Looking back on 2012 it has been a good year. I haven’t scaled any mountains, rescued any kids, adopted any dogs or run for office, but I’ve accomplished some things I never thought that I could. In 12 months I’ve:

• 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!

Recently, some man up in Aurora, Colorado went out of his mind and killed 12 people while maiming and wounding 58 others at the premiere of the movie the Dark Knight. Now everyone knows that the Super considers herself a superhero but that doesn’t mean I intend to jump off any high buildings. In contrast, James Holmes allegedly woke up one morning convinced that he was a villain and took machine gun and disguise in hand and went out to prove to the world that evil does exist. Who is to blame? Some say he was an adult and responsible for his actions while others insist that his parents raised a monster and set him loose to kill and destroy. Who’s right? When people die the answer really doesn’t matter. I say this while wondering about the children I have yet to produce and while thinking about the world that they’ll inherit.

For the kids that exist now and for the parents that are guiding them into adulthood, I question how responsible we are as a society for the actions of our offspring? Where does nature (inherent, genetic predisposition) begin and where does nurture (environmental factors and personal experience) end?  If you’re a parent and you raise a child into adulthood with all the necessary moral characteristics to succeed and later that child discards it all and turns to massacre and mayhem, as a parent, are you to blame? Do ordinary households breed and create presidents and world leaders as well as killers and convicts? As a boy did Holmes run around setting cats on fire while his parents did nothing to see to his psychiatric health? The alternative is that he is what he seems which is an articulate and well-educated man who harbored the killing gene inside.

Nature vs. Nurture: as a society we accept praise and adulation for the superior achievements of our children when they are scholars and Olympians doing good. When adult children do unspeakable acts of violence, should the reverse be the same?

President Obama’s change of heart on the state of the marital union notwithstanding and press the pause button on what the Good Book says about same sex unions and its potential for eternal hellfire, to be gay or not to be gay, that is this writer’s question. It seems every time I turn around there’s a new person coming out of the closet and leaping from the bushes with a rainbow flag in full blaze. You remember the days when homosexuality was something to be hidden? Dem days are done. Leaving out the refusal of a certain Queen of hip hop to keep it real, recently it seems like many celebrities have decided to let freedom reign and declare their preferences loud and clear. Just in the last few years and days,  journalist Anderson Cooper, no surprise there, singer Frank Ocean, reggae artist Diana King, Don Lemon, Ricky Martin, Wanda Sykes and many, many more have decided to stop pretending. Despite what I may or may not feel about same sex marriage, I think it’s a good thing that people tell the truth. Too many people are hurt when men and women operate on the down low. In the black community it’s especially damaging when individuals fail to state their truth. The secrecy involved in hiding one’s sexuality results in destroyed families and ruined friendships. It doesn’t make sense to me to date the girl from high school, marry her and give her ten babies all the while pretending to like T & A (tits and ass) when you like D & A. Please don’t make me spell that one out. Stats say that 1-2% of the population is gay but I think they need to put a zero behind that number for us to even come close to the truth.

The moral of the story is whether you do the same sex thing for freakiness, for fun or for forever; it’s my opinion that no one should live their life in a cage. If James Brown were here he would advise the gay among us to say it loud: I’m gay and I’m proud.

Based on the world as it is today, is it now OK to be gay?

In no way am I supporting child abuse but having rode the NYC subway I know for a fact that there are some bad ass kids in need of a beating…ah…I mean spanking.  I don’t mean anything excessive just a few love taps to communicate the importance of not putting your ass in grandma’s face, not blasting your music when God and Sony made headphones for a reason and not telling your friends and the entire world how well you can f*ck when you just got your period and your first pubic hair last week. The Super is old enough (won’t say how old) that I come from a generation where Time Out wasn’t invented, and if you disrespected or in any way disobeyed your parents, there was a strong possibility that your parents might put you in a headlock followed by a suplex. On more than one occasion when I was young my mother snatched me up so hard that I found my feet dangling five inches off the floor.  What’s up mama! Was it something I said?

Let me apologize right now to my mother for revealing her, “it’s my way or the highway” or “I put you on this earth and I will take you out” parenting style to the entire web. I only bring this up now because all over the news is the scandal that mega church Pastor Creflo Dollar might end up in Sing Sing because he hit (choked) his child. I don’t know the story behind it and I don’t need the press release, but the incident inspired a question in me.  Apparently the teenager defied her parents and as a result her father went ape shit…I mean… got angry and gave the child a beatdown she won’t soon forget.  Some folks applauded his actions while the other half condemned him for being a bully. To my readers, riddle me this, in a time when kids have gone wild and parents have lost control of their kids, is it right or wrong for parents to make their parental point by balling their fingers into fists?

As a parent, is it acceptable to climb into the ring to beat-box your toddler or teenage baby until they tap the mat in surrender and give?

I’m breaking up with my doctor. She gots to go. We’ve been together a while so it’s with regret that I’m giving my doctor the old heave-ho. Make she “move and gweh” in Jamaican patois that means I’m giving her white-robe-wearing behind the axe. I don’t mean to be disrespectful but after years of denial I finally had to tell myself the truth: my MD doesn’t like me. Don’t misunderstand, she doesn’t see my name in the appointment book and head for the hills nor does she look at me with hate in her eyes. At my annual exam I don’t shake with dread and mortal fear that she will shove the speculum up my private parts a tad too far. She’s not Dr. Kevorkian prescribing treatments of death. Despite this, I’m not being dramatic when I say that my doctor still makes me fear for my life. Here’s why.

A doctor should be personable, professional but most importantly a doctor should care. Mine doesn’t. It isn’t anything overt, she’s pleasant but even though she’s known me for years I still get the blank stare. I’m a person on a chart with a medical history and no soul. If I’m going to put my life in someone’s hands that someone should care. Every conversation shouldn’t be scripted, prescribed and routine. I’d like for my doctor to ask me about my cat, my back, my grandmother, anything that would give me the slightest hint that she sees me as a person. It’s these side conversations that may lead me to tell her about the lump, bump, bruise or cough that I dismissed but she diagnosed with the quickness therefore saving my life.

I want the opportunity for my MD to fuss about the mole I’ve had since I was ten. I want her to ask me about my boyfriend and question whether we’re having unprotected sex. I want my MD to ask me about my weight and shake her head when the numbers get too high. When I call my doctor in an unplanned pregnancy panic, even though she knows I haven’t had sex in a year, I want her to listen and then casually order psychological tests. In short, I want my MD to keep me healthy with her care.

My doctor and I don’t have this kind of relationship so I’m finished with her, it’s over, done and caput. I want my co-pay to buy me a physician with that loving feeling. Whether the affection is real or feigned is irrelevant. I hold on to the belief that if I have to get naked in front of my MD, she should at least remember me.

In Divorce Court is it right to site inattention and irreconcilable differences in your case against your MD?

Recently, I casually asked my dermatologist about one day getting Botox. He laughed in my face. “Go spend your money on something you need” he said and sent me on my way. Is he blind? Doesn’t he see the lines I see?

Every year I write a birthday post (See Old Dog, New Tale) because sadly, the Super is getting old. Grey hair EVERYWHERE old. Retirees tell me that I’m still young.  I’ve determined that this is what old people say to console each other. As yet another birthday blasts by, I realize that Jennifer Lopez notwithstanding, I will never be able to wear a super high mini skirt again without self-consciousness. Gone are the days where I chat with the drugstore clerk about anything other than anti-aging cream. Goodbye makeup free face maintained by moisturizer and four hours sleep. It’s time to get used to cashiers calling me ma’am, bitches, and little boys young enough to be my son trying to make a Cougar out of me.  To maintain muscle, I’ll have to up my workouts and…horror of all horrors… watch what I eat. Yeah, yeah, Father Time and I are enemies. I can complain for days, weeks if you give me some drinks, but the Super is all about encouragement, even if the encouragement is for me. So here is what age has taught me:

• I’ve learned tact. If a friend asks me if I think her daughter is a lesbian, age has taught me to say, “I’m not sure, but I’m here if you want to talk to me.”
• I’ve learned that “Karma is only a Bitch if you are” and “it’s none of my business what other people think about me.” (Stolen quotes but they’re all me)
• I’ve learned that if my boyfriend doesn’t like what he sees when I’m naked then he can take his d*ck elsewhere.
• I accept that I’m pretty enough. If I want to look like Halle Berry I have to have her parents.
• I now know that a thousand squats a day will not give me a Kim Kardashian booty.
• I realize that I’m not half as stupid now as I was in my twenties.
• I’ve learned that delay does not mean denial and everyday that I expect a miracle the closer the miracle is to me.

I won’t lie to you, getting older kinda sucks.  The gift of wisdom and foresight is rarely given to the young. Aging is inevitable so I’ve decided to be grateful that my heart is still beating, my body is still functioning and my mind is still sharp. In 40 years I’m looking forward to being a Super G, that’s Super Granny. Happy Birthday to me and all the other Aries.

Should we be able to freeze time like we can freeze our faces? Do we wish we could give our birthday some Botox?

Black History Month was in February. Did you notice? No? Me neither. The month designed to highlight the contributions that African-Americans have made to the country went by without fanfare. To highlight how little the month meant to some, TV host Jimmy Kimmel sent a reporter out onto the streets of L.A to interview and ask unsuspecting white people a loaded question: Who is your favorite black person (See video here)? Caught off guard but eager to participate, white people dropped names like Jamie Foxx, Chris Rock, quoted some rap songs and replied, “I don’t watch much television.” As a defense mechanism some folks just blinked into the camera clearly stumped. Obviously the exercise was meant to be funny and highlight our cultural divide but I found the interviews demoralizing and just plain sad. 12% of the population is made up of African-Americans but all the general public could come up with as inspirational figures were some comedians, rappers and actors. It’s no wonder MLK can’t realize his dream, his descendants are in a living nightmare. Clearly Jimmy meant to poke fun at the ignorance of Middle America but I think his test demonstrated just how much more we have to learn about each other.  It’s not just white Americans that have to learn more about black people but we have to learn more about ourselves.

Ask me who my favorite black person is and I’ll say: God (don’t get me started on this one), Malcolm X, mom, me, Oprah or The President and the First Lady. My list is vast but I was overly optimistic to think that I would hear even one of my answers on someone else’s lips. Although I was disillusioned, the Super is not about attack, attack and sick him boy on the white race. I am the recipient of a full public school education so I know my Anglo-Saxon history. Ask me though who my favorite white person is and sadly Brad Pitt kept on leaping to mind. Before you ask, the answer is yes, I’m slightly ashamed.  After further reflection, President Lincoln danced to the forefront of my brain, I gave JFK a whirl and I got jiggy with some Shakespeare? On short notice I think any of these will do? Ultimately, if it’s a melting pot we want just one month won’t bridge the gap.  To understand we must interact.

Who’s your favorite black person? If Americans know nothing about Black History can we declare Melting Pot My Ass a holiday?

Despite 5 inch heels that can crack backs and shatter a short man’s ego, in spite of six-figure incomes ballin enough to make the blue collar brother cry, and contrary to the societal shift that has put some sisters in the driver’s seat, still, after years of evolution, women still haven’t changed. No matter how powerful and professional a woman may seem on the outside, she still wants a man with strength and with cojones of steel (figuratively that is, literally might be a tad unsightly).

Enough already with the question, ‘can I kiss you?’ If you have to ask then the answer is probably NO! Take the kiss already and be done with it! Rejection, the occasional slap for presumptuousness, is a part of life. All the heehawing, feet shuffling and hand ringing is enough to drive a strong woman crazy. Men must remember their caveman roots and take charge. I’m not saying to headlock and drag a woman off to some dark place by her hair, but if she has to instruct, teach and perform tutorials on how to woe and win her then her interest has probably already waned. You’ve lost, so long sucker. Hit the Road Jack cause she won’t be coming back no more, no more, no more, no more. Hit the road jack… sorry the tune got stuck in my head and I got sidetracked. The point I’m trying to make is that the feeble, the weak-willed and the fearful have no chance in the battle of the sexes. If the article I read recently is correct and 40% of households are now headed by female breadwinners, then things are bout’ to change. Who Runs the World? Girls apparently.  How does the old school dude compete with women who are bringing the heat?

A bit of advice for my male readers, although some women won’t agree with me, I say bring it back to the biblical days. Get your Adam on before the unfortunate snake. Be almighty like my man Moses on the mountaintop. Direct and lead like bad boy Noah showing the beasts of the earth who’s boss. Attracting women is all about swagger, strength and steel.  If you have to ask, plead and persuade then you have no chance. Power and personality are attractive to women no matter the amount of loot she might be packing in her purse.  If a man fears failure and is easily intimidated then the next woman he meets he should ask her if she has a pair of panties she can spare. God gifted men with testosterone for a reason. Come to the love battle prepared to win.

If both the man and the woman wears the pants in the relationship then who’s boss?

“As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he?” For those who haven’t read their Bible since the dark ages, no it wasn’t Yoda who said that, it was the Lord. I  don’t personally possess a Masters in Divinity but if this quote is correct then I should already be rich, thin, vastly intelligent and immune to insult and insecurity? Let me do a quick mental rundown of my bank account, my profile and my mindset.  Nope, if this was a test I would get an F for fail. Now I personally believe that both the Force and the Lord is with me. I wonder why then my thoughts haven’t manifested into a house on the hills and a Bentley?  Could it be that like most human beings my positive thoughts are combined with ones filled with doubt and negativity?

Our lives are often a direct reflection of what we think about regularly. If we dominate our thoughts with feelings of fear and anxiety then how can thoughts of abundance abound?  They cannot.  Light is a powerful force but it can’t fight the darkness without our help. If we want all the things promised to us then we must ask ourselves these questions:

• What are our first thoughts of the day? (Reflections on the past?  A replay of failed relationships? A catalog and mental list of mistakes made?)
• What do we say to ourselves when we look in the mirror? (I’m getting old or fat. I’m unattractive and out of shape? I’m not as pretty or smart as I used to be.)
• What do we say to ourselves when someone criticizes us? (They’re probably right. Maybe they know something I don’t know. Is it me?)
• What are the thoughts that run through our minds most often? (I’m not good enough. I’m not lovable. I’ll never make it or get to where I need to be.)

Positive thoughts need nourishment.  Like hot house flowers our image of ourselves and our feelings of personal power cannot flourish without attention, concentrated effort and care.  Before we can convince others that we are exceptional we have to first convince ourselves.  We have to get drunk on Jedi Juice which is a concoction made up of mental strength, visualization and discipline.  If we are what we think we are then we must think big.  The downtrodden and the defeated drink disappointment and fail while the ambitious drink Jedi Juice and win!

What is your drink of choice? Are you getting drunk off of your accomplishments or are you inebriated with your inability to succeed?

Do you have T&A (tits and ass for those who don’t text)? If you do you might as well mark a red X on your back because you’re going down?  Some women don’t like other women, so much so that without provocation they’re always in the process of plotting a sister’s downfall and demise. Most folks work in places where there is an abundance of muchachas. You can’t escape them because they overflow the cubicles and are everywhere. In places where women congregate in great numbers I’d like to tell you that it’s all India Arie and group hugs, but that would be a bald faced lie. Truth is, as it most cases where there is an excess of estrogen, many women spend their time locked in battle and missions meant to search and destroy. Sometimes we don’t know why we’re doing it. We see a woman who seems to have it going on and we claim that she thinks she’s all that. We tell ourselves that she is the enemy because she acts like her shit don’t stink. We claim that we don’t like her spirit because she thinks she’s better than somebody. All excuses for being trifling and mean. To survive and prosper, as women we have to stop fighting amongst ourselves. There’s nothing uglier than ladies locked in combat. It could be argued that we’re not taught to love each other. Instead, we are taught to compete, demean, chop down and scorn. These actions stem from envy and insecurity. As we struggle for equality we must understand that we can’t fight the world and win while fighting each other. It’s a losing strategy. How can we advance if we do it singularly, one by one and without the support of our sisters? The strategy is plagued with pitfalls. We have to band together and uplift each other or we will fail. Sometimes it’s difficult. Some women are straight back stabbing bitches. Yeah, I used the B word, run and go get the PC Police while I make my point here. Seen too many times to discount, one woman tries to help another but only one lady got the memo to stop the bullshit. As a gender if we want to rise and overcome then we need our sidekicks. We have to be on the lookout for the Robin to our Batman and our island full of Amazon warrior princesses. We all need a cheering squad, mentors and number one fans. To succeed at anything we have to resist the temptation to talk badly about any woman trying to do better for herself. We must refrain from thinking she ain’t shit because she has more shit going on than us. We must battle the temptation to hate on her because she’s more beautiful or talented than we are. We should hope instead that she’s willing to share some of her shine with us so we can shine independently. We must pray, that like some of us, she hasn’t been so disillusioned by bad experiences that she is reluctant to be a friend.  As black women we must abandon our fear and embrace each other. We must realize that women are not our enemies. Resist the urge to use your verbal venom to shoot and kill. Instead, aim your smile and acceptance their way and pull the trigger.

Are you a female assassin licensed to Lady Kill?

Are you a Lady Killer?

Popping up all over the internet has been the question of whether white women are winning in the love game. Here’s my take on the black/white women interracial dating dynamic. I watched a comedy show once where a white comedian asked the all-black crowd why if there was a fat white girl at the party that no white guy would want, that the brothers made a beeline in her direction. The audience tittered uncomfortably but it was a legitimate question. What this comedian really wanted to know was why the white man’s trash was the black man’s treasure.  He wanted an answer. I wanted one too.  It’s been my observation that some black men will meet and marry in white (i.e. Kirstie Alley) what they wouldn’t consider dating in black (i.e. Precious – Gabby Sidibe). Due to racism, bias, brainwashing and residual slave self-loathing do some black men have a complex?  Is everything white given an instant upgrade? There seems to be an argument to support this. In contrast, I think white men are more discriminating when it comes to dating black women. When a white man marries a sister he gets the best. There will be no three-hundred pound black girl for him. She will be the best that Africa has bred. She will be the most beautiful, Iman – supermodel; the smartest, Maya Angelou – world renowned author, and the most accomplished, Susan Rice – Ambassador to the United Nations. When they pick from the cocoa tree they pick the best fruit. When you see a white man with a woman of color you better believe she will have something going on. For him to forgo the Cindy Crawford’s and Gisele Bundchen’s of the world, that black woman will be worth more than her weight in gold. When his friends see her coming and wonder why he chose her, they will know within two minutes why she was the one. She will be nothing short of exceptional.

Men thrive on competition. It’s an ego thing. They’re always after whatever everyone else wants. It’s uplifting for them to win the prize.  They devalue the lack of challenge associated with things they consider easy to get. That’s why they like sports. How this relates to black women is simple. Life is a competition. As far as some black men are concerned sisters are “easy pickins.” They can get one anytime. It’s not like they’re going anywhere.  It’s not like there aren’t millions of them dateless. It isn’t like anyone else wants them. The statistics that say that black women are less married, and perpetually single that we’ve read, they’ve read those articles also. This puts the brothers in a power position from day one. He’s wanted by black women and other women from varying walks of life. He’s on a high. Black women have to shake things up. We love black men but we cannot wait for them. While they’re out dating the United Colors of Benetton some sisters are getting old and grey waiting for their dark knight to appear. This is not the way to even the odds.  Competition is the key. Black women, broaden your circle and your sight. The starting bid for your affection is high and men of all races are welcome to participate. If love is war, black men best enter the competition with their eye on the best black prize.

To win in the love game is competition the key?

Win the woman, win the prize.

*Excerpt taken from the upcoming book Don’t Let the White Girl Win.

I read this quote from #FreakyFact on Twitter – No need for revenge. Just sit back and wait. Those who hurt you will eventually screw up and if you’re lucky, God will let you watch.

Oh Lord, please grant me a front row seat. I had an ex that was so wicked after our breakup that I thought he and Lucifer must have been college roommates. I didn’t do anything to the dude. He cheated and I let him leave. I didn’t argue or fight.  I just released him into the atmosphere and prayed that I would never have to see his ass again. It seemed my Buddha Bless attitude riled him and got him mad. I should have cried more. I should have wept. I should have been so sad that I could have drowned myself in a sea of my own tears.  It wasn’t enough that every morning right before full consciousness coaxed me from sleep that the hole in my chest convinced me that I might have died. Nope. I should have lost fifty pounds or gained. I should have quit my job and lay face down across some tracks. I should have done a Superman off a high-rise. It wasn’t enough that heartache was killing me. He wanted to see the death for real.  In his mind, if the breakup didn’t destroy me then the love didn’t exist. He would have been convinced if I’d:

• Slept with 10 guys I couldn’t stand so they could help me forget
• Gone to bed with a picture of my him tucked under my pillow at night
• Committed myself to a daily 10 minute sobbing session in the bathroom stall
• Drove myself insane by having ‘our good times’ CD soundtrack on constant replay
• Grabbed the Haagen Dazs so I  could eat myself into a coma to stifle the pain
• Called his phone every hour ‘just to hear his voice’

Oh no, motherf*cker, you better bounce with that bullsh*t. I wasn’t going to let him win. The more he did to wound me the more I wanted him gone–Soprano style. I didn’t want to sit back and wait for God to do his thing. I wanted revenge now. The quote, ‘revenge is mine said the Lord’ seemed so wack. The Lord was taking his time. The dude was trying to hurt me. I wanted to defend myself black girl style. A baseball bat to the knee, a slashed tire or a clandestine call to my cousins to deliver a family beat down Brooklyn style. All these plots and plans filtered through my head but didn’t take root. Here’s why. I’d already won. He’d lost me. He’d already failed, he just couldn’t see as clearly as me. I’d already recovered. I thought of him less and less. He saved me from my biggest regret which was to love him long term. I owed him a hug of thanks and an Obama fist pump and dap. I believed in myself so was convinced that no matter how far I fell that with God at my back I would always rise.  His cruel intentions meant he had no such guarantee.  Don’t get me wrong, I still have his profile in my cross hairs but I plan to sit back and wait. He’ll get his one day. I’ve already gotten mine.

Is it better to wait for retribution or to seek revenge?

Don't move. I got your revenge right here.