"We should have each other for tea, we should have each other with cream."

I always hesitate to get gushy about things because the cynic in me is afraid that if I celebrate something too much, it'll be taken away from me. Years of judgment and rejection and chaos and having things promised and then taken away from me at the last minute have turned me jaded, to the point where now I'm always keeping one hand on my purse and trying to avoid getting myself hurt.

But right now, things in my world are coming up roses and I couldn't be more tickled about it.

There's a boy, an incredibly beautiful boy who lives in Santa Monica and is an amazing artist and a photographer and a musician and a gamer. He's funny and smart and never fails to put a smile on my face. We haven't even met in person yet and he makes me giddy every time we talk. I really want things to work out with him; it's rough so far because he's in Santa Monica, all the way out west, and I can't tackle him for hugs and cuddles and movie-watching and such just yet. The waiting is killing me, the anticipation makes me itchy and antsy. But that lingering self-defeating part of me keeps thinking "You're not that great in person, he likes the 'you' that he sees in social media because you can censor what he sees. You control it." Real life doesn't have flattering photo angles and Instagram filters and the 'edit comment' button after you've said something stupid.

There's a city, much bigger than mine, with stars on the sidewalk instead of the sky. It's a city where people go to pursue their dreams; go West, young man! has been the mantra for so long and everyone thinks of the golden era of Hollywood, the tinseltown dreams. But I've been visiting since I was a little girl. Every time my shoes hit the pavement of the city of the angels I feel like I'm exactly where I'm meant to be. I love the neon and kitschy, trashy chic of the boulevard, the sleaze of the strip, the quiet elegance and pretentiousness of the hills, the coyotes in the canyons. The city is alive with hopes and dreams both alive and dead. It's a vampire that sucks you dry, but it feels good while it's got its teeth in you.

There's an opportunity, huge and hanging over me like a guillotine blade and a brass ring all in one.

I live in fear of fucking up. I have lived in a small conservative town my entire life, almost three decades now, and I have developed a reputation. People know that I work hard; people trust me and ask me to work on projects with them. I have good rapport with my colleagues. But this is a small fishbowl and a lot of people are content with being here, swimming in circles. I crave adventure; my wanderlust is terminal. I have always wanted to see what's outside this particular bowl, to go into shark-infested waters without a cage. Something about that idea has always seduced me and until now, I settled for visiting aquariums and watching the sharks through glass, full of envy but also that slight tickle of relief that I was safe on this side.

I don't want to be safe anymore. I want to jump in without an oxygen tank, without a snorkel, without anything to fend off their teeth, and I want to see what I'm actually made of.

Am I scared? Sure, of course. So much is at stake and at the end of the day I could lose everything I've worked for. I could let people down. I could show that beneath everything, I was just smoke and mirrors and a good poker face. I don't think that's true--- I think I'm strong enough, and smart enough, and tough enough, to do this--- but I fear it might be. And I think that in the past, when amazing opportunities have been lain at my feet, I've always found excuses not to do those things, not to go. I've convinced myself that it was too soon, too big, too expensive, too reckless. Any number of things. And yet I know that most of those excuses were simply because I was scared of getting in over my head, of doing something that was outside of my comfort zone. It's funny because people have accused me of being fearless before, or said things like I wish I was as brave/confident as you and all I could think was 'Damn, I should get an Emmy or something.'

I went to see Russell Brand's comedy show Messiah Complex in Austin last night and while the show was hilarious, it was also very poignant and Russell spoke about people who he considered to be his own personal heroes. He picked people like Gandhi, Malcolm X and Che Guevarra, not because they were necessary 'flawless' (he actually made a point of discussing how they were most assuredly not) but because they had traits he admired; Gandhi's brilliant mind, Malcolm X's incredible courage and ability to lead people, and Che's unflinching heart and strength. He encouraged the audience to choose our own heroes "because if you don't choose your own, the media will choose them for you", which I thought was brilliant. I don't know who my heroes are. There are people I admire of course, mostly writers or musicians, some filmmakers, but are they 'heroes'? Do I live and die by their philosophy? I'm not religious and I'm not terribly philosophical most of the time in my day-to-day life, so how do I shape my world views? Who guides me?

I don't know. I just know that I do want to fulfill my purpose... I want to be enthusiastic about my life. I want to wake up every morning going "I can't believe I'm doing this today!" with an excited smile instead of dread. Making a huge salary isn't important to me, as long as I'm comfortable; what's more important is having adventures, not being stagnant and bored, refusing to let myself settle for something mundane.

This morning I was 215. This last damn 15 pounds is killing me... clinging. I am so ecstatic about my weight loss--- the other day I went to the mall and tried on stuff in every store, it felt like.  At American Eagle Outfitters I found some spectacular jeans that fit me like a glove, and even better, they were a size 14. That is by FAR the smallest size I can ever remember wearing; I certainly wasn't a 14 in high school.

 

At Forever 21 I tried on tons of dresses... not from the plus-sized section, either. I can fit into a regular 'large' at F21 if it isn't super-unforgiving fabric or just regular denim. Some of the things, like a leather skirt I tried on, were nowhere near fitting, but these pleather leggings were awesome. I didn't buy anything though, and I was more than a little confused about why everything is so SHORT. Even if I were to wear leggings with everything (which, c'mon, it's Texas and still in the high 90s despite it nearly being October!), these dresses fit more like shirts.

 

 I'm so grateful to be losing weight but at the same time it's upsetting because the skin is beginning to sag as the fat vanishes and I don't know if I'm going to need cosmetic surgery to fix that later. The surgeon told me that usually you lose most of your weight in the first year, and then the second year your skin 'catches up' and tightens considerably. Exercise and lots of hydration help, of course. But I am beginning to have saggy skin kind of everywhere; my upper arms are floppy, my belly is getting saggy instead of flabby, my ass is drooping a little, and my legs, always my worst features, are gross. I don't know if I want to have body contouring done; it's something I'd have to pay for out of pocket, the recovery time on it is rough to say the least, and I don't want to necessarily look like Frankenstein's bride when we're done here. But another part of me is already thinking "If you get thin, you're damn sure going to get hot, damnit" and I want to wear a bikini or a super-short dress in public without being horrified. It'd be nice to get to stand in front of a lover in sexy underwear without worrying about my cellulite, while we're at it.

For now, I'm going to kick up the gym time (I've been really slacking lately), boost the protein even more, and smack myself into high gear.

And keep my fingers crossed about these upcoming changes. Something is pulling me to Los Angeles; whether it's divine forces or not, I am feeling some Manifest Destiny in my very near future.

Sometimes fires don't go out when you're done playin' with them.

It was a really, really big weekend for me, which is why it's been a little bit since my last blog post! But some exciting things have happened in the interim there!

For one, I got to come out to Horrorhound, a really big horror convention that's associated with the famous magazine by the same name. In Indianapolis, which I had never visited, I met my friend Shae, who I've known online for quite awhile. She also works the convention and we were assigned as celebrity handlers. She was seated with Jamie Kennedy, while I had the pleasure of working for Gerrit Graham (The Phantom of the Paradise, C.H.U.D. II, Terror Vision, Child's Play 2, Used Cars). I had a blast sitting and talking to Gerrit while he met with his fans; during the weekend we also met such horror royalty as Amy Steel, Steve Dash, Steve Miner, Mark Patton, Megan Ward, Robert Englund, and many more. The convention was also home to MaskFest, a special FX sub-convention where makeup artists brought masks, life-sized busts, prop replicas and more to display and sell. Needless to say, I found more than a few things that I desperately needed to own. I also did much better with this convention than I did at Texas Frightmare Weekend back in May as far as taking care of myself; I drank plenty of water to stay hydrated and ate sensibly since our hotel room had a fridge in it. All in all, when the con wrapped I managed to escape with nothing more serious than a sore throat. Impressive, considering how many people leaned over and breathed on me during the weekend and how much dirty money I handled, hands I shook, etc!

Now that I'm back home and to the grind, working on getting things finalized for the Sacrament wrap party on Sunday and a friend's birthday on Friday and reshoots for the movie on Saturday (whew!), I decided to treat myself to a little retail therapy. My scale is still hovering right around 220 (damn), but I know that the weight is shifting around because my sizes are drastically changing. I've gone from a size 22/24 in jeans and tops to a 16 in most brands of jeans (18 in some of the less-forgiving ones, 14 in one pair of incredibly-undersized ones) and a medium in t-shirts as of this weekend. I can't remember ever wearing a medium since at least middle school and it elated me to no end to be able to get a 'staff' shirt at the convention without having to first ask how big their sizes went.

Still, with smaller sizes comes the price of wanting to shop. Gone are the days when I would go to the local mall and have to browse for accessories while my friends ducked into cute stores and tried on anything they saw on the racks. Now I go to Forever 21 or Aeropostale or any other store and can find something that fits me almost every time.

Today, however, I ducked into Forever 21 and found a pair of luscious black heels. Now that I'm not carrying around as much weight, I've developed a huge affection for them. They still have to have elevated platforms and thick heels, I'm not rocking stilettos or anything drastic that you might see on a stage while someone tosses dollar bills at me, but I love not having the ankle and knee pain that comes with the weight I was hauling around.

I snagged the heels and a fabulous black leather jacket with studs on the shoulders. They had a similar jacket in their plus-sized section last year, but even the 3X was way too small for me and I couldn't have dreamt of buying it. This one is a 1X and I honestly could've maybe gone down a size but wanted it to be roomy enough when I have a shirt beneath it.

I was definitely channeling my inner Lady Gaga when I tried it on, though... wearing it over just a bra seemed pretty cool. Plus I was kind of ecstatic that it zipped.

But the best was yet to come.

As you can tell in the photo, the red bra isn't quite cutting it anymore. I was a 44D when I started my weight loss journey, and I had my bra hooked on the loosest clasps on the back for comfort. It wasn't that I had 'huge' boobs by any means, I've never been that busty, but lately I've noticed a lot of room in the cups and even the tightest setting on the band wasn't cutting it anymore. I went to Lane Bryant recently and snagged a 40C, which was better but still didn't quite feel right.

So on a whim, I walked into the one store... the dreaded store. The one I've never set foot in unless it's to check out the fragrances. The one that has a fashion show every year full of devastatingly beautiful, flawless models; the one that puts out a catalog that has a reputation for men stealing it from their wives' collections; the one that calls their models 'angels' because no one so beautiful could be from Earth.

I went into Victoria's Secret.

I was half-expecting someone to hurry over and redirect me to the makeup or perfume section; fat girls, as everyone knows, don't shop at VS. Their panties only go to a size large; their clothing is made for people who have never been called names like elephant or had someone yell where are your knees? when they wore shorts on the playground in elementary school.

I spotted a curvy black girl with perfect makeup and manicured nails arranging the bottles of body wash and sparkly perfume and approached her timidly. "Excuse me?" I asked, my voice low. I could feel myself blushing. I didn't belong here. She was going to give me That Look, the one I've gotten every time I have ever walked into Express or Gap or the True Religion store. We have nothing here for you was coming, or Do you want me to show you the purses?

Instead she smiled sweetly. "Can I help you?"

Quietly, still blushing, I explained that I'd had weight loss surgery and this was the first time I had ever been able to possibly fit into a bra that wasn't 'plus sized'. She nodded and smiled and then I got down to it.

"You guys have so many bras, and I really don't even know where to start," I said sheepishly. "I don't know anything about any of them... do you work in bras or just the cosmetic stuff?"

She said that she only worked in the cosmetic stuff, but she walked me over to a sales associate, a beautiful blonde who was folding panties into a display table. She introduced the two of us and left us to it.

The girl beamed and said, "What can I do for you?" so I explained again that I had been a 44D but now I had lost quite a bit of weight and wanted to find a better bra that would fit me appropriately. "I have a 40C at home," I said uncertainly, "so maybe that's the right size?"

Her face fell for just a second. "I'm sorry, honey, but we don't carry 40s in the store, only online," she said apologetically. I could feel my face start to turn pink. There it was--- you're still too big. You're not allowed here. I took a step backward, nodding, already coming up with my apology for wasting her time, and she eyed me for a second and then said, "Hang on just a minute" before scuttling off in her heels. She came back with a tape measure.

If you've ever been fitted for a bra, you know what happens next. But have you ever been fitted for a bra by a girl with a body like a model, while her cool manicured hands touch your flabby stomach and the batwing arms you're desperately trying to tighten with kettlebell swings? I hadn't; the girls at Lane Bryant who had fitted me years ago were big, fluffy girls with mountain ranges for breasts and soft hands. They were used to saying large numbers, letters further in the alphabet than most smaller-sized shops needed to carry. They were used to big girls.

She left the dressing room and I stared at myself in the mirror for several moments while I waited. There I was, in my size-16 jeans that were actually a little loose on my hips and the dreaded red bra that gapped on the sides and the straps that, no matter how much I tightened them, slipped down my shoulders. My confidence, which had been so prevalent in Forever 21 while strutting in that black leather jacket and heels, was shaky, seismic under my flip-flopped feet.

She returned with a black bra dangling from her fingers. "This," she said brightly, "is your size."

"You said you guys didn't carry 40s in the store," I reminded her, flushing as she stepped outside the door to wait for me to change.

"You're not a 40," she returned. "You're a 38B."

While I can't say that I am enjoying continually losing letters in my bra size, the measurement gave me pause. "Are you sure?" I asked as I slipped into the Body by Victoria lingerie. I couldn't believe how slinky it felt, the soft t-shirt-like material, the way I couldn't feel the underwire. I adjusted the straps and after a minor bend-and-wiggle (every girl knows what I mean), I straightened up and stared at myself.

And started crying.

"Are you okay?!" she asked, hearing me sniffling behind the door but not so presumptuous as to try and come in.

And, in a bra and a pair of jeans, I opened the door and hugged her. I didn't even say anything, I just hugged her.

I know it sounds stupid to people, but I haven't been able to fit into anything in that store since I grew boobs. All through my adolescence, my friends got breasts and we would go to the mall, and they would buy their push-up bras and sexy lacy things. When the coupons came in my mailbox for a free pair of panties, I would pass them dutifully off to slimmer friends; I bought my bras (granted, some of them were cute, but still) at Lane Bryant, huge things with padded straps to hold up the weight of your boobs and wide bands in the back to try and suppress the dreadful backfat, multiple industrial-strength hooks to clasp it shut, packages of extenders sold discreetly by the register Just in Case. And now I was allowed to come into this forbidden wonderland of bright Pink and feathered angel-winged mannequins and I was able to buy a bra and no one would look at me and say Did you want to pick up some body spray today? Maybe some lipgloss? because that was all that would appeal to someone like me in that girly, much-revered land of underthings.

I walked out with two fabulous push-up bras, a bounce in my step, and swung that little pink bag in one hand as I walked through the mall, knowing that for the first time in my life it wasn't a fragrance collection in that iconic little bag.

Now that is what I call a Non-Scale Victory.

"Here our dreams aren't made, they're won."

 

Everything on my end is turning kind of topsy-turvy right now and I am trying to get my bearings.

We have finally wrapped principal photography on the film, which is amazing because we worked so hard on it all summer. I can't even count the number of hours I've spent on this movie, and I'm so ready to see the final product when it gets out of post-production in a few months.  If you haven't watched the trailer, please check it out and give it a thumbs-up or 'share' it with your own friends if you dig it. It's gonna be a gory good time.

In addition to finishing up the first movie I've really worked on in this capacity, I've been stressing about trying to get the house cleaned out, listing things on eBay en masse, taking things to the thrift shops, etc. to try and clear the rooms. I have a big holiday party every year and invite all of my friends over, and it's going to be a hell of a lot more difficult if there's piles of shit everywhere people have to walk around creating a labyrinth in the house. It's a daunting task that I'm kind of tackling head-on by myself, but I'll get there. Just need to discipline myself--- every time I get overwhelmed I sit down and check Facebook or leave to go out and get some fresh air for awhile, and that really isn't a great strategy when it comes to trying to get things done.

My photography has really been keeping me busy too. I've done multiple photo shoots in the last few weeks, and it's so much fun coming up with ideas, gathering props, designing 'looks', etc. Soon my very dear friends Matt and Donna and I (as well as several of my other friends, once we get things situated closer to time) will be filming a music video for a great band in Dallas, which I'll be directing. I can't wait for that to happen either; it'll be awesome to see one of my visions come to life like that. I hope, haha... big projects always seem fun until you're pulling your hair out in the middle of them.

I'm traveling a lot--- as a matter of fact, I don't have a free weekend from now until November. I'm going to Indianapolis on Thursday for HorrorHound, which should be fun; I've never been before, and my friend Shae is bringing me on staff to assist her since she works the con every year. Then I come back and get ready for a weekend of re-shoots and pickup shots for "Sacrament" as well as the wrap party, then head to Columbus, OH to see Thirty Seconds to Mars play, then fly out to Los Angeles for a week. The jetset life isn't for the faint of heart, that's for sure...

Speaking of Los Angeles, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately and there are major changes on the horizon for me. I graduate college with my AAS in Marketing in December (assuming I pass Intro to Economics this semester, that is...) and I have been looking at job options. There are places in Dallas I could apply, and Dallas is where the vast majority of all of my friends live. I have a built-in family there, a safety net of people who love me and care about me and would look out for me if something went wrong. But the original plan was to move in with some friends, and that plan has been put on indefinite hiatus, and when I started looking at the rent for places I liked in decent areas of Dallas, I realized that for what I would spend in rent to live in the city, I could live in an even bigger city with even more opportunity.

My darling friend Steph helps manage an apartment building only a few blocks from Hollywood Boulevard; they're charming, adorable little units with hardwood floors and French windows, right off the freeway, and when I stayed with her in August we walked to the Chinese Theater in about ten minutes of easy roaming. She lives in the heart of Hollywood and the units in her building cost the same amount as a mid-to-nice loft-style apartment in the 'heart' of Dallas. Not to mention that I have a lot of friends in LA too, and a boy that I really like lives there, and considering that I want to get into the media industry, what better place to try and dive in headfirst than Los Angeles? I'm twenty-seven, I have no kids, and my only family left here is my grandma, who supports me going out there. There will never be a better opportunity for me to just pack up and head west than right now.

I figure that I'll go out there after graduation and sign a one-year lease. That will give me one year to throw myself into LA culture, apply for jobs, and try to get my feet in the door. If things don't work out, I will always be able to return to Texas after that year's up and say "Oh well, I tried". But the saying is 'nothing ventured, nothing gained' and if I don't at least give it a shot, I'll never know if I could've pulled something amazing off or not. I need to at least try--- Los Angeles has always felt like a home-away-from-home for me, and I've wanted to live there ever since my mom first took me there on vacation when I was little. I get so sad every time I leave behind that land of palm trees and neon lights and that constant tingly feeling in the atmosphere that anything could happen.

So, as of right now that's the plan. We'll see how it plays out, but I am going to be spending my fall working toward this goal and hoping that if I hit the ground running, I'll at least land on my feet.