I’m feeling bare, stripped, curiously naked and exposed. I’m addicted to privacy and have been from my youth; but there is a time for the dark and there is a time to let the light in. Besides the Superhero aspect of my pseudonym and all its inherent fabulousness, the mask of the Super Sistah appealed to the Clark Kent inside of me. I could be the studious, academic, introvert that is me but I could also switch to my gregarious, irreverent and theatrical side when the inclination arose. Existing behind a mask gave me a certain kind of freedom; I could say what I wanted and do what I wanted without risking censure or criticism.  After all, anything that was said against me was not said to my true self, the one I saw every day, but to my counterfeit and copy whose ego was not as easily bruised. But what happens when looking out through the world from behind a mask doesn’t suit? What happens when you have something critical and life changing to say? Can you send your representative to preach the message on your behalf? The Super inside of me said no and the real me agreed.

For a woman who likes privacy letting the world see my true self, without my protective layer, was scary. I had anxiety about how I would be perceived. I came across Michelle Obama at her conservative best if random strangers are to be believed, but inside I was all Halle Berry as Cat Woman— feral and fabulously decked out in leather spandex. In the end I had to choose; the safety of my masked crusader secret identity or to realize a lifelong dream. The dream of reaching women of color on a larger platform. I chose the dream and that dream has grown beyond the need for anonymity and the confines of my blog. My blog readers have encouraged me and inspired me. Their issues and anxieties and their struggles with life and relationships have led to a book, a belief and a movement. The relationship, dating and self-help guide: Don’t Let the White Girl Win comes out in October 2012. Between the pages, the message is irreverent, funny and infuriating but offers real guidance and counsel for rebuilding black women and their relationships. Despite the title, it’s not about the other girl, it’s about us. It’s a boot camp, tough-love guide for how, as women of color, we can help and heal each other and succeed. So I’m going naked, nude and as bare as the day I was born to introduce my fans to the real me. The me without the mask. Hello everyone, Stephanie here.

Are you hiding behind a mask? Have you ever made the fear of exposing your true self get in the way of your destiny?

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?

In the past as the 1st of January loomed I would get frantic. I’d dissect my year’s accomplishments one-by-one. What had I accomplished? What goal had I reached? What problem had I solved? Every impossible goal one could devise I had it on my to-do list. To me, the end of the year was like a final exam where all the questions of the universe had to be solved single-handedly. Needless to say I was ambitious. For many years I assessed my accomplishments for the twelve months based on the strictest criteria. If in the year I failed to reach a goal I set for myself then I considered that entire year a bust. Even before the last fireworks went off on the new month I’d have myself on the success hamster wheel with a new set of priorities, plans and pursuits.

Show me the bling, show me the ring or else! Whoa there. I know good men are scarce, rent aint cheap and bad ass kids are hard to raise by our lonesome. As women we want a man in the home so when we yell out, honey I’m home, someone besides the wall will hear. We watch Say Yes to the Dress, the Wedding Channel and read Bride with desire in our hearts and hope in our breasts. We want, no, need a man that we don’t have to share.  We’ve had enough of the cheaters, schemers, womanizers and playboy extraordinaires. We want a man that we can lock down and throw away the key?  Our need to throw up the deuces sign to the dating scene has made some of us teeter on the edge of despair. We’ve paid our dues and we feel entitled to our diamond bling. The desire to quit the single scene has made a man no longer an option for happily ever after but a must. We think that to make this happen we have to get aggressive. Lord you better send me someone before I have to come up there. After we’ve sent up heavenly death threats in the form of prayers we attack the marriage thing like a 5^th grade science project.  It’s at this point that things shift. Now, instead of dating for fun or companionship, we date potential mates with intent.  Each man that comes into our lives must wear a bulletproof vest and protective gear. He doesn’t know it but he’s a target.  Within seconds of meeting him we make assessments and out comes our list.  Does he have a job? Check. No kids, one kid, takes care of his kids? Check. Is he packing? Check. Check. Check. Is he wack, weak, trifling or mean? Double X. Is he short, stupid, stubborn or dyslexic?  X and X. Can he stroke, poke and whine his waist like a Chippendale? Check. Most importantly will his last name sing together beautifully with ours and mesh?  Check and happy girl cartwheel.

Forget that we don’t like him. Disregard the fact that he may be perfect but not for us? We want that diamond and we want it now.  The Super is not saying we should wait until Larenz Tate in Love Jones and Billy Dee in Lady Sings the Blues and every other black knight we’ve ever watched on television appears, but as any married or divorced woman will tell you, getting the ring is easier than waking up beside your hubby everyday with a smile on your face.  Don’t give into your S & M instincts by straddling love, binding its wrist, stepping on its chest with your heels on and cracking the whip. You can’t dominate the diamond and show it who’s boss. Proposals don’t submit to force.  Deny the diamondatrix within who wants to inflict pain on their relationships by pushing marriage onto every man that exists.  Don’t make the men in our lives have to chose between marriage or the whip.

Are you a diamondatrix trying to get love and a ring through force?

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?

If you’re like most women then there have been times when you’ve woken up in a cold sweat wondering in a daze why your life wasn’t going as you’d planned? If you are anywhere north of twenty then this has happened more than once. In those times you’ve questioned why everyone else had the luxury of ups with their downs while you had the misfortune of having only valleys with no hills in sight. In these times your ass hit asphalt so often that pebbles in your butt crack seemed customary. In your quest for relief, prayer became begging and begging turned into negotiations with the big G. You didn’t want much from him just moments of uninterrupted peace. What’s up, Lord? Can you cut me some goddamn slack! Now you’d done it. In frustration you’d used the Lord’s name in vain and now you’d earned yourself a set of Biblical roundhouse kicks. But enough was enough. You felt battered like you and Laila Ali had done a couple rounds in the ring. It was quitting time. It was over. You’d fallen way too far down to ever get back up. But as the saying goes, It’s at the precise moment that you think you can’t go on that you get your second wind. Like all the best boxers I would like to think that we can’t be beat. As women, no one can defeat us unless we choose to defeat ourselves. No man, no job, no disappointment is enough reason to throw ourselves down in the middle of a chalk outline. As long as we breathe, we can turn things around. Persistence pays off. Determination wins in a fist fight. Personal power starts from the inside. Refuse to live your life on your back looking up at the world while it looks down. Spread-eagle and unconscious doesn’t look sexy anywhere outside of a triple X movie DVD. Despite the porn reference, being on your knees isn’t a bad thing. It’s the space we exist in right before we get back on our feet.

So get up and put up your dukes. It’s time to fight! Dodge and weave your despair. Bare knuckle box your bitterness. Counter punch any obstacle that life throws your way. When you fight despair always fight to win. It’s just when you feel like giving up that you should kick box your courage into high gear.

In the ring of life does disappointment have you against the ropes? Let the fight card show that you fought for your life and won.

Some women are hoes. Capital H.O.E. ‘How you gonna write about empowerment and call women derogatory names?’ I can hear the criticism ringing in my ears. My response is that we can’t pretend that some women aren’t a little bit too free. I said it and mi nah tek back no talk which in patois means that I’m sticking to my guns. Now before the feminist black blogs come running to attack (you know who you are), pump your breaks a minute while I explain.

For those of you who remember cameo hair cuts, there was an old rap song by E40 called