the Super Sistah Blog

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Beauty Backlash November 27, 2010

The Super is not a girly girl. I’m more butch than Barbie.   I’m the type of girl whose looks are deceiving. I look like I invest a lot of time in maintaining the pretty. But it’s a lie.  Like all women I like to keep myself up but I find my beauty regime time-consuming and tedious.  The problem is that I love the fellas and men like bees are attracted to honey. So I make myself up in the morning (not on the train though I find that annoying.) I wax, not because I think a little forest ever hurt anybody, but because a strip is more civilized.  I wear Victoria Secret undies but near laundry week the pair might be ripped and unraveling.  I keep my hair tight. Michelle O has nothing on me. But I skip the expensive stylist for the bargain basement blow out for $19.99. I like to look good—on a budget.  Watching me trot down the street though might deceive you.  I look casually expensive.  Less Gucci and more J.Crew but my clothes are out of season and off the rack.  For me clearance signs evoke ecstasy.  I look like beauty is important but I’m a fraud. The truth is that I will go weeks without a manicure until my hands look like broken and chipped claws.  I only know that a pedicure is in order because my toe nails cut through my sheets.  My manicurist mutters curse words in Chinese every time she sees me.  I get my eyebrows done regularly because even I know a unibrow isn’t sexy.  Having said all that,  I recently became a slave to the pretty.

I decided that my lashes weren’t long enough.  I wanted them long and sultry.  Big mistake.  I couldn’t see. My eyelids felt like they were being held down by bricks and I my eyes were so red I thought my cornea had dropped out.  After a full day of walking around with lashes like bat wings, I gave in.  There was no point in being pretty if I couldn’t see.   A total waste of money which has led to a beauty backslash.  In protest, this week I’m wearing my granny panties,  my hair in a bun and I’m letting my legs get hairy.  Even the most ardent beauty enthusiast needs a reprieve.

Have you suffered for beauty?


Fighting God November 23, 2010

God and I had a fist fight. God won.  He and I had a disagreement about how my life should turn out and we came to blows.  I thought he’d be easy to handle and benevolent being God and all, but he tricked me.  Things were going beautifully and then he caught me with an uppercut and WHAM, lights out; I was down for the count.

What’s your problem, Lord? I’m ‘saved.’  I pray when I want something, when I’m in trouble, when I’m desperate and when I ‘m at the end of my rope.  Every night before I go to bed I whisper a few unintelligible words of praise before I slip off into sleep.  Isn’t that enough? Hell, I even go to church some days and sing like I’m Whitney before the drugs.   Yeah, I wear pants instead of the required sistergirlfriend knee-length skirt, but Allah, Jehovah, Jah —  when did the Prince of Peace become so nitpicky?  Anyway, I didn’t come here to fight. I’m here to negotiate.  Here are my terms. The last time we spoke we weren’t vibing and one of us got hurt.  It ain’t happening again.  I’m stronger now so if we fight you won’t win.  You better recognize. I suggest a truce.  Take out your note pad, this is what I want.

First, I want you to send me a husband, preferably rich, tall, dark and handsome.  I want you to give me all the money I will ever need, lottery numbers only and no nine to five’s.  Secondly, I want some lovely, well-mannered and incredibly smart little ones.  Lord, don’t send me no bad ass kids.  Make sure to keep me healthy and happy.  Lastly Lord, remember that when I die I want immediate entrance to the pearly gates. I’m a VIP and if you don’t think so you better ask somebody.

If you agree to my terms I’ll give you not one, but two, prayers on Sunday– one in the morning and one at night.  I will stop swearing, fighting, fornicating and wishing death to my enemies. Agreed? If no, an eclipse.  If yes, a flash of lightning.

Do you fight God?  Who wins?

Get Ready for a Rumble


Who’s Bad? November 17, 2010

It’s difficult, challenging and downright hard to be good.  Being bad is easy. It requires no effort at all. Waking up in the morning spitting fire and brimstone takes no extra synapses for the brain.  It’s a matter of giving into base impulses and letting it ride. Being evil, mean and nasty only requires letting loose the restraints of the tongue and temper and voila: people are wishing you a victim of a hit and run.  Ouch.  Evil is infectious and the more you hate the more it spreads.  The easier it is to relax your moral code, the easier it is for the universe to give you all that you’ve earned: possibly an anonymous push into an oncoming train.  Watch your back!

Instead of constantly standing sideways on the subway platform learn to smile, laugh and forgive.  The face has to manipulate no muscles to frown.  Happiness is not a birthright.  It’s the product of constant and persistent study, commitment to being better and faith.  It requires a continuous battle between the devil on your left shoulder and the angel on your right.  Can I get an Amen?  I’m preaching y’all.  The Super is meditating on this message because recently I’ve felt myself being lured to the dark side. I struggle to keep my halo on straight.  Some days it sports a dark ring and is cocked to the side–B-boy style.  This dark angel is regularly tempted to let the evil genie inside her have full reign. It’s a struggle to resist.  I do it by avoiding people who inspire me to give out bitch slaps. I want to improve but sometimes it’s hard.  Like the rest of the world, The Super is a work in progress and the many times I fall are only exceeded by the times I rise.  If MJ were here he’d ask me, ‘Who’s Bad?’ I’d answer, I’m bad.  But in a good way.

Are you bad?

Who's Bad?


Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell November 12, 2010

Like the U.S. Military I have a strict Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy between me and my friends.  This has nothing to do with whom they bump uglies with and everything to do with the question of honesty. I’ve always had a problem with the truth.  They say that the truth will set you free. Bullshit!  Instead, throughout my life, the truth has gotten me yelled at, cussed out and disrespected.  For protection, I’ve tried lying, dissembling and making non-committal sounds of agreement in an attempt to keep my thoughts and my opinions to myself.  For the most part I’ve failed miserably.  To save myself from yelling matches with people who only wanted me to listen, I enacted the Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. I sent out summonses to all my friends with the notice that if they didn’t want an honest answer not to come to me.  If what they needed was a hand holding session and a good cry while their girlfriend agreed with all their Special Ed behavior, I was not the one.  I knew my weaknesses.

I’m the friend if you really wanted to know if you were fat, I’d tell you straight, ‘yup, sort of’.  If you really wanted to know if your boyfriend was cheating, I’d reply, “Yeah girl, I think he might be.”  If you really wanted to know if you sucked at your job, to your face I’d admit, “There’s definite room for improvement.” If you wanted the politically correct answer wrapped in bows and niceties I was the friend you skipped.  I thought everyone knew this.  I thought I made myself clear.  Nope. After a particularly brutal exchange with a friend I was kindly advised to, “Learn to lie a little bit.” Really?  Can’t do it.

If I see a friend headed for the train tracks I won’t tell them that I don’t see the Amtrak. I won’t ignore the danger signs, the blaring whistle and the steam engine blowing air up their ass. I won’t close my eyes and watch as they get run over.  If I have breath in my body I will yell, WATCH OUT!  I would want them to do the same for me. Apparently my desire to protect makes me a bitch.  The Super didn’t get the memo that lasting friendships are sustained by lying and backstabbing.  I get it now. Check!  Paris Hilton and Nicole Ritchie here I come! When asked a question I must learn to nod and agree.  It’s going to be hard. I need a support group like M.A.D .D – Mothers Against Drunk Driving.  Should I create F.A.D – Friends Against Deceiving? I’m considering it. Are you with me?


Only Packin’ Fashion? November 4, 2010

I’ve been talking to my girlfriends lately about men, the state of their relationships and the status of their love lives.  This is what I found out.  It seems that in the age of the metro-sexual, equal rights for women and female breadwinners, some men have lost something essential: their balls. This writer has to wonder if the severing came with the unfortunate rise of the denim destroyer otherwise known as the male skinny jean.  Should we boycott the trousers — light a bonfire and seek out Versace for doing the unthinkable: mutilating our men’s private parts?

If the thing that swings is what separates men from women why are some men so effeminate? I have pretty friends, not seven or eights, but hard tens with legs like super models.  Their as fine as any playmate and have enough skills in the bedroom to make their own sex tape minus Pam and Tommy.  These ladies are all sitting at home with their toy of choice: the vibrator. What the hell! When asked the reason for their foray into pleasure power tools, I was told that they don’t get asked out.  Has the world gone gay? Is there estrogen floating around in the drinking water? Someone please explain.

I confronted my male friend at work with the issue the next day.  Congregating around the water cooler I pointed out pretty co-worker after pretty co-worker who sashayed by us throwing him come hither looks.   The message was plain.  “Ask her out.” I suggested, elbowing him in the back.” He shook me off clearly irritated.  “Nah, I can’t.” he said. “She probably has a man and I’m done with rejection.” It was all I could do not to rear up and give him a backhand.  Aren’t men supposed to be brave, courageous and well…masculine?  Aren’t they taught to lead, to conquer and to eat challenges for breakfast like Corn Flakes?  When did this change?  Are we now in a world where men don’t hunt?  Is the species destined to go extinct because we are breeding men with no backbone?

I blame the jeans.

I’m all for style but I thought tight pants were for rock stars.  Where are the real men that still climb mountains, women and wear their clothes one size too big? Where are the ones that bring home the bacon but still cook in the bedroom?  As women are we destined to be the males in the relationships?  Are modern men only packin’ fashion?

The BallBra - When your only packin' fashion