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   

Power In The Head

I came across a wretched article online about giving blow jobs. Well, the idea of blow jobs wasn’t the wretched part. The content of the article is what bothered me most.

Half way through reading, I spared myself the agony of continuing any further without mentally gagging. This article was truly a ploy to lure people in and like bait, I fell. The title of the article was bluntly in your face, “Something About Blow Jobs” or whatever the name was to reel readers in. To summarize what I managed to get through, the author gave a notion (in addition to probably giving terrible blow jobs) that women give away their power to men when they perform oral sex. Whether you agree or disagree with performing oral sex, let me just share a secret I’ve learned from my elders: Men never have the power in the bedroom. In consensual, adult sex, men have nothing more than a penis. Forgive me if the topic of BJ’s still makes you uncomfortable in 2016. However, I simply refuse to sit back and let women think that men actually have power in the bedroom. If and when they [men] do, its because we [women] gave it to them.

Adam Eve Michelangelo

Appalled by this article, I madly sent it to a group of friends (male and female) to get their opinion. I couldn’t stop chuckling by the message in this topic. Why the hell would women willingly give oral sex to lose their power? And if we lose our power by doing it to them, do men lose theirs by doing it to us? If there’s an exchange of power happening through oral sex, we either need to do much more to one another, or go on strike all together. I received so many different responses from close knit friends, and the consensus is that women do indeed hold the “power” key in the bedroom. The only person to disagree that women actually do lose their power, made it more of a moral issue and self-respect stance. Foremost, I’d hope women aren’t still sucking any Joe Schmo’s anymore. Those cave-man BJ days should’ve left the building with “free nights and weekends” cell phone plans, darling. I’m sure even “Sex and the City’s” Samantha would have burned that bridge by now. BJ’s should be a special gift along with the prized cookies. You don’t see airlines offering first-class treatment to passengers flying coach- do you? It just doesn’t happen!

So yes, oral sex with a respected partner that you know almost everything about up to or including his social, is completely your power and your choice. Even if the man makes an idiotic move by pushing your head down there, the ball’s still in your court or wherever else you’d like to put them. Women, always hold the power. If you’re having to question your morals, self-respect or if you’ll still have your power moments after the BJ is over, then his member is not something you should be putting on or into your body darling. If you’re going to do something, do it with respect for yourself and your best interests at heart. We honestly know before anything leads to a BJ if an individual is even deserving of our time, let alone oral sex. I share this knowledge because I too had to learn and go through the, “Is he worthy?” checklists in life. The entrepreneur that can offer you professional advice along with personal guidance? He has the potential of being worthy. The struggling filmmaker that wants you to pay for your own drinks on the first date, but drops sexual innuendos in initial conversations doesn’t even deserve a text back much less a BJ.

The topic lingered in the back of my mind for a few days, and I couldn’t help but to ask the only person I would consider doing or performing anything with at this point:

Me: When a woman gives you a BJ, is she giving you her power?

“Minnesota”: “…You only give what you want when you want to.”

There you have it. You give what you want, when you want to ladies. I personally never give away my power in the bedroom. I give love, and I may submit because I fancy the dominance of an Alpha-male’s authority. But to willingly give away my power, that is something I cannot see myself doing. Someone once told me, “You can make a man think he has the power by letting him win, but in the end you’re the one who actually won because you had the power to let him win in the first place”. I like to win. BJ or no BJ, it’s my choice and my power.

Don’t suck just any lollipops dolls! Find your worthy, favorite and save your mouth power for that one, or none at all!

With Love,

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

Black, White & Classic Ralph Lauren

 

The dating pool on the east coast is like a cesspool. I honestly don’t know why I bother at times. I’m sure I gain more satisfaction out of doing my damn laundry. But if trying my luck at dating leads to nothing else, it’s for sheer entertainment…

I stumbled across an executive chef in the city seventeen years my senior. Instantly, of course I’m swooning (heart emoji eyes and all). An older, white chef that can make five-star meals while I lie in bed, uh yes please? Too good to be true right? Absolutely! I’m starting to see my ‘Disney, fairytale’ trends here. Like men, I’m impulsive with my fantasies. I find that I have yet to fall for the person someone truly is, I fall for my optimism of who they could be.

So “Executive Chef” had a number of red flags I chose to overlook. The number one was kids. Cardinal rule number one: I never date a man with kids for more than one reason. In his case, these reasons were cheerleading games and weekend babysitting duty. With him having two impressionable young girls, I know how much of a handful this could become. I’d never want a situation to arise when my Beau had to choose between time with me and time with his kids, because I am selfish enough to expect him to choose me. Mr. Chef sees his kids two times a week, and they live in another city with the ‘crazy’ ex-wife the other five (the woman’s always crazy, never the man according to them). This may work… I figured why not give it a try? We’re only having conversation at the moment.

Wrong, completely and utterly wrong. I soon learned the kids were the least of my problems. The more we talked, the more I realized how much of a hardcore freak he was. Granted, he’s obviously a veteran in the sexual endeavors department, but some things made me question his heterosexual preference. Apparently, watching transsexual porn was his thing. He didn’t think he was gay, but I didn’t think this was one hundred percent straight either (red flag number 2).

Despite the red flags and kiddie tote baggage, we agreed to meet for drinks. Throughout our text exchanges, flag number three was signaling me down like a trooper on the express way. (One would think at 45 he wasn’t much for texting….he was King of New Age Communication). This man made me hot all the damn time! I don’t mind being someone’s vixen, but I do mind not being seen as anything more. Call me a feminist, but I have other things to do than spend my time being hot and bothered in the middle of the work day. Our conversations always led back to sex, or my body, or how hot I was. Yes, nice. I get it. But let’s talk about something else, please.

So I’d divert the conversations back to his craft; cooking. He was all mouth in telling me of new concoctions he’d created in the kitchen. Thank goodness. Like a bad cycle, I’m swooning and at my peak for different reasons. Funny how much comfort we looked for in one another. He was in it for my body, I was in it for his food. I didn’t care much about him or his kids, just tell me about your plans to open your second restaurant. Tell me about the Asian chicken salad you’re creating for a new grab and go item at work. Talk food to me sir. As far as I was concerned, the only common ground I had with his daughters was our love of the Food channel. That was all I needed.

Nevertheless, our initial date was just the way I like it; completely and utterly unconventional and one he’ll never forget. We made plans for a local, overpriced bar. I sat down ready to order and waiting for him to arrive but I couldn’t find my I.D! As much of a compliment this was to still get carded, it was not the time to be card-less for the first date. I did my usual ‘boob feel’ check. As my date walks up behind me, there I am in the midst of groping my breasts and going back and forth between my Burberry work bag. Chef smirks watching the exchange between the bartender and I.

“You forgot your I.D didn’t you?” He sees the discomfort in my sultry face. (Never remove the sultry look from your face, especially when you’re caught in the act of feeling on your breasts in a public.) “Let’s go somewhere else,” Chef suggests. He’s definetly the fatherly type. There was calmness and protection in his voice. It was the voice that could lead you astray if you didn’t stand firmly on ground. He wasn’t the best looker I ever came across (I’d say about a 6). But his persionality, 6’2 height, trendy comb-over hairstyle and Warby Parker glasses made up for the lack of youthful face. I drove us over to bar number 2 which was only a minute away with my gas light reminding me to stop and get some soon. Even if I was 30 miles to empty, my car does me the favor of being just as paranoid as I am. (I guess that was his red flag number 2. He already has two daughters, I don’t think he was in the market for another).

In the second bar, I’m a regular. I knew the female bartender and felt at home like I had a wingman on my date. I took my blazer off, and watched him take off his jacket. The handsome-ness peaked through a little more. His dark-washed jeans with a classic Ralph Lauren sweater echoed “old man” swagger. Sharp old man. Just my type. The hair, the glasses and the Omega watch he pulled out of his stash were my kind of old-man infatuations. All he needed was a pipe sticking out of the side of his mouth and I would’ve been Julia Roberts in “Pretty Woman” (after Rodeo Drive of course).

I won’t give away too much. A girl has to keep some things for her memory box. However, we did have a great time. Great dinner and great laughs. He was gentleman enough to pump my gas for me in the frigid cold which was nice because I might’ve chanced the ride home on E. Ultimately, I just had to follow the red flags and throw in the towel after that. Here, this old, newly bachelor was a horny teenaged boy all over again. I wanted him to respect me as he’d want a man to respect his daughters, and he just wouldn’t understand. Hopefully, he does before one of his girls’ brings home a man 17 years their senior. That’s when he’ll remember me because karma likes to work that way. If Karma’s a woman as I suspect, she’ll hit his ass with an old hornball coming to his door wanting to date his daughter wearing a classic Ralph Lauren sweater and dark-washed denim jeans. Just the way I like them, minus the transsexual porn-loving horn ball part. That’s just way too much kink for me.

Can’t teach an old dog new tricks dolls. Don’t waste your time trying.

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💏

Personal Vs. Professional Life

Do you remember the scene in the movie, The Devil Wears Prada when Anne Hathaway’s character says her relationship is on the rocks and her fashion colleague turns to her and says something along the lines of, “Honey, when your relationship is up in flames that means you’re getting a promotion.”

Well darling, let me be the first to tell you: That’s so damn true…

Whenever my personal life is in shambles, my professional career is blossoming like wild flowers. Or when my personal life is going too damn well, my work life is suffering. Its so nerve wrecking. Why can’t it all be smooth sailing and the balance scales of life be even on both sides at the same time? Would that make living way too easy? Life must be a beach, and I’m presuming our lives are the boats. If we’re experiencing nothing but clear skies and minimal waves, what will there be to keep us on our toes and sharp? As unfortunate as it is to endure, life would be kind of bland and monotonous without a bit of chaos somewhere.

When my ex and I officially broke up for the last and final time, a month later life blessed me with a new car. Talk about clearing dead weight for new and better things! It was unexpected but a total boost of confidence. I literally went into the dealership for service on my previous car, sauntered over to the sales department and walked out with a brand new car that evening. I had no idea this would happen. I didn’t carry any cash and I was wearing workout clothes from being in the gym prior. It was almost like the heavens and eternal skies opened up just for me! I felt amazing…

The romantic getaway in Vegas I planned just three months later, ended shortly after the trip. However, I did receive a promotion and raise with my current employer a few weeks following. That is totally my definition of winning when all is said and done. You can’t put a price on happiness, but success truly does feel wonderful. (Lets weigh the life scales in this scenario: Penis or pay raise? Penis or promotion?) God, I see the trend here!

Dear Penis, I’m investing in a chastity belt. Bye!

Fashionably Yours,

Tamara S.