Life Lesson #32: Tour de France now to be Tour de Lance? Pu-lease! Tour de Brutus is more like it!

I’ve unofficially renamed my dog Lance. As in Armstrong.

His actual name is Brutus. He also goes by Boots, Booty, Toots, Fatty, Fatty Patty, Stinks, Old Man, Fart Knocker, and sometimes, when I get really annoyed, Idiot or even Asshole. However, his real name is truly fitting for a bulldog so ugly; my entire family insists he’s actually adorable. The Latin origin of Brutus means “heavy,” “dull, stupid” and is often associated with the word “brute”. I need not go on.

I know the whole world would probably agree that we did indeed name him correctly. Including Westchester, who once received not one, but two golden showers from him in a span of twenty minutes. And Madonna, who is allergic to most things furry and whom Brutus has a weird infatuation with (I think it has something to do with her whole babies-love-my-big-head theory. It seems to apply to animals as well) and sniffs her incessantly. Or Hansel, who has been brought close to tears and/or vomiting from Brutus’ trademark farts that I gather could be harnessed into energy for a small, third world country. And anyone he’s slobbered next to, humped up on, or begged for food from.

I was the crusader for bringing this loveable bag of stink into our home. The summer before I left for my freshman year of college, my mom mentioned getting another dog (our previous pooch had died a few months prior). I immediately suggested a trip to a local pet store.

Truth be told, I love going to pet stores, regardless if a purchase is in the cards. Much like Yoo Hoo and the rollerbladers in Central Park, pooches cheer me up. I have the biggest soft spot for these canine bundles. Always have. Which this really annoying kid I knew in middle school discovered. He apparently had a huge crush on me, even though I was in sixth grade and he was in eighth, and so to try and win my innocent heart, he bought me a freaking puppy. Showed up at my house with the thing in a box. And while I hated this boy and vaguely remember him having vial breath and some sort of embarrassing sweating problem, I was ready to throw my arms around him and call him my B.F.F.E. Until my mom came outside to kindly remind me we already had a dog and that it was time to start my homework. I, being the highly mature adolescent that I was, never spoke to him from that day on. Poor kid. Wonder if he was able to get his money back.

Anyway, I absolutely love dogs (minus anything smaller than twenty pounds which is not a dog but rather a weird cousin of the cat or rodent family). And so, the prospect of one becoming part of our household, even if I was leaving for college in two weeks, was great.

While he was the damn cutest thing you’ve ever laid your eyes on in that store, no one really wanted to take him home. My mom heard rumors that bulldogs had a history of breathing problems and bad gas (true, true). My dad was pretty sure they died relatively young (correct). My younger brother wanted a beagle (um, sorry buddy, I’m older, I win). So after working on them all, my mom caved in. The rest fell like dominos. Brutus was soon adopted into our family of loveable dysfunction.

I immediately realized he and I have tons in common. We shake our butts when we walk. We don’t always know the dimensions of our own bodies (demonstrated by me with a litany of daily bruises, he by walking into walls and pushing objects until they finally fall out of his way). We really enjoy midday naps. Sometimes we get pink eye. We get embarrassed when people watch us poop. Neither of us have testicles (although, I admit, he had his snipped away, not by choice). Peanut butter is in our top ten favorite lists of foods. We love having our backs scratched and/or hair (fur in his case) played with. You know, stuff like that.

When you really get to the heart of the matter, Brutus is like the best boyfriend a girl could ask for. Not in a gross way people. I mean, he will listen to me rant and rave for hours without interrupting, even once. When he was more agile, he would hop on the couch with me to lie on my feet and keep them warm as we watched television. He’s protective without being jealous. He still tries to sit in my lap and take a nap like he did when he was a puppy and at least fifty pounds lighter.

Unequivocally, I love him.

And so, when my mom called me over two weeks ago to let me know that she had to rush my Number One to the hospital that morning because he had been vomiting and bleeding all sorts of nastiness the night before, my heart just broke.

The diagnosis: a massive tumor in his lower stomach that was not allowing him to digest any food he was eating and another tumor in his lungs, large enough that the vet gathered he was really only using half of a lung to breathe (the other being completely out of commission).

The treatment: a combination of radiation and drugs that if he did not immediately die from (I’m guessing trauma of some sorts?) might give him, at most, four to six more months to live.

The alternative: to feed him only boiled chicken and water so as to not irritate the stomach tumor and to keep him calm and cool to avoid him over-breathing. Ultimately, this would probably give him another week to ten days before his body would simply give up.

Our decision: to take the alternative and let him go peacefully.

We decided on this for a few reasons. The main one that we know what a tough cookie he is. He was already hit with Lyme Disease three years ago. When initially diagnosed, the vet said he probably wouldn’t survive it since the bulldog breed is not known for their strength against illness. Well, they can take that and shove it. With the care of my mom (including daily IV shots of steroids she gave him to the back of the neck), he gained back his strength and survived. And at this stage of his life, the stinker isn’t so young. Pumping him with all sorts of radiation and heavy drugs will definitely put him six feet under.

And it seems we made the right decision. Amazingly, Brutus seems to be doing quite well. His diet sure does suck, he sleeps way more than usual, and every once in awhile it seems like he stops breathing for a few moments. But he’s happy as a pig in shit. He even gets excited and barks his giant head off before promptly laying back down to wag his little nubbin’ of a tail. Even his farts have remained oh-so pungent.

Life Lesson #32: Lance Armstrong survived lung (and brain) cancer that had metastasized from his testes after he was given a less than forty percent chance to live. I’m not naïve. I know our four-legged Lance is not going to beat this. But he sure as hell is going to stick around longer than the veterinarian’s office predicted. And that, I believe, is due to the fact that he’s got a family that loves him and is doing everything they can to make him one happy little puppy. Now all I need is for someone to send me four of those yellow rubber “Livestrong” bracelets to strap around his paws.

Life Lesson #31: Nobody puts Penny in a corner.

As I sit here, eyes glazed over from about two hours of sleep, stomach a pool of churning, half digested, innumerable shots-worth of vodka, I wonder: why the hell do I do this to myself? And how, oh how, am I going to get through Sunday dinner with Alfred?

Last night was the third in a litany of long, fun filled evenings. And because I’m still twiddling around in the world of unemployed people, I’ve looked towards each night as a chance to make Partying My Pants Off a temporary, part-time gig, if you will. And so, at this very moment, I figure that there’s a solid two bottles of vodka, one and a half bottles of vino, a six-pack of Bud Light, and a plethora of shots - ranging from fruity girl things to hard-ass Jameson and Jagger - rushing through my veins and polluting my blood. Cut me open and I bet you could start a bar with what I got pooling inside of me.

I know that I’ve consumed a little too much over the past few days (no way am I going to admit that this dates back further – you know it, I know it, let’s just kept it at that and move on). And I also know that in a bit, when the grandparents shuffle in and my dad and I brace ourselves for the insanity to follow, more red wine, and probably some champagne, will be added to the Poison Potluck I’ve got going on. Which the thought of just made me break into a sweat.

So I’m going to make a Fall Resolution of sorts. A call to turn it down, just a notch. Because I enjoy myself way too much to make any drastic changes here. I just don’t know how necessary it is anymore (or ever was, actually) to drink for eight hours straight. Or try and find an open bar at five in the morning. Or mix every freakin’ alcohol under the sun in one evening. Or black out, indulge in a shopping spree at Seven Eleven, and still not remember when I find the plastic bag filled with half a chicken salad sandwich and an ice cream wrapper at the foot of my bed the next afternoon.

Now, to be perfectly honest, I fear that I won’t really be able to stick to this resolution. The only one I’ve ever been able to keep is giving up Tin Lizzy’s for New Years 2006 (nine months later, I still haven’t gone back). It’s kind of like a dark place for me. I walk in, forgot what sane, rational thought and appropriate behavior are, usually get myself into some sort of trouble, and, well, let’s just say mornings after that place are ones I would never tell my parents about. Ever.

Being the ban of this bar in my life is the only resolution I’ve got to show for years of half-hearted attempts to lose ten pounds, save some cash, and take up salsa dancing, I’d like to pad my stab at not being such a lush with a few more goals. That way, if my main objective falls short of success, I can at least pull off one (or more) of the others.

And so I present my list of Things I’m Giving Up With the End of Summer:

Retirement. Sure, it’s a grand ole’ time. I get to do things like mini golf on a Tuesday, sleeping ‘til noon on Wednesday, and staying out till five am on Thursday. I’m hoping to squeeze in a Bronx Zoo visit next week and I know a few of you want to scream GO PURPLE KNIGHT! with me at Medieval Times in the near future. But acting like I won the lotto or something isn’t getting me very far. I mean, I’m living with my parents again for crying out loud. And while I love that I can do laundry in the middle of the day in my robe, it’s not worth declaring my permanent withdrawal from the workforce.

The C word. I, as well as a few others (you know who you are my dear friends), totally abused this not-so-lovely term for the vagina this summer. I’ve decided I’m not even going to spell it out as my first step to C-freeing my life. Ironically, I went to a comedy club on Friday night and Alex Borstein (aka, the voice of Lois from The Family Guy) went on a tangent trying to get us ladies to embrace the word. And while I laughed hard enough to almost tinkle myself, I’m going to have to refuse to follow in her footsteps.

Not doing sports. I’ve never been part of a sports team. This is ridiculous, no? And so, thanks to Madonna and her gung-ho desire to try new stuff this fall, she signed a whole bunch of us up for dodgeball. Ok, so maybe it’s not exactly what you thought of when I brought up sports team. And the chances of me doing much more than sitting on the bench cheering for my teammates and calling out profanities (except the C word, of course) to the losers we are going to beat are slim, I admit. But it’s what I consider a giant step in the right direction. Who knows? Maybe I’ll discover my hidden ass-kicking dodgeball talent and one day open up a Penny Piers, where I impart by impressive ducking and diving skills to the masses. It could happen.

Potty mouth. I drop a lot of F bombs. A lot. And while I’d never use the word ‘classy’ to describe myself, my case of Profanity Tourettes surely doesn’t help matters. So I’m going to try to keep these in check. Unless I’m really pissed off or stub my toe or something. Then cover you F-ing ears, ladies and gents.

Slacking. I owe everyone that reads this to kill time at work a BIG apology. You guys are awesome and often give great feedback. And how do I show my appreciation? Um, by not writing anything for a month. For no good reasons other than not being home much and general laziness. But I will not do that anymore. Unless for a really damn good reason. Like a Sunday Funday hangover or a jammed finger from my amazing leap that helped our team win during the championship dodgeball game (yes, these are what I denote as worthy-of-not-writing events).
Life Lesson # 31: I think it’s about that time, dear readers, that I got my shit together and life back on track. The old Penny has been quietly sitting in the corner, waiting for me to get out the last of the C and F bombs. She’s been patient. And she’s been kind. And so for everyone’s sake, I’m going to slowly bring her back to the stage. I’m still going to party like a rock star and show up to my as-of-yet non-existent job late on a Friday morning. That’s probably never going to change. But I’m working towards letting the old Penny dance again.

'Cause you can't keep a good girl down. Especially me.