Bowing to Lady Luck

I've never played the lotto before. Why would I? Sure, I understand the joy some people get out of it, but why pay something for nothing? That's always been my perspective.

Of course, with a $640 million Megasuperawesome jackpot on the line, I think I can cough up the cash for a few shots at rich-person joy.

When I win, I will:

1) Quit my job and spend a year writing in Paris, Stockholm, Dublin, Madrid, Florence...
2) Buy my parents a vacation house in Tahoe.
3) Get a Mini Cooper convertible. A gold one. With a kickass sound system.
4) Donate to No H8, SMA research and animal shelters.
5) Buy my cat a diamond encrusted litter box, or he'll eat my face.
6) Buy a handbag or 17. Marc Jacobs. Maybe a little Prada. Definitely some Chanel.

Come on, Lady Luck. The Universe has not been kind to me the last few years, don't you think I'm owed?

Visual Memories: June 2007 - Seattle, Washington

Back to My Beginning

I am officially only 2.4 pounds heavier than I was in high school.

This is a momentous occasion.

I thought I was such a heifer my senior year of high school, 165 pounds at 5'5 and miserable about it. I joined Weight Watchers in April of 2006. By September of 2006 I was down to my lowest weight ever, 133 pounds.

Of course, I still saw myself as huge, fat, grotesque. Looking back at pictures now, it breaks my heart to remember the loathing I felt when I looked in the mirror, when I should have felt nothing but pride.

I went away to college, gained it all back plus more, dieted again, lost it again, you know how it goes. At my highest weight in 2010 I was 199.5 pounds. On January 1st of this year, approaching my 24th birthday, I was 195, and joined WW again.

Today, I'm 167.6, bitches. Almost back where I started six years ago.

It's different, this time. I've learned that true change cannot come from a place of self-hate, but from a place of self-love. The choices I'm making are for health and happiness, not to achieve some unattainable ideal of beauty. I'm not filled with shame. I don't feel bitter. I don't hate myself.

I'm learning that exercise is not a punishment for being fat. I'm learning to love what my body is capable of. I'm learning to love sweat.

I'm starting to cook. I'm currently having a love affair with leafy lettuce. I can go out to a restaurant, and make good choices. I can indulge in cupcakes, and get back on track tomorrow.

I can really do this. I am doing this. And it feels amazing.

Flipar en Colores

For weeks I harassed every one of my friends and family with the same question:

What should I name my blog?

The suggestions ranged from the literal "Tips from T" to the ridiculous "Self-Conscious Dancing". I played with lyrics, quotes, names of movies. Something about cats? Something about LA? Something about the size of my ass?

"The Blog of Nonsense"?

Some were too long, some just weren't memorable. I didn't care about it being too descriptive, since this blog will be a mishmash of topics ranging from fashion to music to food to sex, but I didn't want it to be completely out of left field.

A few days before my birthday, I was chatting online with my Facebook wife, who has been living in Spain for the past three years. *cough*luckybitch*cough* We were tossing around ideas, then she mentioned a phrase she had learned that day, "flipar en colores". Basically, "to flip out in color".

I was sold, instantly.

I don't really have a "medium" setting. I swing from extremes, I'm bubbling over with glee or deep in a funk, I'm all or nothing. I obsess, I fixate, I love with the deepest of passions, I cry with full body sobs that make my cat search the apartment for the wildlife making such an inhuman sound.

I freak out in color.

Visual Memories: July 30th, 2007, 3:29 PM - London, England

May the odds be ever in your favor...

I went to my first midnight premiere last night for "The Hunger Games". Thank the baby Jesus for the ArcLight Dome and their assigned seating, because I could never have handled the insanity of lining up. LA traffic reared its ugly head, but I got there just in time and was settled in my dead center balcony seat at 11:55, right before the director Gary Ross introduced the film.

I do so love living near Hollywood.

As for the movie...as close to perfection as I could hope for from an adaptation of such a dense and dramatic book. My only worry before going in was that I wouldn't want to rip Peeta's clothes off his bread-baking body...but I did. So it's all good.

My father just started reading the books, so I'm SURE I'll go again, and no doubt have further thoughts after a second viewing. But ultimately, as a huge HG fan and avid critic of movie adaptations, my expectations were met and surpassed.

Cannot WAIT until Thanksgiving 2013!

Songs for...

I'm a little obsessive about my iTunes.

Specifically, my playlists.

There are folders. There are categories. There are perfectly crafted soundtracks to parties, meetings, memories, life.

I may have a problem.

There's the normal folders, like "TV", with a dozen hefty playlists of all the songs used on some of my favorite shows. And "Playcounts", with not only my Top 100 played but songs with playcounts of 0, 1, or 2. (A lifelong goal to have no unplayed songs in my iTunes was thwarted a few months ago by the purchase of a new computer.)

My "AA" folder contains the playlists other people have actually heard. Eventually I want to start a business doing music design for weddings and events, but to date I've only done one friend's wedding and a few work events. Baby steps.

My "Life" folder has playlists for each of the last four years. I keep track season by season of my favorite songs, which all eventually end up together in a yearly list. When I'm feeling nostalgic, I simply shuffle this folder and soak up auditory memories.

The next folder is just "Random". The mix I made for my 21st birthday party, titled "Childhood Regression". Three years of Vegas road trip playlists. A California themed soundtrack for sunny days.

Then there's my "Songs for..." folder. First there's songs for now, all the current tunes that get stuck in my head. Then there's...

Songs for screaming.

Songs for sexing.

Songs for sighing.

Songs for singing.

Songs for smiling.

Songs for smoking.

Songs for stillness.

Songs for sweating.

Yeah, I might have a problem.

Tut Tut, Looks Like Rain

It's a blustery, storm day in Los Angeles. Not as much rain as they promised me, those teasing meteorologists, but this morning was beautiful. The sound of pouring rain when I woke up, then 75 minutes of sweaty, hot hot yoga and burning, burning muscles.

A lovely, me-centric Saturday. I'm not lonely at all.

Nope.

I'm sure I could find some St. Patty's shenanigans if I really wanted to. But holidays centered around drinking tend to bring out the worst in people. And a sea full of assholes is not something I feel like swimming in.

I'd much rather sit here, cuddled up with my cat, watching "How I Met Your Mother" for the first time on Netflix. No complaints.

Maybe a little cliché .

Birthday Bliss

I had a beautiful birthday, full of amazing friends and family who put in more effort than necessary to make me feel special.

I have a birthday hangover today. Not from tasty cocktails, but from fun. A bittersweet day, my birthday.

View from The Penthouse at the Huntley Hotel

Santa Monica, CA

Birthday Stripes

Birthday Sparkles

Boa Steakhouse

Santa Monica, CA

Birthday Musings

Like any true narcissist, I love my birthday. An entire day devoted to me. What could be better?

Of course, I'm not really a narcissist. I certainly hope not. I do, however, spend an exorbitant amount of time looking in the mirror. But any other woman with tragically low self-esteem who's trying to lose weight would probably say the same. Which is...likely almost every other woman.

I am 24 today. Officially mid-20s. I'm not sure the excuse "but I'm only 24!" really flies. "I'm only 23", sure. But the second you hit 24, you lose the excuse of youth.

You're an adult, bitch, deal with it.

Of course, I still can't rent a car. Or drive a tow-truck. So I guess I'm allowed just one more year of youthful indiscretions.

Bring it on.