I should have known something was up with my friend Sandra when she called me at 7 in the morning. In all the years I have known her, she has never called me before noon. Not even the time she sat next to Denzel on a flight from L.A. to New York. 

"I was on the red-eye," she said when we got together for dinner, dish and details and I asked why she didn't phone me with the news the moment she stepped off the plane.

"So?"

"So the red-eye lands in the morning," she said, rolling her eyes as if that explained everything. Which is why, when Sandra called at the crack of dawn, I should have known it was an emergency.

It was. The crisis, I learned, was a function of two things--the fact that, the week before, she had found the home of her dreams via a fabulous real estate agent, and the fact that, the night before, she had found out her chances of getting a loan to buy it via a funky credit rating

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I'd like to tell you that, thanks to a sympathetic bank, Sandra's less-than-stellar credit history wasn't an issue. That she got not only her dream house, but a sweet interest rate. I'd like to tell you that, but I would be lying. The truth is, like so many Black women, Sandra didn't pay too much attention to credit matters--not the subject in general, or how it affected her specifically--until she found out just how much credit matters. Continue...