Throughout this blog, I have given remarkably few helpful hints for people recovering from hip replacements. Well, I'm pleased to report that I finally have some advice to dole out: if you know that your left leg sort of gives out every once in awhile when you stand up, do not stand up when holding a cup of coffee directly over your laptop. Just FYI.
That is, of course, exactly what I did this morning. I was busily working at my job, watching the Olympics, drinking coffee and generally enjoying a sweet-ass morning, when I stood up with coffee cup in hand. My Freaky Cyborg Hip saw its chance and caused my hip to short circuit a little. I tripped, spilling my coffee all over my brand new Macbook. And my couch. And my leg. And most of my living room. As the youngsters on the internets say: FML.
Fuck. My. Life.
I immediately sprang into action (well...maybe not "sprang" so much as "swore and limped at great speed") and googled "coffee on Macbook," which yielded several helpful tips, most of which involved dismantling the machine and cleaning it out. Well, the chances of me successfully dismantling the laptop and putting it back together again in one piece are about the same as the chances of me winning the Olympics in downhill slalom, but I tried my best to use Q-tips to soak up the coffee between the keys, then a hairdryer to dry everything up. Somehow during this process, a bowl managed to fall off the drying rack in the kitchen and shatter into a million pieces for no particular reason, just to make everything that much more exciting.
The computer seemed dry, but the keys were still sticky, (shut up, those of you with dirty minds) so I called A. to see if he had any computer-cleaning solution. He came right over after referring to my mishap as a "very Arley thing to do" (why is that among my circle of friends my name has become a synonym for fucking up? is that a bad sign?) and helped me to clean off the computer. He also convinced me that I probably should take it to the Apple Store to be on the safe side, which I agreed was probably for the best.
When I got into the car still stinking of coffee, the first sound I heard from my speakers was "it's going to be alright...it's going to be alright." Dan Bejar singing "Snow White." (As I've said before, I've had a single Destroyer CD in my car since probably last spring). I felt greatly cheered. Clearly, this was a sign from the universe. If Dan Bejar is telling me that everything is going to be alright (it's going to be alright), then it is going to be alright, because Dan Bejar speaks the truth. Was he wrong when he said "remember the wolves that you run with are wolves?" He was not. Was he incorrect when he said "love is a political beast with jaws for a mouth?" No he was not. Was he lying when he said "Praise be the delightful muezzin tending his flock and praise be those alabaster hands running amok on your body?" I have no idea, but probably not. Point is: Dan Bejar speaks the truth. And also the Truth. I had nothing to worry about.
Which I believed, until I got into the Apple Store and some skinny-jeans-clad undergrad wearing studded wrist cuffs that kept tapping against the machine took my laptop apart, dried a few things off with a piece of paper towel, then said with the seriousness of an emergency room doctor that the computer was (to paraphrase from the technical language he used) supremely fucked. I could, if I wanted, dry it out for 48 hours to see what happens, but it's probably better to buy a new laptop. Well, fuck. This is, by the way, my new laptop: the one my parents surprised me with for Christmas. Dan Bejar, you've been telling lies! Cryptic, allusion-laden, poetically dense lies!
So, yes, I recently consumed the world's most expensive cup of coffee. (Apparently, Maxwell House's "good to the last drop" motto should have the caveat of "...unless those drops are residing on the video card of your brand new Macbook.") Even worse, this is entirely my fault. I can't even blame this on my Freaky Cyborg Hip (well, I kind of can, but I knew full well that standing up is not my greatest skill). I have only myself to blame.
So my laptop was DOA and there were only two things left to do: buy a chai latte (which the barista, who recognized me because I am such a Starbucks yuppie, gave me for free...which kind of restored my faith in humanity), and go out shopping for the tightest, sluttiest little black dress I could find for my friend Bridie's birthday party tonight. After all, I need to save money for a new laptop and those nine-dollar appletinis aren't going to buy themselves! Alas, this was not to be. The atrophy on my left side has gotten so bad that all the tight dresses sagged out around my left hip, which looked ridiculous, and there was no time for tailoring. The Freaky Cyborg Hip strikes again.
Anyhow, the bottom line is this: if you're looking for me, you can either find me at Boltini's tonight drinking to forget (men of Champaign-Urbana, plan your night accordingly) or else tomorrow morning at the Urbana Free Library, wildly hung over and attempting to get some work done without being distracted by trying to figure out whether the guy jiggling his leg up and down while looking at porn via Google images is masturbating or just....overcaffeinated?
If anyone has a spare laptop they can lend me, give me a call/email.
You say limp. I say swagger.
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Thursday, February 25, 2010
The Arley McNeney Appreciation Society
I have awesome friends. Like, really awesome friends. And last night, my awesome friends Karo and Leslie got tired of my complete inability to ever market my writing career. For that reason, they created me my own Facebook fan page: the Arley McNeney Appreciation Society. You know that scene in "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas" when someone puts a little X-ray up to the Grinch's heart, which grows so much that it breaks the little X-ray machine? It's like that, only instead of my heart it's my ego. ("And what happened next?/ Well in Facebook-ville they say/ that Arley McNeney's huge ego/ grew 10 sizes that day.")
Yes, I am a lucky, lucky girl. I'm grateful not only to Karo and Leslie, but to everyone who's supported "Young and Hip" since its inception 6 months ago. Who would have thought that anyone other than my mom would be interested in me rambling about my semi-detached ass?
So, yes, this whole Arley McNeney Appreciation Society thing could work out well for me. I'm going to go ahead and consider the Arley McNeney Appreciation Society a charitable organization, which entitles me to issue tax receipts to men who show their appreciation of me in the form of a date. (Okay, that's probably not something to put on the old E-Harmony profile, eh?)
Yes, I am a lucky, lucky girl. I'm grateful not only to Karo and Leslie, but to everyone who's supported "Young and Hip" since its inception 6 months ago. Who would have thought that anyone other than my mom would be interested in me rambling about my semi-detached ass?
So, yes, this whole Arley McNeney Appreciation Society thing could work out well for me. I'm going to go ahead and consider the Arley McNeney Appreciation Society a charitable organization, which entitles me to issue tax receipts to men who show their appreciation of me in the form of a date. (Okay, that's probably not something to put on the old E-Harmony profile, eh?)
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Champaign-Siberia
Some people think I'm crazy for leaving balmy Vancouver for Champaign-Siberia (okay, some people think I'm crazy for reasons that have nothing to do with where I'm living). Yesterday morning, you could count me as one of them. I woke up at 5:45, stumbled outside to the skating rink I call my sidewalk, and got into my car to go to practice for a morning of kicking ass, taking names and generally laying the smack down.
The ass kicking, name taking and smack-down laying, however, did not come to pass. Why? Because my car was stuck firmly in inches of frozen mud. I tried to go forward: no dice. I tried to go backwards: no dice. I rocked back and forth in my seat trying to jar my car loose with the force of my body: no dice and I looked completely ridiculous. I got out and tried to poke the mud with a stick, then with my cane, then with the toe of my shoe: nothin' doing. I got out and tried to push my car out of the mud: my hip zigged, my body zagged, and I realized that trying to push my however-many-ton car on the ice would be a great recipe for dislocating my hip replacement, falling to the ground, freezing to death and being eaten by squirrels before anyone found me.
As I tried to free my car, two neighbourhood dogs serenaded me; (I suspect they were singing along with the Destroyer CD I've had in my car for the past 3 months, since their howling was remarkably similar to the "oooooh....yeah" part of "Self Portrait (With Thing")). Soon, a neighbour came outside and got into his car, giving me a nod, the kind of nod that says, "Yes, I see you, oh disabled chick trying to push her car out of the mud in the dark and failing miserably, but you might have noticed that it's cold outside and I am wearing fancy shoes and also there's the small fact that I don't give a shit....but best of luck to you!" I gave him a nod that I hoped conveyed the message of, "look how friendly and helpless I am, but seriously if you don't help me I will smite you down with the force of my death glare I am not even kidding motherfucker." No dice. The neighbour drove off and his dog continued with the Dan Bejar impression.
There was only one recourse: to give up on the whole "going to practice" thing and trudge up to the local mall, which contains my gym, and which smells perpetually like urine, no matter where you are in the mall and no matter what time of day it is. Instead of playing basketball, I rocked out on the elliptical machine while watching several old ladies mall-walk back and forth in front of the glass, which was strangely the same as watching fish in a fish bowl.
So, yes, life in Champaign-Urbana is not without its challenges. It's a good sign, however, that I can walk up to the mall, work out, walk to Starbucks for a chai latte (oh, chai lattes. You are like sweet, milky Prozac to me), then walk back to my house. It wasn't too long ago that I was inching my way along the street in my bare feet (because I couldn't lift my leg high enough to wear shoes) and having to take a 2-hour nap after half a block. It's a good thing that I have made progress, since if I had to walk barefoot in these parts I would be already minus a few toes. Yay for Progress!
The ass kicking, name taking and smack-down laying, however, did not come to pass. Why? Because my car was stuck firmly in inches of frozen mud. I tried to go forward: no dice. I tried to go backwards: no dice. I rocked back and forth in my seat trying to jar my car loose with the force of my body: no dice and I looked completely ridiculous. I got out and tried to poke the mud with a stick, then with my cane, then with the toe of my shoe: nothin' doing. I got out and tried to push my car out of the mud: my hip zigged, my body zagged, and I realized that trying to push my however-many-ton car on the ice would be a great recipe for dislocating my hip replacement, falling to the ground, freezing to death and being eaten by squirrels before anyone found me.
As I tried to free my car, two neighbourhood dogs serenaded me; (I suspect they were singing along with the Destroyer CD I've had in my car for the past 3 months, since their howling was remarkably similar to the "oooooh....yeah" part of "Self Portrait (With Thing")). Soon, a neighbour came outside and got into his car, giving me a nod, the kind of nod that says, "Yes, I see you, oh disabled chick trying to push her car out of the mud in the dark and failing miserably, but you might have noticed that it's cold outside and I am wearing fancy shoes and also there's the small fact that I don't give a shit....but best of luck to you!" I gave him a nod that I hoped conveyed the message of, "look how friendly and helpless I am, but seriously if you don't help me I will smite you down with the force of my death glare I am not even kidding motherfucker." No dice. The neighbour drove off and his dog continued with the Dan Bejar impression.
There was only one recourse: to give up on the whole "going to practice" thing and trudge up to the local mall, which contains my gym, and which smells perpetually like urine, no matter where you are in the mall and no matter what time of day it is. Instead of playing basketball, I rocked out on the elliptical machine while watching several old ladies mall-walk back and forth in front of the glass, which was strangely the same as watching fish in a fish bowl.
So, yes, life in Champaign-Urbana is not without its challenges. It's a good sign, however, that I can walk up to the mall, work out, walk to Starbucks for a chai latte (oh, chai lattes. You are like sweet, milky Prozac to me), then walk back to my house. It wasn't too long ago that I was inching my way along the street in my bare feet (because I couldn't lift my leg high enough to wear shoes) and having to take a 2-hour nap after half a block. It's a good thing that I have made progress, since if I had to walk barefoot in these parts I would be already minus a few toes. Yay for Progress!
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Self Portrait with Waist-Trimming Belt
History has shown that I am not exactly a genius in the "making smart health decisions" department. I have a tendency to run my body into the ground harder than those WWF wrestlers who spend their lives being hit over the head with chairs and walk like old men by the time they're 40....except I'm 27 and I walk like an old man....on heroin. I must have the world's most boring masochistic streak: no whips, no leather, no safety word, just wheelchair basketball.
That's right. Not only am I back playing wheelchair basketball, but I'm back practicing with the U of I varsity team. Translation: this morning, I woke up at 5:45 a.m. already wearing my workout clothes, froze my ass off in my 58-degree apartment while I struggled to make toast without waking up everyone in my household, bundled up in 8 million layers, nearly wiped out on the ice three times walking to my car, then drove to practice in the dark singing Destroyer's "Self Portrait (With Thing)" at the top of my lungs to wake myself up ("tonight is not your night....no it's not your night...oooooh....yeah").
As I was engaging in a little Dan Bejar early-morning karaoke, I thought to myself: Arley, you cannot even complain about this shit because you are doing this voluntarily. You are choosing to be here. Right now, you could be in bed with your cat drinking coffee and reading "The Savage Detectives," (which is awesome, by the way, even though Bolano does tons of shit that I usually hate in fiction). The only thing worse than getting up at 5:45 a.m. in winter is having no ability to complain about it.
I must admit, however, that it's good to be back, even though the only way I can play is to use a "waist-trimming" neoprene strap that is designed to "sweat inches off your waistline" (I can corroborate the "sweating" part...not so much the "inches" part) as a strap, which means that I'm the only class 4.0 (read: nearly able-bodied) player strapping like a class 1.0 (read: high paraplegic). It's not the most dignified way to play basketball, but at least I'm sweating my way to a svelter me.
It's strange being back as a guest instead of a player, but there's something wonderful about getting through a whole practice without half of my skeleton falling off. Even though my hip shifts around a lot and makes a clunking sensation that makes me a little queasy, at least those sensations are just annoying. As my teammate Shawna said, "It's so nice not to have to tug on your leg all the time!" Truer words were never spoken, though I guess I'll have to find a new pick-up line. (Because "hey, baby, can you tug on my leg to put my hip back in its socket?" was really getting me places).
In my defense, I've actually tried to be smart (smarter?...smartish?...) about the whole thing. After two days of practice, my back was acting up and I kept getting pins and needles in my right foot. Did I say, "Fuck you, body. I don't need sensation in that body part anyhow. Now let's go lift some heavy things!" No! Instead, I took a day off, slapped on a heat pack or two, and chilled the fuck out. In response, my back stopped being a diva and I was able to practice the next day. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. After all, I can't afford to be gimpier.
That's right. Not only am I back playing wheelchair basketball, but I'm back practicing with the U of I varsity team. Translation: this morning, I woke up at 5:45 a.m. already wearing my workout clothes, froze my ass off in my 58-degree apartment while I struggled to make toast without waking up everyone in my household, bundled up in 8 million layers, nearly wiped out on the ice three times walking to my car, then drove to practice in the dark singing Destroyer's "Self Portrait (With Thing)" at the top of my lungs to wake myself up ("tonight is not your night....no it's not your night...oooooh....yeah").
As I was engaging in a little Dan Bejar early-morning karaoke, I thought to myself: Arley, you cannot even complain about this shit because you are doing this voluntarily. You are choosing to be here. Right now, you could be in bed with your cat drinking coffee and reading "The Savage Detectives," (which is awesome, by the way, even though Bolano does tons of shit that I usually hate in fiction). The only thing worse than getting up at 5:45 a.m. in winter is having no ability to complain about it.
I must admit, however, that it's good to be back, even though the only way I can play is to use a "waist-trimming" neoprene strap that is designed to "sweat inches off your waistline" (I can corroborate the "sweating" part...not so much the "inches" part) as a strap, which means that I'm the only class 4.0 (read: nearly able-bodied) player strapping like a class 1.0 (read: high paraplegic). It's not the most dignified way to play basketball, but at least I'm sweating my way to a svelter me.
It's strange being back as a guest instead of a player, but there's something wonderful about getting through a whole practice without half of my skeleton falling off. Even though my hip shifts around a lot and makes a clunking sensation that makes me a little queasy, at least those sensations are just annoying. As my teammate Shawna said, "It's so nice not to have to tug on your leg all the time!" Truer words were never spoken, though I guess I'll have to find a new pick-up line. (Because "hey, baby, can you tug on my leg to put my hip back in its socket?" was really getting me places).
In my defense, I've actually tried to be smart (smarter?...smartish?...) about the whole thing. After two days of practice, my back was acting up and I kept getting pins and needles in my right foot. Did I say, "Fuck you, body. I don't need sensation in that body part anyhow. Now let's go lift some heavy things!" No! Instead, I took a day off, slapped on a heat pack or two, and chilled the fuck out. In response, my back stopped being a diva and I was able to practice the next day. Baby steps, people. Baby steps. After all, I can't afford to be gimpier.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Yes, My Valentine's Day Post Will Be About My Cat. Don't Judge Me.
For the past 8 months, my beloved cat Mika has been living the sweet life with A.: rolling in the finest catnip, clawing the finest pant legs, harassing the finest squirrels and getting to go in and out to her heart's content. Her life was basically the feline equivalent of getting babysat by your bachelor uncle who lets you eat Doritos for breakfast and watch "Ren and Stimpy" until midnight...and she loved every minute of it. Mika is one well-loved (read: spoiled) feline.
Now that I'm settled into my place in Urbana, have the internet back and no longer have to haunt coffee shops bruising my ass bones on uncomfortable chairs and listening to undergrads tearfully narrate their complicated love lives, however, it was time to get the final piece of the puzzle that is my life; (okay, maybe not the final piece, since I'm pretty sure that half the pieces of my life puzzle are collecting dust bunnies under the refrigerator...but still). Yes, two days ago I got my cat back. (What terminology do you use for that? Getting custody of? Taking possession of?).
It was actually a bittersweet moment. A. has done a fantastic job with Mika, especially considering that he only signed up for 3 weeks of catsitting, since I was supposed to be all better by July (ha ha). Those two are really close and it made me a bit sad to have to separate them. I cheered myself, however, with the knowledge that A. will get to see her at my place all the time, and that she'll probably end up sneaking over to his place for old time's sake, since we live less than a block away from one another.
So, yes, Mika is back. And I am a happy, happy camper. This Saturday, I found myself on the couch wrapped up in a blanket reading Robert Bolano's "The Savage Detectives," drinking coffee and eating fresh bread with nutella, with Mika snoozing away on my lap. It would have been difficult to come up with a better way to spend a Saturday morning.
Mika, however, has still brought her fair share of kitty drama. Since I don't want her to pack up her kitty bags and take off for A.'s place, I'm trying to keep her indoors for a week or so until she gets adjusted. My hope was that she would be so absorbed in the million cobwebby corners and high shelves and other good hiding places in my house that she wouldn't even notice that she hadn't been outside. (Besides, given the amount of wildlife that seems to find its way into my place, the distinction between 'inside' and 'outside' is not a solid line). No dice. Mika has been scratching at every door she can find (even the storage closet... she's not picky) to get a taste of sweet freedom.
To make matters worse, Mika is a savvy, savvy beast and she is not afraid to take advantage of my disability to get what she wants. Someone translate "politically incorrect" into cat speak because homekitty is shameless. She knows that I can't bend low enough to pick her up and that I'm especially bad at bending down on my left side. She therefore waits for me to come home when it's dark, then dashes out the minute I open the door, being careful to slink past my left side. It's a good thing that we have a closed-in porch or else Mika would be practically feral by now. That cat: taking advantage of the disabled! I thought I raised her better than that!
Still, it's good to have her home, and it's good to be settled into a little routine. Man, someone must have slipped some St. John's Wort into my coffee because I am remarkably more chipper than in recent months. Even though it's Valentine's Day. And my day involved eating a bag of gummy candy hearts and cleaning up cat puke.
Now that I'm settled into my place in Urbana, have the internet back and no longer have to haunt coffee shops bruising my ass bones on uncomfortable chairs and listening to undergrads tearfully narrate their complicated love lives, however, it was time to get the final piece of the puzzle that is my life; (okay, maybe not the final piece, since I'm pretty sure that half the pieces of my life puzzle are collecting dust bunnies under the refrigerator...but still). Yes, two days ago I got my cat back. (What terminology do you use for that? Getting custody of? Taking possession of?).
It was actually a bittersweet moment. A. has done a fantastic job with Mika, especially considering that he only signed up for 3 weeks of catsitting, since I was supposed to be all better by July (ha ha). Those two are really close and it made me a bit sad to have to separate them. I cheered myself, however, with the knowledge that A. will get to see her at my place all the time, and that she'll probably end up sneaking over to his place for old time's sake, since we live less than a block away from one another.
So, yes, Mika is back. And I am a happy, happy camper. This Saturday, I found myself on the couch wrapped up in a blanket reading Robert Bolano's "The Savage Detectives," drinking coffee and eating fresh bread with nutella, with Mika snoozing away on my lap. It would have been difficult to come up with a better way to spend a Saturday morning.
Mika, however, has still brought her fair share of kitty drama. Since I don't want her to pack up her kitty bags and take off for A.'s place, I'm trying to keep her indoors for a week or so until she gets adjusted. My hope was that she would be so absorbed in the million cobwebby corners and high shelves and other good hiding places in my house that she wouldn't even notice that she hadn't been outside. (Besides, given the amount of wildlife that seems to find its way into my place, the distinction between 'inside' and 'outside' is not a solid line). No dice. Mika has been scratching at every door she can find (even the storage closet... she's not picky) to get a taste of sweet freedom.
To make matters worse, Mika is a savvy, savvy beast and she is not afraid to take advantage of my disability to get what she wants. Someone translate "politically incorrect" into cat speak because homekitty is shameless. She knows that I can't bend low enough to pick her up and that I'm especially bad at bending down on my left side. She therefore waits for me to come home when it's dark, then dashes out the minute I open the door, being careful to slink past my left side. It's a good thing that we have a closed-in porch or else Mika would be practically feral by now. That cat: taking advantage of the disabled! I thought I raised her better than that!
Still, it's good to have her home, and it's good to be settled into a little routine. Man, someone must have slipped some St. John's Wort into my coffee because I am remarkably more chipper than in recent months. Even though it's Valentine's Day. And my day involved eating a bag of gummy candy hearts and cleaning up cat puke.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Home Sweet Home
Well I'm back in Champaign. In celebration, Mother Nature threw me a ticker-tape parade...made of snow. And wind. And ice. On the day I arrived, we got 8 inches of snow. At first, I was pretty excited about this. The balmy Vancouver winter has been nice and all, but I wanted a little taste of "real winter." (Lord knows why, but I think it had something to do with how pretty and bright snow is and I probably imagined myself sitting on the couch dreamily sipping hot cocoa and watching the snow fall like something out of a Nescafe commercial).
I soon realized, however, that the snow was 8 inches high and I can lift my left leg roughly 1 inch (on a good day) off the ground, causing me to pretty much drag my bad leg through the drifts. Between the dragging left leg, the normal right leg and the cane imprints, I've left some pretty bizarre tracks. Somewhere in the Champaign-Urbana area, some kid is getting excited because he's found proof that the Sasquatch exists. Sorry, kid. It's just a rare species of Canadian Amazon Girl.
Despite the foul weather, however, it's good to be home (well, "home" until America breaks up with me, which will happen this summer). Last night, after a feast of Black Dog BBQ (thanks for the gift certificate, Karo!), A. and I were sitting on the couch watching a Utah Jazz game (they got a pants-down spanking handed to them by the Lakers who didn't even have Kobe...don't even get me started) and Mika crawled up on my lap and permitted me to pet her and then we listened to a bunch of Destroyer records and it was all kinds of awesome. Then I ate frozen yogurt with a collection of Erins (everyone should have a collection of Erins). Tonight, I will watch Project Runway and catch up on the English Department gossip.
So even though we don't currently have internet at my place and even though this inconvenience has required me to sit at a coffee shop listening to undergrad creative-writing majors recite from memory their poems about sunsets (I'm not even kidding) and go on and on and ON about, like, how no one in their workshop really reads their work deeply and how, like, amazing it is how your experiences influence how you perceive the world and something about Virginia Woolf, I'm happy to be back.
Wait...did I just write a blog post that isn't whining about something? All that BBQ must be making me soft.
I soon realized, however, that the snow was 8 inches high and I can lift my left leg roughly 1 inch (on a good day) off the ground, causing me to pretty much drag my bad leg through the drifts. Between the dragging left leg, the normal right leg and the cane imprints, I've left some pretty bizarre tracks. Somewhere in the Champaign-Urbana area, some kid is getting excited because he's found proof that the Sasquatch exists. Sorry, kid. It's just a rare species of Canadian Amazon Girl.
Despite the foul weather, however, it's good to be home (well, "home" until America breaks up with me, which will happen this summer). Last night, after a feast of Black Dog BBQ (thanks for the gift certificate, Karo!), A. and I were sitting on the couch watching a Utah Jazz game (they got a pants-down spanking handed to them by the Lakers who didn't even have Kobe...don't even get me started) and Mika crawled up on my lap and permitted me to pet her and then we listened to a bunch of Destroyer records and it was all kinds of awesome. Then I ate frozen yogurt with a collection of Erins (everyone should have a collection of Erins). Tonight, I will watch Project Runway and catch up on the English Department gossip.
So even though we don't currently have internet at my place and even though this inconvenience has required me to sit at a coffee shop listening to undergrad creative-writing majors recite from memory their poems about sunsets (I'm not even kidding) and go on and on and ON about, like, how no one in their workshop really reads their work deeply and how, like, amazing it is how your experiences influence how you perceive the world and something about Virginia Woolf, I'm happy to be back.
Wait...did I just write a blog post that isn't whining about something? All that BBQ must be making me soft.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Up in the Air
Last night, I went to see "Up in the Air" with Steph, Adrian and their friend K, which is about a guy who flies around the country firing people until a young upstart tries to create an online firing system that would ground him permanently right as he's about to earn the coveted "10 million miles" frequent flier card. He takes her on a trip to show her the ropes and ends up rethinking his relationship-less existence. (Those of you wondering what my excuse for a relationship-less existence is, I say shut up. I have friends!)
Actually, George Clooney's character's life on the road didn't seem so different from mine when I was an athlete except that instead of a plane, it was a bus (at least for the varsity stuff) and instead of fancy-pants hotels, it was this hotel in Oklahoma that had an unlocked secret passageway behind all of the rooms and various fist-size holes in the walls; (that's not fair, actually. We did stay at quite a few Hampton Inns with their warm cookies in the lobby and their free make-your-own waffles).
Like George Clooney's character, I once traveled enough to have an efficient, zen-like packing routine. Unlike George Clooney's character, however, my mental packing checklist included items such as "Is the foam-rubber wedge you use to keep your hip from subluxing that you have named Gregory James Mantooth both present and wrapped in plastic to prevent its smell of sweat and Lysol from contaminating your clean clothes?" or "Do you have your bag of Krazy Glue, Nu-Skin, bandages, cotton gloves and industrial-strength "Working Hands" salve designed for people who work outdoors in extreme weather conditions to prevent and repair hand cracks?"
Also unlike George Clooney's character, I have the unfortunate combination of incredibly long legs and a hip that refuses to be wedged into tight spaces, plus the added awkwardness of the fact that my hip is fake and I have to go through the whole "the metal detector is beeping because I have a fake hip...yes, I know I'm young...No, I really had a hip replacement....there is no need to be fondling the waistband of my jeans like that. I generally require people to buy me dinner first...."conversation. Unless I have the aisle seat, it is literally impossible for me to sit in a coach-class seat, which means that I have gone to some pretty spectacular lengths to get one, including the time I bought a gin and tonic for a New Orleans Saints player if he would give me his aisle seat and then talked with him for 2 hours about Noam Chomsky, which he was reading. (Go Saints!)
The disorientation that George Clooney's character feels when he goes from a life of endless travel to being grounded, however, really resonated with me, as I think it would resonate for anyone who's ever retired from any sport or job. Even though I don't like traveling, I do like the 95-miles-an-hour-dangerously-skirting-the-line-of-utter-collapse-juggling-8000-balls-in-the-air-built-in-excuse-for-not-internet-dating lifestyle. That's why I'm glad that after 8 months of stewing in the slow cooker of hip-replacement recovery, I've finally hopped back into the pressure cooker.
For one, I have a full-time job now in addition to my internship for the publishing house. I'm a Communication Coordinator for the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships and I'm doing a lot of their social media stuff. You can check it out on Facebook ("2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships"), Twitter @2010wwrc and online at www.2010wwr.com. Those of you who have seen "Murderball" will know that wheelchair rugby is a kick-ass sport, so any of you in the BC area will have to come check it out from Sept. 17 - 26th. Tomorrow, I'm also moving back to Champaign Urbana and will try my best to overtax myself to the point of exhaustion with a social life, a job, a writing career (one of these days, I really need to stop writing about American truckstops and turn my attention back to a novel), and an internship. Oh, and I might start training with my old varsity team if my hip cooperates. I may get another case of mono, but at least I won't be bored!
Now here's hoping that that whole "German guy with the sword in the cane" thing won't add an additional few hours of security frisking to my airport routine.
Actually, George Clooney's character's life on the road didn't seem so different from mine when I was an athlete except that instead of a plane, it was a bus (at least for the varsity stuff) and instead of fancy-pants hotels, it was this hotel in Oklahoma that had an unlocked secret passageway behind all of the rooms and various fist-size holes in the walls; (that's not fair, actually. We did stay at quite a few Hampton Inns with their warm cookies in the lobby and their free make-your-own waffles).
Like George Clooney's character, I once traveled enough to have an efficient, zen-like packing routine. Unlike George Clooney's character, however, my mental packing checklist included items such as "Is the foam-rubber wedge you use to keep your hip from subluxing that you have named Gregory James Mantooth both present and wrapped in plastic to prevent its smell of sweat and Lysol from contaminating your clean clothes?" or "Do you have your bag of Krazy Glue, Nu-Skin, bandages, cotton gloves and industrial-strength "Working Hands" salve designed for people who work outdoors in extreme weather conditions to prevent and repair hand cracks?"
Also unlike George Clooney's character, I have the unfortunate combination of incredibly long legs and a hip that refuses to be wedged into tight spaces, plus the added awkwardness of the fact that my hip is fake and I have to go through the whole "the metal detector is beeping because I have a fake hip...yes, I know I'm young...No, I really had a hip replacement....there is no need to be fondling the waistband of my jeans like that. I generally require people to buy me dinner first...."conversation. Unless I have the aisle seat, it is literally impossible for me to sit in a coach-class seat, which means that I have gone to some pretty spectacular lengths to get one, including the time I bought a gin and tonic for a New Orleans Saints player if he would give me his aisle seat and then talked with him for 2 hours about Noam Chomsky, which he was reading. (Go Saints!)
The disorientation that George Clooney's character feels when he goes from a life of endless travel to being grounded, however, really resonated with me, as I think it would resonate for anyone who's ever retired from any sport or job. Even though I don't like traveling, I do like the 95-miles-an-hour-dangerously-skirting-the-line-of-utter-collapse-juggling-8000-balls-in-the-air-built-in-excuse-for-not-internet-dating lifestyle. That's why I'm glad that after 8 months of stewing in the slow cooker of hip-replacement recovery, I've finally hopped back into the pressure cooker.
For one, I have a full-time job now in addition to my internship for the publishing house. I'm a Communication Coordinator for the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships and I'm doing a lot of their social media stuff. You can check it out on Facebook ("2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships"), Twitter @2010wwrc and online at www.2010wwr.com. Those of you who have seen "Murderball" will know that wheelchair rugby is a kick-ass sport, so any of you in the BC area will have to come check it out from Sept. 17 - 26th. Tomorrow, I'm also moving back to Champaign Urbana and will try my best to overtax myself to the point of exhaustion with a social life, a job, a writing career (one of these days, I really need to stop writing about American truckstops and turn my attention back to a novel), and an internship. Oh, and I might start training with my old varsity team if my hip cooperates. I may get another case of mono, but at least I won't be bored!
Now here's hoping that that whole "German guy with the sword in the cane" thing won't add an additional few hours of security frisking to my airport routine.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Always Late But Worth the Wait
If all had gone according to plan, I would have been back to Champaign in late July and would right now be rocking out with a perfect new hip doing something rugged and outdoorsy. (Okay, this is a lie. It's cold as fuck in Champaign, so I'd probably be laying on someone's couch wearing mittens indoors and drinking whiskey to 'warm myself.') Well, obviously things didn't go according to plan and I've spent hundreds of pages on this blog detailing the trainwreck that was my hip replacement. On Monday, however, I will finally declare mission accomplished (well, not mission accomplished with the hip, but still) and get my ass back to Champaign-Urbana. Better practice your evacuation plan because Hurricane Arley is officially in the forecast.
Yes, I am 7 months behind schedule, and yes I only have a few months before America will break up with me, (unless, you know, there are any intelligent, hot-in-an-unconventional-way American men out there dying to pop the question to a girl who can write a great simile and bake a mean whipped-cream pound cake), but I have played sports long enough to know that quitters never win and winners never quit, that success delayed is not success denied, and that you miss 100% of the shots you don't take (or, in this case, the 100% of the parties you weren't around for because you were too busy watching "The First 48 Hours" in your bedroom in Vancouver). Yes, for the record, that was an 124-word sentence. It's not just my fainting that makes me Victorian-esque.
I only have about 3 months in Champaign, but I plan to make them a good three months. That's not to say, however, that I'm not ambivalent about the situation; (ambivalence is another one of my talents, along with the similes and the pound cake). I've been in Vancouver full-time (not counting a few expeditions to Champaign) since June 13th. I've settled into a groove living with my parents (not the best on the old ego, I like hanging with my parents and man a homecooked meal and clean laundry is nice), hanging out with the few friends I have here, and enjoying the fact that it was 52 degrees in Vancouver today and will stay in this range all week. (On a completely unrelated note: you know all those Pat Robertson type guys who were all "God hates Haiti and sent it an earthquake?" Why has no one said "God hates the Olympics and He's taking back His snow?" I mean, this has been the warmest winter on record in Vancouver by a long shot and you've got to think that maybe God just isn't a downhill skiing fan).
I digress. The point is that I will miss everyone in Vancouver, and I know it would be better for my job if I stayed in the true North strong and free. And there is a certain logic to the thought that since I'm going to have to live in Vancouver eventually, I should suck it up, put on my big girl rain slicker and acclimatize. The other part of me (the one who missed the Frog Eyes concert because I had no one to go with, the one who tries to find books in a library that won't let you take out Borges' "Book of Imaginary Beings" because it is shelved in the reference section along with the quotable quotes books, the one misses the sunshine and snow of a Midwestern winter and thinks that if she has to drive home in the rain at 5 p.m. in heavy traffic while that "New York" song plays on the radio one more time she will literally lose it), says "fuck it."
The fuck-it part of me argues that this summer, I'm going to have a major surgery and things are going to be pretty crappy. When things were crappy last time around, I kept thinking of the time that A. and I went hiking and how I got dehydrated and later drunk on one beer at The Black Dog. Or that time when Bridie, Shelley, Tiff, and some others got drunk and somehow silly string was involved. Or that Easter dinner I held where my car broke down and I sliced my thumb open and there was a minor grease fire and I bought (and then ate) too much candy. I think I need a few more moments of doing cool shit with people I care about but won't get to see after I get my maple-leaf-waving ass deported.
It's not that Champaign's better than Vancouver, it's just that right now I associate Vancouver with "bad hip replacement and ass-groove worn in my bed" and I associate Champaign with "place of awesomeness and social-butterfly-ness and kick-ass books to read." Neither of these associations are correct, but that isn't going to stop me. I need a break from talking endlessly about my hip replacement and everyone around me needs a break from me being all emo. Everyone wins!
Monday, February 1, 2010
A Matter of Symmetry and Chafing
Anyone who's read this blog for more than a few minutes is probably familiar with the state of my anti-ass. (Reason #154 why I'm single, but who's counting?) For those of you who've had intensive psychotherapy to block out the mental image, let me jog your memory. The loss of my gluteus medius has cost me my ass, which has become an anti-ass which, whenever I sit on a hard surface, becomes a bruised anti-ass, which is red hot sexy and probably Reason #155 why I'm single. (And, yes, I have written more about my anti-ass than I have about the hip-replacement surgery itself. Priorities! The public needs to know!).
Well, feel sorry for my anti-ass no longer. Even though I still may be walking like the monsters in the Monster Mash music video (thanks, Cheryl), I have found a way to balance myself out. Actually, wheelchair basketball has found a way to balance me out. (See, wheelchair basketball. How could I ever break up with you?)
Today, I tried out a new strapping system. I upgraded from the "stretchy luggage strap" to the "weight-lifting belt around my midsection." Pro: I don't stand up every 3.5 seconds and am more stable. Con: my two hip bones have become massively bruised. These bruises, however, give me symmetry since they line up with the bruises on the back. It's like yin and yang. This is good news because my anti-ass now has an office mate in the Department of Complaints, Minor Inconveniences and Old-Lady-ry: the anti-hip. (I'm not sure if the muscles around my hip have actually worn away or if weight-lifting belt + midsection is just a natural recipe for some chafing).
Ok. Yes. I have actually just written a blog post about hip chafing, (which is still not as bad as my post about my monkey slippers). This, however, is serious business. I mean, what am I going to say to the old ladies at deep-water aerobics tomorrow? You just know that the minute I step out in my sexy one-piece bathing suit that's literally disintegrating from the chlorine rocking two huge bruises on my hips, Myrtle is going to be looking at Gladys and being like, "Check out that tall gimpy one. Homegirl obviously had a good night." And Gladys will be like, "Oh. Yeah." And Myrtle will be like, "Lord, I've been there. When I used to give it up against that bathroom stall back when in the '60s when I was strapped for cash, my hips were raw for weeks" and Gladys will be like...ok, too far? Too far.
Anyhow, the point is that deep water aerobics is bad enough without having old ladies speculating about how you wound up with bruises and chafing on your hips. Why do I get the sense that I'm the only one who ever has these problems?
Well, feel sorry for my anti-ass no longer. Even though I still may be walking like the monsters in the Monster Mash music video (thanks, Cheryl), I have found a way to balance myself out. Actually, wheelchair basketball has found a way to balance me out. (See, wheelchair basketball. How could I ever break up with you?)
Today, I tried out a new strapping system. I upgraded from the "stretchy luggage strap" to the "weight-lifting belt around my midsection." Pro: I don't stand up every 3.5 seconds and am more stable. Con: my two hip bones have become massively bruised. These bruises, however, give me symmetry since they line up with the bruises on the back. It's like yin and yang. This is good news because my anti-ass now has an office mate in the Department of Complaints, Minor Inconveniences and Old-Lady-ry: the anti-hip. (I'm not sure if the muscles around my hip have actually worn away or if weight-lifting belt + midsection is just a natural recipe for some chafing).
Ok. Yes. I have actually just written a blog post about hip chafing, (which is still not as bad as my post about my monkey slippers). This, however, is serious business. I mean, what am I going to say to the old ladies at deep-water aerobics tomorrow? You just know that the minute I step out in my sexy one-piece bathing suit that's literally disintegrating from the chlorine rocking two huge bruises on my hips, Myrtle is going to be looking at Gladys and being like, "Check out that tall gimpy one. Homegirl obviously had a good night." And Gladys will be like, "Oh. Yeah." And Myrtle will be like, "Lord, I've been there. When I used to give it up against that bathroom stall back when in the '60s when I was strapped for cash, my hips were raw for weeks" and Gladys will be like...ok, too far? Too far.
Anyhow, the point is that deep water aerobics is bad enough without having old ladies speculating about how you wound up with bruises and chafing on your hips. Why do I get the sense that I'm the only one who ever has these problems?
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