even an empty container of McNugget sauce. How the hell am I supposed to know what to do? Do I try it on and have someone repeatedly kick me in the crotch to test it out? Just before I could remove the plastic banana hammock from the package to give it a thorough examination, a sales person intervened to prevent me from provoking my son to consider life in a monastery.

“We need help picking out a cup.”

“That’s okay Mom, I don’t need help.”

“Okay – how do we do this? Is it cheaper by the size? I’m not really any kind of authority on testicular wear, so feel free to educate me as you go along.” To make a long story short- my son left the store holding a bag full of $200 in sports equipment (courtesy of my fucking Visa card!) walking briskly about fifty feet in front of me and cup-less. To make it worse – his baseball coach called me later to offer his service to accompany Rick to the Modells to buy the cup. I can sum it up for you in one line:



A Nutty Buddy? Are you kidding me? I'm supposed buy this and then hand it over to my kid- so his brother can find it and turn it into some kind of floating device for his Power Rangers in my bathtub?

“You don’t really believe that I’m going to let a guy take my kid out to shop for that now do you?” Sorry – as much as I like his coach – that’s just too personal. That’s part of my plight as a single mother raising boys and a storyline for a Lifetime Television for Women Movie of the Week.

On the drive back – with only the sound of the Yankees game on the radio playing - I thought about that morning I held Ricardo for the first time right after he was born. His father and I were sitting in my hospital room waiting for the nurse to bring him in so that I could actually look at him without feelings of resentment after spending four bloody merciless hours of labor to bring him forth into the world (look, I just squeezed him out of my body – I don’t care what anybody says – there’s nothing natural about natural childbirth!). The nurse walked in with a bassinet and gleefully announced,

“Here’s your baby Mommy and Daddy!” and we looked over at the dark chocolate smooth very round baby with the head full of thick super curly black hair wrapped snugly in the blue blanket and resting so sweetly. Junior crooked his neck, looked down at the baby and then over at me to boldly declare,
“THAT’S NOT MINE!” I snapped back,

“THAT’S NOT MINE EITHER!” The nurse with a surprise look on her face realized her error and while apologizing profusely exited the private room. Another nurse briskly headed down the hall with the tinier baldish Carnation Milk white baby who looked like a wet duck and actually belonged to us. The nurse put him in my arms and I looked into his eyes which were opened widely because I had almost dropped him and he gave me his first “WTF?” look. I had been given a major responsibility with my little person. Having sex for a measly two hours, creating him, gestating for nine months and giving birth were the easy parts. This little human being completely relied upon me and his father for everything to strive. If I was not going to accept this responsibility, I needed to let someone know –preferably the authorities or a social worker - right then and there.

His father picked his son up from me while beaming with pride and laughed that the 6 pound seed of his lineage inherited his mother’s nose – as did all of her other grandchildren. Then we signed the paperwork legally acknowledging the baby’s paternity and naming our boy in the process. Junior named his son after himself and his older brother. Just like that – I had no say. I planned to name him, Daniel- after the prophet, Junior told me he didn’t like it and made my kid his junior (if you don’t believe me, feel free to ask him – his profile is on my tops).
Now fast forward a decade and another baby later. We're living separate lives. The same man who "really checked" for me and "loved" me "bad" is now three or so women later and breaching the contract of commitment to his children as if they were old toys whose novelty has worn off. How come nobody told me we were on a First Come; First Run Basis? Last week after venting to a friend about my frustrations of being a single mother and reading TCOOO's blog "Where Have All the Fathers Gone?" It really bothered me. Where the hell have all the fathers gone? Where the hell was Junior when his son needed to pick out some contraption to prevent a detrimental injury to his stones? What do I know about getting hit in the balls? WHY should I know anything about getting hit in the balls? That's not my department! Junior doesn't have to know anything about getting cramps, maxi pads or the intricacies of invasive feminine hygiene products! When did I sign up for a sperm donation? I want all you guys to pay attention – I'm not your average or typically exploited single mom.

I belong to a special group of mothers – not the average frumps you see getting make overs because they're too busy (pfft!) we are the MILFs who make too much money for government assistance or a real fucking tax break (that’s over $55K for the snide remarking geniuses) and too little money to be able to afford to not have to live on a budget (have you seen the housing market?). We are the Hustle Moms- Publicly scorned for appearing intelligent yet deemed stupid for being trapped in the predicament we're in therefore receiving no mercy or sympathy (Oprah doesn't send us checks.). We cut coupons, shop in outlet malls, give up date lives just so we can have enough energy to shuffle kids between sporting or other curricular activities, actually provide well-balanced nutritious meals in a home that has luxuries such as light, heat-a/c, water, cable, phone plus Internet, and whipping the ass that dares to bring home anything lower than a “C” on the report card. Let’s not forget about ensuring these young men (and women) grow into Men (I have boys, so I'm referencing boys today). That means teaching them manners and respect, how to utilize common sense and analyze situations, giving them something to look forward to in life and setting goals other than acquiring a new pair of sneakers whilst the absentee father is out possibly increasing the bundle of fruit of his loom or scratching.


My Three Sons- Rick, Jon Jon and Tommy.

I’ve taken my boys fishing, played basketball, tennis, vacations, gone to reading events and taught them essential skills to not only help out around the house – like cook, iron his clothes and sort laundry – but be living human beings with values and not just existing! I even taught them how to fight. Of course, I’ve had to part their fights too. The way I see it, they didn’t ask to be born into this fatherless life nor was it ever my intention to allow them to grow up with a part-time daddy. I had a choice – be selfish or selfless. Isn’t one selfish parent enough? I grew up with two selfish parents so I was very determined to raise my kids to not have the same feelings of inadequacy or that they were burdens as I once felt. I am by no means a perfect mother. I do things like drink and cuss in front my kids (sometimes at them). My car is a biohazard from the rushed breakfast in the backseat. Then those couple times I sent them to school knowing they would not make it through the day without a phone call from the nurse to come get them. To be honest – there was no one else to keep them. If I took the day off from work – then I’d have to give up a personal day. If I got called out because of a sick kid – my boss would have sympathy and let me leave early without docking me. It’s all part of the hustle. If I got a dollar for every time I wanted to lay out in the middle of the road from frustration and just scream - "I DIDN'T DO THIS BY MYSELF - WHY AM I DOING IT BY MYSELF?!?!?" I'd have enough money to give Oprah a loan!



Jon Jon at the Book Expo America this year at Jacob Javits Center in New York City with Comedian and Author Michael Jr. Jon Jon loves to read and was ecstatic to receive a signed copy of Michael Jr.'s Book "The Parts We Play."

Attention Deadbeat Dads: (I won’t call you “men” because that would only be a name not a description): do you really understand what you’re missing when you skip out on your own child’s life? I’m not just talking about the hard part, I’m also speaking of the good when your children greet you with excitement, go out of their way to make you proud by attempting to accomplish great things? Do you know they’re out there calling your kid stupid – because your kid according to them doesn’t stand a chance at success because of your lack of involvement? While I was trying to make ends meet and ignore my son’s request for shaving equipment (did I mention I threatened to drop a bucket of hot piss on the little hussy girls eyeballing my baby?); my ex has fathered at least a basketball team with a variety of asshole women who think they have Super Golden Pussy and will be The One to tame him into a *cough* monogamous *cough, choke* relationship. That’s another blog . . . Folks don’t get me wrong – Junior is still a part of my life and I don’t harbor any feelings of animosity towards him. We’re actually good friends. He was a major staple in research for my book – we spent over $500 in long distance phone calls talking about the project and when he does see my boys – he does his best to make them happy. Right now, the life we share is better than nothing and I have seen a lot worse. However, if he asks me to have a daughter with him just one more time I will go Lorena Bobbitt on him.

If you’re a dad and you don’t even know if your kid ate this morning you need to remember – that same kid just may be the one to pick the nursing home entrusted to change your diaper later on!



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Jamal was raised by a single mom because his dad was MIA during his formative years.
Jamal is now taking care of his 1-year-old daughter alone in Florida while her mother finishes college in NYC. I am sooo proud of him!
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Rick is a guy that when you see him, his son is not too far away.
He even sacrifices his dignity by wearing those ugly camp t-shirts when he chaperons his son's camp outings. Way to go Rick! He's a real stand up guy!

TALK TO ME PEOPLE!!
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