The Original Consensus: The Dream & Christina Milian

As pictures surfaced on the Internet of the The Dream wading in Caribbean waters with his assistant, allegedly having an affair, a number of thoughts crossed my mind. Well, more like a random stream of questions. Is he serious? That chick? Her? Really, The Dream…really? Video shoot? Nall…and when writing this blog entry, my angle on the matter fluctuated many times. From discussing the obvious—The Dream’s alleged wayward ways to asking the question: Did Christina Milian Upgrade The Dream Only to be Degraded? And even, as reported, is the couple’s breakup all a sham to boost sales of The Dream’s latest album, Love King?

I couldn’t decide and so…I just let the words flow…

I’m going to say it out loud: when The Dream and Christina Milian hooked up, not me…but some sistah-gurl-friends and brutha-men-friends (let’s not kid ourselves) had the same reaction as when they discovered that Janet had hooked up with Jermaine. What is she thinking? They asked themselves, needing a few more years to mature and arrive at the point in life where they truly believe the saying: It’s what’s on the inside and not the outside that counts (many of us say it but even fewer of us live by it). For me—destination…ETA…two to three years from now (I say to and about myself in regards to arriving at that point in life, imitating my GPS). Like Anderson Cooper, I’m just keeping them/me honest.

However (and this is going to be a long however so if you want to get back to The Dream and Christina Milian feel free to skip this paragraph), in Jermaine’s defense—not that he needs me to argue on his behalf…the man is a super producer making millions and could care less about what people/I think—albeit short and most definitely minus the braids, in person, he’s a cutie pie. How do I know? I just so happen to be at The Gold Room in the ATL about a month back in the company of…well…let’s safely refer to him as Daddy Cool, who had me all up in VIP and just a few feet away from JD, Larenz Tate, Chaka Zulu, Bryan Michael Cox, Alex Gidewon and others. And I will say…because I keep it honest…especially with myself…that I would have never gotten into VIP nor the club without standing in the long (but fashionable) line if I had not been a part of Daddy Cool’s entourage—not even if I would have batted my big brown eyes, flung my hair over my shoulder like I was auditioning for a shampoo commercial or stooped as low as to turn around to let the bouncer awe at all the junk in my trunk. Truth is, big butts hold no leverage in the South…every other sistah has one.

What was this blog about? Oh…okay—instead of focusing on the failure of The Dream and Christina Milian’s marriage (for whatever reason), my thoughts diverted to the original consensus of pop-culture fans when the two first hooked up and where spotted holding hands. Many of them came into agreement that although The Dream is an accomplished songwriter, producer, artist…Christina Milian had taken a step down the ladder while Nick Cannon had raced to the top, snagging and marrying Mariah Carey.

So, here’s a woman (two if you include Janet) who went against popular belief and gave a man a chance when society and maybe even a few family members and friends didn’t believe he was on her level whether it was physically, spiritually or emotionally. Paraphrasing, the Word does say that two people who are unequally yoked are doomed. I may be stretching that scripture to include the physical, but if you are a gym junkie and he’s a couch potato—as his stomach stretches and yours shrinks, problems are guaranteed to arise eventually.

And so although—taking a chance on a person everyone said was wrong for them and although their relationships didn’t work out and although an attraction may have truly existed in each of their relationships—should Christina and Janet be given props for going against the mainstream consensus and taking a risk on finding love and happiness in men we (society) would never believe to be the man of their dreams?

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Christina Milian, dating, Marriage, pop culture, relationships, The Dream

July 14, 2010

2 Comments

Hood Love: Is the Cussin’ & Screamin’ Mary J. Sings About Real Love…Better Yet, Is it Worth Enduring?

We got hood love/I be cussin’, I be screamin’ like it’s over/then I’m longin’, then I’m feinin’ just to hold you/’cause that’s how we do

As unbelievable as it is about to sound, a friend once told me that if drama didn’t exist between her and her man she didn’t feel as if they had “been through” anything…that their relationship hadn’t been tried and tested. “I need a man that’s going to hit me in the eye and throw me in a ditch,” she actually told me (I could never make up such shenanigans…no one with the stupidest of imaginations could). She laughed and, of course, was exaggerating. I gave her the stank eye and thought about all of the women in the world who had died at the hands of an abusive partner and those still suffering…trying to escape a domestic violence abuse situation. My friend and I eventually grew apart. She—continuing her search for drama. And me—trying to avoid it.

The lyrics of Mary J. and Trey’s latest hit, clearly, isn’t advocating that a sistah or a brutha for that matter stay in an abusive relationship; however, it is a song about two people choosing to stay in a tumultuous one because…well…they’ve “been through” too much to give up on what they have. But I ask, is what they have…hood love…real love?

And, what is hood love? How do you know if you’re in it? Are you in hood love if you and your significant other are on a first name basis with the police? Are you in hood love if the only way that you and your significant other can effectively communicate is via cussin’ and screamin’…if you can call that effective communication? Bruthas, are you in hood love if after an argument you find your entire wardrobe…Sean Jean, Roc-a-Wear, Enyce, Gucci, Prada, all of it…cut up and soaking in a tub full of bleach? Sistahs, are you in hood love if every other day you and your man are arguing over one of his baby-mommas giving you the stank eye? If she looks at me like that one more time…

Sadly, there are tons of women that share the mindset of my ex friend—that in order for their relationship to be “real”, it needs to be solidified by them overcoming being lied to, cheated on, verbally and for the obvious mentally ill (like my ex friend)…borderline physically abused. I wish…I wish…a brother (to “hood” that up…you know the word to substitute) would call me out of my name and/or raise his hand over me. Never being in a domestic violence situation, I can’t say with 100% certainty what I would or wouldn’t do. But, I’m 90% sure that if a hot pot of grits are anywhere around in any such occurrence…well, you know what’s going down.

I understand that no relationship is without its’ disagreements and occasional arguments. And, I also get that there are other factors—children mainly—that impact a person’s decision to go or stay in a rocky relationship. However, if cussin’ and screamin’ is normal for you and your significant other, what’s the time frame for enduring such behavior? Better yet, what needs to happen next in order for you to pack your bags and go? Or, set his/her sugar-honey-ice-tea on the front porch?

As I write, I am reminded of the first time I watched The Best Man. At the end, we (sistahs) clapped, cheered and ooooh’d and awwwh’d when Mia and Lance finally said I do. We quickly forgot the heartache and pain that Mia endured at the discovery of Lance’s philandering ways. But, it was her choice to stay and stay she did (that “fat contract” helped…lol). All jokes aside, the movie, in a way, sent a less than empowering message to all sistahs—stay, overlook the obvious and lose a little bit of your self respect…all in the name of love…all because two people have time invested in a relationship.

I still have a lot more maturing to do in life, but one thing I have figured out is that sometimes you have to let go of some things/some people in order for God to move in your life. Sistahs, your prince could be in your future while you’re trying to hold onto the jester from your past because…well…you two have “been through” too much to give up on what you have…you two are in hood love. But, is it real love? Because the love I know isn’t easily angered or rude. It’s patient…it’s kind and it always protects…not destroys.

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bruthas, dating, hood love, Mary J. Blige, Men, real love, sistahs, Trey Songz, Women

July 12, 2010

6 Comments

My Brother Says I’ll Never Get Married Because…Well…I Can’t Cook

As it should be between siblings, my brother and I are close. Actually, I consider him to be one of my best friends. He’s older (mid thirties), mature, cultured, an accomplished physician and like me…single. On occasion I call him with a medical emergency, “I experienced a spasm in my big toe…does that mean I have MS?” He gets a thrill out of my hypochondriatic tendencies and laughs hysterically. “I’m serious,” I say. “I might be dying.” In his try-not-to-scare-the-patient voice, he tells me, “We’re all dying.” Ummm…if that doesn’t scare the patient…

My brother gives great advice and sometimes even seeks it from his little sister (me), which is strange at times and I think: I’m the younger sister who lives like a nomad wondering from city to city searching for my purpose in life…what advice could I possibly give you or anybody for that matter? But when he asks, I give it a go—sometimes surprising myself with an enlightening thought or two.

Most of the time my brother and I usually trade accounts of our week, discuss current events, music, the latest in pop culture and of course…family drama. Lately, there’s been a lot of talk about him establishing his own practice and me getting my first book published, The Preacher’s Daughter (had to throw that in there). We seldom argue and when we do, it usually starts with me offering my two cents without being invited to do so…that’s just what sisters do. For instance, he’s headed to Brazil in the coming weeks and what’s the first thing out of my mouth, “AIDS is running rampant down there…don’t bring home nothing you can’t get rid of from one of those Brazilian women.” He reminds me, “AIDS is an epidemic right here in the U.S. amongst African American women between the ages of 25 and 34.” He continues, “And, they’re 21 times as likely to die from the disease than white women.” I rest my case and simply say, “Have fun in Brazil.”

So, during one of our recent two-hour phone conversations—in which I ranted and raved about never finding “the one,” who obviously isn’t Mr. Goodbrother…if you read the last blog—my brother tells me…of all things and of all of my quirks, flaws and inabilities…that the reason in which I’ll never get married is not because I can be controlling or that I’m a tad bit sassy and uber-opinionated or that I have a habit of taking long showers and using up every drop of hot water in the tank or anything of that nature. He says it’s because…well…I can’t cook. Wow! I’m a little taken aback by his comment. But, it’s true. I can’t and won’t deny it. And I’m reminded of the fact every time that I’m asked to bring the paper goods and drinks to a family gathering instead of being asked to bring a dish or when my two cousins, who I often babysat when they were younger, reminisce about the time I burnt up a DiGiorno’s frozen pizza. Recalling the incident; the fire alarm went off, smoke filled the air and the pizza was burnt to a ruined crisp—completely inedible.

I ask my brother, “Are you serious?” And he responds by saying that he’s dead serious and that no man wants to come home after a hard day’s work to a Hungry Man tv dinner. “Whatever,” I say. “I’ve been told that I make a mean baked potato (true). I’m a football fanatic (men love women who like sports…don’t they?) and I’m OCD when it comes to cleanliness. Those things have to count for something.” He stands firm in his declaration.

I suppose he may be right. Admittedly, one of the first questions that I’m constantly asked after meeting a man is, “Do you know how to cook?” I answer honestly, no—figuring that if a man is truly interested in me, he’ll work with me to perfect my imperfections.

I’ll be clear…I’m not a crazed feminist that believes no woman should cook for her man nor am I flat out refusing to cook. It’s just that I don’t like to cook, I’m impatient and I’m busy; besides a bottle of Sutter Home, a carton of Almond milk, some Fiji water and leftovers from Olive Garden …my frig is empty—I have no groceries.

Who knows…maybe I’ll enroll in a cooking class or something since it seems that my brother (although discreetly) is telling me that I just might not be wifey material. Ouch…that stings!

Fellas, is my brother right…is a way to a man’s heart still through his stomach? Ladies, should I be ashamed that I’m almost 30, AA, raised amongst cooking women and still can’t hold my own in front of a stove? Should my sistah-gurl rights be revoked?

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Cooking, Marriage, Men, Siblings, Women

July 9, 2010

2 Comments

Breaking Up With Mr. Goodbrother

Women, Men, Relationships, Breakups

*Subject’s name has been changed

*Marvin is a good brother. He’s a clone of the gentleman in the movies who doesn’t hesitate to ruin his trench coat by draping it over a puddle so that his lady love can cross the street without damping and muddying up her feet or more importantly, her stilettos.

Plain and simple, he exhibits chivalry—something that my girlfriends and I have sworn on our ancestor’s graves was dead. He opens the car door for me every time we go out on a date; in which, he’s always on time. He sends me flowers at work on my birthday and sometimes for no reason at all. He calls just to say he’s been thinking about me or simply to say goodnight. For that matter, he calls when he says he’s going to call. He’s kind, reliable and considerate. Yes! *Marvin’s all of that. Not to mention—he has a decent job, owns a home, is smart, funny, knows his way around Home Depot, looks good in a suit and tie and has his one-baby-momma in check. And while no one is perfect and everyone has their quirks, *Marvin is as close to perfection as any other brother I’ve dated.

Like I said, *Marvin’s a good brother. There’s just one problem; an enormous one. When we kiss and our tongues dance I wait for “it” to come. But sadly, “it” always fails to ignite. I’m referring to that spark of passion that sends shock waves up a woman’s body straight to her heart and has women like me who can’t boil water desperately trying to learn how to make biscuits from scratch—shifting flour while clad in a lace Victoria Secret assemble. I’m talking about the desire a woman has for a man that consumes her daydreams and has her ditching a long anticipated girl’s-night-out to spend time at home with her man. “It” is passion. “It” is desire.

So, although *Marvin is a good brother (damn near perfect), I am breaking up with him—unwilling to accept reliability and stability at the sacrifice of passion and desire or in my eyes…true love.

I will invite *Marvin over to my place. We won’t have dinner because—remember—I can’t boil water. We’ll settle on my plush pewter-colored couch and I’ll start the conversation by apologizing. I will tell him that I’m sorry while shrugging my shoulders and trying to explain to him that even though he treats me like a queen, he’s not my king. I will waltz around the hardcore truth—that when I kiss him, sparks don’t fly and when I see him, my heart doesn’t patter. I will feel terrible. No, horrible. *Marvin will tell me that he understands. He’ll stand up, straighten out his khakis and head for the door. On his way out he’ll turn around and say, “I’m so tired of Black women saying that they can’t find a good Black man.” And, I’ll just stand there with my hand on the doorknob with no rebuttal.

Closing the door behind him, I will hope and pray that he doesn’t end up hating me or refusing to date another Black woman because of me. And for the remainder of my life I will no longer be able to say that there aren’t any good brothers out there because I know of one and his name is *Marvin.

Ladies, what’s your choice…stability or true love?

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July 7, 2010

9 Comments