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.

A Culture of Anger and Happy Birds

I was reading my old local rag this morning (that would be the Ogden Standard Examiner, if you're interested) and came across a story about at trucker who was stabbed in the chest by another trucker.  Using a screwdriver. 

Why?  What had the gentlemen with the tool in his chest done to earn this?

He drove too slowly, apparently.  The other trucker, frustrated, whipped around him, then cut him off, got out of his truck, stomped back, and stabbed him in the chest with a screwdriver!

Calm the hell down.  I'm serious, if you have ever, EVER considered shooting, stabbing, beating, or otherwise accosting someone because their driving isn't to your liking, you need to hand those keys over to a sane person and take the damned bus. 

Hand your firearms over, too.  You're one of the scary ones who shouldn't have them.

Had someone last night tell me that the news is slanted, they only report the bad, never the good.  That things aren't as bad as they seem, it's just that the news broadcasts focus on the awfulness instead of the goodness.  This is an argument that has long bothered me.  See, asking the media to report every time something good happens is like calling your doctor every morning and shouting, "Doc!  Ever few seconds I breathe out!  And then in!  And then out!  And my heart?  It's beating 70 times a minute!  And I feel good!  And nothing hurts!"  Okay, that's great, it is, we're all very happy about that, but it's not news.  It doesn't possibly affects us ("Officials warn us to be on the lookout for a 6'2" bald male wearing a dark gray Kenneth Cole suit with a predominantly grey Brioni silk tie and matching pocket kerchief. Witnesses report he offered a woman in line at 7-11 the 56 cents she was short on her morning donut, then, after paying for his coffee and fuel, he smiled at three people.").   It's not unusual or surprising.  It doesn't need to be brought to our attention in order to perhaps inspire us to action.

I'm not saying the news hasn't gone a bit over the line when it comes to the orgy of coverage some awful things get, but to suggest that the news should focus on happy, good things?  That's silly.  Sunny, mild weather is nice, but it's the hurricane and its attendant 11 inches of rain that means to do me harm.

On the subject of silliness, the "end of the world" bull is hitting a fever pitch.  I wish there was some way to inspire these folks to send me all their money.  After all, the world's ending, what do they care?  I think my only fear is the "self-fulfilling prophecy" crowd.  You know, the ones who would decide to use that date as their "going out with a bang" date.  In other words, I'm not scared that the Mayans were right, but I am a little worried that someone might do something in order to try and prove that the Mayans were right.


And speaking of proving people right, don't do this.  Don't decide that, because someone thinks ill of you, you may as well live down to their expectations.  How childish is that?  "Well, if you already think I'm having an affair (or stealing, or not trying at school, or whatever), then I might as well just DO that!"  How incredibly immature is that response?  It's a common one in folks I've known, and it drives me utterly batty.  If someone downs you, if someone assumes the worst about you, just tell them they're wrong and continue being YOU.  Really, what do you prove by becoming the scumbag they say you are?  Besides that you're stupid?


A small note for the "if the teachers had been armed" crowd.  Please read up on the Fort Hood disaster.  A base full of highly trained soldiers, with weapons galore, and that guy managed to shoot up 45 people (13 fatally) before a couple of Army cops put an end to it.  Those were highly trained soldiers, and they couldn't stop a shooter.  You expect a group of kindergarten teachers to do better?  I'm not dissing teachers, I love them, but they're not soldiers, and even soldiers struggle with a shooter scenario.  So stop being silly.  Arming teachers is a ridiculous idea.


It's so close to Christmas, and we're all getting a little antsy.  Thinking about moving the date up a few days, opening the presents early.  Like Friday, maybe.  Or tonight.  Maybe claiming that space between Hanukkah and Christmas as our own holiday.  Maybe naming it "Impatience."  It has a nice ring to it.


Had Dreamfield's angel hair pasta with Italian chicken breast and Wegman's tomato basil sauce.  We carefully measure servings, and augment the pasta with julienned carrots, which makes for a bigger, tastier, healthier meal.  Hubby made cheese crisps in the oven--you just grate up parmesan or asiago cheese with some Italian herbs, put one tablespoon of cheese in each muffin pan spot, and then bake it.  Super tasty, and I can do that and not blow my calories.  In fact, I was a couple hundred under yesterday.  Tonight's fajitas, made with boneless, skinless chicken, red bell peppers, onions, spices, and two tablespoons of fat free sour cream wrapped up in a Kontos Lavash, which is easier on my carbs (and super tasty).  We'll have it with black beans (Goya low sodium) spiced up to our liking and one serving of Mexican rice.  Well under my calories for the day, and I do love the meal.

It's almost that time again--in February, it'll be the Great Backyard Bird Count.  I do it every year, it's easy--just put aside a piece of time and count how many of what birds you see in your yard, park, or wherever.  It's free, it's a worthy cause (trying to get a good idea of how different species of birds are doing in this changing climate), and it's fun.  Here's a link:

That's a Waxwing in the button above, by the way.  Saw some the other day in a pyracantha bush, eating the berries.  It's been a long time since I've seen Waxwings--not since I was a little kid.  It was a very happy thing.  Watching the Mockingbirds school the Blue Jays at the same time, which is marvelously comedic.  The Cardinals, of course, stood aloof.  Too cool for school.

Oh, and a shout-out to the nephew (and his latest "baby mama")?  "CELICA" is NOT a child's name, it's a CAR.  18 years old and you've already managed to produce THREE babies, NONE of whom you can support, and now you're looking to name one after a compact import?  Goodness. 

And I think that's all I have in me right now.  Here's some bad paneling:



Not the very worse paneling I've ever seen, but sure is a LOT of it.

Messy Day Gone Better

So, we had decided to cancel my phone once the contract period was up.  Good way to save 50 bucks a month.  After all, I don't often use it, and it seems silly to keep it.  No, I don't WANT to cancel it, but we need to save cash where we can.

So, hubby warns me that my Christmas is coming, and that I'll need to sign for it but not even look at it a little bit.  No checking the return address, nothing.  He says it's coming tomorrow.  Okay, I agree.  I won't look.  I plan on warning our boy not to look, either.

Except it came today.  And we are expecting other things.  Our boy opened it.  And found two brand new Droid Razrs.  Hubby decided me without a phone isn't good, and we'll just let the Galaxy Tab's contract expire in March instead.  Which makes sense--the Tab will still function perfectly well on WiFi without a contract.  But now the surprise is ruined, and, while he's not upset, it is sort of a bummer for him because they're the only gifts he got us that were surprises.  I flat-out bullshat our boy, told him the phones are for his father and me, and that he'll get his father's old phone.  So at least he can be surprised a little, right?

Also, hubby got me the 2012 White House Ornament.  William Howard Taft and the first motorized transportation at the White House.  It's a lovely ornament that I had decided not to get because I didn't want to drop the cash.  Turns out you can get a discount by buying bulk, and a bunch of his coworkers went in with him for a bunch of them.  It's gorgeous!

2012 White House Ornament--flip it over, and you see Mrs. Taft!

Anyway, back to the home front.  The new, stronger lice concoction didn't work, just like I knew it wouldn't.  Just like I tried to tell the doc's office it wouldn't.  Found  a live one on my boy two days post-treatment. None on me yet.  We're lice-combing (isn't that a county in Pennsylvania?) and nit-picking every other day.  And that's almost certainly the way we're going to wind up getting rid of them.  I'm also baking our heads with the blow dryer, which is supposed to be helpful.  Considering getting a bonnet-type dryer, which isn't as effective as a hand-held, but is also a lot easier on the shoulders and back.  Yeah, long-term investment in lice treatment.  Sounds like I've resigned myself to this, doesn't it?

I've been really good on the diet, though I'm planning to screw up today.  Had yogurt and granola for breakfast, and I'm about to demolish some mac-a-chee for lunch.  But I feel in control, like I've managed to flip that switch back on.  Today, I have mac-a-chee, tomorrow back to it without feeling bad about today.  Past four days have been under 1500 calories (with Monday only 1180), so I'm feeling positive. 

We headed out to the Bull Run Festival of Lights last night.  It was very nice, and the difference between it and the similar display they hold in Willard, Utah was clear.  The Utah display has a lot of cowboys and old west themes, whereas the only horse we spotted at the Bull Run Festival was part of a fox hunting party.  Overall, the Bull Run was better, though the Willard will always have a special place in my heart. 

Speaking of Christmas, I ordered 30 custom Christmas cards this year, and used every last one of them.  If I've forgotten anyone, I guess I'll have to drag out one of the old cards from last year.  Guess next year we'll order 40, huh?

I need to be a loser again . . .

At my heaviest, I weighed over 400 lbs.  I don't know how much over, because I stopped weighing.  Judging by the rate of loss when I first started taking it off, I'd say I was around 425.  I felt like hell.  All the time.  My back, which was mangled in a car accident back in 1993 (back when I was a skinny girl), was a constant source of pain and worry.  I had sleep apnea.  My blood sugar was starting to be a real problem.

Over the course of a year-and-a-half, I lost 180 lbs.  I felt great!  I was still fat, but I felt amazing!  I could walk for hours (though the plantar fasciitis would give me grief the next day)!  I used a program called My Fitness Pal to log calories and exercise, and I was religious about it.  Very dedicated!  My blood pressure was amazing, my resting pulse 60, my A1c down to 5.4. 

And then I just stopped.  I don't know what's happened.  I have spent the past seven months just eating.  Is it because of the surgery, the stress, the fearing it was cancer?  The relief of it just threw me into a celebratory pig-out that I don't know how to climb out of?  I don't know.  I do know that, for months, I kept being "good" but kept not losing--I plateaued and, no matter what I did (add calories, subtract calories, increase exercise, decrease exercise, etc.), I just couldn't lose.  Three plus months of 1250 calories a day, and no loss.  I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, that being healthy was the reward, regardless of the number on the scale, but that's not true--the number on the scale mattered, because when you're holding yourself down to that few calories a day, that number is your only tangible reward. 

It's not just me--yeah, I've gained almost 50 lbs, but my husband's gained a good 30 lbs, too, and he's never been "big."  We're just eating everything we want.  Ice cream with Chambord and black raspberries, gourmet cheeses, jalapeno poppers, and peanut butter!  Constant peanut butter!  See, I used to have one Clif Builders Bar (chocolate mint) a day--I would actually break it in half and have half for breakfast and half for lunch.  Then it became two bars a day, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  Then it was two for breakfast, and two for lunch.  Understand, these bars have 270 calories a pop.  In an effort to break that one, I switched to yogurts.  I started with light yogurts, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  But then I developed a taste for the Greek yogurts--Chobani Cherry, to be precise.  That's almost twice the calories of the light.  And then I wanted two.  And then?  Granola on top.  And suddenly my low-cal bar replacement was worse than the bars.  So I cut that out, too, and it was replaced by an overwhelming urge for peanut butter.  I would just slather it on bread and eat four pieces.  Yes, it's low cal, low carb bread, but still.  And I'm left wondering--is the urge for peanut butter (which I went YEARS without eating) a way for my body to make up for the protein I'm not getting from bars and yogurt anymore?

I don't know.  But I'm sinking myself, and it's devastating.

I did come across a blog today, a very nice lady who's lost a good bit of weight and talks of going back to daily logging/journaling to keep track of her weight if she should begin to gain again.  I know she's right--I have to start daily logging again, even if I'm screwing up.  Because then it's there, in black and white, and I can't deny or pretend.  And from there, maybe I can get this turned around.

But I'm scared. Terrified. I don't want to be contemplating wheelchairs again. I don't want to be unwilling to go to movies because my ass is too big for the theater chairs. I can't do that again. Please!

About 25 lbs shy of my heaviest, on the upswing

Obligatory duck-face, about 170 lbs down

About 180 down

WEIGHT LOSS MIRACLE!!! LOSE WEIGHT LIKE MAGIC!!!

So I came across a post on Facebook today, and I just couldn’t help myself. The post read, “I lost 2 pounds in three days using HCG! It really works!” My response?

“I’ve lost over 150 pounds in 12 months, and I didn’t have to shell out for pills, go under the knife, break the bank on prepackaged meals or liquid diets, starvation plans, or any urine from any sort of pregnant creature. In fact, I didn’t have to buy anything at all. It’s called ‘diet and exercise,’ and it really works!”

No, I’m not a bitch. What I am is someone who is sick to death of having people approach me with, “What are you using? How are you doing that?” only to walk away shaking their heads in dejection when I tell them the truth. I am sick of hearing, “Oh, you’re just stronger than I am” or “I could never do that.” There IS NO MAGIC PILL, KIDDIES. There is no wand to be waved, no surgery to do it for you. There is work.

Now, it would be a lie if I said I had no “miracle” to aid me. I do. It’s called “keeping track of everything.” I use a free website called “My Fitness Pal.” There are others. The site also has an android and an Apple app, so I also run it on my phone, my iPad, and my Galaxy Tab. With this program, I keep track of every scrap of food that passes my lips and every bit of exercise I do. I plan out my meals, usually a day or so in advance. It’s a numbers game, and sometimes I don’t get to have that freshly grated parmesan and asiago with my pasta because I just don’t have the calories for it. Sometimes I decide to pop on the exercise bike or go walking in order to earn those calories. Sometimes I trade off and decide that I’ll skip the smoothie for dessert so I can have the sausage with dinner. It works, and it didn’t take long for me to figure out how to maximize those calories.

Maximize them? You bet—instead of a heaping pile of 2-3 servings of spaghetti, I have ONE two ounce serving plus julienned carrots and squash. Bulks up the serving size, gives me a nice serving of veggies, and makes that meal filling without being gluttonous. I used to have two pieces of butter and garlic-slathered bread with pasta. Now? I have a salad with spring mix, dark green leafies, zesty sprouts, tomatoes, cucumbers, and black olives, topped with a serving (carefully measured) of light dressing. If I want chicken strips, my husband breads the boneless, skinless breast strips with homemade breading and we bake them rather than fry. Same with fish. Cuts the calories in LESS than half, nukes the fat, and our son calls them “Epic.” Not bad for “health food.” Other favorites? Toasted ham and gruyere, toasted roast beef and fontina, rotisserie chicken with veggies, homemade 3 bean chili, grilled steaks with onions, mushrooms, and cheese, tuna roll-ups in lavash bread, homemade tyropita and sambusa, and good, old-fashioned hot dogs. And hot chocolate with melted peppermint and dark chocolate. Yummmmmy.

Now, I do have another inspiration, something that helps keep me in line. My diabetes. See, I ate myself into Type 2 diabetes. Yes, there’s a hell of a family history (mom, grandpa, uncle, sister, etc.), but fact is, it likely never would have appeared in me, had I not been morbidly obese. But watching that blood sugar and those carbs has made all the difference. I’m unmedicated, and in just a few months managed to pull my A1c down into normal range. Hey, I’m still heavy—I could lose another 75 pounds and still be called “fat.” Another hundred, and folks might refer to me as “the chubby one.” But that’s not my goal anymore—this isn’t about fitting into “skinny” jeans or hitting a particular size. No, this is about not ever needing to be on insulin. It’s about no taking medication for blood pressure. It’s about living to see as much of my son’s life as I possibly can. My “pretty” days are long over, and that’s fine—when did our society forget that people get old, and that old has a place, too? Who wants a silicone grandma with rock hard abs and plunging necklines?

Not me.

Am I “not diabetic” now? Of course not—if I eat a half a loaf of bread (or forget and pair stuffed clam shells with potatoes), my blood sugar shoots up into the 180s and 190s. That’s not cured. But it’s controlled. And before you think, “Oh, God, she never gets to have anything goooooood,” hush. Yes I do. Tonight, I’m having a cheeseburger (5 ounces of beef) on toasted oat bread (it’s not dry, it’s moist) with two slices of 2% cheese, ketchup, mustard, and dill chips, with a salad (see above), spinach, and slow-braised carrots with caramelized onions. Oh, and a strawberry-banana smoothie for after. My blood sugar will come in around 120, and all will be well with the world.

Don’t fall for the fads. Don’t buy into the gimmicks. And do NOT tell yourself that, short of a miracle, it’s “too late” for you to lose weight, that you’re “too fat” to get healthier. It’s not true—I could barely walk from car to apartment door, I could only do museums in wheelchairs and shopping in electric carts, and now I’m walking miles and spending hours on my feet. In just a year. So don’t—don’t look back a year from now and wonder sadly what you might have done. Do what I did—just DO it, then look back a year into it and say, “Wow, look what I did!” You can, you know. Promise.