BadMommi and The Fuckboy Season Part 1

This particular time of year is glorious. The sun stays out to play until around 9, warming sidewalks and hearts alike and un-thawing the bitterness of winter lingering on the edges of our souls. Skin starts to reveal its glory after months of being stuffed under woolly materials. Edges lay in submission ready to go into chill mode right along with our attitudes. Everybody’s melanin glistens like gold dust and the streets sparkle in a cacophony of hues. Smiles peek out with the assembly of each grill and spirits are lifted as summer tunes transform the block to party. Everything seems fresh and fun as Winter’s depressing pall makes way for Summer’s promise of a new day.

Then you hear it. Maybe you’re headed home from work after a long day sweating it out with no air conditioner and you just can’t wait to get under a cold shower. Or maybe you’re heading out with your girls to that club you’ve been saving that dress for and you spent hours balancing out to make sure you look sexy but grown, alluring but mature, tempting but not “Thot”.

The sound sidles up to your ear in a loud hiss that arrests your senses enough to make you regret the moment you stepped outside:   “Heeeeeeeyyyyy miss…”

Your eyes struggle not to pop out, your resolve steels and you put some respek on your walk. “Ma! Scuse’ me… Ma!” You readjust your headphones like armor, pretend Jesus is walking right next to you and pull your lips tighter than a size 0 jean on a video girl. It rings in your head as you press forward, “Ma! Ay yo Ma!” And though you want to ignore it usually ends in one of two ways:

  1. “Well, fuck you then bitch! I ain’t wanna talk to yo ugly ass anyways.” Or …
  2. That awkward silence as every man you just passed thoroughly memorizes each curve of the ass you now wish you didn’t get from your mama.

And there it is. The Fuckboy Season Mating Call. There was a time when you could recognize the species by their low slung pants, penchant for corner sitting and gold laden left canine but it’s 2016. Fuckboys now come in all shapes, sizes and colors. And though it is a win for the diversity committee at the Fuckboy Caucus, the female delegation now finds it hard to avoid contact. How am I supposed to stay focused and drama free when Fuckboys now come in suit and tie and holla by staring me down at Starbucks? It’s dangerous territory out there ladies and I, for one, am on the verge of Fuckboy breakdown.

Though the trauma of Fuckboy season could spur entire support groups I’ve found that is it especially traumatic for BadMommis.  Contrary to popular belief, women DO NOT actually enjoy being harassed. Crazy, right? And is more disgusting when you have a child in tow. Think of it this way: imagine spending the entirety of Summer as a piece of barbeque chicken; hot, exposed and in fear of being devoured at any moment. Now imagine you also have a tiny glazed wing you’re tryna protect and now you understand the story of BadMommi and The Season of Fuckboy.

In probably the cutest moment of Miles’ short life, we were walking on our block and trying to tune out the Fuckboy mating call as I rushed to shove my key in the door.  Miles, emboldened by the Summer heat or the superheroism of being 5, turned around livid and screamed out, “Can’t you see me with her?! Don’t you see that she has me and I have her?! Can’t you tell she loves me and I love her?! Leave her alone!!!” Tears welled up in my eyes at the shock and awe, a hush settled over the block and I gave Miles Starburst and Doritos for dinner that night just like he asked for.

Besides the obvious discomfort and fear that all women feel when approached by Random guy A, B and C you ain’t shit on the street, BadMommis cradle the extra burden of being objectified in front of their children.  A plethora of questions attack the mind whenever these encounters ensue including but not limited to: Are you really ready to play family man because that mouth says perverted construction worker and not dedicated father? Don’t you think this kid might be a little offended by you treating its mother like the steak at an all night buffet?  Why would you show my son that the way to get a girl is to call out to her like a cow at pasture and/or show my daughter that she is worth only a rainstorm of sexist epithets that point to her physical appearance? It is not only stressful to have to fend off the advances of the tactless but to do it all in front of an impressionable mind is horrifying.

So, I have come up with a list; the definitive list of how to holla at a BadMommi. For all your guys who insist that women will protest in the streets if we are not consistently verbally accosted with your sexual innuendos here is a comprehensive checklist of things to consider before you open your fat mouth.(Hint: This list works not just for moms but for any woman with some semblance of sense.)


Act like a gentlemen, think like a woman with PMS.So you like the way I look and your Netflix subscription just got renewed cuz you just got paid. You would love to invite me over to enjoy a marathon of Battlestar Galactica (I might actually come if this title is involved.) Stop and think to yourself, how would I want to be approached if this were the worst day of my life?  Chances are you have no idea what our day has been like when you started your Rico Suave routine.  Consider the fact that any number of things could have happened before we sauntered by you.  Our work day could have been long and arduous, our cat might have just puked in our favorite Jimmy Choos or we may have just had to curse out our nail tech for drawing Kanye as nail art instead of Lebron like we asked for. Point is you have bad days, right? You have days you don’t want to be bothered. Guess what? So do we and consider the fact that on your bad or mediocre or just plain bleh day you are not here for the bullshit.  Neither are we.

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Don’t touch me.Do not put your grubby, short fingered, calloused, sausage resembling, skin like the scales on a gila monster fingers on my supple skin. I do not know where you have been, what you have touched or how long it’s been since you wiped your kids from the crevices of your palms.  DO NOT TOUCH ME. Personal space is a real thing.  It actually exists and it actually applies to women.  Would you like someone possibly 20-50 pounds heavier grabbing at you while you’re minding your goddamn business? No? Then please keep all hands, feet and foreign objects on the ride, sir.


Don’t come for me unless I send for you. I feel the art of the “come hither” stare is lost on our brain dead generation. There is a certain allure to the dance of flirtation that goes on when a woman would like to entertain the advances of a man. It is an old tradition probably premiering in our cave dwelling days when a woman might have laid the largest Saber tooth leg in front of the man of her choice. Let’s go back to those days gentlemen and NO, I do not mean clubbing us over the head and dragging us behind a rock. I mean paying attention to signals. If I walk by you with my headphones on blast, a scowl on my face and a pace rivaling Husein Bolt chances are I’m not interested, bruh. But if I look you dead in the eye for more than four seconds and look away shyly or turn up a slow smile as I near you or in my case grin like a three year old high on cotton candy and turn beet red, you might have a chance. Go with the cues; your success rate will go up and I’ll probably have some extra cotton candy for you as a bonus.

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Use comforting epithets. Let’s be honest, “Miss” has become as synonymous with disrespect as “Ma”, “Hey girl” and the ever popular “Bitch”. All imply a lack of familiarity, are a prerequisite for fuckery and connote a rote ritualization that you seem to only be able to practice in front of your boys. That being said, maybe you really want to get my attention and you have good intentions in mind. How can you express your burning interest without offending my delicate sensibilities? Well, remember when grandma used to pop you in the mouth for not saying “please” and “thank you” and you nursed your swollen lip while rueing the day she grew that damn switch bush in the backyard? Manners count. If it was enough for you to get hit back then, it’s important for you to remember as you hit on us now.  Simple, “Excuse me’s”, “Thank you’s” and “Have a nice day’s” go a long way.  And the ultimate rule: just because you speak to us nicely, doesn’t mean we have to say anything back. *Gasp* Come to find out women are free to choose when we want to be approached or nah. Well go figure!

Now this list is no where near complete so we have some work to do. This is Part 1 of my Checklist for Avoiding Inevitable Fuckboy Status.  Next week I’ll give you Part 2 where we’ll delve deeper into maintaining anti-Fuckboy behavior in the course of a relationship with a BadMommi. For now, try some of this advice out.  Share it with your friends, loved ones and people who just annoy the hell out of you so you want them to get some act right in their life.  If you’re a Good Guy, comment and tell me ways in which you resist the urge to revert to Fuckboyisms.  Ladies, comment and let me know your best advice for approaching you in all your Goddess glory.  Let’s make this Fuckboy Season the last.

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