Vice has been running a hilarious (and sobering) column for years now called London Rental Opportunity of the Week, which I stumbled on a few days ago; the author is hanging up his shingle and wrote a kiss-off to all landlords everywhere.
I signed up for a year’s membership at the Lifebridge Health Club in Pikesville this morning. It’s a big, spacious gym with lots of windows and a ton of different machines, a basketball court and a pool. I’ve been wanting to do some cardio for a long time to get my ticker back in shape, and because Jen already belongs, we’re getting a little bit of a break on the membership. The gym is positioned in an older section of town, next to some retirement communities, so I am barraged in the locker room with as much wrinkly bare old man-bottom as I can try to avoid. It’s kind of amazing how free and out there the 55-80-year-old set is with their bodies. I’m the guy with three towels and a pair of boxers scuttling back to my locker, while Abe over here next to me has his junk hanging out all over the bench as he carefully tweezes his nosehair. Clearly, I have a lot to get accustomed to. I also need to invest in some flip-flops for the first time in 20 years to avoid the toe fungus.
(By the way, was I one of the only ones who never had to shower after gym period in high school, or was that pretty much over and done with for everyone else too? No wonder high school was such a dry period for me.)
In other news, Penn the Terror is sick with some kind of bottom-problem. He’s a shadow of his former self, down from 15 lbs. to a sickly 11 in the space of two months. Just when we’d gotten him calmed down, groomed correctly and used to being with him for 8-12 hours per day, he started being antisocial and avoiding his food, which is about as normal for him as time standing still or the sun blinking off. Usually, when pouring food into his bowl, he gets his head in between the food container and the bowl and nudges it out of the way while the food is still falling, so that I’m pouring the food on his head as he’s beginning to horse it down. I used to think it was a little rude until I considered Homer Simpson’s dream of donuts falling from the sky like rain, and then it made sense in a hedonistic food-fetish sort of way. These days, he eats a few bites and then returns to his chair in the other room to sleep.
The doc doesn’t know what it could be, but she says there might be a mass of some kind in his intestines. He’s had bloodwork done and a trio of X-rays, which all came back inconclusive, so we have an ultrasound scheduled for next Tuesday. In the meantime, he gets his choice of canned food so that he’ll keep his weight up. Keep your fingers crossed for the little punk.
His cousin Duke goes to the vet on Tuesday too…he’s lost weight and isn’t eating either–even canned food. Methinks he’s become diabetic. Grrreat! Give Penn some pets from me.