The Cautious Blogger Don't Blog

I reckon I'll be taking another blogging hiatus around February this year, as my producing-partner and I will be producing our theatre awards show again this year.  I hardly blogged about it at all last year -- other than a brief explanation of why I wasn't around, and an expression of total joy when it was over. 

I mostly didn't blog about it because I didn't have the time -- but also because I didn't want to blog about it in the off-chance someone who knew about it actually read it.  I very much doubt any of my regular readers are the folks I happen to be doing business with in the real world -- but, like, when we were having trouble getting our license to sell beer and wine, I wouldn't want any negative thoughts I might have had on the topic being read by someone who happened to have a second-cousin who is friends with a guy at Alcohol Beverage Control, if you get what I'm saying.  I think it's safest to assume that your 'blog is being read by the last person on earth you want to read it, and to withhold information accordingly. 

Co-producing an awards show is a very stressful business.  People tend to piss you off.  I will therefore say no more about it.  :)

Similarly, I've been a little tight-lipped about discussing my whole sell-condo-buy-house thing, because I'm, er, a little pissed off at some folks involved in the process.  And while writing about it and sharing it with you all would be cathartic for me (and perhaps a cautionary tale for you), it seems the more prudent course is to not identify any homes I may be interested in purchasing (and certainly not how much I'd be willing to pay for them) nor any of the players who happen to be ANNOYING ME just now.  Just on the really really really really off-chance that word got back to the people word shouldn't get back to.

I've read enough horror stories about 'blog content getting read by people it wasn't meant to be read by to know it's best not to risk it.  Which probably explains why people blog about their cats so much.

I Will Not Write A Weight Loss Blog. I Will Not Write A Weight Loss Blog...

OK, let's just take a minute to celebrate my belt.

Years back, I got a really nice Coach belt for a holiday present.  It was a medium.  I was a small.  I could sorta wear it -- on the tightest of five holes -- and there was still a little room between me and it.

By the time my little weight-loss journey started, I was wearing it (if at all) on the fifth hole -- the loosest one.

Today, I put the belt on, and I'm right at the middle hole.  Woo!  Tangible evidence of weight loss.

The less tangible evidence is that my scale, which isn't the most accurate thing on earth, is pretty sure I've lost six pounds and is contemplating 7 or 8.  I'm extremely happy about this.  Extremely.  Eight pounds down is a number I've never even seen since the time I bought the scale, so the fact that my scale is toying with showing it to me is a real big incentive to stick with the Weight Loss Plan.

I think the biggest surprise that I've learned during this whole weight gain/weight loss thing is how much of a difference a few pounds makes.  Especially on a person of my diminuitive stature.

Eight pounds down is, apparently, a solid "medium" waist, as opposed to a large one.  Eight pounds down is, according to the Body Mass Index, no longer "overweight" but at the very tippy top of "normal weight." 

Most importantly, it is two pounds away from ten pounds down.  I've decided to adopt the idea I saw when Queer Eye for the Straight Guy did a weight loss episode, and give myself a "spa treatment" treat for each ten pounds I lose.  (Makes more sense than a food reward.)

I am sure this weight loss thing would be going even better if my ankle wasn't holding me up in terms of exercising, but I'm still eating (and sleeping) way healthier and so far (knock wood) that seems to be doing the trick.  :)

Before Beginning Any Exercise Program, Consult Your Physician

I am so annoyed.

OK, in case you aren't as caught up in my life as I am, here's the background.  About three years ago, I pulled a ligament in my foot.  I was ice skating regularly at the time, but I didn't hurt myself skating.  It was, instead, a freak theatre-going injury.  (Wore high boots, twisted ankle off of them.  Repeated about 6 times during the course of the same day.)  Anyway, I'd thought it was a strain or a sprain or something, but it didn't stop hurting, so I went to a Podiatrist, who said I'd pulled my ligament.  He told me to stop skating and wear a sports brace for six weeks.  At the end of the six weeks, he pronounced me "as cured as you're going to be" -- said my ligament was back at about 90% of what it had been before.  He said I could skate again, but warned me if I hurt it again, it probably wouldn't heal back to its then 90% status.

I tried skating, but I was so worried about re-injuring the ligament, I was really tentative and cautious -- and, as a result, skating was no fun.

Fast forward a couple years.  When I went with friends to Park City, I went skating for the first time in a very long time.  And it was great.  Ankle didn't hurt at all.  Thought I might look into skating again regularly.  In the meantime, I walk a lot with my neighbors, and always take the stairs and stuff for fitness.

Fast forward to my weekend away with dad at the healthy fitness resorty place.  When I met with the exercise physiologist, she told me to keep walking with the neighbors.  I'd mentioned the ligament injury and how that had kept me from skating, so she recommended the purchase of a "rock board" -- she said using it would strengthen the muscles in my ankle to compensate for the weak ligament, making it even safer for me to return to skating.  Sounded great.  I bought the rock board. 

Their shoe guy also recommended I buy them nice (expensive) new shoes with good arch support, because I pronate when I walk and this is likely negatively affecting my knees.  So, I bought the shoes. 

Every day, I either walk with my neighbors (wearing my new shoes) or do my ankle exercises on the rock board.

Until last week.  Last week, I went for a nice long walk with my neighbor, wearing my nice new arch-supporty shoes.  I even kept the shoes on for the next couple hours.  Got home and my ligament was killing me.  Ow.  Ow.  Ow.

And it hasn't stopped.  I don't know whether to blame the rock board or the new shoes or something else entirely.  All I know is that my stupid ligament is stupid reinjured stupid worse than it stupid was the stupid first time.  I've started wearing the brace again, and I hope it's helping (but it hasn't been that long so it's kinda hard to tell).  I think it would probably be a good idea to give up on the rock board ankle exercises until such time as someone other than an Exercise Physiologist with whom I've spoken for all of 20 minutes tells me that it's medically okay to use.  But what really roasts my cookies about the whole thing is that I can't even walk with my neighbors anymore, because I'm wearing the brace all the time, and that isn't particularly conducive to long walks.  Or stairs.  (Or going to Disneyland.) 

So, in my attempt to "strengthen the ankle muscles to compensate for the weak ligament" -- which, I hasten to add, wasn't even particularly weak at the time -- I've now killed my entire exercise program one measly month after it started.  Freakin' great.

I wuv my car

Good thing to have an SUV when you've gotta haul a bunch of stuff around.  Today's tasks included taking the first wardrobe box into my storage locker, and buying some huge plastic storage bins at The Container Store.  Both would've been impossible without the SUV.  As it was, I just plopped the seats down and had plenty of room to shove all that stuff in the back of my car.  Very cool.  (The full wardrobe box in particular never would've made it in my old car.)

Once I got the boxes home, I was delighted to discover I had guessed correctly on the size of plastic storage bin I needed.  (I believe the size in question is "big honkin'.")  But they were exactly the right size for me to fill with all of my spare bedding and linens and such.  This way, I can get all that stuff out of my closets -- and I'll have room to move all my breakables in there when the carpet installers come in a couple weeks.  Not to mention that my closets now look tidier.  I'd read that one of the things you ought to do when showing your home is to take some of the clutter out of the closets so they look bigger.  This I can do.  I need to wring every possible dollar out of this condo to get a good house, so I'm certainly going to do all necessary tidying.

Not exactly sure when I'll be able to get this stuff out to storage, though -- the facility is closed tomorrow for Labor Day and I've got shows to see Tuesday and Wednesday nights ... which basically means I'm going to have these boxes in the middle of my floor for the immediately foreseeable future.

Saw a lovely house today -- but it isn't in the running for possible purchase.  A friend and I just drove by and stopped in at the Open House, without having seen the price.  It was way outta my league.  But still good to see houses in different neighborhoods.

I can do a little more boxing up tomorrow.  I own over 20 collectible snowglobes (not the little crappy ones you get from tourist destinations, but the nice big, pretty ones -- many of mine are Disney ones).  ANYWAY, while there's no need to get them all out of here before showing the place, it wouldn't kill me to box up, say, half of them in advance.  Less to move when the carpet guys come, and I'll feel better knowing they're safe.  (I have saved all of their original boxes -- they're in my storage box in the garage.  I'll just box up the ten or so whose packaging is on the top of the stack.)

It's Real

Once upon a time ... gosh, it was about twelve years ago ... I decided to leave the law firm at which I was employed and look for a new job.  I remember the day.  A couple of unpleasant things had happened at work that day, and, in my mind's eye, I saw an hourglass turn over.  I didn't know how much sand was in it, but I knew that when the sand ran out, I would be out of there.  Turns out, it took about four months.  But at that moment, that's when I knew that the decision to leave the firm was real and that I would be gone as soon as I'd found a better place.

I've been looking for a new house lately.  I've been thinking about selling the condo and buying a house since April.  I've been going to "open houses" for a few months, and I've had a real estate agent actually showing me stuff for about a month.  But even though, no contracts were signed -- nothing definite happened.

Today, after my agent took me to see a few more houses, I went to Home Depot and signed a contract to get my place recarpeted.  (It will cost a bit more than I'd initially thought -- because a roll of carpet is 12 feet wide and my living room is 12 1/2 feet wide -- but still.)  There will be new carpet in here in two or three weeks.

I called a handyman to make an appointment to fix all the other stuff that needs fixing before I put my place on the market.

Then, I went to the storage place and rented a storage locker.  I also bought some boxes.  Came home and packed up the first box of stuff.  Taped it shut.  Put it in my car to go into storage tomorrow.

And the hourglass turned over.

Serves Me Right

I called my friends Tony & Deb tonight.  I know I dialed correctly, because my cell phone cheerfully displayed "Tony & Deb" on the screen, because it recognized the number I dialed as the one which has, in fact, reached Tony & Deb on countless occasions.

Except it did not reach Tony & Deb this time.  It reached some dude named Steve.  Steve seemed friendly enough about the problem.  And when I redialed (the phone again telling me I was dialling Tony & Deb), I actually reached Tony & Deb.

Can you still get your wires crossed when there's no wires?

Still Not Chad

Cell phone rang around 4:30.

"Hello?"

"Hi.  Can I talk to Chad?"

"I'm sorry.  You have the wrong number."

"Oh, OK."

Cell phone rang again at 7:30

"Hello?"

"Can I talk to Chad?"

"I already told you.  I'm not Chad.  You have the wrong number."

Around 11:07, I took my phone out to recharge it.  Two missed calls.  11:00 and 11:01.  Both from the number of Chad's friend.  I wait with the phone next to me.  It does not disappoint.  11:10

"Look.  I'm not Chad.  Stop calling this number."

"Well who is this?"

"What did you say?"

:::click:::

11:12.  Phone rings again.

"Still not Chad."

:::click:::

11:21.  Rings again.  I'm about to go into my "Call this number again and I call the police" spiel but she hangs up upon hearing my voice.