Can marrying the wrong person ruin your life? The Masked Crusader, the Super Sistah discusses her new blog post, Death by Ex. While reflecting on the death of Whitney Houston she asks her readers whether loving the wrong man can be a woman’s downfall? Post a response here. R.I.P Whitney, we’ll miss you.

the Super Sistah on Whitney Houston

Watch this video on YouTube.

“Why you ain’t married? Whadup girl, how come you don’t have any furniture on your finger? You must be mean that’s why you ain’t rocking some dude’s solitaire! You’re pretty so what’s wrong withcha?” You’d think that the side eye, pursed lips and a get the hell out of my face with that bullsh%t profile would discourage strangers from attempting to start a conversation with a diss. No, not really. Often I’m left with the dilemma of figuring out how to tell a knucklehead with no game that his pickup line sucks? I must ponder on the right way to discourage propositions from admirers approaching forty who still wear low-hung jeans, who converse using questionable vocabulary, who have sketchy work histories and who admit to having at least one pending paternity suit on the books. It’s not to say that my more illustrious suitors don’t have these same inquiries dancing through their brains, but the first thing a college education teaches you is to keep stupid questions to yourself.

The older a women gets the more she gets harassed about her single status. It’s not the same for men. No one ever asks George Clooney why he won’t stop rotating ladies. Does he have a limp dick or prick? Is he stingy or stern with homosexual tendencies? Nah, he’s labeled a player and a pimp—a bachelor to the core. People don’t ask determinedly single men why they can’t catch and keep eligible tail. In contrast, the assumption for women is that we must be cranky, bitchy or crazy if we’re not hitched. The explanation is never that we’re waiting for Mr. Right to appear so that we don’t settle for less. It’s never understood that any woman can get a proposal. Somewhere on the planet someone will marry you if you perform yoga moves in the bedroom, give up half your check, support your man’s twelve kids and turn a blind eye when he creeps. Didn’t Whitney marry Bobby? Quantity abounds but quality requires patience and belief in one’s worth. One shouldn’t expect perfection but a little discernment never hurt.

The Super is single but doesn’t consider herself a spinster firmly on the shelf. I have prospects. Like George Clooney I’m a bachelor(ette)taking my time to taste, sample and select my mate. If I’m desperate for furniture on my ring finger, I can go shopping at Ikea. Decorating an apartment is easy. Decorating someone’s arm, life and heart is going to require more than a desire to wear a white dress.

Being single doesn’t always mean a woman is insufferable. Sometimes all it means is that the right man has yet to capture her heart. In the meantime don’t settle: select. Don’t make the mistake of marrying just any man to ease the loneliness.

Out of desperation have you ever considered becoming The Wrong Mrs. Right?

Recently someone close to my heart went home to meet his Beloved.  He was here today and then gone like a raging flame suffocated by a lack of oxygen. When precious things are taken from us we wonder about the purpose of life and whether God has a plan. We ask ourselves, is there a point to all of this and what does it all mean? We ask knowing that we’ll never know for sure.  If we believe in a higher power we question whether the almighty is a naughty child with a doll with our likeness in one hand and a long piercing needle in his other fist.  Are our lives a prank? Why are we here? Even as we wrestle with our doubts, most of us cling to the belief that our lives have significance.  Instead of a mean spirited child we conjure images of God as a chess master devising plans and strategies too complex for mere mortals to understand? We use this image to give us comfort as we do our best to put our doubts and fears to rest.

No matter our religious philosophies, the core belief in all of us is that we are here for a reason.  Some of us forget our purpose as weeks and years pass by.  We slip into a coma while still standing on our two feet.  We forget what we were born to do.  Like the movie Inception, we must remind ourselves who we are so that we can awaken from a self-imposed sleep.  Death will come to us all but while we still breathe we must live life with purpose and passion.  Tomorrow may never get here.  The body may return to the earth but those who die fastest are those who live life with regret and dreams unfulfilled.  Look into your heart and examine your life, your pursuits and your passions. Question whether you’re on the right path.  If you were to die tomorrow what impact would you have had? Would you be remembered like a star that burns bright and then disappears? Would your soul live on in the souls of others? Would only the ones closest to you remember your name minutes after the words of prayer and forgetfulness have been read over your shut eyelids?

We must all figure out why we are put on the earth. What is our purpose? We all die but few of us live. Not one of us is promised tomorrow but while we exist we must change our lives and by default our destinies.

Are you alive or are you killing yourself softly by waiting for someone to give you permission to live?

Walk with faith & purpose.

When we’re young we learn how to add about the same time we learn how to subtract. As soon as we are old enough, fairy tales make us want to add a prince or a knight to our dreams. We conjure Mr. Right out of thin air and shape him to be all that we want him to be. We picture him tall, handsome and smart with the ability to make our hearts beat. He is a fantasy and a figment of our little girl dreams. We make our dream man perfect because we believe that we deserve the best so we don’t leave any good qualities out. He is the Ken to our Barbie and our budding self-esteem demands that we make him worthy.

As we mature the mathematical maneuvering begins. Life teaches us that a good man has more than what the eyes can see, so we add things. We multiply the facets of our guy’s character so he can be strong where we are weak. Like God made Adam out of clay we reshape our dream man until he’s a masterpiece. We’re done creating. As young women we test our dreams against reality. We delve into our first relationship with stars in our eyes and our hearts open wide. Our first love is human and he has faults; he’s far from ideal so we cross him off the list. Moving on is easy. The next guy comes (mean), then the next (lazy), and so one. Things with our prince aren’t going as planned. It’s time to reassess. The next guy is far from perfect, he has only a few of the things we need, but time is passing.  We decide to ignore that he doesn’t call or treat us like queens. We’re tired and weary so we look at our childhood list and subtract. We say to ourselves, I’ll take some traits off the list but not everything. The relationship fails and we’re left with broken hearts. Was it our fault? The next guy loves someone else, the other has a problem with fidelity and the third says, ‘he’s just not ready.’ Again we press the minus symbol and subtract. We tell ourselves, I can’t have it all. I’ll take just one more trait off the list but not everything. After a few more failed relationships we consult the childhood list. We rewrite, rearrange and strike things off completely. Maybe we wanted too much. Maybe our requirements were unrealistic. With just one requirement left on the list finding Mr. Right will be easy. Our only condition now is that he love us unconditionally.

The lack of standards now attracts men who are just fractions of what they should be. We start to think that love is overrated. We don’t need it if we have someone to snuggle up with at night? Our list is empty but the thought settles into our minds that, we will take just one more thing off the list. Just one more thing. Surely no woman can have everything. Subtract.

All we want now is a man to be there and most nights he can’t even do that. The little girl with the list is gone. We look at ourselves in the mirror and subtract…subtract…subtract.

Have you practiced the law of subtraction just to add a man to the equation?

We are taught from the cradle to forgive and forget. If you’ve every been trapped between the pews on a Sunday wearing a too tight dress and uncomfortable shoes, then you know that the good book says to turn the other cheek.  The ability to forgive is a virtue and a gift.  For many it doesn’t come naturally. It certainly doesn’t for me.  If someone hurts me I sit on the offense for weeks. I stew and create elaborate plans for retribution and revenge. Usually after I’ve completed plotting that person’s punishment my Christian self belatedly kicks in. I let the offender off with a warning but make it clear that the strike against them counts. Watch it! I’ve got my eyes on you. I forgive but the forgetting part is challenging for me. The scripture, ‘forgive as God forgave you’ would be easier to apply if it wasn’t for my upbringing.

My mother is an A+ woman but some die-hard Christians would question her parenting.  If anyone considered hurting my sister and I they understood that they did so at their own risk.  We were taught that forgiveness wasn’t a guarantee. It was conditional and was based on a brief list:

• How bad was the offense?
• Were they sorry for their crime?
• How many times had they made the same bullshit mistake?
• Was the offense intentional and premeditated to cause harm or pain?
• Should they have known better but didn’t do so because they didn’t give a Sh%t?
• Were they considered thoughtless knuckleheads therefore generally stupid as a norm?

This list was reviewed and gauged before a decision was reached. Some people got off with a warning while others were permanently cut off, dissed and dismissed. No one messed with us as individuals without having to pay the cost.  Those who complained that we were too harsh, unforgiving and mean got my mother’s famous forgiveness quote which was this: ‘Forgiveness is easy for the offender. When you hurt someone it’s in the perpetrators best interest to forget.  It isn’t the person that shits on the street that remembers, it’s the person who steps in it.’

Mom’s lesson was never to do anything that required forgiveness unless we intentionally meant to offend.  But I know as human beings we all make mistakes, have errors in judgment and lose our way. As I get older, I realize that if I want forgiveness when I mess up then I have to extend moments of grace. Holding a grudge charges too much emotional rent. Forgiveness can uplift and lighten the load on our soul.  But my mother was right about one thing, some things can be forgiven and some people’s transgressions against you just can’t be overlooked. In the cases when forgiveness isn’t possible my advice is to wipe away shitty people from your life and from your shoes.

Have you had to use wipes to clear away a shitty person from your life?

When I was young I used to fight, brawl and roll around wrestling in the grass. My life was like an episode of Basketball Wives. Now that I’m grown, I’ve learned some things and realized that a karate chop to the windpipe is no way to communicate. As I’ve matured I’ve learned to get my Ohm on and practice the religion of peace. When I’m mad my fingers still instinctively tingle with the  need to give out backhands; most times I resist. My boy Gandhi would be so proud.  While it might seem that I’m perpetually walking around with a peace pipe and a Yoga mat, recently I was mad enough to beat up Mandela and tell the Dali Lama to kiss my ass.  I wasn’t mad at them. I was mad at me.  I let someone take me out of my lane, divert me off track and hurt my feeling to the point where I was reduced to boo hoo tears. That’s right, the Super cried.  It was embarrassing. Don’t tell anybody.

I pride myself on being tough, invincible—indestructible if you will. I hold onto the image for my own edification even though I know it’s a lie. Being human and not truly made of steel, sometimes people do and say things that pierce my armor. After each incident of personal attack I increase my defenses until I have protection in the form of a battalion of Trojan warriors; their strength is not unlike the ones found in a condom six pack. Despite these precautions, as with all protection, sometimes it fails.  The breach instead of leaving me pregnant left me pissed.

It’s my observation that it is never your enemies that slip beneath your guard and eat away at your defenses, it’s people you love. They have the unique advantage of knowing how to get to you from the inside.  Let me share my techniques for dealing with the enemy inside the gates. First, no matter what is said don’t give anyone permission to cause you pain.  Without exception, they must speak to you with respect. Just because you share bloodlines or childhood Barbies that doesn’t give them free reign. No one gets to tell you who you are. We are all in the process of perfecting ourselves and the refining process will undoubtedly last a lifetime. In the meantime, as we strive to improve and be better, it is our responsibility to define ourselves and reject any picture presented by the outside world that doesn’t fit with our personal beliefs. Our first loyalty and priority is to the (wo)man in the  mirror. If people exist in our lives that don’t lift us up or bring us joy then they get cut off.  Love isn’t meant to hurt. Those you love are there to improve you and inspire you to be the best person that you can be. If they make you harsh, hypocritical, angry or mean then the fact that you share bloodlines doesn’t save them from the chopping block. It’s never okay for someone you love to reduce you to tears. Now chin up!

Despite being defined as strong and tough, is it a lie that black girls don’t cry?

Dry your eyes. Black Girl Don't Cry!

The Super has no babies, no bambinos, no chile and no children. My mama is a granny without a single grandchild to her name. When I was getting educated she rejoiced in my childlessness and would tell anyone who would listen that I was pursuing perfection and had no time for a passel load of kids. Fast forward a decade or so and now my mother would borrow, steal and beg if I would give her something— anything,  brown and fat and just under 8 pounds.

The Super is not barren; kids are possible. For me the timing just hasn’t been right. Sometimes I have the penis in my life to make a baby happen and sometimes I don’t. My dilemma is that time is running out. I’m not a hundred years old, but forty, which was in the distant future, is now a few blocks down the road. It’s do or die time.  I hear my biological clock ticking, banging and slamming hard against my ear. I envy men with their ancient sperm that they can take out and use at any time. Fifteen or eighty, it doesn’t matter, they are good to go. I’m jealous that they can wait forever and change their mind at the last hour. Women just don’t have that luxury. Left up to me, I would wait a few more years, travel around the world a few times, accomplish a few more things, save some more ends and then welcome a child into the world. I would make a great mother. My own mother is aces so I’ve learned from the best. I want children and not having any isn’t an option, but damn if being female isn’t somewhat inconvenient. I’m a bachelor at heart except I have lady parts. I love relationships, the kids and all that family has to offer; I just need more time.

Mother Nature is being a bitch. She’s breathing down my neck, threatening to fry my eggs into an omelet and shut down my baby maker if I don’t get to it. Boyfriend or no boyfriend, husband or no husband she could give a good god damn about my plans and my priorities.  I have to close the deal sometime in the new millennium before the Mission becomes Impossible. Somewhere my baby’s daddy is walking around and a child is screaming, “Mommy” at the top of her lungs. I hear you calling little one but I’m busy rewiring my biological clock.

Are the only options Barren or Baby if you can’t stop the clock from ticking?

Mom’s getting old–not Joan Rivers teetering on the edge of the crypt old, but more subtle and insidious. The changes are harder to spot when Botox isn’t involved but the evidence is glaring. She sleeps more and wakes later. Now she strolls instead of barrels ahead and stairs are harder to climb. She hugs me longer and with more intensity. Is she counting the touches, the kisses and storing up the affection she receives to take with her? Where is she going? It’s a hard process to watch. It’s not like I didn’t know that people age. I shouldn’t have expected mom to stay the same age she was when she wore the sequins bustier and blue leather skirt with the door-knocker earrings. I shouldn’t have expected her to be as lively as when jerry curls, cameo’s and Eddie Murphy tight pants were still in vogue, but the last time I saw her it really hit me that she wasn’t going to be around forever. I wasn’t the little girl she used to bounce on her knee and she wasn’t the fiery-tempered, saucy-tongued, take-no-nonsense mother she once was. She was slowing down. Like clocks, people slowly wind down until they wind to a stop. It’s the inevitable cycle of life for which no one is immune. Somehow the Super Sistah thought mom would be spared the kryptonite which was old age. Who was I fooling? So beyond the pain that comes with a good dose of reality, the Super started making plans and vows. Every instance in life can be used for motivation. Mom’s approaching retirement is inspiring me. This is what I’m envisioning. Dream with me.

Here comes the Super’s Mommy pushing the bad ass whip with the touch panel navigation system she doesn’t know how to use. The retirement home is the condo on the beach with the spectacular view of palm trees. Rest happens in the King size bed with the 1000 sheet thread count. She’s a combination of P.Diddy’s mom minus the horrible blond weave and Dynasty’s Joan Collins–rocking the fur coat in 100 degree weather. She’s ballin’ and moving on up straight George and Weezy style.

I’m making a music video in my mind because it’s all a dream that I have no idea how I ‘m going to make into reality. What I know is that there can be no alternative. I have to rewrite the future using my own script. I have to pay back my mother for all she’s done for me. Isn’t a child’s duty to make good on emotional debts? Aren’t we all born to pay what we owe? Speak to me.