On Saturday, November 24th @ 227 Lounge, I had such an amazing turn out at the Toronto Launch of the Self-Help Guide for Single Sisters entitled: Don’t Let The White Girl Win. So glad that despite the outrageous and controversial title both men and women came out to support the project fully accepting that you should never judge a book by its cover. Many came to celebrate, ask questions, mingle and buy more books than I could have hoped for.

Thanks everyone for your tremendous support. If you missed the launch but heard all the positive vibes flowing my way and would like to purchase a copy. Get one here or here or directly from the publisher here.

My fans and friends are truly Super. Thanks everyone.

LIKE the book here: www.facebook.com/DontLetTheWhiteGirlWin

I want it. Got to have it. Need it bad. Can’t get enough. The Super, me, Stephanie to my friends, can now say that I’m a success. I’m an author, officially. Not only a blogger whose words were one hack job away from obscurity or whose written legacy was at the mercy of my web host’s control-freak grip. Now my words and thoughts have moved offline and are forever captured for posterity in print. Yeah. Hooray. Gold star for me you think? Nein (No in German), non (No in French) and Nee (No in Dutch) and kuzimu hakuna (Hell no in Swahili). I think by now you get my point in whatever language you happen to speak.

Like me, lots of women of my acquaintance are very accomplished. They have a great career, a bad ass crib and enough clothes and shoes to inspire envy. They should be happy and for the most part they are, but like some women are nymphomaniacs who can’t get enough sex, some women are success nymphos who can’t get enough of the next. Like reggae singer I Wayne sings, Can’t satisfy her. She needs more wood for the fire. The fire for more that burns in some women is like a disease. Not unlike the euphoria a good orgasm brings, for some the rush of being at their best doesn’t last past the dying embers of the post coital cigarette. Inhale in and exhale out, now what bridge can be built, what ladder can be climbed, what bear can she fight with her bare hands and win? Lord Jesus, can you please calm down and chill! For these women I’m sharing the sound of my internal secret-self crying out in distress. The sound is ignored as we turn our attention instead to our To-Do list:

• Conquered the world? No check.
• Found the ideal man? No check.
• As rich as Croesus? No check.
• As fit and diesel as the Jamaican track team chicks? No check, no check, no check.

Sigh, despair and all our previous accomplishments are blown to bits. For indulging in this self-destructive nonsense I’m handing out slaps with a closed hand fist. Ladies, take the time to pat yourself on the back. Take the time to appreciate yourself. You may not get another chance. A successful life is not measured in accolades but in the moments and seconds in life that can’t be replaced. Breathe. Enjoy all that you’ve accomplished and then relax and release. The best time of your life is right in front of you. Stop chasing what’s next.

Are you incapable of living in the moment? Are you too preoccupied to experience a good cry, a good laugh or good sex? Are you Ms. Can’t Get Enough–What’s Next?

Like the best movies, the best books have trailers too. Check out the trailer for Don’t Let the White Girl Win available in paperback and eBook at Amazon & Barnes and Noble Online – October 29th.

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?

The Super is not a fan of bear cubs, puppies, baby rabbits or anything requiring training, constant attention and care, but whoa Nelly! Recently I saw a picture of J.LO and her boy toy Casper Smart and I had to do a double take. When Jenny from the Block was with Mark Anthony she looked miserable and morose.  Fast forward a scandalously short period of time and Jenny looks happy and hot. Wasn’t she supposed to follow the script? While her ex moved on to a much younger woman after their split, wasn’t she was supposed to clutch desperately to her youth while growing old, out of shape and alone? In the new millennium women are fighting back. They say that 40 is the new 20 and women of a certain age are refusing to languish man-less and dateless while they say goodbye to their youth.

Men like their women tender and now women like their men tasty. Madonna, J.Lo and Halle Berry to name a few are showing older women how it’s done. It’s time for the big payback. Now older woman are going for the fun factor by ditching men with erectile dysfunction and finding themselves little boy toys to love. Will these relationships last? I can’t say but I commend the cougars with their young men for not rolling up into a ball and calling it quits. If their fit and fabulous with abs and butts of steel, then why not show these young men what they’re working with? Looking good and feeling good is the best revenge.

While the Super likes her men somewhat seasoned I can acknowledge that there are benefits to dating young men. Such as:

• They say 40% of men over 40 have erectile dysfunction issues. Young men? Not so much. They are mini Stallions and they are ready to gallop at full speed.
• They have stamina for days. Can someone say first, second and third round?
• They are fun and remind the serious career woman how to let loose.
• They are open to new things and everything is a thrill.
• They are willing to be tutored, taught and educated and are not yet set in their ways.
• They are good for the ego. When they think their women look good they tell her so often.
• They are nice to look at. They are young, firm and fabulous from all angles.

The Super is no celebrity and is not in possession of a body that won’t quit. If I was, would I date a man young enough to be my nephew? Can’t say, but I do believe that being happy keeps women looking as fresh as little girls.

Is it better to ride an aging Stallion or break in a fresh new pony? Like men, should every Cougar catch and capture something wild and young?

Happy Valentine's Day

Back in the day if a man loved a woman he gave her father a horse, a cow and two mules. In them days, the price of your “PRECIOUS” to quote Gollum, cost a damn sight more than some chocolates and a Hallmark card.  Men understood that for the benefit of a lady’s time he had to put in some work. He earned her affection through the persistent pursuit of her heart. Fast forward a century and now some men have forgotten what love is about. On Valentine’s, which is the most romantic day of the year, stats show that most couple’s end up succumbing to what I call a Total Eclipse of the Heart. To translate Bonnie Tyler’s song into layman terms, it means that love fades to black. When women should be shaking the sheets on the 14^th, instead, most are showing their men the curb. I don’t have a Ph.D. in Sexual Healing but there is a reason for the fallout.

I’m attempting to get my self-help/dating book published.  It’s curious then that when I sprinted out of work on Friday I wasn’t running to catch a hot man for a hot date but to catch the library. My dating life in New York City might seem obscene to some and downright dismal to others. How much you commiserate depends on whether you go home to a man in your bed or to a vibrator with 4 batteries. Despite the glamour of the dating scene portrayed on reruns of Sex in the City, I’m no Carrie.  For most single girls in the city, there is no line of eligible bachelors waiting to wine and dine us and then pick up the check.  If we want to date regularly we can, but we’ve seen enough news reports where they find the desperate girl’s body in the trash to know that its best to choose quality over creepy.

When I explained my dating challenges to a friend he accused me of being picky. This is the label women usually get if they refuse to date the bucktooth guy from IT, the stalker neighbor from across the hall or their second cousin twice removed (shit, date him girl; it’s not like he’s close family).  The label is unfair but there is a good portion of the population that thinks that women should date anyone who asks.  For this reason, when I recently stopped dating a perfectly eligible man some of my single friends thought I might be crazy.  What you say now?  He has a job, all his teeth and he has a history of eating coochie? You don’t want him? Where he at? I’ll give him something dark and fiery. I’m assuming they meant loving and not a STD.  But I digress.  The dude and I didn’t get to the loving stage because there was no evidence that he felt passionate about me.  I’m not saying he should have tattooed my name across his pubic bone or sent me I love you cards signed with his tears, but similar to the tune En Vogue once sang, I wanted him to Give Me Something that I Could Feel.  Was that too much to ask? Raise your hand if you vote no. You can’t see me, but I’m raising both hands.  I liked homeboy and had amor loco for him (that means mad love) but unfortunately for us it was still a wrap.  Maybe I’ve read too many romance novels but I have no intention of being anyone’s 2^nd best.  What’s worse than being alone? Being a punnani placeholder for another chick.  Am I right or am I right? Holla if you hear me.

Are you a punnani placeholder? Should we date, mate and procreate with men who consider us 2^nd best?

don’t be #2

“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?

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?

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