Diamond Earrings

Dear Whom It May Concern:

I didn’t forget about your need to read, I’m still here in the midst of life hanging on for more than dear life. Today had a few shitty hours, but that’s all I’ll give the shit credit for; a few shitty moments. I wont let the shit take over my day. Shit shouldn’t have that much power anymore. I’m learning to let that shit go…

“Suffer now and live the rest of your life as a champion.” – Muhammad Ali

The great champ died last night, rest his soul. Life can be so unknown, you know? One minute you close your eyes for bed, another minute you wake up and learn Muhammad Ali passed away during your slumber. Death has been so rampant, I’m almost completely numb to it. I still cant believe he died, but on the other hand I can’t believe he lived so long. Life is totally unpredictable and you simply can’t put a price tag on it. Life can’t be bought. Not an hour, not a minute, not a day. You cannot buy more time no matter how wealthy or successful you are. There’s nothing you can do to control destiny, but you can make the best of what your destiny is. Instead of going on and on about death and life and all of that depressing shit in between, let’s learn to leave the shit where it needs to be. Down in the shitter.

Around two hours into my work shift, I realized one of my diamond earrings was no longer in  my ear. You can picture my distraught, gasping for air, retracing a few steps, but instantly coming to the realization that its probably gone for good. Between home, the car, the parking lot and walking around my store, the countless number of places it could’ve been quickly broke my heart. This pair of diamond cluster diamond earrings were purchased for me by my ex-boyfriend along with an insurance policy, and guess what the insurance policy doesn’t cover? A missing earring of course! I called Zales to confirm what I was already aware of.  Missing diamonds, covered. Missing earring, uncovered. The most painful part of losing this earring is the fact that it isn’t that painful at all. Truth be told, I simply dislike knowing I lost or didn’t take care of my valuables. That’s what’s bothering me the most. The sentimental value behind the diamonds isn’t my biggest debacle, but my wounded pride of knowing that these earrings are yet another thing I couldn’t hold on to. What is my problem with retention, and why is it so hard for me to have longevity in my relationships? Even if the relationship was simply with a pair of diamond earrings. Why is it such a problem for me to hold onto things? I beat myself up for as long as I could, retracting my steps like a mad, frantic woman who really lost her mind and not an earring. I need to know I have the willpower to consistently hold on to something in my life. The last few weeks have been loss after loss, and a pair of diamond earrings was not one of the items I had the strength to add to list. Recently, I officially broken off all physical and mental ties with present and past baggage, in hopes of preparing myself entirely for my future,self and love. Deep down I know I can never be one of those people moving into my future, but still wondering or curious about the “what ifs” over an ex. I needed to be completely and utterly detoxed. Losing this earring was like the last, final purge. Just three days before, I booked a hotel reservation on this same ex-boyfriend’s credit card, because the app we used in the past still had his information on file and processed the payment using his card. You can imagine how mortified I was, making plans to have sex with one deadbeat person from my past using another past’s credit card to seal the deal. Long story short, I didn’t have sex and had to write that embarrassing Facebook message to my other ex letting him know the mayhem on his credit card. I was completely turned off when my ex calmly let me know, it was okay because he already reported this purchase on his card as a fraud.

What?! Why was that okay? That’s not okay! Are the cops going to come after me? It hasn’t even been 24 hours! The way this particular ex micro-managed his bank account was like an ironic slap in the face. Of course the man that could afford to buy me diamonds micro-managed his accounts and had alerts of every purchase sent to his phone. It’s like I remembered why we broke up all over again. I was turned off, and maturely sent the funds to his PayPal account which he requested I do in order for him to close the report he filed with Wells Fargo. What a shitty joke. Completely my fault that I take complete ownership over, but still shitty…

As for the other shitty asshole from my past I was willing to finally give a taste to after over a year of playing cat and mouse, let just say I’m still very much celibate. I won’t lie to you: It’s very hard and becomes very tempting. For example, this last occurrence I was determined to get my boots knocked and just have a “Sex in Another City” moment or a few  hours. Not only was I stood up but my period came on like the Nile flipping River. I cursed God that day, and the universe, and Mother Nature but then I remember the vow that I made. The next time I have sex, I want it to be with the one. The one that loves me as much as I him and can spoil, and flip me any way I please. Yes, I will be his personal pancake.

So am I still bummed about losing my diamond? Yes. Will I get over it? Probably. While I scurried my job site looking for my earring, a woman about fifty feet away from me had a seizure, and passed about in front of her grandkids. While I stood looking for and EMT to come quickly, all desire and materialistic urges to freak out over a diamond earring quickly diminished. It’s just a diamond earring, and a personal life lesson to remind me there’s more to life consume my thoughts on than a pair of diamond cluster earrings.

“It isn’t the mountains ahead to climb that wear you out; its the pebble in your shoe.”- Muhammad Ali  (1942-2016)

 

 

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Fur Collar & Vans Sneakers

Sometimes the best things in life happen when we just let life happen. Let’s marinate on that thought for a moment: Let. Life. Happen.

I let life happen with a Cuban tattoo artist and a 6’8 Music Therapist, and came home from both encounters still a proud celibate woman. I can let life happen. I don’t have to give up sex just to live life. God forgive me, but I’m no Virgin Mary. I am merely more in-tuned with my worth and the value of my puss*. There’s been so much going on between Fashion Weeks, growing professionally and figuring out what I want personally, I just couldn’t see myself succumbing to the temptations of penis right now. Sex would just complicate things, and I have enough to tackle. Despite all of the items on my plate and penis proposals,  I’m realizing my family is highly important to me. My Grandmother is going through a lot of health related issues, so for anyone wondering where I’ve been: There is your answer, I’ve been sitting with my Grandmother on my days off skimming as many fashion shows as I possibly could. There’s been a couple times I’ve felt like I was going to lose it, I can’t recall the last time I’ve truly taken a day off. Thank God for an amazing support system and a monthly fashion magazine purchase because I’m not quite sure how else I would stay sane. 

  
A big dilemma for me was whether I should have sex with the Cuban tattoo artist or not (6’8 Music Therapist wasn’t even in the running after our first date). In the midst of the madness, sex seemed like a quick fix to my growing anxieties. 

“Tattoo Artist” was so sexy, I couldn’t stand it! I knew he was a ladies man. It was written all over his handsome ass face. He was just my type: 6’1, tattoos (over 40 to be exact), gages, thick full-pink lips, a messy comb-over hair style and an awesome footwear collection which included some of my favorite classic black Vans sneakers. He was visual eye-candy, all 6 feet plus of him with this amazingly mannish beer- belly. It wasn’t a gut; just a belly. One of those stomachs you’d find yourself rubbing while you “Netflix and Chill”, but I knew with every fiber in my body, I wouldn’t be the only one he’d be watching Netflix with. It was agony just to even think about. “Tattoo Artist” was literally one of those things you’d want to own just to be able to say,”Look at what I have!” I didn’t even consider him as the person he was, just a thing. An accessory to show off, but not necessarily the best mental catch. Yes he looked awesome, but would he support me emotionally the way I needed a man to? I battled a few nights not driving to this guy’s house just to give him a taste. Everytime I almost came close, God stopped me directly in my tracks.   

  
“Tattoo Artist” couldn’t understand how much self -control I had, he was obviously used to women throwing themselves at him. I tried to explain it was like my love of cheesecake: I love it, but I won’t eat it. If I start eating it, I won’t want to stop so I’d rather not eat any at all. Of course I’d eventually treat myself to a slice or two, but now just wasn’t the time to fall off the wagon. No matter how much I love cheesecake or his looks for that matter. I can look at cheesecake, I just won’t touch it.

He must’ve grown weary of me teasing him. How many times have you made out with someone for over three hours? Three hours of just kissing made me the ultimate “dick teaser”, but I couldn’t give it up only after two dates! Our first date was like finding your new favorite heels. Every time you think about it, you smile. I wore my infamous red and black harness bra, with an all black attire, black sneakers and my fur collar opened enough to show off my bra and chest. By the time of our second date, we built enough sexual tension through two rounds of pool to make me fantasize about him taking me directly on the table (God forgive me). But I kept my composure, even while being in a close-knit proximity of the car. I let him tongue me down for an entire three hours with conversation in between, without even pulling out a tit. I wasn’t fully aware of how much willpower I actually had until that experience. Our kisses were like fire upon fire, I don’t think I’ve ever kissed anyone that deeply. My insides were tingling, but I just couldn’t give him me without fully knowing where we were going. He didn’t give me any answers, and ultimately I only wanted him for his looks. I eventually realized I wasn’t attracted to anything about him past his physical features, so where would we go beyond sex? 

    


    I let our dates happen because that was part of the universal plan. Sometimes just through dating, you learn so much about yourself: you learn your likes from your dislikes. However, having sex would’nt have taught me anything other than what he could possibly do with his penis. If the sex was horrific, that would’ve not only been a waste, but a major setback. I’m on the mission of growth. I’m not interested in intentionally setting myself back. 

Let life happen exactly the way it’s supposed to happen. Even if that means “it”never even happens..


Peace, Love and Growth,
Tamara Styles.



“All I could do, is just offer you. My love.” ~Prince


RIP   

Groovy, Baby

Fashion is heading into an era I am so in love with: the 70’s. If I could ask God to send me back in time, I’d humbly request to live as a hot, young red head in the late 70’s. From the fashion, disco music, to the infamous Studio 54 parties, the late 70’s was an opening to women and gay liberation. The late 70’s administered a new level of self-love, and was an entrance to the acceptance of individuality. People actually wanted to see the weird and different. Normal was just boring and overrated. The conservative consensus of the country finally opened its canal to a new state of mind with so many negative outbreaks happening, from wars to various protests. Women were also breaking away from being submissive to men’s demands once the government approved birth control. It was like women finally had a chance to say, “Kiss my ass, I don’t want your baby.” 


   
   Could you imagine living in an age where celebrities and ordinary people party together? I don’t mean VIP sections and ropes. It was utterly everyone who was anyone with an eclectic style or personality on the dance floor having a groovy time. Ordinary, everyday people were inspiring designers and celebs while happy substances were being shared like favors! That’s sheer, awesome tranquility. Party-goers flocked to Studio 54 to get an opportunity to not only rub elbows with stars like Micheal Jackson, Andy Warhol and David Bowie. I know I’m sharing a lot of history, but fashion is history baby! If life were still so simple with less social-standard boundaries, we’d live in a much better place!   

    
 
This period in fashion and music history is the ultimate nirvana. Everyone wanted to dance, feel high and have a good time. People weren’t stuck, glued to their cell blocks (aka cellphones) watching moments of the past, people actually lived in the moment. I miss living in the moments. Not saving the moments for others and their standards or expectations of what my moments should look like. I like to do what I want, when I want leaving a trail of golden glitter behind.   

    
    
   
But more than anything, I’d love to revisit the late 70’s for the carefreeness and less pressures of perfection. Seriously, when else would loads of blue shadow over a naked face, false lashes and big hair be accepted? Now, everything in life is so focused on being perfect, we’re missing out on the beauty of life. This is the hardest and biggest pill I’ve had to take: I don’t care about the perfection anymore. I’ve spent years wasting on perfection only to realize I’m the farthest thing from it. I don’t want perfection. I want beauty. Beauty inside as well as out is much more fun than just perfect. I save my perfect for Jesus. Give me beauty baby.

   
    
    
 

If the late 70’s didn’t teach us anything else, it taught us to live a zen life and not be afraid of bell-bottoms or blue shadow. There is no harm in striving for beauty, its the perfection that slowly kills. 

“What is perfection anyway?”

Fashionably Yours Forever,
Tamara💋

Perfect Winged Eyeliner

Want to know the kind of day you’re going to have? You can almost always gauge by the outcome of your winged liner…

 

I knew my day was going to be fucking crazy when my winged liner just wouldn’t cooperate. My makeup was on point, flawlessly executed and completely successful. Then the moment came to apply my wings, and things went haywire. I don’t know what the hell happened, but my liner just would not work with me. I begged, grunted, took my time and after a few tries with a bit of cleanup, I was finally satisfied with the outcome. At that very moment while staring into the mirror, I realized my day was going to be the exact same way; messy, drive me crazy in the beginning but turn out perfectly fine in the end. My liner was like a psychic into the future! After I finally finished arguing with my winged liner and came to a mutual understanding with my lip color, it was time to get dressed and head out for my 1 pm client. I was determined to be on time and perky after a cup of French vanilla coffee.

I wound up being late and to the brink of hysterically in tears. I didn’t want to be late, I was utterly in panic mode. I wanted to be on time, gracing the driveway as if it were my runway. Life has a way of humbling you and getting your ass in order. I was lost, beyond lost. Lost in a way I didn’t even think I could’ve been lost. Now looking back it was kind of funny, but in the moment there wasn’t a second of laughter. My GPS directed me to any and everywhere other than my client’s house. By the time I finally pulled up in front of her door, I realized I drove passed her complex at least 7 times. I was mortified and beyond apologetic. As a professional, I just didn’t want to come across as the” young, late girl”. Not only was I lost, I called “Minnesota” to calm me down and offer some of his motivational speeches. He didn’t even have the decency to pick up the phone or call me back! I was beyond crushed. Calling my client was no help. It was like the blonde leading the blonde and put me in more disarray.

 

As I sat in front of my client’s house for a good two seconds to breathe and look at myself in the mirror, I realized two things: Maybe this whole “Minnesota” ordeal wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be. I was pissed, but life did push me into putting my “big girl boy shorts” on and making things happen on my own. Minnesota didn’t get me to where I am, he was just a page or two in my story. The second thing I confirmed is that my day was actually going to be smooth sailing there on out. The messy, unkempt part of my day was over (finally). It was now time to clean up and do an amazing job as I initially intended. The sucky part of my “eyeliner” day was over. Now was the time to create a masterpiece, and I was confident the rest of my day was going to be a perfect wing liner day. Truth be told, it actually was.

Artist Makeup Tip 101: I like to line my lids with a gel liner first, then use a liquid to create my wing tips. When doing your liner, look into the mirror and declare that you’re going to have an amazing day!

 

xoxo,

 

Tamara

Drugstore Vs. Department Store Makeup

The past couple of days of my life have been on more Red Bulls than snow on the ground. I don’t know what the hell is going on but things are moving at a rapidly fast pace, so much that I now find myself up at 2 in the morning when I have a client scheduled this afternoon (nice). Not the time for an insomnia attack. One week life is moving turtle-slow, the next you’re wishing things slow down!

 

For those of you thinking this post was going to be just about makeup, there are great finds in the drugstores but there is nothing like department store makeup. The end, now move along honey. Those of you that know me by now, know that it isn’t just about the makeup here. There’s always more to it. Lets be honest with one another: If we could afford only department store makeup, would we ever consider drugstore lines? Or for my “Well, there’s good finds in the drugstores” ladies, who would you marry? Say for instance, Mac and Target (makeup not the entire store) propose to you. You’d take that Mac ring and give the forehead kiss to Target. Sorry, but not sorry!

I attended a skincare training on Tuesday, and guess where the instructor happened to be from? Minnesota! Of all the states, cities, and metropolitan areas a skincare instructor could come from they had to pull her from Minnesota right? Just my luck! (For you newbies, Minnesota is where my “heart throb” is.) I’ve been tight-lipped on spilling the tea about “Minnesota” after the whole Vegas ordeal because as any girl would be, I was kind of heartbroken walking around like life was peachy. Inside, it was utter torture. “Minnesota” and I met, kissed in Vegas and the rest was history! So automatically I felt a kindred vibe to this instructor (not to mention her personality was so welcoming- it must be a Mid-West thing!) and felt inclined to be forthcoming about my Minnesotan Irish sweetheart.

As our instructor came around testing products on our hands, I just beckoned out all the polite questions I could about Minnesota, never really having been there. I was like a giddy kid. “Is it really, really cold? How do you guys get around? How’s the plowing over there?” I’m just all questions because I need to know! I eventually want to visit! Then she asks the question, “Do you know anyone in Minnesota?” and like word-vomit, I’m spilling out the word “boyfriend” like a love-sick teen (OMG). To make matters worse, she announces to the whole entire training room about how she and I were talking about my boyfriend in Minnesota…blah, blah, blah. Instantly, I was over-the-top embarrassed. If I didn’t have so much melanin in my skin I would’ve turned bright red at that very moment. “Oh my God,” I thought to myself. I just put my foot entirely in my mouth. I could feel the room instantly getting hotter and my temperature rise at the thought of “boyfriend” echoing around the room. “What the fu*k did I just say?” I felt my boss behind me, burning eyes into the back of my head saying, “B*tch that is not your “boyfriend“. I spent the entire next day freaking out. One thing I dislike is my character on the line. Am I optimistic or delusional? I start questioning every choice I’d ever made that morning. I’m not a habitual liar, especially not about any damn man. Ask me why I’m late, the answer is always traffic even when it was indeed my makeup routine. But other than that, I try to keep a pretty clean mouth.

So there I am, walking around devastated thinking my boss will out me or question my trustworthiness because I spewed out the damn word “boyfriend”. It was 9 am in the morning, way too early for my liking. Now that I look back, yes there are a ton of other things I could’ve named him but definitely not boyfriend. For one thing, I’m pretty sure I’m passed the boyfriend age. At some point in a girl’s life, the term “boyfriend” is null and void. If he isn’t your man by now, have several seats darling. I had to do something. I racked my brain trying to figure out how the hell to pull myself out of this, so the best scenario was to actually just talk to him about it. The truth is Minnesota and I are indeed in a really good space. After sending him a message via Facebook with three simple words, asking for his number, almost immediately he replied back to me. I asked my two-year old cousin if I should text him. In the most innocent voice she responded, “Uh-huh.” I couldn’t resist. At two-years old she is definitely too pure to steer me wrong.

Once we left Vegas, things (I) got crazy, and we took a break. A much appreciated break I can look back and say to not only him but myself, “I made a mistake.” Like the gentleman he is, he welcomed me back with long-distance open arms. I’ve dated, hit on guys, and extended myself to other possibilities but he is my virtual ‘sigh of relief’. This is a man I can express my business plans to and have him give me crucial feedback, send all my naked ‘selfies’ and receive rather intimate ones in return, or I can call and vent to about anything and receive a level-headed response. Yes, I immaturely threw out the word “boyfriend”, but he is not far from it either. I’ve dated guys after him that weren’t worthy of even knowing my panty size, so I began to withhold more and more of myself to undeserving pieces of meat (literally). I don’t need a man looking at me expecting sex. That’s another ship that has sailed. When a man flies you out to Vegas for your very first date and single-handedly sweeps you off of your feet, it’s going to take a lot of persuasion to get to know me on a physical level.

Minnesota is not my boyfriend, but he is definitely department store makeup. He gets me, he has my color and is worth the investment. I came across an article that talked about not being emotionally available for a relationship, and I honestly feel that is very much-so me. I think I want a relationship until I actually get into one, and I’m draining myself entirely into it. Not only am I not emotionally available but partially physically as well. I don’t want “Friends With Benefits”, and I don’t want to jump into another situation where I’m giving so much to my personal life that I’m losing and sacrificing my professional one. He and I talked for an hour about what we want and he honestly admitted he jumped into a situation with me, yet ironically I couldn’t admit to him that I did the same thing. I broke up with an ex in August and was seeing Minnesota by October. Did I really give myself the time to heal? Or did I rush into something not wanting to be alone? We jumped into something and I know I fell, but I’ve never thrown around the “L” word to him (Bye ship!). He is not my boyfriend, but he, I still believe to this day is my soul mate. Until I meet someone else to prove me wrong, I will continue to wait and focus my energy on my passion. He upped the ante of what a gentleman should embody and the level of support you should receive from said “boyfriends”. You never know, sometimes life just blesses you with an “Ante Upper”, and Minnesota could be just that. Once you find the right shade of department store makeup, drugstore foundation just doesn’t feel the same. I simply refuse to sleep with anymore drugstore makeup, so I’ll continue holding out for that department store quality.

 

Say “No!” to drugstore boyfriends. Save your “cookies” for department store ones.

 

Fashionably Yours,

 

Tamara

Lippie Mr. Crocs

Pacing back and forth on the sales floor, I had to rationally talk myself down from going off and giving this gentleman (or what gentle part was left of him) a piece of my mind through text. This guy mastered the cruelest ways of getting underneath my skin. His antics made me want to grind my teeth and tell him every part of the asshole he was, but that’s absolutely what he wanted. A catty, feisty woman to go toe-to-toe with him and I honestly couldn’t bring myself to giving him that bit of satisfaction…

I met “WBD” while I was still in my fashion studies at college. My life was complete and utter chaos, from midterms to weekly assignments in addition to maintaining a position as a Fur Consultant in the city. With so much going on around me, I just wanted an aspect of stability. The hustle and bustle daily seemed so overwhelming, I needed an outlet of relaxation and companionship. WBD seemed to be a source for both. Back then, I never met someone of his caliber. To be honest, I thought he was “amazing shit”. All of the other men I came across were either grunge, stoner hipsters, immature PC geeks or my college professors. Once I accepted the fact that my college professors were out of the question (and trust me that was a big pill to swallow), WBD seemed like the perfect suitor I could hang out with once school and work gave me an opportunity to breathe.

“WBD” was glitter and gold that glimmered from afar. Witty, conversational and most importantly, stable in his career. I met him as he was just hitting the thirties mark, and his resume was quite impressive. Not originally a city native, “WBD” was a rather well-rounded (literally and figuratively speaking) individual. A Temple University graduate, solid career in the medical profession, part-time worker at a local William-Sonoma and other unmentionable ways of receiving a handsomely full income. “WBD” was everything I was used to and some of what I actually wasn’t. He possessed mystery, strength and most of all, security. I was entranced by this white man’s accolades and ability to relate to who I was. He put on his corporate “white face” when necessary, but around me in his comfort I experienced an entirely different person. He was the first educated white man that had more street-smarts and lingo than I’ve ever encountered. Kind of like Eminem in “8 Mile” without the 8 miles…

He was so unique in his personality, I was in awe. I wanted to know everything there was about him like the first black girl he ever dated and what was his fascination with hip-hop and the urban culture. The more I talked to him or he avoided my questions with silence, I came to understand this was just who he was. His mentality was nothing like any white guy I ever encountered, and if I may be frank his street smarts were far more impressive than any black guy I’ve ever come across at the time. He had the smarts and skills of a Soprano, but at the drop of a hat he’d spend an evening watching the Travel channel which would always get me to raise a brow. He was an all around mental, heartthrob to me. I quickly learned that these are the men I’m attracted to! The ones I can bring to a corporate dinner but in the same breath could handle himself in a rough neighborhood or setting. There wasn’t much that intimidated WBD, however he was very sophisticated and didn’t take unnecessary risks. I secretly idolized him.

Other things I noted about him was in addition to his snappy personality was the fact that he was a bit of a hoarder. Not a disgusting one, just one that owned a bit of everything. From the Bob Marley painting hanging in the living room to the bags and bags of William Sonoma items that just sat in front of the big screen never even opened. He had bottles of unopened liquor in every room from his travels and collection. WBD was much of a collector of things that interested him. He lived in a small two bedroom duplex that was full of random things and a ton of unmentionables everywhere. WBD didn’t deprive himself of anything he wanted. He paid for everything with cash and made his man cave quite to his liking. The only thing I realized he didn’t own was a comb. Every once in a while when I’d stop over to hang out, I’d ask to style his hair. With much resist, he’d eventually let me but he didn’t ever have a comb for me to use. He didn’t believe in combing his hair and convinced me that’s why black people’s hair wouldn’t grow because we’re always messing with it. As offensive as it sounds, he actually has a point.

His manes were big and curly but semi well-kept along with his big red beard. WBD would only let his barber cut his hair and wouldn’t touch it much until he saw his barber again. WBD was the first manly man to admit to me that he actually gets his eyebrows trimmed by his barber which explained their immaculate shape. Unlike his eyebrows, WBD himself was in terrible shape. His belly was at least 20 months in, I don’t think he’s remembered the last time he actually saw anything past it (I called him the white Rick Ross, before Ross lost weight that is). For someone so big, you’d think he would be humble. There wasn’t a humble bone in his body. He was rude, arrogant and argued like my Jamaican mother. It was such a turn off. I tried to tell myself I understood him because I understood my mother. That’s an even bigger load of crap to stomach. Just because I understood his attitude doesn’t mean I wanted to put up with it.

With almost a year of knowing one another, it was almost like I didn’t know him at all. He was moody, I never know which way the wind blew with his attitude and I didn’t want to keep investing but I still cared. So I gave things a try yet again. One evening WBD came to pick me up so we could hang out in hopes of giving our “friendship” a try. He came to get me in his work scrubs and Crocs, which is actually all I ever saw him in now that I think about it. As I followed him upstairs, I giggled to myself watching his Crocs lean to the side and cry for help under his weight. Such a big man with an even bigger ego.

He told me he had to shower and left me in the midst of all of his belongings. I did what any other curious young woman would do, I searched. I don’t know what I was looking for but I needed to find some kind of clues about this man and why he was so guarded with his emotions. I cared, practically loved this man that I’d never been intimate with (yes I fall mentally without the physical). By the time I got to his bedroom, my eyes wandered over his desk. I couldn’t help but notice a small ring near the keyboard, entirely too small for his sausage fingers. Above the desk was a compartment on the overhead that needed a key to open. Just my luck, it was actually unlocked. I checked to make sure the shower was still at its peak. Indeed it was and like a little Inspector Gadget, I slowly opened the compartment door sure to not make a peep. Once opened, there were rolls of money falling out at me. My mouth dropped. I was used to seeing money, but didn’t this guy believe in a bank? Of all the men I knew I thought he’d be one of those with multiple accounts floating around in cyber space. I threw the money back in the same way it had fallen out. I may be many things, but I’m not a thief. There was no joy for me taking one of those rolls when I knew there’s a bigger picture (probably floating in cyber space) somewhere. More importantly, I actually liked him for him. Not for his hidden money stashes. I wanted him, and I wanted him to take me seriously.

There were more things I noticed that night. Like his sleep oxygen mask, apparently he was bigger than I thought. We watched television in the living room after he finally came out of the shower. I sat in my comfortable manner as I always do. His money really and truly didn’t phase me, if anything it just added more mystery to who the hell he was. A show happened to be on about fixing businesses in economic danger and the host was going over profit and loss numbers in a particular scenario. I blurted out a figure of what I thought the profit/loss margin was, showing off my Retail Math course skills (a class I didn’t particularly like, but another hot professor made it tolerable). Immediately, WBD corrected me. Not only were my numbers way off, his figures were on the nose! My insides screamed, “Marry me!” But my outsides sighed in exasperation because I didn’t know what else to do.

At this point we were both fidgety and uncomfortable, so he suggested we go into his bedroom to finish watching television. That was what I loved the most, laying in his arms and rubbing on his ginormous belly. It was like Santa came early. I felt peaceful and comfortable and finally had the courage to ask while kissing his face off. “When will you take me seriously?” My temper was serious but delicate. “Take me seriously WBD.” He just looked at me but never answered. At that point he started to undress when I looked at him with an even more quizzical face. What the hell is he doing? This is not an answer to my question. I was no longer a gullible young lady you could side track with sexual tension. I needed an answer. I needed to know when he would take me seriously. He never answered and he took me home that night without getting one. He damn sure didn’t get anything either.

I moved on knowing what I knew about him and left it at that. My boyfriend at the time and I were going through a bad argument, and I searched Facebook for any clues on WBD. He’d texted me a few times in between but because I was seeing someone I never really responded. While snooping on Facebook, I’d come to discover two things: One I already knew and the other a complete shock to me. The first was that indeed a black girl did break his heart. I happened to see some evidence of who she was and that she actually broke it off with him for good. I’m guessing she took his heart with her because he was never fully able to heal after his apparent “college sweetheart”. The second thing I learned shocked me to my core. WBD had Multiple Sclerosis for years and never told me. I felt betrayed like I was left out of the group text messages. Why didn’t he think he should tell me? I was so honest with him with everything other than my affection, why couldn’t he do the same with me?

On a temporary break from a relationship with my boyfriend at the time, this was the perfect time to heal myself of WBD. I reached out to him and with semi-open arms, he accepted and invited me over. Surprisingly this time, the apartment was a bit cleaner and so was the haziness of my mind. We sat beside one another on the couch watching television as we always did. In front of me laid new items to his collection. A foot massager barely used and earthy looking beaded bracelets on his mini “work” table. I looked down at the massager and asked him when did he get that? He looked down with this devilish grin, replying “Oh this?” while using his foot to move it from in front of me to in front of him. I thought to myself, “This asshole has got to be kidding me.” What drove me crazy the most was the way he perceived me as one of his usual conquests that weren’t used to the joys of life. Times had changed and I was much more aware than when he just met me. I rolled my eyes to the beads and asked when and where did he get the bracelets. They were actually kind of cool. He told me he purchased them offline. I tested the waters, “Can I have one? You’re not going to wear all three are you?” I promised I used the most innocent, sultry voice. More than I ever had to use on my current off/on again boyfriend who bought me anything I asked, as long as I asked.

“I just bought them,” he responded. I knew at that very moment, he’d never be the man for me. He was big, mean, cheap, and from what I saw had a very little penis. Why should I bother? Eventually I headed out drier than when I arrived (I’m sure he could say the same for himself), and thank God this time I drove myself over so I didn’t need him to do anything except watch me leave. I walked down his steps knowing I’d never be back again. He didn’t deserve me or any woman for that matter. Maybe a blow-up doll, nothing more.  We squabbled a few times back and forth via text after that. Let’s face it: I’m cold, I’m not heartless. This was a man I truly cared about but he was a consistent dick. I prided myself of being the bigger person, letting him know how loyal I actually was to him, the times I’d find his money all over the house and never took a cent. His response was, “How do I know that?” That was the first time he actually ever broke my heart. Anything he ever said to me before of after was a scrape. That statement was a punch in the gut.

I soon came to learn that money or any other money in the house was to pay for prostitutes and sexual favors. I was beyond done in disgust. Here I am genuinely a woman that cares about you, and you’re telling me you pay for pleasure? To this day, I can never comprehend or wrap my mind around that (he could’ve been lying to soothe my soul but its a plausible scenario). The psychologist in me gathers he’d rather pay than to be emotionally involved given his sickness. After all once MS finally came up in conversation, he was kind enough to let me know his sickness can kick in at any moment and he wouldn’t be able to move on his own. His mouth was saying one thing, but all I saw was him pushing me away. Our arguments became so bad, I don’t even know if I can allow myself to be empathetic or sympathetic anymore. Periodically I would check in just to make sure he was okay, but his snarky, malicious comments makes me not even want to give a damn and I’m done with checking in. However, I’m too good of a person to wish suffering on anyone, so I’ll wish him the best from afar.

 

Dear Little Penis, Lippie, and Miserable Mr. WBD,

 

Crocs are not your friend.

 

With Love,

 

Tamara.

 

 

Blondes Don’t Have The Most Fun

They say blondes have more fun. I can assure you, that’s hardly the truth. I possess an inner blonde. She is cold, stiff and has the personality of a foot. I’m pretty sure she hasn’t had any form of sex since college midterms. On a positive note my inner blonde is professionally exceptional ( I like to call her ‘Amy’), and profoundly book smart. Amy is my go-to voice of reason for all work assignments, presentations and career-related ventures. She is a force to be reckoned with. Amy hardly ever takes no for an answer, and would most certainly claw her way to the top (within moral reason of course).

One might say, “How can you be so sure she’s a blonde?” Simple. ‘Amy’ is very dippy with little to no street smarts whatsoever. She has no charisma, no sympathy and even less of a social life. But goodness has she helped me land all of my corporate jobs and internships. I bring Amy along when most appropriate: Fashion Week, professional networking, and client-related trainings. She can make a hell of a resume and thoroughly compose a business proposal, but she can’t land a date to save her life. I know this because she is the part of me that longs most for the power couple dynamic. Unfortunately, I’m sure she intimidates the hell out of men.

My fiery, engine-red head vixen gets all of the dates. She has the sass, the girl power and the social life. ‘Keesha’ gets hit on and rejects suitors left and right. She pops her gum, bites her lip, is full of confidence and isn’t afraid to show off her curves. Keesha is the definition of a non-blonde that has the most fun. She lights up and takes over a room. She’s witty, sensual, street-smart and very vocal. She’s the only girl invited to the “BOYS ONLY” events. Keesha is my inner red-head. An urban goddess that doesn’t have time for child’s play.

Then there’s my brunette. She’s very soft much like her hair color, and the medium between both personalities. This side is the nurturing, understanding and a very sympathetic one. My brunette is vulnerable, cries at those pesky animal abuse commercials, and loves the fine arts. She’s super laid back, would eat pizza all day, and ‘Netflix and chill’ alone until she couldn’t anymore. My brown-haired personality loves to express her creative side. My inner brunette is me, just plain old, sweet Tamara.

For years, I thought I was bipolar or had multiple personality disorder. Now I’ve realized that’s not the case at all. I’ve simply had to learn how to be a chameleon and assimilate to different environments in order to survive. Honing more than one persona helps me to handle various situations on a daily basis. Sometimes my brunette needs my inner blonde to complete a project, or my inner red-head needs to come out when things are heating up and Amy just can’t get the job done.

I went back and forth about this post because it is such a vulnerable part of who I am. I am not only giving you me, I’m sharing all three layers of myself. After having a consultation with a client, the topic of suicide in the women’s African-American community came up. I decided I have to be transparent on the ways I cope with depression and making it through life on a daily basis. Suicide is never an answer. In many races including the African- American culture, women are taught to be strong and hide their weaknesses. I found an outlet, and I hope this helps women to find positive ways to deal with self-acceptance. Life can be tough, but I always remind myself that another day in the race is better than not being in the race at all.

Find your inner blonde, red, blue and pink goddesses. Do what you need to keep yourself in the race darling. Don’t give up.

Xoxo,

Tamara💏