Well, Blogdom, this is about to be the most pointless entry I have ever written.

Let it be noted that today, 8/21/10, I ran out of almost every beauty product I own. Let’s count them, shall we?

• Foundation
• Concealer
• Powder
• Toothpaste
• Shampoo
• Conditioner
• Razor blades
• Face Cream
• Face wash
• Eye cream
• Blush
• Mascara
• Deodorant

I cannot tell you how strange it is to run out of every one of these items simultaneously. I feel sort of as though it’s a sign of some kind. Please excuse me while I count my pennies and snuggle with my body wash and plentiful lipglosses.

When I graduated from high school, I weighed 98 pounds. When I finished my freshman year, I weighed 103 pounds. When I was a sophomore, however, I got the fiercest case of mono that the world has ever beheld. I stopped dancing, but maintained my 4.0 GPA, despite carrying 23 course hours. I also acquired 40 pounds.

Over the past ten years, my weight has gone up and down. In moments of high stress or emotional crisis, I gain weight like gangbusters. I’ve even lost some weight, here or there. On any given day, however, it is highly likely that I’ll hop on the scale and see that I’m clocking in at 138.

Internet, I am 61 inches tall. 138 pounds is more pounds than I would like to see.

For the wedding, I’d like to weigh 130. Well… I’d really like to weigh 125, but that would put me at my lightest weight since The Great Mono Incident. 130 seems manageable, and is a weight that I’ve reached a few times, and held onto for more than two consecutive years, right before I met the Horse Whisperer. The problem is, losing weight is nearly impossible for me.

I know, I know, it’s basic science: more calories out than calories in means weight loss. That is so not true in my case. I’ve spent three weeks watching what I eat, eating carbs only if they are high in fiber, cutting out alcohol and sugar, and eating vegetables with wild abandon. Today I hopped on my scale, and discovered…

I have gained a pound.

I am not built to be a particularly small person. At 135 pounds, I wear a size 4. At 98 pounds, I wore a size 4. I have wide-set bones, and my ribcage is enormous. I don’t expect to look gamine, by any stretch of the imagination. But to be so careful and gain a pound is totally deflating.

We’re getting our engagement photos taken in a month, so the game is ON. I’d like to hit 135 by September 20. Let’s see what happens…

As of today, the Horse Whisperer is officially back on his “normal” schedule, working Wednesday-Sunday. In celebration of our final weekend together, we worked like crazy people to complete a few summer projects. First, we painted the guest room/office. This room had seen more than its fair share of nails and/or thumbtacks over the past 15-ish years, so the change was dramatic, not only in terms of color (dirty gray/beige into blue), but also in terms of “holy crap, that no longer looks disgusting.” Alas, I have no before photos, but here’s the after:

We did any number of wedding-related things, with which I will not bore you, except to say: HOLY MOLY. GETTING MARRIED IS EXPENSIVE, YO. We’re keeping it as simple as humanly possible, but when I get a quote of NINE THOUSAND DOLLARS to feed 100 people heavy h’ors doeuvres? WHAT THE HEY???

Edit: I realize that “simple as humanly possible” would be going to city hall and just signing the piece of paper. We’re not being that simple. I realize that my statement was hyperbole. To quote Whoorl, peace be with you.

Ahem.

We also went to my favorite place on earth, the San Francisco Ferry Building, for breakfast and some excellent people watching. And I finally got my one good knife sharpened! I am unreasonably excited about my ability to cut things! (Saying that last sentence aloud in a public place, without context, is a terrible idea, FYI.)

On Sunday, we borrowed a dear friend’s gigantor truck, and drove up to Petaluma to pick up this new friend:

My sweet former coworker has been cleaning out her garage, and she gifted us with this gorgeous piece. (Also the curtains in the guest room, come to think of it.) It will be my next refinishing project, though it may have to wait a bit. Too many irons in the fire at the moment!

On another note, you may notice that these photos feature a New! And improved! feature: SUNLIGHT. That’s right, we had peeks of sunshine all weekend, and I cannot tell you what a difference it makes.

So, in a nutshell, that was my weekend. What about you? Any adventures?

Since I moved to San Francisco, five long-but-short years ago, I feel like a few things about me have changed. I’m calmer, for one. I’m more responsible, and more respectful of my own limitations and boundaries. I verge on obsessive about composting and recycling. I love vegetables with a fervor. I consider a two-mile distance to be walkable. These are changes that I like.

But there is one change that I don’t like: These days, when someone approaches me on the street to speak to me, I automatically assume that they are crazy.

You see, where I grew up, people talk to strangers all the time. I go back to Virginia and have full-on conversations with people I’ve never seen before, nor will see again. (Well… actually, that’s not necessarily true. In a town of 8,000 permanent residents, you are likely to see everyone again at some point.) In San Francisco, people tend to be very guarded about talking to strangers. I’ve occasionally helped someone with a bag, or alerted them to something falling out of their purse, and I’m always first met with the stony look of, “Please don’t talk to me, Potentially Crazy Person.”

The truth, though, is that San Francisco is sort of full of crazy people. Generally, it’s pretty clear who they are: the guy on the bus screaming at the universe in general, the person wearing the tutu and tinfoil hat (caveat: this only applies on a day that isn’t a festival, when anyone may be wearing that combination. Or in certain neighborhoods, where anyone may be wearing that combination. Or… you know… on a Tuesday. When anyone may be wearing that combination). Sometimes, however, the crazy suddenly starts coming out of the mouth of someone you’d previously assumed was Not Crazy.

Last month, at my favorite fabric store, I was speaking with an employee about a beautiful piece of wool. We had an absolutely lovely conversation, when suddenly, she screamed, “Jesus Christ was an alien! Don’t you forget that!!!” And, just like that, I suddenly found myself on the receiving end of a monologue that combined aliens, Old Souls, Aztec prophecies, Jesus, and Barack Obama.

The smalltown southerner inside me is still learning how to walk away from the crazy, but it is a challenge. There’s a part of me that finds it sad that I have to turn off my empathic side in order to make it through the day without a crazy incident. I guess that’s just the cost of living here, but it sometimes bothers me. But it makes me appreciate getting off the plane in Virginia, smiling at someone on the corner, and the warm moment when they smile back.