Scientology and Poor Armus

So, I'm a bit out of sorts this morning.  I hate doctor's appointments, and, after last year, I expect every one of them to go bad.  We have at least FIVE doctor's appointments between us next week--gynecologist and skin cancer folks for me (plus a possible mammogram), hubby has a physical, and our boy has a physical plus an appointment with an oral surgeon to look at his screwed up x-rays.  Do I need to tell you my arrhythmia is having a joyous holiday in my chest?  It was worse last night than it's been in a long time.

Plus, I'm hungry.  Really hungry.  And disappointed.  I had really hoped to lose more weight before the doc's visits.  Somehow, saying "Yes, I gained back 75 of the 180 I lost, but I've now lost 25 of what I gained" sounds better than "I've now lost 17 of what I gained."  I know, when we're talking in terms of HUNDREDS of pounds, it's silly for me to obsess over eight.  But I am.

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New book out, shining a light on Scientology again.  I'm torn.  I mean, on the one hand, Scientology is quite obviously nutty, manipulative, scary, and all-around crazy and should be held up to scrutiny.  But you know what?

They all are.  Christianity, Islam, Judaism, Hinduism, Mormonism--they're all batty.  And they all should be held up to the scathing light of day.  Why is the idea of space aliens and "body thetans" any more crazy than the idea of goddesses with umpteen limbs or the water-walking-back-from-the-dead guy, or deities masquerading as talking, flaming shrubbery, or Ezekiel--have you read Ezekiel?  Utterly Patsy Cline.  Like Thorazine time.

I'm not defending Scientology--it sickens me.  But it drives me completely bonkers when devout Christians or faithful Mormons start to "diss" the theology of Scientology.  Um, kids?  Golden plates. Gods of your own planets. Pregnant virgins and talking serpents.  You have your own "buyability" issues.  Don't worry about theirs.

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Speaking of magical ghosts in the sky, it's a good thing I'm not superstitious, because otherwise I'd be feeling pretty seriously put-upon right about now.  See, we get a lot of wind here, but we only seem to get the "hand from the sky, send everything flying" sort of microbursts on Thursdays.

Yes, Thursdays.

That would be recycling day in the 'hood.  The day everyone puts out their bins (or, in our case, the big 64 gallon trash can) full of recyclables to be strewn, hell to breakfast, by the wowser wind gusts.  I know, you're thinking I have "blue Taurus" syndrome--I'm only noticing the wind on Thursdays because it only causes me grief on Thursdays.  But no, that's not it--see, we have TWO trash days a week, and the wind DOESN'T blow down the garbage cans on Mondays.  Only on Thursdays.  Only on recycling day (which is also a garbage day--both go out on Thursdays).  Invariably, Thursday mornings (only mornings) are freakishly gusty.

Probably a government plot, right?  Because we all love a good conspiracy theory.

Anyway, I'm eager for warmer weather, because chasing down recyclables and cans in the cold sucks.  Without shoes, it sucks even more.

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Hubby and I were laughing about a funny cultural thing that came up when we first moved in with my Mom.  She had wanted macaroni and cheese with hot dogs for dinner.  Hubby, being born and bred in Utah, thought she meant this:  

My Mother, being from Pennsylvania, would never have meant that.  She, in fact, meant THIS:

To his credit, hubby was horrified as he prepared what he thought we would want.  And he was relieved when we looked at like it was from another planet.  

THE PLANET UTAH

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Have written some new reviews over on Epinions--if you're into pet food, dog harnesses, chocolate, or digital cameras, have a look!
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Just got some bad news.  Armus, the dog we couldn't bring with us because she was too old to make the trip?  Fell down the stairs.  She's pushing 17 years old, and it looks like she's done for.  Armus, whom I hope hasn't been waiting for us to come home.  She's a good dog, but she's an old one, especially for her size.  The only Labrador Husky (that's a sled-dog breed) I've ever known.  I hope she recovers, but considering her age and health, this is probably her last.  Poor Armus.

Armus

L-R Bodhi, Armus (before her ears stood up) and JoJo

And that's about it.  A little of the joy in my day just poofed.

Do not reprint without permission. © KAQ

Armus waiting to die

Ever make yourself cry?  Not on purpose, not by reverberating on sad things, but just out of the blue by saying something that rebounds, gut punches you, and suddenly you're in tears?

Did that to myself last night.

Almost 16 years ago, my sister and her then-husband ditched their dog on us.  A huge, white thing (we later figured out she was a Labrador Husky), she was one year old and had already whelped a litter.  Her name was (and still is) Armus--named after the black blob from some Star Trek Next Generation episode (no, we didn't name her).

The dumping of Armus into our world wasn't supposed to be long-term. No, it was supposed to be "just for a few months, until we find another place."  All things considered, I should have known that was bull, but what are you going to do, right?  Say no?

Armus wound up staying with us for thirteen years.  To be fair, there was a point, maybe six years in, when my sister and the ex-bother-in-law (no, that's not a typo) offered to take her back.  By that time, she was joined at the hip with our other dog, and the bother-in-law planned to leave Armus outside.

No.  Not going to break up the happy couple so you can keep her on a chain in the back yard.  Turned out that, even if we had agreed, the dog would have been back a few years later, when they divorced and she moved into a "no pets" place.  How she left her three cats with us at that time is another story.

So Armus was ours for 13 years.  JoJo, her buddy for life, died.  And then we moved--first, to a place where we couldn't have a dog (and so we went to my mom's a few days a week to take care of Armus and keep her company).  And then we moved cross-country.  Oh, we agonized over that.  But, by then, Armus was 15 1/2, and was and there was no way she could make the move with us.   No matter how you sliced it, just getting her up into the cab of a gigantic truck (it had stairs and a pull-up bar to get in) would be hell on her and us (she's quite arthritic now), and making her ride on the floor, cramped up, for 500 or so miles a day?  For the better part of five days?

I didn't think she'd survive it.

So Armus is now almost 17 years old.  Mostly deaf, has a hard time getting down those three little stairs to go outside and do her business.  My sister goes over with her kids and helps make sure Armus is being cared for.  I was telling hubby and son that Armus had fallen down in the snow and ice the other day, and my Mom, who is 78, wound up also falling in the snow and ice trying to help the dog.  Between the two of them, they managed to drag each other into the house.  I said, "I can't believe Armus is still chugging along--amazing!"  Hubby said, "I know, it's a near-miracle."  And I said, with zero forethought, "What if she's just waiting for us to come home and play with her?"

Oh, damn.

That was it, I started to laugh, but I was crying, too, and the crying took over pretty quickly.  What a crappy thing to think of.  What a devastatingly SAD thought.  What if she IS waiting for us?

And now I'm crying again.  Poor Armus.

I'm not sure what to do about my weight at this point.  I had lost six pounds, but, in a month-and-a-half, I've managed to gain back that six PLUS eleven more.  Seriously, seventeen pounds I've gained since the beginning of January.  It astounds me, how fast I can gain, it's unnatural.  If gaining weight was an Olympic sport, I'd do my country proud, you know?  But I was back on it yesterday, and I'm back on it today, and I've just got to make this work.  It's easier when I can sleep.  But waking up at five in the morning is almost a guarantee that I'm going to start grazing.  This morning, I forced myself back to sleep, and it worked.  Big pear and ice water for breakfast, I'll have my nummies for lunch (only 200 calories), and I'll have pasta for dinner (we do pasta very carefully).  Even with smoothies for dessert, I'll come in at around 1,400 calories for the day.  More than anything, I need to force myself to keep track on My Fitness Pal every day.  That's what does it for me--accountability.  Seeing what I'm taking in and admitting it.  

So here I go again and still.  Forever.

Bad paneling?  I dunno, I'm a bit down right now.  Probably later, though.