Mom is the Sergeant and General in many families and her kids are her dutiful soldiers. This woman in authority barks out orders and expects to be immediately obeyed. She lays down the law as the primary caregiver and will not tolerate any disobedience. As is common with powerful women, we fear and revere her. We understand without being told that she’s the HNIC – Head Negro in Charge. She’s the squadron chief and the official team leader. Like the most terrifying drill sergeant, mom is not to be messed with. In single-parent households this woman of steel is our only role model so by default many women grow up mimicking their mom’s ways. While her leadership style may be effective in rearing kids, it doesn’t go over so well in relationships. Trying to get your significant other to be about it, do what he’s told and ask how high when we say leap, probably won’t get us married. Strangely, it’s the women who have mastered the art of subtly that most often get the ring. These are the ladies who lead in absentia. Translation? They are the women that lead but make their men feel like they’re the captain of the ship. Masterful or manipulative? Can’t really say, you decide. For the rest of us who haven’t grasped the art of subterfuge, the absence of male role models and healthy examples of cooperative relationships, make us naturally want to take charge. We’ve been taught to be independent and we’re often unwilling to relinquish control. When we get into relationships we discover to our horror that love isn’t a dictatorship; it’s a democracy. Holy hell! What the heck. What now? Give him the wheel and see if he knows how to steer. Practice makes perfect.

Evidence suggests that no matter how capable, self-sufficient and independent we are as women, men are not interested in sleeping with the Master and Chief. In a battle with an enemy or worthy opponent (life), most men will choose to have a dedicated soldier by their side over even the most decorated General. Instinctively men want to protect and nurture us. For experimental purposes we’ll let them and see if the journey ends at the altar.

Have women of today forgotten who’s in charge? As Sergeants in the Army of Life can we demote ourselves to Soldiers and let love lead?

Book Available on Amazon & Barnes and Noble.

Check out the video here:
Watch this video on YouTube.
target=”_blank”>
Watch this video on YouTube.

Don’t get me wrong, some of us had put up a ferocious fight with father time. There was evidence of the struggle being waged by the use of concealer to disguise dark circles, the use of spanxs to fight flab, and the determination to eradicate fashion faux pas with a steady diet of Vogue. Still time had marched on and exposed us as frauds. It showed when the music began and folks launched into the Cabbage Patch followed by the Running Man. It showed when some of us started to Bogle with a hint of Dutty Wine. It was evident when the livelier of us attempted to form what was slightly reminiscent of a Soul Train line. Many who had long ago given into laugh lines didn’t even attempt to shake their groove thing. Instead they sat in dark corners and tapped their feet to what they could catch of the beat.

It didn’t help my aging spirit that a young relative I dragged to the party with me, laughed as I attempted to Get Down On It with Kool & the Gang. Repeatedly through the night, she reminded me kindly that I looked GREAT and I only looked a little tired around the eyes. Gee, thanks. With all sincerity she said, it’s inevitable that as you get older you lose all your swag. I don’t know if I agree.

Like the celebrities that fight time with Botox, face lifts, crop tops and miniskirts in winter, should we refuse to give into time? Should we fight getting older or just throw in the towel? Do we rage against the dying of the light to quote my boy Dylan Thomas? Or do we hold on to our youthfulness and sexiness with both feet and hands?  Is being an Old Ass an eventuality or are we as Old as we choose?

Word? (I love when I get a chance to say that.)

Yup, he’s good between the sheets, he’s kind and I think we’re on our way to being in love.

Your man-less drought has come to an end. Thank you, Lord! (She’ll now buy a lot less batteries.)

I know, I’m sooo excited! (Her voice goes up one octave in glee.)

Where did you meet him? (I want to know so me and all my friends can go there.)

Online.

Oh. (My excitement fades considerably.)

He has a good job, he’s cute and he’s interested in marriage.(Which means she’s already tried on his last name for size.)

That’s great news, Heather. (And it is, because Heather’s blonde hair, green eyes and kick ass corporate job hasn’t made finding love any easier.)

It’s better than great, it’s awesome. Now we just have to find the right guy for you. (She’s not being snarky, she’s being sincere.)

Still perky, happy and over-the-moon, Heather disconnects and is gone.

The interchange with one of my BFFs leaves me with a question in my mind. Is dating online not for black girls? I ask this because Heather’s story is not unique. Many of my non-black friends have found love in cyberspace. In contrast, the single sistahs journey into the dating dot-com world has been riddled with horror stories more terrifying than the movie Scream.

On the popular BlackPeopleMeet.com, eHarmony and PlentyofFish, the success rates have been hit or miss. On these sites that draw the dark and delicious, the ladies of my acquaintance have found the dude with ten baby mothers, the freakazoid out for nothing but some tail, and the guy that is married but has found the Internet an effective way to cheat on his wife.

While the trials of my sistah-friends looking for love online may be a tad bit overstated, this much is true; only a few of the fortunate ones have crossed cultural lines and found love and interracial bliss. Only a lucky few have found Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome and happily went off to jump the broom.  Generally, they, unlike my “other” girlfriends, did not find the executive, the nature enthusiast or the dude who has an open heart and a grammatically correct personal profile. For the vast majority, the PC and their profile has produced only disappointing results.

So I ask my readers in all sincerity, is dating dot-com NOT for the Dark & Lovely? The jury is still out.

• Established my own publishing company and published my first book which is fulfilling a dream I’ve had since I was 16
• Written 29 blog posts this year (probably should have written more)
• Been a guest on 5 book promotion blog talk radio shows
• Celebrated a successful book launch
• Lost some real, Twitter and Facebook friends but I have gained so many more
• Worked off 10 stubborn pounds. The holiday lasagna and red velvet cake has only made me gain back 2. Whew!
• Visited 3 different countries and in doing so reconnected with family and friends
• Inched closer to accepting who and what I am with the Lord’s help

All is good. In the past, always wanting an expecting more has led to a sense of dissatisfaction no matter what I’ve managed to accomplish. This year, I’m just giving thanks. I’m thankful that unlike parents in Connecticut, I haven’t lost a child. Like some soldiers in Afghanistan, I haven’t lost hope or a limb. I’m grateful that unlike some of the homeless wandering the streets, I have a roof over my head. When the New Year comes to an end, as human beings, we lament about all the things we should have accomplished but didn’t. All the things we tried to do but failed. All the goals we wanted to reach but fell short. This year I’m trying something new. I’m practicing gratitude. I’m living with a spirit of expectation and thanks. I’m loving with an open heart and participating in life on a day-by-day basis knowing that hard days will come, but that I’ve been blessed. It’s easy to remember the bad things that have happened in 2012 but can you list and remember the good?

Despite the Mayan doomsday prophecy, we’re all still here. Despite scary hockey mask Jason, the number 13 can still mean something good. Whether you’re in church clapping your hands or in the club raising your glass for cheers, will you remember all the things you should be grateful for in the last year?  Do you believe that a good New Year is dependent on a New Attitude?

Wishing all the Super fans, both old and new, a prosperous and happy 2013!

Speaking from the standpoint of a woman who has no clue what her natural hair looks like, I hesitate to jump in feet first to the natural versus processed hair debate. I’m in no position to judge what a woman wants to do with her wig, weave, locks or tresses. Recently, however; I had a brief debate with a gentleman who told me that women who are natural are less influenced by the man and are more in touch with their Africaness. Ahh, okay. While my picture has never graced the cover of the Dark & Lovely box and I’ve never been photographed pro Panther with an Afro pick in my hair and my fist raised, I’m still a sister to the core. Sadly, it seems I don’t have the hair to prove it.

I dig my sisters sporting the fro, the loose wave, the all-out kink and the buzz cut. That they have embraced their beauty outside of the Yaki versus Remy hair war–it cost $200 for a decent weavologist to take my hair from Badu to Beyoncé blood feud—I’ve been at the hairstylist for three hours trying to torture my hair beautiful power struggle, is great. I admire the Shea butter, coconut oil and Miss Jessie Pudding wearing sisters. I do not, however; bestow them with an instant American Express All Black card of consciousness because their hair is kinky and mine is straight. No can do. I know natural ladies who have never read, much less written a book. I know women sporting an Afro for the mere reason that the perm made all their hair fall out. They are not addicted to the creamy crack based on any political stance. To say so would be ludicrous. While natural and beautiful, these women are neither less nor more blacker than me. Naturalness is a choice, a decision, a lifestyle change and I dig it. But I Am Not My Hair and a woman’s hair is not the sum of her parts. I have 99 problems but my relaxer ain’t one.

One day I will leave the lure of the pressing comb, the perm and the flat iron behind. I will not be drawn to the long ponytail to supposedly validate my existence. I will reject the establishment and go full-fledged I’m natural and a woman hear me roar. Not today though, today I have to go to work and the gas bill is due.

Does it make sense to divide women based on natural versus straight, dark-skinned versus light-skinned or field versus house chick? Can the processed and the permed sister still call herself black, conscious and African if she’s still Getting Wiggy With It?

It’s happened. It’s started already. Because of the title of my newly released book: Don’t Let the White Girl Win, some folks are accusing me of being a hater. Others, the more polite ones, dig the title but ask me in hushed tones, are you sure you want to call your book that? People won’t understand. You know the P.C. police are going to eat your ass alive. I stand by my book and its contents and to those who challenge me I say, mi nuh tek back nuh talk, that’s patois for yeah that’s my book title so what?

That said, to satisfy the curious as well as the furious, let me give you a peek into the table of contents of my mind. First of all folks, the book isn’t about hate or intolerance. It’s about winning and succeeding. It’s about helping black women abandon failed techniques and strategies for improving their lives. It’s about competition and truth. It’s about empowering women to be the best versions of themselves. I use white women in this book for comparative analysis. Although I speak of the other girl in real life terms, ultimately, she symbolizes any object, person or thing that women of color perceive as an obstacle to their happiness. They are not defiled or reviled in this book. What would be the point? Who has the time or the energy to spend 194 pages complaining, blaming and whining? I don’t. While I don’t downplay or dismiss the reality of some black men quitting the Negro Love League to play for the other team, the focus of the guide is not on white women. Instead, it’s where it should be, which is on helping black women win at everything that their minds and hearts can imagine or conceive. If some readers haven’t discovered this, then that’s because they haven’t taken the time to read past chapter one. There is more to this book besides its outrageous cover.

So to the naysayers, the Negative Nancy’s and the quick to judge: Bitter Black Girl books are written for and by Bitter Black Girls. Super Sistah books are written for Better Black Girls, Beautiful Black Girls and Black Girls that Rock.

My Little Black Book has resulted in controversy with bouts of serious comedy. Don’t Let The White Girl Win has turned some readers on while scaring others off. Have you judged this little black book by its cover without reading what’s inside?

Thanks everyone for your tremendous support. If you missed the launch but heard all the positive vibes flowing my way and would like to purchase a copy. Get one here or here or directly from the publisher here.

My fans and friends are truly Super. Thanks everyone.

LIKE the book here: www.facebook.com/DontLetTheWhiteGirlWin

Like me, lots of women of my acquaintance are very accomplished. They have a great career, a bad ass crib and enough clothes and shoes to inspire envy. They should be happy and for the most part they are, but like some women are nymphomaniacs who can’t get enough sex, some women are success nymphos who can’t get enough of the next. Like reggae singer I Wayne sings, Can’t satisfy her. She needs more wood for the fire. The fire for more that burns in some women is like a disease. Not unlike the euphoria a good orgasm brings, for some the rush of being at their best doesn’t last past the dying embers of the post coital cigarette. Inhale in and exhale out, now what bridge can be built, what ladder can be climbed, what bear can she fight with her bare hands and win? Lord Jesus, can you please calm down and chill! For these women I’m sharing the sound of my internal secret-self crying out in distress. The sound is ignored as we turn our attention instead to our To-Do list:

• Conquered the world? No check.
• Found the ideal man? No check.
• As rich as Croesus? No check.
• As fit and diesel as the Jamaican track team chicks? No check, no check, no check.

Sigh, despair and all our previous accomplishments are blown to bits. For indulging in this self-destructive nonsense I’m handing out slaps with a closed hand fist. Ladies, take the time to pat yourself on the back. Take the time to appreciate yourself. You may not get another chance. A successful life is not measured in accolades but in the moments and seconds in life that can’t be replaced. Breathe. Enjoy all that you’ve accomplished and then relax and release. The best time of your life is right in front of you. Stop chasing what’s next.

Are you incapable of living in the moment? Are you too preoccupied to experience a good cry, a good laugh or good sex? Are you Ms. Can’t Get Enough–What’s Next?