Young and Hip

How Qantas Saved Christmas

2011-12-13T23:13:00.000-08:00

I have a strange life. I live in one of those perpetual tornadoes of weirdness where cats need hip replacements and ass muscles fall off and occasionally you need to be rescued on a Greek island by wheelchair rugby players or tell a masseuse in Turkey that, no, you don't want that kind of massage. This is not something I complain about, since I also have the kind of life where crappy things tend to work themselves out, usually as a result of there being good people in the world.

Case in point: this morning, I wrote a blog post about how I wasn't able to go to Australia to visit some friends because I failed to recognize that the fine print on my itinerary actually said that my credit card had been declined. (You can read the original post here). Just when I thought my Christmas Down Under was doomed to become a Christmas Sulking On the Couch and Overindulging in Homemade Boozy Chai Lattes, a Christmas miracle happened. Or a Twitter miracle.

I sent my original blog post to the Qantas customer service people via Twitter and they actually responded! Those of you who have heard the story of The Time I Went to France and Air Canada's Baggage Wankers Ripped a Hole in My Luggage and Despite Years of Trying I Never Got Compensated Because I Didn't Save the Receipt For A Four-Year-Old Bag (it's not a very exciting story, truth be told), will understand why I didn't expect an airline to really bother. After all, it was partially my faut; I should have read the fine print.

But Qantas responded, and within a few hours I had my trip rebooked at the same price I intended to pay for the original ticket, plus a complimentary pass to the Qantas lounge on my way back for my trouble. I'll be heading to Australia on the 15th and will arrive on the 17th. When I got off the phone with the Qantas people and discovered that I would indeed be able to go to Australia, it was like that moment in The Grinch Who Stole Christmas where the Grinch has a change of heart and throws all the presents down to the town below. (And what happened next? Well in Vancouver they say/ That the Arley's faith in customer service/ grew 4 sizes that day. Also: her butt grew several sizes in anticipation of all the Tim Tam's she's about to eat).

So thank you to Qantas customer service, and thank you to everyone who tweeted/ Facebooked their outrage on my behalf. While it will be strange to not spend Christmas with my family, I'm excited to be able to spend time with some truly awesome friends and explore Australia. Hopefully I will have some adventures worth blogging about! Thanks Qantas!

How the Qantas Stole Christmas

2011-12-13T15:39:00.000-08:00

Update: Well, yay. Qantas rectified the situation. Check out the updated blog post here.

One of the great things about having had a Paralympic wheelchair basketball career is that you have friends all over the world and a place to stay in nearly every country. One of the downsides, however, is that once you're no longer traveling around the world racking up Airmiles points and actually having one of those "real job" things, getting to see some of these friends is tough.

This year, I had planned to remedy that by spending Christmas and New Years with my friends in Australia, most of whom are on the Australian women's wheelchair basketball national team and too busy training for London 2012 to come visit me on this side of the world. I've actually never been to Australia, since the two times I was supposed to go for a basketball tournament I ended up getting sick or injured, so I was excited to finally experience the Land Down Under. What could be better than reconnecting with friends while soaking up enough vitamin D to get me through the rest of Vancouver's grey season?

Because of the last-minute-ness of my book tour, I wasn't able to confirm my travel dates until two weeks before my flight date, so the ticket price to Melbourne was at the top of my price range. I chose, however, to book through Qantas airline's website, since I was assured by friends that it was the most reliable site and Qantas offered the best service of any airline that flies to Australia. I submitted my credit card information and was directed to a screen saying that my flight had successfully been booked. Moments later, an itinerary arrived in my inbox. This itinerary had a booking number and reference number and the word 'confirmed' was written by every flight. Mission accomplished, right? Wrong.

Yesterday, I arrived at the airport packed and ready to go. In anticipation of having to spend some extra time at the Homeland Security Love Fest thanks to the artificial hip, I arrived at the airport 2.5 hours in advance, thinking this would be ample time to catch my flight from Vancouver to L.A., which connected to my flight to Melbourne. Upon checking in, however, I received a shock: I had no ticket.

That itinerary that Qantas sent me? Well, let's take a closer look.

Yup...this all looks solid. Booking number. Reference number. And you'd think that if something was important, they'd put it in those nice, bright blue letters. Right? Let's read on!

Confirmed! Confirmed is a good word! Scroll, scroll, scroll. Yup, everything looks solid! This is the point where I thought, "Okay, all looks well. Back to book touring." Mistake! Let's read on.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen. The minor detail that I HAVE NO TICKET was buried in the middle of the email in the same tiny capslocked letters that detailed the enhanced screening measures requiring me to stow my aerosols and gels in a transparent resealable 1 litre plastic bag. But hey, at least they used 10 whole asterisks. And we all know that asterisks in 10 pt. font mean business.

The email continues on for another page in the same shout-y capslocks, before ending with this cheerful note:

"We wish you a pleasant journey" is apparently code for "Can't wait to see the look on your face when you get to the airport and realize that you have no ticket, sucka!"

Well, damn. No ticket. Now, I am a seasoned traveler. I have been all over the world for basketball and routinely fly for work. If I could get myself out of being chased by wild dogs at 3 am at the dock of a Greek island waiting for my stolen luggage to appear on a barge, I could remedy this situation.

I did not panic. I did not shout. I did not melt down. Instead, I called Qantas. We tried the credit card again. No dice. The nice Qantas rep suggested that I contact Mastercard. After 40 minutes on hold and a few dropped calls, I finally got through to Mastercard. Though my limit was well over the cost of the flight, I got my limit increased just to be safe. The representative at Mastercard suggested that Qantas could call them directly to remedy the situation, but that the payment should go through.

Time was ticking. I had only 45 minutes until my flight to L.A. I phoned Qantas again, waited on hold, but by the time that I got through to anyone and explained my problem, it was too late. The representative informed me that they could only process emergency payments in American funds, not Canadian funds, and would have to transfer me to another booking agent...and by that time it would be too late.

I asked if they could put me on the same flight on a different day, since Qantas did such a terrible job of informing me about the declined credit card. The agent said I should have read the fine print and it wasn't Qantas' fault. I asked if there was anything -- ANYTHING -- I could do. Nothing short of starting from scratch. And then she hung up. (Merry Christmas to you too, frosty Qantas lady).

Still not totally discouraged, I headed home to see if I could snag a cheap fare, but sadly the prices had gone up to over $3500, way, way beyond my budget. And even when I did find a single fare on a non-Qantas airline that was not ridiculously expensive, it turned out that Mastercard had put a block on my credit card. WHY? Because I tried to make a large purchase after increasing my credit limit. Face meet palm.

Between the Mastercard shenanigans and Qantas' refusal to offer more than the basic level of assistance, I will not be traveling to Australia this Christmas. I will not be sitting on the beach with friends for New Years. I will not be kayaking, snorkling, hiking or any of the other fun things I'd planned. I will not be taking a much-needed break from work. Instead, I'm spending this Christmas season getting caught up on work. And now, Qantas, I'm mad.

Because here's the thing. Yeah, I should have read the fine print. But crucial information such as the fact that my credit card was declined should not have been in the fine print to begin with. It should have been in a separate email. Or at the top of the itinerary in large, bold letters. Or anywhere but the middle of an email that appeared to be a flight confirmation, surrounded by a couple of asterisks and a few pages of information about security procedures. Had I discovered this problem quickly, I could have easily remedied the situation and would right now be shaking off the jetlag with an ice cold beer and a bit of sunshine.

So Qantas, you may have lost a customer, but I've lost my one chance for a vacation this year and that makes me terribly, terribly sad. I hope you'll find some way to remedy this situation, or prevent from happening to anyone else. In the meantime, I will be sending this blog post to all my many Paralympic athlete friends around the world in the hopes that they do not make the same mistake as I did. I hope they will bear that in mind when choosing an airline.

Are the Paralympics Patronizing?

2011-12-07T23:49:00.001-08:00

Before my hip replacement, I was a Paralympic athlete in wheelchair basketball. I won 2 World Championship gold medals (2002 and 2006) and won bronze at the 2004 Paralympics in Athens. Today, the former athlete (and current disability studies enthusiast) in me was intrigued by a blog post entitled "Are the Paralympics Patronizing?" The article (here: http://blogs.channel4.com/paralympics/2011/12/07/are-the-paralympics-patronising/) reflects on a survey that found that less than a quarter of people with disabilities are excited about the Paralympics. This, the blogger says, "questions the core purpose of Paralympic sport."

I'm not so sure.

First, it's tough to make the argument that the Paralympics themselves are patronizing. Separating athletes out based on biological categories has been around since the advent of sports. Boxers and wrestlers have weight classes. Women have their own teams. There are championships for athletes of various ages from junior up to masters. No one is arguing that some 50 kg wrestler should hop in the ring with a 80kg wrestler. Why? Because sport is better when people compete against their equals.

One of our fundamental beliefs in sport is that champions are not born fully formed, but are created out of hard work and dedication. Separating athletes into fair categories allows such a principle to be carried out. If sports like boxing or wrestling did not have weight classes, the athlete who happened to be born with the most appropriate body type would overpower athletes who trained harder, were smarter or more skilled. Allowing like to compete against like shows us true excellence, since the athlete who has done the most to maximize his or her natural gifts is the winner.

For this reason, the Paralympics as an event cannot be patronizing. What can be patronizing, however, is the way the Paralympics are represented in popular culture. Just as the lack of popularity of women's sport is less a reflection on women's sport and more a reflection on our culture's beliefs about women, the Paralympic movement reveals society's attitude towards people with disabilities. This attitude is often highly patronizing.

One of those patronizing attitudes is the notion that the "core purpose of Paralympic sport" is to inspire other people with disabilities. Athletes compete in the Paralympics to win. It is an elite sporting event and a wheelchair is just another piece of sporting equipment that allows athletes to achieve this level of excellence. When I competed, I did not get up at 5:30 every morning so that some 50-year-old accountant with polio could learn to follow his dreams. I got up at 5:30 every morning to win a gold medal. Athletes able-bodied and otherwise are notoriously bad at being role models (see: Michael Phelps) because their #1 goal isn't to inspire. Their goal is to win.

The problem is that when the "inspirational" narrative that exists in able-bodied sports gets applied to the Paralympics, it's filtered through a thick lens of ableism. Michael Phelps is inspirational because he won roughly 8 million gold medals. A Paralympic athlete, however, is inspirational because she overcame a disability (bonus points if this disability was acquired in a tragic manner) and is exhibiting hope and courage and rainbows and butterflies by just competing at all. To reduce any sport to a Hallmark made-for-TV movie is to cheapen it and the word "inspirational" as applied to Paralympic athletes has been degraded to the point that it's a dirty word.

This, I suspect, is what the bulk of people with disabilities are reacting to when they profess to be not excited about the Paralympics. Even the question is filtered through a bias. Why should one person with a disability be expected to feel a rah-rah sense of allegiance to someone else with a disability, be they Paralympian or otherwise? Why should a person who has no interest in sports be interested in the Paralympics just because he or she has a spinal cord injury or a missing limb? I imagine that by the time the Paralympics arrive, there will be a lot of non-sporty people with disabilities in Britain sick of being asked by well-meaning people on buses or in shops whether they're excited that The Disabled are being put on TV thanks to the Paralympics, in much the same way that conservative African-Americans must have gotten sick of well-meaning white people asking them if they're excited about the election of Barack Obama.

Personally, I don't care whether only 22% of people with disabilities are excited about the Paralympics. I care that wheelchair sports are represented in a way that allows both able-bodied and disabled people alike to make up their own minds. When Paralympic sports are treated like the sports they are, we see time and again that people who love sports "get" them. A professional wheelchair basketball league is thriving in Europe not because people want to show their kids that people with disabilities can accomplish great things, but because wheelchair basketball is exciting, fast-paced and fun to watch. When a wheelchair is viewed as a piece of sporting equipment, all that awareness and advocacy and empathy stuff takes care of itself.

My hope is that in London 2012, the "I word" takes a backseat to an intelligent, honest analysis of Paralympic sports. The good news it that it's starting to happen, as more and more journalists (Gary Kingston, for example) and bloggers represent Paralympic sports for what they are. This may mean criticizing a team or athlete for underperforming, or it may mean admitting that some Paralympic sports (like some Olympic sports) are not as exciting as others. Without this honesty, however, the Paralympics become nothing more than an extended human interest story. And if that's the case, there will be a lot more people with disabilities changing the channel.

Getting Back On the Bike

2011-09-01T17:37:00.000-07:00

This May, I rode a bike for the first time in 17 years.

You might say to me, “Wow, riding a bicycle. Colour me impressed. It’s not like my four-year-old niece goes off-road extreme mountain biking and punches cougars in the face when she encounters them out in the wilderness or my 80-year-old grandma is training for her 18^th triathlon and built her own bike out of the bamboo she cut down herself during her trip to Nepal or anything. Did you bust out your fanny pack for your epic trip around the Seawall?”

Okay, yes, I realize that I am living in the epicenter of the Active Westcoast Lifestyle and everyone and their dog rides a bike here. This, however, is a big deal to me because it’s literally the only thing I can do post-hip-replacement that I couldn’t do before. (Well, I have found a few extra uses besides bike riding for my newfound ability to straddle, but let’s not go into that).

I resisted posting about this for several months because the person who taught me how the ride a bike is someone I was casually dating at the time. It’s a long-standing opinion of mine that blogging about an ex (even a casual, short-term-relationship type ex) is a one-way ticket to AwkwardTown with stops along the way at AiringYourDirtyLaundryInAWayThatWillCauseYouShameVille and TheMinuteYouMentionDatingCreepersOnTheInternetAreImaginingYouFucking-opolis.

I’ve decided to blog about learning how to ride a bike, however, because so much of Young and Hip has chronicled my disappointment with my hip replacement. I often get emails asking me if I regret it, and I worry that I am talking people out of a life-altering surgery. But even though I’m over a year post-hip-replacement (and two years since the first one), my hip still swells up like the ass of a baboon in heat if I try to do such extreme sports as…deep water aerobics. Or walking down the street. Or sitting in a chair for longer than 20 minutes. I still walk with a cane. I can never play wheelchair basketball again. If I work out for more than a couple of days a week, I’m in constant pain. Over the past year, I’ve honestly struggled with the knowledge that this is as good as my hip will ever get.

But back to the bicycling. I met D. on an online dating site. I was immediately comfortable around him, which is astounding because usually on dates I talk like a crack-addicted LOLcat (“O HAI!!”) and knock things over with my elaborate hand gestures. A few weeks after we met, I mentioned that I wanted to learn how to ride a bike. I joked about getting adult training wheels so I wouldn’t fall and bring about Total Hip Replacement 3: Rise of the Prosthetic Fractures. D offered to teach me.

I assumed that he meant that we would rent a bike by the seawall and he would attempt to catch me if I looked to be veering towards certain death. But D. surprised me by researching how to safely teach an adult how to ride a bicycle. Thanks to a few websites and several Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies becoming confident cyclists, he came up with a plan. (Is it a bad sign that one of the nicer things a man has ever done for me involved Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies?)

And so, on one of those rare Spring days when it’s sunny in Vancouver and your Seasonal Affective Disorder calls in sick, D and I went to Stanley Park armed only with the wisdom of the internet. D’s method involved me coasting down a grassy hill first with my feet touching the ground to get a feel for the movement, then again with my feet up, then finally while pedaling. And it was….really easy. Though the writer in me died a little, I had to admit that the cliché is true: you really never forget.

This was a surprise because when I tried to ride a bike several years before the hip replacement, I couldn’t get my left leg on the pedals, it nearly got caught in the chain and A. (who was holding on to both me and the bike) and I ran into a tree. This time, however, I took off riding up a hill. Wobbly, yes. Slow, absolutely. Graceful, sure as hell not. I, however, felt like Lance Fucking Armstrong winning the Tour De Fuck You Hip Replacement Because That Shit Just Happened.

D. and I took a break for lunch and then he rented a bike and we rode together around the Seawall. Because of my lack of speed and the fact that I was wobbling more than Lindsey Lohan after a rough night, cyclists kept chiming at me. At first, I mistook this for a friendly salute, as if they were saying, “Greetings and salutations fellow cycling enthusiast! May your journey be safe and free of ass-chafing!”, but D. informed me that ringing your bell is actually cyclist speak for “fuck you.” (Well chime chime to you too, Vancouver bike commuters).

Soon, however, I was coasting down hills, picking up speed and wondering how long it had been since I’d gone fast. That’s the one thing I miss about sport, and it’s something that elliptical machines can’t replace: just going balls out fast. I will spare you any clichés of feeling free – nothing’s free in Vancouver, let’s be honest – but for the first time my long recovery felt over. I was ‘better.’ Sure, it wasn’t the better I expected or wanted, but even though my hip was swollen and my back was sore and my anti-ass was like “fuck off right here and now,” it seemed like a better I could live with.

I looked at D., who was flushed from pedaling and who had gone to all this effort to teach me how to do something he didn’t even enjoy, and at Stanley Park, which was being all picture-post-cardy, and I thought: Best. Date. Ever. And that feeling continued for several more weeks….until it didn’t. And then it was over. There’s a Gloria Steinem joke here somewhere.

After the breakup, I’ll admit that I spent a day or two sulkily listening to “Blood on the Tracks,” but it doesn’t take long to get over a six-week thing with someone you only saw a couple of times a week. And it’s even easier once you realize that that the only thing shittier than a breakup is being unable to date because you’re stuck in bed post-surgery injecting yourself with bloodthinners and groggily watching some reality TV show about the joys of home renovation.

Because – watch out people! Literary Device Alert! Here comes a very subtle metaphor because I am a fancy, fancy writer! – after two years of medical limbo, I am happy to be back on the dating bike, and the social life bike, and the getting the fuck on with my life bike. (That’s a lot of bikes. What’s the metaphorical equivalent of padded bike shorts?) And even though it means accepting the notion that the cane is here to stay, I’m happy that the Great Hip Replacement Debacle is receding into a small point in the rear view mirror. It’s nice to not to catch myself starting the bulk of my stories with, “So I was at physio and an old lady said…”

So even though it didn’t lead to happily ever after, I’m glad to have a story that begins with the phrase “So I was dating this guy and he taught me how to ride a bike,” even if it ends with the phrase “yes, grandma, I’m still single. No, I’m not a lesbian.” Because several weeks after D. and I broke up, I bought myself a bike. Her name is Dorothy Mantooth and right now I only ride her around the quiet streets in my neighbourhood because cars seem like huge metal dinosaurs chasing me, though I have delusions of becoming a Serious Biker Who Wears Spandex And Refuels With Those Energy Gels.

A few weeks ago, I rode around the Seawall again. I passed a gaggle of elderly ladies stopping every few seconds to take photos of birds. I passed a tourist couple who kept announcing Vancouver’s beauty every 3.8 seconds to one another. I even passed a pair of girls who looked mildly athletic. Granted, I got my ass handed to me by several middle-aged rollerbladers, but let’s go ahead and chalk this up to a solid victory.

So if you’re in the Vancouver area and you see a very tall girl on a white bike making the Seawall her bitch, that is me, and I’m passing on the left. Chime chime, motherbitches!

And if you’re not in Vancouver and you’ve had a hip replacement and are looking for a safe way to relearn how to ride a bike without falling, here is a video of me doing so on a very good day with a guy I was dating. If you want to do a drinking game to this clip, take a shot everytime I say “yay!”

I'm Back! Kind of. Maybe.

2011-04-05T23:24:00.000-07:00

After a six-month absence, I seem to have broken the cardinal rule of blogging, which is to post on a regular basis. I also broke the second cardinal rule of blogging, which is don't start a blog about your semi-detached ass, but I think I get a free pass on that one.

So, after 224 posts spanning several hundred pages and nearly 2 years, why did I suddenly go AWOL? Was it because my hip magically healed itself, my gluteus medius grew back and there was nothing more to write about? Nope. Was it because I got tired of making jokes involving puns on the word 'half-assed?" Unlikely. That shit never gets old.

In truth, there were several reasons, but the main one was that I just got busy. Right now, I have 3 jobs, 2 volunteer positions, a book coming out in the Fall and a cat who sits on my chest and slaps me in the face when I'm sleeping if I don't pay enough attention to her (true story). Plus, now that I'm living in Vancouver, land of "Would You Like Some Sky-High Rental Prices To Go With Your Seasonal Affective Disorder-Inducing Climate?", a girl's got to hustle to make ends meet.

Honestly, I was also getting tired of talking about my hip replacement. After two surgeries, months of rehab, and countless people approaching me on the street to ask what's, like, wrong with me, I wanted to get off the Arthroplasty Express and spend a little time in Normal-28-Year-Old-Chick-Doing-Normal-Shit-Town. (Okay, yes, I know. 'Arley' and 'normal' go together as well as 'Vancouver' and 'sunny days.' But still!) I was beginning to get known as That Girl Who Had A Disastrous Hip Replacement instead of That Girl Will Publish Her Second Book By 28 or That Girl Who Looks Totally Awesome And I Wonder If She's Single.

It all reached a boiling point when a guy I used to play wheelchair basketball with was like, "Arley's so obsessed with her hip. She doesn't talk about anything but her hip. She wants to have sex with her hip." I kind of freaked out and vowed to stop blogging that night. Working in wheelchair sports and having played them for most of my life, you get to know a lot of people with disabilities. 95% of those people are well-adjusted and generally awesome -- or well-adjusted but kind of douchy, it varies -- but there's a small percentage who seem to see themselves as A Disabled Person, as if that's the only thing about them. I didn't want to ever become the kind of person who devotes the bulk of their Facebook status updates to being like, "OMG! It is so hard being disabled! Recently, someone said something that could possibly have been perceived as discriminatory and I am going to freak the fuck out and go on an exclamation-point-fueled rant about how people are so ignorant and it's a good thing I'm so strong and brave and can overcome the weight of society pressing down upon me! P.S. I just got pink butterfly stickers for my wheelchair and they are totally rad." It's a problem whenever you can boil your identity down to a single phrase, whether it's 'disabled' or 'cat enthusiast' or 'a warlock with tiger blood and Adonis DNA' (#winning), and I didn't want anyone thinking of me as someone who's obsessed with her disability.

Also, not going to lie, it's a little disconcerting to be like, "Good news! My blog gets over 5,000 visitors a month. Wait, bad news! 86% of those visitors are just here for the 'sexual healing' post I did on post-surgical sex positions, which means that there are a lot of sick fuckers out there jacking off to cartoons of old people getting it on to the point of hip dislocation." (Side note to whoever Googled "Arley McNeney naked" and/or "Arley McNeney boobs": If you need the help of Google to locate my boobs, you are probably never going to see them in real life. And by 'probably' I mean 'absolutely.' And by 'absolutely' I mean 'Seriously. Really. Eww.') Bottom line: if I'm going to be helping some guy get off, I want to at least be enjoying myself in the process.

So those are the reasons why I left, but here are the reasons why I'm back. (Maybe. Hopefully. Depending on how the whole 'having 8 million jobs and trying to have a social life' thing pans out). First, my mom has been on my case about it forever. (Hi mom! Love you!). Second, however, my friend J.T. (no, not Justin Timberlake, though he and I are pretty close) is having a hip replacement tomorrow and we actually have the same surgeon. Don't worry, it's not the guy who did the first surgery!

One of the cool things about "Young and Hip" has been hearing from people all over the world who are thinking of having a hip replacement or have already had one or who are supposed to have one but now I've terrified them and they'd rather drag their arthritis-stricken hips through hot lava than go through with the surgery and wind up like me. (To the latter group, I have this to say: Despite everything that happened, I wish I'd had the hip replacement years ago. If I'd had my surgery on a different day or with a different doctor, you would never have heard about me because I'd be off living my life thinking, 'Hey, remember that mildly-to-moderately painful time in my life when I got a hip replacement? That was so worth it for all the awesome shit I'm doing now.')

Anyhow, while I've heard from tons of different hip replacement patients, I've never known anyone in real life who's my age and about to go through one. And considering all that J.T. has been through to get the surgery, I thought I'd give her a little shout out to wish her luck. So, good luck J.T.! Here's hoping that you recover quickly and are soon back to living the dream. Hip precautions may be annoying, but three months is a short period of time and soon you can throw away your ass cushion and post-hip-replacement sex manual and enjoy life as a pain-free bad-ass cyborg. Keep me posted!

The Charlie Sheen of Eating

2010-11-01T10:08:00.000-07:00

Right now, Red Cross helicopters are probably circling the Greater Champaign-Urbana area dropping food rations to desperate undergrads. The reason: Hurricane Arley blew into town for a few days and while I was there, I ate everything in a 30-mile radius. Like, literally everything. Even things that were only borderline edible; (I'm looking at you, three-year-old candy corn!)

Over the weekend, I went on a 36-hour food bender, terrifying the locals and cutting a swath of destruction that can probably be seen from outerspace. Here is a tally of some of the damage:

Double-stuffed Oreos for breakfast! For breakfast! Instead of actual food!
Delicious Black Dog beef brisket with fries!
Marshmallows the size of a baby's head courtesy of my awesome friend Karo!
Candy corn and various other holiday-themed morsels of corn-syrup-and-food-colouring-based goodness!
Pumpkin-spice frozen yogurt with graham cracker crumbs (for a pumpkin pie-like mouth feel, because I am a Michelin-starred chef when it comes to fro-yo sundae construction) and yogurt chips (for crunch and because I freaking love yogurt chips even though I'm 95% sure they are made entirely of wax)!
Jimmy John's sandwiches at 3 a.m.! Freaky fast, freaky nostalgia-inducing!
Erin McQ's delicious chicken pot pie and apple pie. The vegetables cancel out the pie crust and make it nutritious!
A tailgating breakfast consisting of bacon-and-egg tortillas and mini cupcakes!
My weight's worth of fun-sized Halloween candy. Fun fact: American "fun sized" chocolate bars are twice as large as Canadian "fun sized" chocolate bars. End result: double the fun. Also: double the diabetes!

I am like the Charlie Sheen of eating, (well, except for the hooker locked in the bathroom part). The end result of this Bender of Deliciousness: I will be making a much bigger splash into the deep water aerobics pool than usual. Watch out, elderly ladies! I've picked up a little more gravity since the last time we met, but it won't slow me down.

As you can tell from the excessive use of exclamation points in this post, I am still coming down off a sugar high. I am also coming down off the high of being around people who enjoy my company despite knowing full well what a ridiculous human being I can be. It's not that I don't have friends in Vancouver. I do. There is, however, a difference between having a handful of friends (even if they are good friends!) and having an actual social life. I miss the Wednesday-night Project Runway "reading group" and random dinner-and-DVD nights and going to concerts with more than one person and sitting at a bar/restaurant with a full table of people whose company you enjoy on a regular basis and just walking into a room where a few dozen people say, "Hey, Arley!" as opposed to giving me Vancouver hipster side eye.

Okay, enough with the emo-ness. One of these days I will figure out the answer to the question of how someone meets people without the built-in friend machine known as school/ wheelchair basketball. Until then, however, I have recharged my social-skill batteries by seeing dozens of awesome people in a very short amount of time with very little sleep. Thanks to everyone who hung out with me/ ate or drank with me/ drove me to the airport despite the fact that Indianapolis is apparently changing its entire highway infrastructure at once.

My little weekend jaunt was also a good lesson in how to travel post-hip-replacement. The day I flew to Champaign, the TSA had instituted a brand new pat-down policy, which is just like the old pat-down policy but with 75% more groping. Usually, airport security patdowns go something like this:

Security guard: Can you empty out your pocket?
Me: There's nothing in my pocket. My hip replacement is setting off your metal detector.
Security guard: You're awfully young to have a hip replacement.
Me: Yes, yes I am.
Security guard: My grandma had a hip replacement a few years ago. She just loves it! She went skiing in Aspen! Now, I am just going to check in your pocket.
Me: Okay, but you've already checked there and it's just the metal of my hip replacement.
Security guard: What about your back pocket? There seems to be something in this back pocket. Perhaps you have some coins in there that you forgot to empty out.
Me: Do you not understand that someone chopped off the ball of my femoral head, sanded away my socket and replaced both with medical-grade cobalt chrome, and that these devices are implanted under my skin roughly equidistance between both my front and back pockets and are therefore setting off the metal detector wand in both places?
Security guard: I am not a doctor and therefore am not required as part of my job training to use common sense. Is there a reason why the area around your left hip is hot?
Me: Yes. I have a very small nuclear rector stored under my skin making tiny, tiny doses of plutonium. No, actually it's this thing called inflammation. Because. I. Had. A. Hip. Replacement.

Now, however, the conversations are a little different:

Security guard: Let me guess: you tore your ACL playing volleyball.
Me: No, I had a hip replacement.
Security guard: Oh. I guess that's better than a torn ACL. I heard they really hurt!
Me: ....
Security guard: *looking awkward* So, I just have to let you know that they brought in a new protocol for security pat-downs effective today.
Me: Oh yeah...
Security guard: *while awkwardly snapping on rubber gloves and avoiding my gaze* Yes, I am required by these new protocols to notify you in advance of some of the changes. For example, I will be placing one hand on your inner thigh and one hand on the outside of your hip and pressing inwards until I feel firm resistance. I am also required to check the waistband of your pants. I must also inform you that when I am inspecting a sensitive area, I will be using the back of my hand.
Me: Are you required by these new protocols to buy me a drink first? Or maybe meet my parents? Because I feel that this relationship is going really fast.
Security guard: ..... ha...ha...
Me: .....
Security guard: These new protocols are designed to make all Americans safer.

So, you're welcome Americans! In the interest of public safety, I allowed some chick to run her hands along my inner thigh not once, but twice. I also let her run the back of my hand under my boobs, which apparently is not harassment since she used the back of her hand and not the front.

You know that the new regulations are invasive when the security personnel, who are often made up of people who get pleasure out of being the worst part of someone's day, are made uncomfortable by it. I guess, however, that they probably have it worse off than I do, since can you imagine trying to find "firm resistance" on the inner thigh of a 90-year-old man? How would you know which was wrinkly old man thigh flesh and which was wrinkly old man ball sack?! (Too far? Too far).

This, however, has given me a really great new pickup line. One of these days, I am going to go up to some guy and put the back of my hand on his crotch, then say, "It's not sexual harassment! I used the back of my hand! Homeland security demands it!" I'm groping for America.

Snakes on a Cane - The Highly Anticipated Sequel

2010-10-15T22:27:00.001-07:00

For the past six months, I have been in the market for a new cane. Before my most recent surgery, I didn't want to get a new one, even though mine makes an ungodly clinking noise when I walk and the handle is falling apart faster than my plans for a more robust dating life. I figured that if my gluteus medius got fixed, I eventually would be able to walk unaided and I should save my money for dealing with Vancouver beer prices ($4.50 for a warm PBR! Seriously, people!). But since the reattachment didn't work and I'm still legitimately half-assed, it looks like the cane will be my permanent +1. It's time to upgrade to a better model. Or at least a model that doesn't leave little gummy bits of handle rubber on my palms that resemble snot. (I know. So sexy).

I've been down the cane-buying road before: the cat-themed canes; the sword canes (I can barely manage to not kill people with my regular cane. Lord help us all if I ever get one with a lethal weapon inside); the canes with a silver skull on the handle (unless it shoots lasers from the eyes, not interested); the ones made of lucite or topped with a wolf/eagle/dragon/mudflap girl/dolphin. Seriously, I like dolphins and all, but who likes dolphins enough to put up with brass dorsal fin sticking into your palm every time you try to walk? And also, someone needs to put a disclaimer on those canes that have the mudflap girl on them that if you use one, that's going to be the only naked girl riding on your shaft for the rest of your life. (Too far? Too far.)

No, I attract enough attention walking down the street as it is. What I need is a cane that blends into the background, like some kind of a secret service agent. A cane that says, "I have a permanent disability, so stop asking me if I've sprained my ankle because if I hear the phrase 'Gosh, what did you do to yourself?' one more time I am going to shank someone" while also saying "Oh, and by the way, I'm not 90 years old and can still bring the hotness." A cane that does its job as a mobility aid but doesn't look like a lifestyle choice.

You'd think this would be easy: go online, find a cane that's tall enough and unobtrusive, purchase it and have it arrive to my door thanks to the power of the internets. No. Incorrect. For one, the website design of most online cane stores looks fresh from a Geocities fan page circa 1996 and it's nearly impossible to navigate any of them. Plus, just out of principle, I'm not buying anything from a store that has a GIF of a snowman dancing along the screen or that claims to be marketing its products to the "enfeebled."

The second problem, however, is that I've discovered that most canes have names more suited to sex toys and I cannot take them seriously. Here are some examples:

The Black Mamba
The Tuxedo Night Stick
The Blackthorn Premium Knob
Mylord With Grapes
The Magician's Wand
The Regency Scrimshaw Bulb
The Lady Blowing Horn
The Alpaca Horn of Plenty
The Burgandy StripTease (not even kidding)
The Powder Pink Soft Touch

I'm sorry, but do I want some delivery person coming to my house and asking my mom if she'll sign for a Power Pink Soft Touch with adjustable shaft? No. No I do not. It's not happening. Alas, I have a feeling that the Great Cane Hunt of 2010 is going to last longer than SurgeonWatch 2009. The excitement around here really never ceases.

Ass Lasers to the Rescue!

2010-10-09T10:10:00.000-07:00

If you look at my calendar, you'll see October 20th circled and surrounded by stars, hearts, butterflies and happy faces. No, it's not my birthday (though International Arley Appreciation day comes up on November 15th, so you might want to stock up on some more candles and incense to spruce up your Arley shrine). October 20th is the day that my hip restrictions will finally be over.

Yes, my life is about to get marginally less awkward! No more will I have to explain to passersby on the street that my ass cushion is not a very large, squishy briefcase. No more will I have to say the phrases, "No, I did not sprain my ankle. I had a hip replacement. Yes, I'm very young to have a hip replacement. I'm glad to hear your grandma's doing well after her knee replacement in 2005." No more will I trip random waiters because I have to stick my incredibly long leg out into the aisle when I'm sitting down (although my chances of getting attractive men to land in my lap is now significantly reduced).No more will I forgo dates because visions of cartoon old people in the post-hip-replacement sex manual getting it on are dancing (and by 'dancing' I mean 'f*cking to the point of hip dislocation') in my head.

Yes, there's light at the end of the Tunnel of Hip Replacement Ridiculousness. For the past few years, my diva hip has been the star of the Arley show. First, my hip was subluxing/dislocating/migrating south for the winter and I spent a good year traumatizing my family and friends by having them tug on my leg to put it back in the socket. Then, there was the first hip replacement and the ensuing melodrama and the second hip replacement and the ensuing hours spent in physio getting dating advice from old people. I am now equipped with a full-time post at the Ministry of Silly Walks and a lifetime of jokes about being half-assed.

But while the hip crisis is beginning to go from "Life-Consuming" to "Generally Annoying," other body parts are stepping in for their moment in the sun. For the past two weeks, one of my ribs has been out of alignment, which is causing breathing to be very difficult and is generally making me crankier than a cat at a water park. (How did you pop your rib out of alignment, Arley? Oh...you know...just living the dream).

This means that not only does my poor physio have to teach me how to not walk like a crack zombie, she also has to stand on a stool so she can get enough leverage to push my rib into its home while trying not to push my spinal facets or SI joints out of alignment. Sometimes it feels like my bones were designed by Picasso. Having a Skeleton: You're Doing it Wrong.

Granted, I didn't do myself any favours when I fell down the stairs last Friday, which is the exact thing that the 85-year-olds at physio are always warning me not to do (along with not dating tall men to avoid having daughters with big feet, but that's another story). I got a little cocky and thought, "Since I am the Queen of Recovery, for my next trick I will go downstairs backwards on slippery stairs in equally slippery shoes and that should work out well for me." As I felt myself falling, I panicked, grabbed my crutches, and twisted my hip hard, which caused my semi-detached gluteus medius to swell up to a gluteus maximus.

To calm the swelling and force my body parts to play nice, my physiotherapist pulled out the big guns: lasers. At first, I was worried, since my familiarity with lasers comes from the Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers and I am already part evil robot. I was assured, however, that the lasers would calm the swelling and reduce the pain. Bring on the happy lasers! Cut to me, a few minutes later, laying on my side with my pants down as my physio (wearing large eye-shielding goggles reminiscent of the ones old ladies who have had cataract surgery wear to drive) presses the laser into the side of my hip and my ass. Ass lasers to the rescue! Dignity not required! I'm pretty sure this is not the way most people spend their Friday afternoon, but I have to admit that that the lasers did the job. The swelling in my ass had gone down enough by Friday evening to cram myself into skinny jeans. And if skinny jeans aren't a benchmark to recovery, I don't know what is.

Rocking the 2010WWRC

2010-09-28T12:44:00.000-07:00

Even when I'm not dealing with a hip re-replacement, I am still the Commander-In-Chief of AwkwardLand. I mean, if someone's going to accidentally light their hair on fire or fall and headbutt someone while trying to give them a hug, it's going to be me. When you add crutches, 16-hour work days, sleep deprivation, alcohol, a diet composed nearly entirely of coffee and the world's largest ass cushion into the equation, I basically become the Ultimate Grand Supreme Champion of Awkwardness and General Ridiculousity.

That was me at the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships, where I've been for the past few weeks working on the communications team. I've extolled the virtues of wheelchair rugby on this blog before and it's hard to describe the 2010WWRC with any other word but "awesome." Awesome rugby. Awesome people. Awesome event. Oh, and free Starbucks. Sweet, sweet Starbucks.

But while I'm a huge fan of wheelchair rugby, I can't say that my Freaky Cyborg Hip was too terribly impressed. The most painful part of recovery is clearly over, but the hip replacement provided endless opportunities for annoyance. It doesn't help that I have the patience of a sugar-high toddler or that I'd spent the past 6 weeks in bed eating frozen grapes and was not exactly used to being out and about.

The really strange part of having a hip replacement is that there are certain things that you physically could do (bending, twisting, crossing legs, etc), but you're not allowed to do them for fear of dislocation. After a few 16-hour work days and (let's be honest) a beer or two, the list of what you are and are not allowed to do becomes a little fuzzy around the edges and you can barely remember your name, let alone whether your air guitar rendition of "Living on a Prayer" is hip-replacement kosher or where you left your damn ass cushion.

Mostly, however, the problem was less pain and more annoyance. Annoyance at trying to balance crutches, an ass cushion and a tray full of Starbucks. Annoyance at having to call my friend C. to come pull my car out of the parking lot after some douche-kabob in an SUV parked so close to me that I couldn't open my door enough to get my left leg in. Annoyance at having to cruise the parking lot for a corner spot to prevent people from parking too close, being unable to find one, and having to park in the wheelchair parking and endure major side-eye from quadriplegics (and rightfully so). Annoyance at every well-intentioned volunteer or passerby or hotel staff who used the phrase "Gosh, you're really good on those there crutches! Bet you could beat me in a race!" or "What did you do to yourself? Sprain your ankle?" Annoyance at having to install a raised toilet seat in our hotel room, thereby turning the bathroom into a death trap for my poor roommate Shelley. Annoyance at trying to "dance" (translation: "moving my knee roughly in time to the music while waving my hands as if trying to put out a fire") on crutches.

That said, I think the trial-by-fire of the 2010WWRC ended up being good for the hip. Every day, the swelling actually reduced and the pain got less. It's also hard to remember you're in pain when you're having such a good time and when you have awesome friends who fly all the way from Illinois to party at the 2010WWRC and who generally rock your world. Besides, am I really going to complain about a semi-detached ass in a room full of quadriplegics?

Back in the Saddle Again

2010-09-09T22:20:00.000-07:00

I have just four words to describe my first post-surgical outing to the PNE:
Deep.
Fried.
Oreos.
Yes!

Okay, I would have to step down as the Crown Princess of Verbosity if that was my entire post, but luckily there's a lot more to say on the subject. I'm not sure what lead me to think, "Gee, I have been in bed for a month straight and have had major surgery, so I should really ease myself back in to the land of the living by going to Vancouver's largest summer fair on a long weekend along with thousands of other people who would shank your mother for the last mini-donut....for 8 hours."

Actually, that particular thought process was caused by a few key factors:
1) I'm kind of a moron when it comes to gauging my tolerance for things.
2) I heard the siren song of the funnel cake in all its deep-fried, powdered-sugary-y seductiveness. Also: the siren song of the cotton candy, the poutine, the fresh-squeezed lemonade, the donairs, and (of course) the deep-fried oreos. It was a veritable siren-song doo-wop group.
3) It was a chance to spend time with several of the friends I still have in Vancouver. Plus, sometimes you've just got to give your hip a little pat and say, "Okay, hip. You've been in the driver's seat for the past month, but now it's time to scootch over to the passenger's seat and buckle up tight because I'm about to rev the engine."

The problem with going places post-hip-replacement is not the walking, though granted that sucks quite a bit. No, the real issue is sitting. There are many different shows at the PNE (the horse jumping....the Chinese acrobats...the SuperDogs...the random guy in a booth who spray-paints a Hummer about 8 million times a day then cleans it with some special cleaning product and progressively gets more loopy as the spray paint fumes get to him) and all of these shows require sitting on hip-precaution-breaking seats. I therefore had to travel with a chaperone: my huge-ass hip replacement cushion.

I thought I was being crafty by shoving the hip-replacement cushion into a backpack. The problem: getting it in and out of the backpack was harder than squeezing my ass into skinny jeans. It was literally a two-person job. Maybe my hip-replacement cushion had also been snacking on some deep-fried oreos, because as the day progressed, it got harder and harder to wrestle it into the bag. Worse: the person who ended up helping me was Shira and Jeff's friend C., who I barely know, and whose system has not built up a tolerance to my usual level of ridiculousness. (He was, thankfully, very nice about the whole thing). Nothing like the phrase "Hi, nice to meet you. Want to spend part of your relaxing weekend help me shove an ass cushion roughly the width of your grandma's Laz-E-Boy into this backpack 8 or 10 times a day?" to really make an impression. Really good way to meet people in Vancouver.

Still, it's good to know that I'm easing my way back into the saddle (the metaphorical saddle...the literal saddle would break hip precautions). Giddyup!

Not Taking This Sitting Down

2010-08-30T21:29:00.000-07:00

I apologize for the radio silence. I hope no one thought that I had been attacked by a gang of rogue physio oldsters agitated into a jealous rage over my progress at physio. (Don't worry. I keep a bag of lint-covered peppermints in my pocket for such an occasion). No, the reason for my absence is that even though my ass is pretty much still stuck in bed, the power of the internets means that I'm kept on my toes by work, socializing (hey, Skype counts as socializing) and various internships.

Right now, two things are keeping my bed's ass groove firmly indented:

The whole "brand, spanking new hip joint makes sitting and standing painful" thing, plus the fact that hip restrictions make doing cool things less cool (we all remember the sex manual, yes?).
I know very few people in Vancouver (or, at least, very few people who I can't guilt trip into coming to visit me), which gives me little-to-no incentive to put on clothing that did not come courtesy of my former national team's Nike sponsorship. (Hey, no one said that the 'it' in "Just Do It" couldn't refer to eating frozen grapes while watching Alton Brown teach you how to cook a perfect porterhouse steak). I mean, if you're going to spend 15 minutes wrestling your jeans on with a grabber, you should probably go somewhere better than "to the mall to look at clothing you cannot try on without the aforementioned grabber, thus filling you with the rage of small animals."

Factor #1 is still in play. Those of you who are familiar with my neverending battle against my anti-ass know that I have never liked sitting. I like it even less after someone recently chiseled out my hip's ball and socket and used power tools to install a new one. Here's how I sit:

Lug around an ass cushion 4 times the size of your laptop, which is great fun when you're still walking on crutches.
Lay the ass cushion on a chair, though the fact that it is bigger than the surface of the chair will almost guarantee that it will fall off at some point in time.
Try to lower yourself (without breaking hip precautions!) on to the chair. When the ass cushion falls off or slides out from under you, you will not be able to adjust it without breaking hip restrictions or reaching for your grabber. Since you do not want to ask someone to reach between your legs and give your ass cushion a good yank, you will settle for riding a four-inch-thick square of foam side saddle.
Perch on the terribly askew ass cushion with your bad leg stuck out and your back jammed against the backrest so that the bones of your spine are bruised, requiring you to stick one hand behind your back between your spine and your backrest, like Napoleon in reverse.
Realize that you look like some sort of broken life-sized marionette.
Or like a contestant on America's Top Geriatric Model. (The only people who sit worse than I do are models in fashion magazines. I suspect they, too, are plagued by the scourge of ass bruising).
Or like some sort of gout-stricken king after feasting on an entire roast pig and swilling jugs of mead.

You can therefore see why it takes a lot more than boredom to get me out of the house.

This week, however, I've finally received the motivation I need to leave the comfort of my room: my friend S., who recently moved to Vancouver from Australia to do a four-month internship. She was staying at my place for awhile and I'm assuming that she did not move halfway around the world to get the grand tour of my favourite daytime reality TV shows. It was time to put on my big girl pants and head out into the real world.

S. moving to Vancouver, by the way, is all part of my master plan. See, I have a great many talents: picking things up with the toes on my right foot (they are like monkey toes!); making French buttercream; injecting business correspondence with the appropriate dash of "You Attitude." The list goes on. But meeting new people? Not really a strong suite. Nine times out of 10, I will knock something over with my elaborate hand gestures and the person will assume I have a meth addiction. Solution: Bring all my old friends to Vancouver! (Are you listening, people of Champaign-Urbana?)

Granted, S. and I did spend a significant amount of time watching Dexter re-runs online. But I also went on my first real post-surgical excursion....to the Richmond Night Market. Why I thought that I should take my first non-physio-or-doctor-related trip at a place jammed with thousands of jostling and shoving people, many of whom are carrying squid on pointy sticks, I don't know. I do know, however, that I was able to maneuver past the stalls that specialize in handmade false eyelashes, past the accupuncturist who boasted of his ability to cure "Human Pain," past the snake exhibit and the rows of LED-lighted T-shirts that light up in time to music, past the stand after stand carrying delicious dim-sum goodness and potato chips on sticks. I tasted victory and it tasted like chocolate-pudding bubble tea!

The next day, I even went to my friend T's house with S. (and my ass cushion) to eat a delicious dinner and fawn over her cats. For ages I've had a standing appointment with my bed and suddenly I've sprung back into action. Make way, real world. I'm slowly creeping my way back towards you.

On the Cat Walk. On the Cat Walk, Yeah.

2010-08-22T00:31:00.000-07:00

One of the few times I leave the house these days is to go on my physio-prescribed walks around the neighbourhood. Seeing as how I live on the mean streets of New Westminster, (we might get turn-of-the-century-small-town-charmed to death), it's lucky that my mom and I have protection during these excursions: my guard cat Mika, who insists on joining us for every single walk. I think it's safe to say that no baby bunnies or starlings will be harassing us while Mika's on patrol.

This is therefore the sight that the good people of New Westminster see as I pass every day: me, shuffling along with my crutches, wearing baggy workout clothing and a pair of stained MaryJanes because they're the only shoes that don't a) give me blisters or b) require the use of a "sock aid" and shoe horn to put on, glasses askew, hair looking like that of a Barbie doll that's spent years in the bottom of atoybox , calling out every once in awhile to my cat to cajole her into coming out from a hedge and reminding her that she's a "good girl." I could not look more like a psychiatric-ward patient if I put on a tinfoil hat or one of those apocalyptic-themed sandwich boards. Step right up, boys. Can I interest anyone in a copy of my post-surgical sex manual? Anyone? Not all at once.

During my first hip replacement, Mika lived with A. I had worried that she would be a tripping hazard or that she would jump up on my freshly operated-on hip and thought it best that she stay with someone who could lavish her with the attention she deserves. This time, however, I didn't have a choice in the matter. And sure enough....Mika's a tripping hazard and jumps up on my freshly operated-on hip. Actually, she doesn't so much 'jump up on' my hip as she does 'stand on me and dig her tiny paw right into my hip in her efforts to reach over my body to drink from my water glass on the bedside table, which often results in me being woken up not only by the pain of having 10 pounds of cat foot on a place that was recently sliced and diced, but also by the clunking noise of Mika trying to free herself from the water glass that she's gotten her head stuck in.

Mika is also making it difficult to keep my hip restrictions. When she comes for walks, I'm always tempted to turn around to see where she is (I do my little turn on the cat walk), especially when she meows at me when I get too far ahead. Turning is a major hip-replacement no no because you can't twist from your hip.Mika also likes to rub her face on my crutches to claim them as her own (uh...you can have them, cat), which causes her to weave in and out of my unsteady feet.

Worse, she's unable to read the "I just had major surgery" memo, so she doesn't understand why I can't reach down to pet her while she's on the floor, or why I can't pick her up or why I take a really long time to shuffle over to the sink to turn on the tap so she can have a drink. It's one thing to be frustrated because you can't pick up your pants from the floor. It's another to have your little cat rolling on the floor in front of you as if to say, "Don't I look cute? Wouldn't you like to just break your hip precautions and risk possible prosthesis loosening and/or dislocation just once by reaching down to scratch me under the chin?"

All that aside, it's really good to have Mika here. There are few things in this world that a purring cat doesn't cure. Okay, actually there are a lot of things that a purring cat won't cure, (gluteus medius detachment, for example), but she is damn good at relieving the melancholy that comes from weeks spent in bed watching reality TV shows about American prisons.

Pulled Pork Injury!!

2010-08-16T21:13:00.000-07:00

There's a new season of America's Next Top Model coming up and I know you'll all be shocked that I'm not trying out. It's been nearly three weeks since my surgery and I am clearly on the fast-track to hotness. I mean, check out what I have to offer:

Legs that have not been shaved because of the whole "hip restrictions and bloodthinners" thing. Well, that and they're longer than the "Clan of the Cave Bears" saga and I have trouble reaching them at the best of times.
Legs that have not been moisturized on account of said hip restrictions, making me a more ideal contestant for America's Next Top She-Lizard.
A uniform of dri-fit shorts and workout T-shirts accented with dried noodles and honey-mustard sauce. Stylish and tasty! Bra not included!
The finishing bag-lady touch: stained, falling-apart Mary Janes, which are the only slip-on shoes that don't give me blisters.
Stress-induced eczema! Don't worry, it just looks like ringworm!
The red-hot three-weeks-post-surgery strut, coming to live from that catwalk known as "the block around my house."

Oh yeah. I know you're feeling it.

But today, I took hotness to a whole new level. For the past few weeks, my poor mom has had to slave away making me meals. (Thanks, mom!) On today's menu: pulled pork sandwiches. Now, pulled pork and I have a long and storied romance. Half of the world's greatest love songs could have been written about my feelings towards this dish. You could literally put pulled pork on ice cream and I would be down with it.

These days are not exactly filled with epic highs. I mean, the zenith of last week was eating those Swedish Fish candies. So you can imagine my emotional state leading into this moment of pulled porkery. I already had my stretchy eatin' pants on. I picked up my sandwich expecting a warm, gooey, sweet bite of pulled-pork awesomeness. Instead, here's what I got:

A first-degree burn from molten BBQ sauce on my face and hand! Yes, I sustained a pulled pork injury. When porky goodness attacks! Unnatural! I have given pulled pork only love and respect and this is how I get repaid? Pulled pork is supposed to bring only joy, comfort and occasionally mild-to-moderate gastrointestinal distress when it is served in certain dim sum restaurants that are now out of business. Because what I really needed to bring my attractiveness quotient to the next level was a burn that looks like I have some sort of sexually transmitted ulcer. Thank you, life! Thank you very much.

Arley 3.0: Sweating With the Not-So-Oldies

2010-08-12T23:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my second day in physio and I am well on my way to becoming teacher's pet, as opposed to last time when I was basically in the hip equivalent of special ed. Someone give me a gold star! The first day, we did a few slow, gentle exercises. This time, however, it was time to get on a bullet train known as the Recovery Express. In the words of the ridiculous Home Depot ad that has been playing on my TV roughly 8 million times a day, it was time to "kick my doing dial up a notch."

I came to physio expecting to work out for 45 minutes to an hour. Ninety minutes later, I was still sweating away on this "step-fit" machine that's like a cross between an elliptical machine, a stationary bike and a stair master...if you can imagine it. I was like one of those show ponies...or a dog in an agility course (well, maybe 'agility' is the wrong word...). I'm swinging my legs in swings! I'm pulling my leg with a lever! I'm squeezing and tightening! I'm lifting and lowering! I'm doing 5 minutes on the step-fit machine! I'm doing some sort of bizarre squatting thing on the balance bars like an arthritic, polio-stricken ballerina! I'm bending over forward on the physio bed waggling my ass in the air while trying to raise my legs in a manner not befitting of a lady!

I, of course, was loving it. I was like some sort of slobbery St. Bernard let loose for a romp in the forest. I was picking up a scent and it smelled like recovery. Despite the fact that it's only been two weeks, it feels like a lifetime since I've flailed away on an elliptical machine with Jesus and Mary Chain cranked up to the point where my ears start to hum. Even five minutes on the "stair fit" felt like the "running up the stairs" scene in Rocky. (To be fair, "Eye of the Tiger" does loop almost constantly in my head, so even brushing my teeth feels like the "running up the stairs" scene in Rocky).

You might be saying to yourself, "But Arley. Aren't you pacing yourself against people who remember the Hoover Administration?" No. Incorrect. Last year, I went to physio at 8:30 a.m. and the clinic was packed full of the "6 a.m. breakfast at the Jiffy Wiffy Waffle House" set. You know, the type of elderly person for whom restaurants keep liver and onions on the menu from between 4 pm and 5:30. For whatever reason, old people like mornings, and old people who need a hip or knee replacement like morning physio appointments.

My new time is in the afternoon and the crowd is a lot younger. I mean, not "going to a Justin Bieber concert" young....or even "going to a Michael Buble concert" young...or, come to think of it, not even a "going to a Paul Anka concert and then gushing about how no one makes real music these days" young. But they're definitely younger and more spry. There were even a few people that seemed to be roughly my age. I have a lot of competition in the optimization department.

And to those of you who are pointing out that physio is actually not a competition and that there is no prize for the fastest recovery....also incorrect. If I've learned one thing from years of wheelchair basketball, it's that literally anything can be made into a competition. So the next time you're in the grocery store and you feel as if someone is staring you down, radiating the intense focus of a champion....that's me. And I will get the freshest watermelon.

Arley 3.0: Bring on the Optimization

2010-08-09T21:45:00.000-07:00

There are few things in life more soul-blisteringly frustrating than being out-performed by an old man in slippers....especially if that man has pieces of food in his goatee...especially if his hip replacement was months after yours. After my first hip replacement, I spent six months at the out-patient physical therapy clinic at Burnaby Hospital, where I was treated to a revolving door of wizened gnome-men and shrunken old ladies in sweatpants, all of whom were literally walking circles around me. Let's just say that it's not so easy to concentrate on your "clamshell" exercises when some broad in a Bedazzled cat sweatshirt in the bed next to you is sizing you up as if to say, "You think that's a leg lift? That's really the best you've got? Compared to you, I look like I'm working the pole at Girls, Girls, Girls."

Every time I tried unsuccessfully to navigate the stairs or swing my leg in the physio sling, every other patient in the room would get a twinkle of superiority in their eye. I should have applied for federal grant money because I was doing a freaking public service by boosting the self-esteem of the elderly. You can therefore see why I was nervous about my first day at physio following the second hip replacement. It's been a rough few months: the leaving Illinois, the surgery, the hours of Home and Garden television. Could I handle the smugness of people who got their hip replacements after re-enacting that "I've fallen and I can't get up" commercial?

Actually, I was excited about physio, if only because it was a chance to get out of my bed. I am not very good at the whole "taking it easy" thing. "Take it too hard to the point that you injure yourself:" that's me. "Sulking for months in bed because you go a little nuts when you're not constantly on the go:" also me. Bottom line: I don't like being still and I was ready to get this recovery show on the road.

When I arrived at Burnaby Hospital, I discovered that the out-patient physical therapy clinic had been changed into a new "Optimization Clinic." See, I'm all about the euphemisms. I don't need months of physiotherapy, I just need a little....optimization. Just tweaking! Minor alterations to allow me to be the best cyborg I could be! Just tighten those bolts and lube up those joints and I'm good to go! Physiotherapy clinic says "Spend hours out of your day watching the graying flesh on an old woman's thigh swaying in the traction slings." Optimization clinic, however, says, "Girl, you are already fabulous. Hold on to your crutches, ladies, because we're about to crank the awesomeness amps up to 11!"

And you know what? After six months of hearing "your progress is slower than the plot of an Ann Michaels novel," I was surprised to hear the phrase "you are actually...doing pretty well." I guess this is what they mean when they say that a hip replacement is a routine surgery. I mean, at 9 days post-surgery last time, I was still in the hospital. Hell, I was going downstairs backwards until about 8 weeks post-surgery.

This time, however, I was able to do nearly every exercise the physio asked me to do, and I spent most of the appointment weighing my progress against an old lady who kept exclaiming, "Bless his holy socks!" Bless his holy socks, indeed, because I was kicking ass and taking names. Move over, people, because Arley 3.0 has arrived to show you how this optimization business is done. Cyborg power!

Arley 3.0: This Won't Make The Highlight Reel

2010-08-05T19:14:00.000-07:00

It's been over a week since the surgery and the really gross stuff is probably over. The incision is healing even though the staples aren't out; it's been nearly a week since my stomach behaved like it belonged to a sorority girl a few hours after a barn dance; and even though it still takes me 30 minutes to heroin-shuffle around the block in my workout clothes, my pain is decreasing and my nap-to-walking ratio is probably down to 2:1.

The problem is, however, that I'm settling into what is arguably the hardest part of having surgery, at least for me: the boring part. The "trying to decide between a re-run of a show that explores the complex world of Minneapolis 20-somethings trying to buy a house they can't afford and a re-run of a show that explores that complex world of a 30-something couple from Dallas trying to re-landscape their garden" part. The "being in the same position on the same bed with the same view wearing the same workout clothes for weeks at a time" part. The "having to rely on people to bring you every glass of water, spoon, or carrot stick and, when you're home alone, having to weigh whether it's better to stay hungry or drag your ass downstairs to find food that you can consume in the kitchen since you can't carry anything upstairs" part. The "having to take shuffle steps to close the door behind you in the bathroom because hip restrictions prevent you from twisting" part. The "not being able to sleep because I spend all day in bed and my so-called 'sleep hygiene' is poor" part.

Yeah, I better develop a fondness for wry British murder mysteries on PBS because I suspect that this is how it feels to be old. I know. Whiny, right? Anyhow, the point is that nothing that happens for the next 3 months will likely make it in the highlight reel when they make an action-packed movie of my life and that's a weird state to be in. I guess the good part is that at least I've gone through this once. The ass indentation in my bed in pre-indented. I am so adept at working the grabber it's like a Go-Go-Gadget arm. More importantly, however, I know that it will eventually pass. Eventually. In theory.

Ok, time to pack up the pity party. Tomorrow's my first day of physio and I need to be firing on all systems to deal with being out-run by 90-year-olds

What to Expect When You're Expecting to Become a Cyborg: The Hip Replacement!

2010-08-04T08:36:00.000-07:00

When I started this blog nearly a year ago, my original intention was to write about my own hip-replacement experience so that people going through the same thing would hear something more than the "OMG, it's going to be the best experience ever! It's the surgery version of Disneyland! You will be skipping around in fields of wild flowers while lute music sweetly serenades you in no time!" you get from most people in the hip-replacement world. (Yeah, I might pretend to be the Mother Theresa of the Arthroplasty, but everyone knows my real motivation was fame and fortune. Google AdSense, you owe me $20.18!)

I may not be able to offer any useful tips (beyond "try not to have your ass fall off"), but I sure can provide a travelogue of the hip-replacement wilderness for future travelers. I'm like the Lonely Planet Guide, but instead of telling you about what hostels are less likely to give you fleas, I'm telling you about how it feels to be awake while someone takes a power saw to your midsection. If you're squeamish, you might want to move along to the next post while dreaming of fluffy kittens.

On the day of the surgery, I got up at 4:30 a.m. so that I could have a shower. You might be thinking, "Why not get up at 5 a.m. and skip the shower?" Quick answer: Because I knew that my next shower would be three or four days later when I would be dizzy, covered in pink antiseptic wash and sitting on a shower chair swearing a blue streak because a) I dropped my washcloth and there is literally no way to pick it up without breaking hip precautions b) every time I look down I see the 30-something staples along the side of my leg and c) I have to juggle a hand-held shower that is twisting in my hand like a cobra and spraying water all over my towel. (Okay, that wasn't a quick answer).

After you check in to the hospital, you go to a pre-op holding pen where you are visited by a never-ending stream of medical professionals. It's like being Scrooge in "A Nightmare Before Christmas" but with fewer figgy puddings and more needles. For some reason, most of these medical professionals turned out to be young, attractive males. At first, I was like "screw Plenty of Fish! Bring on Plenty of Interns With Incredible Earning Potential! Let's hope that sleep deprivation has the same effect as beer goggles!"

Alas, it ended up like the most disappointing romance novel ever. Instead of having the hot young intern give me his phone number, he signed his initials in felt pen on my upper thigh so that the surgical team wouldn't slice up the wrong leg. (It's actually still there). When I originally met the hot anesthesiologist intern, I was like, "Damn, you can slide your epidural needle into my joint space any time." After the 5 attempts it took him to get my IV in, however, I had to amend that to "no...seriously...any time now....whenever you're ready."

After an hour of that, it was finally go time. I was wheeled into the OR room and transferred on to the table to get my epidural. I mentioned in a previous post that it took two epidural injections, probably about 8 or 9 attempts, and over a dozen local anesthetic doses to get me frozen. Seriously, if I heard the phrase "you'll just feel a little poke here...." one more time I was going to give them a little poke with my fist in their face. Now, I had a terrible case of mono a few years back and the result is that when I get tired, dehyrated, hungry or...I don't know....all of the above while being jabbed with needles over and over again, I tend to faint. Long story short: I keeled over like one of those goats that George Clooney stares at. They had to finish the epidural with me laying on my side.

This time, they did the hip replacement through the back way, which unfortunately means that I cannot look at my proper, gentlemanly, pink-polo-shirt-wearing surgeon without hearing Howlin Wolf's "Backdoor Man." So that I could assume the back-door position, (I'm not being dirty! That's what they call it!) they set up some vises, laid me on my side, and clamped me on to the table as if I was a 2 X 8 on a sawhorse. The powertools laid out by me did little to detract from the effect. It was a little like being part of some "saw the woman in half" magic trick, since people kept draping me with fabric and, you know, actually sawing through my bones.

To sedate me, they gave me a little sip of the Michael Jackson cocktail, Propofol, so for most of the surgery I was in and out of consciousness. I could feel twisting and hammering and sawing and pulling, but was drugged up enough to feel that the most appropriate response would be to have a conversation with Hot Anesthesiologist Intern. Lord knows what we talked about. I shudder to think. (Maybe this is what I need to talk to guys....surgical-grade sedatives). My final memory of the surgery: seeing one of the assistant surgeons with his face shield sprayed with drops of my blood informing me that they were just stitching me up.

After that, it's on to the recovery room. Because of the problems with the epidural, I was frozen for much longer than expected, which means that I spent four hours listening to an endless parade of morphine-addled old people, one of whom would not stop noting aloud how sorry she felt for a nurse who was a recent single mother, how very, very sorry she was, how unfortunate it was that some poor children were growing up without a father. It also meant that they had to put a catheter in which, even though I was partially frozen, still wasn't the most fun thing to ever happen to my lady business. (Those of you asking what exactly would be the most fun that ever happened to my lady business need to check yourself). Yes, having a hip replacement definitely means checking your dignity at the door.

And on that sexy note, I'm going to go back to sleep. Yup, still blogging with a little help from Vitamin D...and I'm not talking about the kind you get from sunshine.

Arley 3.0: Now With More Morphine

2010-08-02T08:05:00.000-07:00

It's 5 days after surgery and this post is brought to you by the letter D for Dilauded AKA Hydromorphone AKA "Surgery? What surgery? Why am I dreaming of cartoon hamsters?" Yes, after my second hip replacement I am "keeping comfortable" on the same drug that's keeping Lindsey Lohan "comfortable" while she's chilling in jail. The only difference is that she got it for a minor dental procedure and I had to stay another night in the hospital because of the difficulties of getting a prescription for it, even though someone took power tools to my hip's joint space. Man, celebrity has its perks. (On that note, how does Lindsey Lohan get counted as a celebrity? Who is jail is thinking, "Well, I know she hijacked a car and drove three terrified passengers on a coke-fueled police chase...but she did gift the world with the cinematic brilliance that was "The Parent Trap," so let's call it a wash. Feel free to load up on sketchy, easily abused prescription meds before you do your time, darling!")

I was hoping to blog more recently after the surgery, but unfortunately there was no wireless internet in the hospital and I'm pretty sure that for the first few days, my blog posts would resemble the rants you hear on Hastings and Main in Vancouver. That means that I've got a lot of ground to cover. I'm going to break it down into smaller posts over the next few days, mostly since the letters are already kind of swimming on the page and my nap-per-paragraph ratio is roughly 1:1.

So....Arley Version 3.0 Coles Notes Edition. The biggest headline is that it didn't go exactly as expected: They didn't attach the gluteus medius because there was too much scar tissue. They did, however, replace the socket and ball. And they went in through the back door (that's what she said) so the whole thing should be much more stable. After the surgery, Dr. SecondOpinion told me that the result "won't be one of those hip replacements where the person walks well." (Oh, you wanted one of those? You should have specified!) So far, however, the results feel a million times better than the first time around. My hip's not clunking around the way it was before and I'm walking pretty well considering that everything in the area is still like, "Dude, WTF?"

I will blog more about the surgery when every sentence I write isn't being co-authored by a morphine derivative, but here are some teasers:

Want to know what phrase you don't want to hear coming from a guy who's about to jam a big-ass needle into your spine? "Because I'm just learning, I'll be supervised by Dr. SoAndSo Here." And coming in a close second: "You're going to feel a poke....another poke....and another poke....Darn." (Perhaps the reason why it was so hard for me to get a Dilauded prescription is because of the track mark situation on my arms and back).
Want to know a phrase that you should never have to say after receiving a spinal epidural? "Um....so.....am I supposed to, like, feel numb yet?"
For the first few days, I dreamed of exploding cartoon hamsters, which struck me as such a stereotypical Oxycontin-fueled dream that I would amuse myself and wake up. You know you've spent too much time in academia when you are woken up by irony.
Day 1: I felt freaking fantastic. Little pain, no nausea. I was the Queen of Surgery, the Princess of the Post-Op, I was mentally reinacting that "king of the world' scene in Titanic. I was like, "Wait...you mean....something might actually go....right?"
Day 2: Let's just say there was more puking than a bulimic convention in an ice-cream shop.
Let's also say that I will never again eat pea soup with noodles. And that for days after I was still finding specks of dried neon-green bile on my hospital bed...my desk lamp....my bedside table..... (Too much information? Too much information).
The first day, my roommate was a guy who had broken both of his heels after his girlfriend threw $1800 of his money in $100 bills out the window and he jumped out the second-story window after it. (Suddenly, being single doesn't seem so bad).
For the rest of the stay, my roommate was an elderly Asian man who talked in his sleep in a mixture of Chinese and English, resulting in such gems as "You need 30% more birth control!'
I woke up this morning to my cat snuggling under my chin purring and sleepily licking my chin and was almost deliriously happy. Well, okay, the delirious part was probably the morphine, but still. Ah, cats: They love you and they never drop $1800 of your cash money out the window.

Okay, I'm off to drift into a drug-fueled slumber. Post more soon!

Arley Version 3.0

2010-07-27T21:01:00.000-07:00

Well, tomorrow's the big day: My Freaky Cyborg Hip gets it hardware upgrade to V. 3.0 and I get to star in a remake of "Dude, Where's My Dignity?" (Actually, depending on what drugs they give me, it actually might be more like "Dude, Why Are There Small People Sitting on My Feet Singing 'Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man?'") IMPORTANT NOTE TO SELF: Do not update your work Facebook page while whacked out of your tree on painkillers. If only there was a way to lock your Facebook account so you have to take a skill-testing question to post a status update like there is with Gmail. Oh well.

As per usual, I've been overestimating my readiness for the surgery. Last time around, I was diligent: my walker, cushion, sock aid, shoehorn and elastic-laced shoes were lined up like little soldiers ready for battle. My rooms were de-cluttered with a post-hip-replacement body in mind. My bags were packed according to the hospital-approved checklist. I had read the "What to Expect When You're Becoming a Cyborg" (AKA the hip-replacement preparedness manual) back to front. I was like, "Dude, bring it on. I've got this."

This time around: It's 9:30 pm, I have to get up at 4:30 a.m., I have yet to pack anything, my post-hip-replacement bolster is covered in dust, there are piles of clothes strewn all over my room in a manner reminiscent of the $5 sale at Old Navy and I'm really more interested in downloading the "Angry Birds" game for my new Iphone. Yes, I am officially a card-carrying member of the Hipster Society. Good thing I can't wear skinny jeans for another 6 or 8 weeks due to post-surgical swelling, because you could write me off.

In the dreams I've been having about this surgery, I watch the operation while floating above as the events happen in fast-forward while the song "Grounded" by Pavement plays. Yes, even my subconscious is a hipster.

Oh well. Wish me luck. I check in at 6 a.m., my surgery will be around 7 or 8 a.m. and beyond that...Lord knows. Considering that the surgery plan is "open me up and see what's in there and hopefully put my ass back on," what kind of surgery I'll end up getting is really anyone's guess. Either way, Arley Version 2.0 will be a thing of the past and it's time for Arley 3.0: Now with Reattached Ass. And hopefully lasers.

Hopefully, the next time you hear from me, I'll be new and improved and only slightly spelling like a crack-addicted LOLCat. I'll try to update as soon as possible. Too bad I don't have a Twitter account because morphine tweets (Tweaks?) might be really awesome.

Invisible Cartoon Old People Porn....YES!

2010-07-22T08:05:00.000-07:00

As expected, the move back to Vancouver was rough (emotional Arley + emotional cat + wheelchair + heavy bag + leaving forever + impending surgery and months of recovery + tons of stuff to do for work + sleep deprivation + did I mention leaving forever? is not exactly a recipe for awesomeness), but we made it here in one piece. I could spend roughly 12,400 words rehashing my complex feelings on leaving, how much I'm going to miss everyone, and how heartbroken I am every time I see poor Mika curled up on A.'s shirt at the corner of my bed, nuzzling it as if she could make A. reappear by doing so, then laying down on it with her head between her paws with a look of pure feline longing. Cat heartbreak is the very worst heartbreak of all!

But let's leave the emo-ness to the cat because we have more important topics to discuss....Invisible Cartoon Old People Hip Replacement Porn!

The day after I got back from Illinois, I went to the OASIS hip/knee-replacement orientation session. In truth, I tried to weasel my way out of it on account of the fact that I am perhaps a little too well oriented in what to expect following a hip replacement. If anything, I would like to become less oriented so that the mere sight of that stupid "sock aid" sitting on a chair in my room ready to aid me in spending 15 minutes just to put on a single freaking sock doesn't give me PTSD flashbacks. I decided to go, however, for two reasons: 1) the lady on the phone insisted in a very firm voice that it was mandatory and I am nothing if not compliant and 2) the last time I did the OASIS program, some chick fainted and I like being around people whose coping skills are worse than my own.

I will spare you a rehashing of the OASIS session. Suffice to say that it is like kindergarten class for people who are getting their limbs sawed off and reassembled. Some nice lady with a calm, gentle, day-care-y voice teaches you to how to avoid post-surgical constipation and demonstrates the best way to inject your stomach fat with bloodthinners to avoid bruising. Just when I was thinking that the day was going to be a waste of time, however, I spied a thick booklet on a pamphlet rack by the OASIS lady's shoulder: Sex After Total Joint Replacement. Let the real lessons begin!

The first time around, all I got was a one-page handout discreetly tucked into a folder of other hip-replacement info. This time, however, they've pulled out all the stops. For starters, the manual stars an elderly couple who resemble the neighbor couple from Dennis the Menace...and let's just say that in this booklet, Martha's doing a lot more than needlepoint.

On one hand, I can understand the thought process behind the cartoon old people. After all, you don't want Doris Q. Hip-Replacement-Patient to be stuck in her fanciest flannel teddy staring at the handout thinking, "Well, damn. In the diagram, your breasts are supposed to be right here, but mine are down by my bellybutton....It's so confusing! I just can't make it all line up!" On the other hand, however, I'm not sure why they felt the need to include images such as this one:

Yes, ladies and gentlemen. That is a cartoon rendering of an old man counting the days until his lady love's post-surgical bruising has gone down to the point that he can rock her compression socks off.

Or this one, which I'm pretty sure depicts the same old guy waiting for his Viagra to kick in while the pamphlet warns about the post-surgical risk of...um....an arid climate in the lady garden:

Why does he look so downcast and alone? Is it because the clock on his chest is counting down the seconds until his sex-induced heart attack? Or maybe it's causing him to reminisce about the time he spent touring with Flava Flav? Who knows? Someone get this guy a Werther's Original because he needs to cheer the hell up. I mean, he's about to get some serious action. Perk up, buddy!

Of course, what would a post-hip-replacement sex manual be if elderly cartoon people didn't demonstrate the acceptable positions? I love some of the graphic-design choices that were made here. Eyes: no. Mouth: no. Perfect 1950s-old-lady updo: MANDATORY. Pearl earrings: ALSO MANDATORY. (Those of you about to make a 'pearl necklace' joke need to check yourselves). And if you ever want to know what exactly your beloved Gran-Gran and Pop-Pop were doing on that rocking chair you used to love as a child...the one with the hand-crocheted afghan....

I especially love the positioning of the artificial hip in this last position. It seems to say, "Oh, God, Walter. Take me with your four inches of medical-grade cobalt chrome! Don't stop!" (Too much? Too much).

But wait! Don't leave to go wash your eyeballs out with acid! It gets better. Do you want to know what this is? Do you want to take a guess?
If you guessed "an image of someone's Granny calling the doctor after she has f*cked her husband's hip right out of its socket," then give yourself a hand! Clearly, someone got a little in to the old cowgirl rocking-chair routine and is going to have a great story to tell to the Bridge Club. Apparently when you put a little Crown Royal in her Ensure meal supplements, she goes wild! You git it, girl!

But..see...here's the problem. I am single. It's bad enough that for ages post-surgery I'm going to have to greet potential suitors with the phrase, "It's nice to meet you. Let me put down this walker so that I can shake your hand." And I'm pretty sure that any sex that requires you to cross-reference your positions with any type of manual is not the kind of sex I want to have. But even if I did want to give some lucky gentleman this booklet as a little homework assignment, what do you think the reaction's going to be? "Thanks for this reading material, darling. I was worried about how to accommodate your post-surgical needs, but now that I mentally associate you with eye-less cartoon old people, I am suddenly overcome with wild feelings of lust! You can consider me officially in the throes of desire!"

Okay, OASIS program. Thanks a lot. You can consider me officially oriented. So oriented that I'm about to buy a few more cats and a pint of Haagen Daaz and call it a day.

This Cane Was Made for Walkin'

2010-07-11T11:21:00.000-07:00

For the past week, I've been trying to come up with something to blog about that isn't whiny. It's a week until I leave Champaign (for good this time...I promise!) and my inner monologue sounds like it came from the "Emily the Strange" diary of a 16-year-old girl. In theory, I should embrace the fact that I'm moving back to Vancouver and become excited for my new life. After all, Vancouver is one of the world's most livable cities. (A. keeps reminding me of this fact, and I keep reminding him that Vancouver is only the world's most livable city if you are cultivating an ironic mustache or you have a high tolerance to sunshine-deprivation-induced depression).

The bottom line is that Vancouver is a difficult city to make friends in at the best of times, and I am worried that loneliness will turn me into one of those people who goes to the library in order to rope the librarian into a detailed conversation about their psoriasis and then spends hours reading the newspaper and remarking, "Oh my god! That's so funny! That's so interesting!" aloud in the hopes that someone (anyone!) will ask them what's so funny/interesting. After all, it's easy to make friends when you're in school. It's less easy to make friends when you're by yourself and you worry that people are judging you on your post-hip-replacement elastic shoelaces.

See what I mean? Whiny.

Today, however, I finally came up with something positive to blog about: my newfound leg strength. Because I don't have a car in Champaign, I've been walking between two and four miles a day. While this is annoying since it's hot as balls in Champaign-Urbana, it is forcing me to develop the kind of leg strength needed for post-surgical recovery. My legs have gotten seriously muscular and even my anti-ass is becoming less concave. If this keeps up, I'll have to change its name to "actual ass."

The only problem is, however, that I am notorious for over-estimating my physical abilities. When you add this to the hot, humid weather we've been having lately, my over-reaching can occasionally get me in trouble. A few days ago, for example, the tip of my cane split. No problem, I decided. I'll just walk the 1.5 miles to the medical supply place. Well, it turns out that walking 1.5 miles when it's 97 degrees and so humid you feel as if you're stuck inside someone's mouth is no easy feat. By the time I got to the medical supply place, I was drenched with sweat, completely exhausted, and so sore that I was walking like a stroke victim. I could not fathom walking back.

I swallowed my pride and called A. and asked if he had any desire to rescue a (slightly sweaty) damsel in distress. Like any good friend, A. laughed for several minutes and then agreed to bring his noble steed (a Dodge Aries) to rescue me. I was so relieved that I bought him lunch at a nearby Mexican restaurant where we drank cold drinks, ate the world's worst burritos (seriously...a flour tortilla and a gray paste of ground beef do not a burrito make!) and watched World Cup soccer. It was cheaper and more fun than a taxi. Poor A. Not only does he have to watch my cat, calm my moving-related fears and occasionally do my dishes, now he has to play chauffer.

You might be saying to yourself, "Arley, there is this new-fangled invention known as 'the bus,' which will take you to places outside of your walking range on days when it is hot as balls." To you, I say: I am too impatient for the bus. (You can see why I'm such a joy to be around post-surgery). Every time I try to take the bus, I find myself waiting there thinking, "Why am I sitting here for 15 minutes waiting for the bus to show up when I can be out there walking and getting shit accomplished?" I therefore decide to start walking along the bus route in the hopes of catching the bus when it passes. Of course, I'm between bus stops when the bus passes, which means that I end up walking all the way to my destination. Also: I have a weirdo magnet and buses are recipes for "Arley getting to hear the life story of someone with a meth addiction."

Oh well. I have only a few more weeks of walking before I have surgery and will spend months taking 20 minutes to go once around the block. Sigh. I will not be emo....I will not be emo.....I will not be emo.....I will not.....

The Theory of One Less Gross Thing

2010-07-04T12:55:00.000-07:00

It's less than a month until my new surgery date and I'm trying to get mentally prepared for it. Granted, it will be nice to no longer have the surgery hanging over my head, so that I can get on with my life. I've been avoiding dating because I don't want to have to end some hot date by saying, "We'll have to do it again sometime soon....like next week, when I'll be using a walker and will be whacked out of my tree on morphine. Oh, and just FYI, here's a handout of acceptable post-surgical sex positions in case you make it to the third date." Yes, it's time to get the "walking properly" show on the road.

Still, I suspect that this time around will be harder than the last. Last time, I was relentlessly optimistic. I'd done my homework on the surgeon. I'd done a significant pre-hab routine to build up the muscles around my hip. I was young, I was fit, and visions of strutting around the hospital showing off my impressive recovery to the other elderly patients were dancing in my head. Even though it all went off the rails, I was able to power through it mentally by adopting the Theory of One Less Gross Thing. (Okay, I know that technically it should be One Fewer Gross Thing, but it doesn't quite have the same ring to it).

The Theory of One Less Gross Thing rests on the premise that the surgery is a one-shot deal and that every gross, humiliating, painful or unpleasant thing that occurs does so for the last time ever. When I was puking up fluorescent-green bile, I wasn't thinking, "Damn, this sucks," but "This is the last time I ever have to do this. This is one less gross thing I have to go through." When I was getting my staples torn out of my incision perhaps a few days too early by an 80-year-old doctor with shaky hands, I wasn't thinking, "Hot damn, remind me to apologize to all the stapled sheets of paper I have unwittingly violated over the years," but "This is the last time I ever have to do this. This is one less gross thing I have to go through." Shuffling along with a walker; trying to use a long-handled sponge probably created to bathe elephants to scrub the pink antiseptic wash off my toes; injecting my stomach with bloodthinners in a drug-induced haze: all of these were one less gross thing I had to go through, one less gross thing that was standing between me and my sexy new walk.

Well, of course it didn't work out that way and now I'm gearing up for the hip-replacement sequel. Like most sequels, this hip replacement promises to suck more than the first. Part of the reason is that the Theory of One Less Gross Thing no longer applies. I'll be going through everything again and, worse still, I know exactly how gross it will be. Actually, considering that I don't know whether I'll be weightbearing or not, if I'll be following hip restrictions or not, or whether the additional gluteus-medius reattachment will make it more painful than the last time, I could be up for even grosser Gross Things.

Oh well. I aim to make the most of my three weeks of freedom. I've been swimming, walking at least a mile a day, doing the elliptical machine, and doing little weight-training circuits with ab workouts. If I can't be optimistic, at least I'll be fit.

Hip Replacement 2.0: The Anti-Ass Strikes Back

2010-06-23T20:22:00.000-07:00

Long-time readers of this blog will know that nothing in my life is ever simple. If I walk to the gas station to buy a Diet Coke, I am bound to be roped into conversation by some random stranger eager to tell me about the City of Urbana's housing bylaws in regards to porches (true story). If I go for a drive, there's a pretty good chance that I'll take a wrong turn and end up in the next state. If I go on a vacation to Turkey, it's nearly assured that I will end up using the phrase "but it said the massage parlour was non-sexual on the brochure!"

Yes, life in Arley-Ville is rarely straight-forward, though it's never dull. After all, if I'd had a straight-forward hip replacement, this blog would not exist. It's therefore no surprise that even though my second hip replacement is just getting underway, the level of pre-surgical ridiculousness has already reached epic proportions. This time, it wasn't even my hip making things difficult. No, this time, the problem lies in a little phenomenon known as "the anti ass."

I've written a lot (read: too much) about my anti-ass, which is my affectionate term for the fact that my absence of junk in the trunk means that I can't pedal on an exercise bike without wearing all the skin off my tailbone or sit on a hard surface without sustaining a remarkable level of bruising. (Reason #1564 why I'm still single. And, yes, I do realize that the fact that I have a pet name for my ass is probably Reason #1565).

A few days ago, I went for my pre-admission appointment at VGH. In this three-hour appointment, they run a bunch of tests and then you have meetings with the anesthesiologist and some nurses to make sure that everyone's ready for the big day. It's like a wedding rehearsal, but instead of in-depth conversations about what angle the bridesmaids will stand at, it's in-depth conversations about which surgical tape gives you blisters.

At first, I thought that everything was going well. I met the anesthesiologist and he gushed over the fact that my "anatomical structure is so accessible," which I decided to believe was anesthesiologist-speak for "nice ass," even though it really means "your back is so bony that finding the knobs of your spine will not require any educated guessing." Either way, I've decided that "Hey, baby. Did anyone ever tell you that your anatomical structure is really accessible?" is going to be my new go-to pick-up line. It'll replace my old pick-up line, which was "Uh....hi.....So....uh....like.....how're you?" Yup, that's me: making all the gentlemen swoon since 1982.

Anyhow, it looked as if my pre-op appointment was going to go off without a hitch. I met the pre-op nurses and we had a conversation that basically went "So...is there a way we can keep the post-surgical puking, fainting and skin blistering to a bare minimum?" Turns out that, yes, it is apparently possible to recover from surgery without re-enacting that scene from "The Exorcist." Good to know!

I was nearly out of there when the nurse asked the fateful question: "do you have any open wounds on your body at the moment?" Flash back to last weekend. I was in Montreal for work; (I'm a communications coordinator for the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships and part of my job is traveling to tournaments). The downside of my awesome job (wheelchair rugby is such a cool sport) is that I have to sit on hard bleachers and gym floors for 15 hours a day, which is not exactly anti-ass friendly. Long story short: I wore all the skin over my ass bones. (Do you think that a risk of pressure sores should entitle me to danger pay?)

Because knowing when to keep my mouth shut is never a strong suite of mine, I stupidly told the nurses about the pressure sores. Medical professionals are trained to treat everything as a worse-case scenario, so when you say "yeah, I've just got this small pressure sore because I sat on bleachers for work all weekend, but it will totally be cleared up by July 28th," they hear "Danger! Danger! Antibiotic-Resistant Staff Infection and Possible Blood Infection Causing The Removal of Your Artificial Hip!" I really need to learn to save the rambling for the blog.

The next day, I received a phone call from my surgeon's office. Because of the pressure sore, they can't do the surgery until a) I get a note from a doctor saying that the pressure sore is cleared up and b) my surgeon takes a look at my ass. Yes, that's right. Now, if I want this surgery, I will need to get two different medical professionals to visually inspect my anti-ass and give it the seal of approval. (Is it a bad sign that this is probably one of the only times my ass gets checked out?)

So, today, I took a little trip to the clinic to get my ass approved. (The excitement of my weekend really never ceases). I was worried that the doctor at the clinic would be really attractive, and I'd have to try to explain to him that I need him to get out his magnifying glass and go all Sherlock Holmes on my ass bruising to make sure that there's no broken skin. Luckily, however, I got an older Indo-Canadian woman, who thoroughly inspected the area and pronounced it surgery-ready. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my ass has been certified as top quality!

I thought I was going to get through the procedure embarrassment-free, (because, really, given the number of crackheads in the waiting room, I'm nearly positive that she had far worse open sores on her agenda that day), when I looked behind me while she was conducting her examination. Scrawled across my underwear in blue glitter were the words "HIGH FLIER." When getting dressed that day, I did not stop to think, "Hey, maybe I should wear a pair of underwear that is not ridiculous." Because, really, WTF does 'high flier' even mean? And who was sitting around a marketing meeting at Victoria Secret thinking up slogans to put on the ass of a pair of women's underwear and came up with "HIGH FLIER" as the pinnacle of sexiness? And why did I not notice this when I bought the underwear? Was there a point in my life when I was out shopping at thought, "Yes, this is exactly what I need to jump start my love life. Once men know that I am, indeed, flying high, they will be unable to resist my charms." (Reason #1567). These are the important life lessons I'm confronting today.

Okay, we're clearly in Too-Much-Information-Land. Long story short (...shorter...) the doctor wrote me the letter and gave me a lecture about how I should be carrying around an inflatable cushion wherever I go. But, see, here's the problem. There are certain decisions that are medically sound, but which will render you dateless for the rest of your natural life. I mean, what's better? To be known as "that chick with the ass cushion" or to have a rear end that looks like you were engaging in activities that require the use of a safety word (watermelon! Watermelon!)? At least the latter can be fixed with a dark bedroom, a little concealer, a whole lot of alcohol and the phrase "no, honey, I'm sure that's not bruising. It's probably just a trick of the light."

Anyhow, my ass has passed stage 1 to rendering it surgery-ready. Next stop: my poor proper British orthopedic surgeon has to inspect the area. I really need to learn when to keep my mouth shut.

An Open Letter to Air Canada

2010-06-15T07:55:00.000-07:00

Dear Air Canada/United,

I traveled on Flight 5150 from Chicago to Vancouver on June 14th. No, strike that. I attempted to travel on Flight 5150 on June 14th. I was 90 minutes into my three-hour drive from Champaign to Chicago when I received a phone call. Someone at Air Canada had spun the "Wheel of Travel Misfortunes" and my flight had landed on "cancellation" as opposed to just "endlessly delayed" or "staffed by boarding agents who are deeply offended that you asked them to waste a full 12 seconds of their time changing your seat to an aisle seat despite the fact that you have explained to them that you are sorry to bother them, but your recent surgery makes it impossible for you to sit in any other type of seat."

Well, damn. I was trying to get back to Canada for my grandma's funeral and did not want to spend another night getting my soul drained out of me by the great succubus known as the O'Hare International Airport, wind up getting further delayed the next day (because I'm pretty sure that if a flight ever leaves on time from O'Hare, there will be a full task force set up to discipline whatever eager beaver tried to make the rest of the flights look bad), and missing the service. I decided to go to O'Hare and seek my fortune. When I arrived to the United counter and found only 7 or 8 people in front of me (many of whom were in groups), I figured that Lady Luck had smiled down upon me. How long could it possibly take to serve 8 people?

Oh, 96 minutes, give or take a few excruciating seconds. As I waited, the woman in front of me (a former flight attendant) kept wondering aloud why it was that our flight was one of the only ones canceled. And how was it possible that an 8:30 pm flight to Vancouver could be canceled because of weather when an 8:20 flight to Seattle was running? And how could it be "weather-related" when it was sunny in Vancouver (she phoned to check) and sunny in Chicago? The plane, she said, begins its journey in Chicago, so it couldn't have been delayed from another airport. All excellent questions! And all questions I tried to ask to the boarding agent. For my efforts, I earned several eye-rolls, a side-eye, and the phrase "it's weather-related" repeated with varying degrees of apathy/sulleness. No explanation. No elaboration. Not even a "sorry your whole day has been ruined by some random decision made by someone thousands of miles away." It was like talking to that Eliza/Alize psychologist emulation program.

After ninety minutes of standing, I was already sore and cranky. I did, however, get on a flight to Seattle with the intention of traveling the next day to Vancouver. I grabbed a hotel (thank you, Hotwire!) and got a few hours of sleep, then woke up groggy thinking, "Well, at least it's just a quick flight to Vancouver. How bad can it be?"

Now, keep in mind that traveling with a hip replacement is already pretty ridiculous. For the rest of my life, I'm going to have to arrive at airports an extra 20 - 30 minutes ahead of other people, so that the good ladies at Homeland Security can give me the special pat-down grope-fest. Multiply that over a lifetime, that probably translates into an extra week of my life where I'm subjected to the phrase "Now, I'm going to use the back of my hand to clear the breast area." (As if my cleavage was a highway in Afghanistan that needed to be swept for mines!) And that doesn't include the fact that airports (with all their walking, standing and sitting in uncomfortable positions) are not exactly "hip friendly."

I therefore do not need any more meaningless standing in line, and I especially did not need to stand in the "line" that greeted me at the United counter in Seattle, which was less a "line" and more of "a throng of people struggling to print their tickets off a row of broke-down boarding kiosks, while two agents randomly appeared at different kiosks at different times, so that tracking them down was like one of those video games where the zombies appear and you have to shoot them without hitting the innocent bystanders, except instead of "zombies" it was "boarding agents trying to go on break" and instead of "innocent bystanders" it was "similarly dressed boarding-agent underlings who do not have the power to help you and will scold you not to 'speak in a big voice' if you try to talk to them over the din of other shouting people" and instead of "shooting them," you have to "shove your passport in their general direction while pleading for help." I'm sorry, but bread lineups in Soviet Russia were run with less chaos.

After 30 minutes of trying to foist my passport on whomever would help me (spoiler alert: no one), a nice agent finally took pity on me. I explained to her that I was standing in the line in the first place because the self-check-in machine was freaking out about my itinerary change and wouldn't let me check in. The problem that Air Canada had made for me yesterday had spawned little baby problems, which because of the general understaffing and over-chaos-ing had turned into big problems, since I was in danger of missing my flight. The nice agent was sympathetic and literally 3 seconds later, I was booked. Yes, that thirty minutes of standing, jostling and passport waving was to correct a problem that could have been fixed in the time it took for the person on the other end of the customer-service phones by the self-check-in kiosk to say, "You'll need to talk to an agent in person."

I thought my problems were over. I thought I would board the 30-minute flight to Vancouver and be done with it. I, however, had underestimated Air Canada's incredible appetite for the ridiculousness. Five minutes before I was set to board my plane to Vancouver, my flight was again mysteriously canceled. Why? Never found out. Maybe the numerology of the flight number was off. Maybe a monkey drew a number from a hat. Maybe the pilot was watching an episode of "Maury" that was really heating up and he couldn't bear to leave without finding out which one of 10 guys was the baby daddy. I will never know. I do know, however, that I was transferred on to a different airline's flight, which was leaving in 15 minutes from a gate across the airport.

Another passenger and I therefore ran (well, she ran, I gimped at a fast pace) through the various modes of transportation needed to navigate the Seattle airport. It was like an episode of "The Amazing Race," except instead of winning a million dollars, we won exactly what we had already paid for. When we got to the new gate, there were no tickets waiting for us because the agent hadn't called ahead, but somehow (miraculously!) after some confusion and more boarding-agent ennui, we got on the plane and landed in Vancouver.

Now, I have said in the past that I will never again fly Air Canada. I said it after you refused to let me gate-check my basketball wheelchair. I said it one of the million times someone was rude to me. I said it after you tore a gaping hole in my bag on a flight to Paris, then spent a full year losing the bag in different "repair departments" and directing me to increasingly snarky customer service representatives until the window for getting compensation had expired. But now, Air Canada, I mean it. You and I are done. Going from Chicago to Vancouver should not require me to spend 36 hours of my life trapped inside a Kafka novel. I am taking my business to West Jet, where they're at least friendly whenever they have to inconvenience you.

Sincerely,

- Arley

Here's to Skinner the Sinner

2010-06-13T09:49:00.001-07:00

It's a sad day around these parts. On Friday, my Nana Elsie died of kidney failure and complications of dementia at the age of 90. In a one-two punch to our family, her brother (who I called Uncle Hugh) died unexpectedly just a few hours later. My grandma was one of my heroes because, well, she was the ultimate bad-ass. How bad-ass? When I was four, my other grandma was visiting us and asked me what my Nana Elsie would like for her upcoming birthday. My answer: "Whiskey. Lots and lots of whiskey."

It's hard to write a blog post about my grandma without entering dangerously into Hallmark territory, so I've decided to fall back on that old standard of business writing designed to convey information quickly and effectively: the bullet point list. So here, then, is a list of reasons my grandma was awesome:

Once wrote her memoirs, which I (at the tender age of 12) was tasked with transcribing, since I was the only one who knew her way around those newfangled "personal computers." The "memoir" turned out to be more of a "detailed account of her sexual history," and I was forever traumatized by her use of the phrase "mad Russian love."
Would begin every family dinner by reciting various dirty rhymes, which she picked up when she lived with her first husband in mining camps. Her favorite was about Skinner the Sinner....who took his best girl out to dinner....at a quarter past nine, he looked at the time....at a quarter to ten it was in her....the dinner, not Skinner. He'd had it in before dinner. The sinner!
Once got drunk, hopped up on stage in Reno, and recited "Skinner the Sinner" in front of hundreds of patrons and her three very embarrassed sons.
Another go-to poetry favourite was called "It was Cold" and contained such phrases as "cold as the tip of a polar bear's tool" and "cold as the kiss of a whore when she cums."
Used to ride her exercise bike a few miles every day. I have never seen her so mad as when I started riding her bike backwards, thus disturbing her mileage count.
Caught gigantic fish.
Was a union shop steward when working at a pulp and paper mill. Had various service awards from the NDP.
Contracted and recovered from polio. (I guess this isn't so much an 'awesome thing my grandma did' but an example of 'shit she overcame').
Used to go down into the mines with her first husband, despite the fact that this was considered bad luck by the other miners.
Was the adopted grandma to several of my friends, who fondly remember her with phrases such as "your grandma tried to give me her underwear" or "your grandma taught me that 'cat' was spelled 's-h-i-t.'"
Made the most delicious bread and cinnamon buns. I have fond memories of eating raw bread dough covered in cinnamon and sugar. She also did her own canning and made her own soap.
At 80, had a better dating life than I did, at 17. ("My grandma gets more play than I do" is not a phrase you ever want to use). When she broke up with one paramour, she told him to "stick his d*ck up his a**h*** and f*ck himself," which is probably the best f*ck you I've ever heard.
Once drove through Mexico with my grandpa. They were aiming for Tijuana, but ended up driving for days before phoning my dad to say that they were lost. They hadn't found "Ti-a-wanna,' even though they had passed this "Ti-joo-ana' place awhile back.
Had the most high-pitched, glass-shattering voice. I have distinct memories of being on stage at Christmas concerts/ piano recitals etc. and hearing "that's my granddaughter up there!"

You see? I could really go on and on. So here's to Skinner the Sinner. And here's to my grandma, Elsie Margaret McNeney.

It's the Final Countdown...No, Just Kidding, Psyche!

2010-06-09T19:43:00.000-07:00

For the past few months, I've been preparing to move back to Vancouver. (Well, okay, preparing mentally, since I haven't really done the whole "packing" thing yet, even though my dad comes to get my car tomorrow). I had wrapped my mind around the fact that I would leave Champaign on June 14th, then have surgery on June 24th. You know how advent calendars give you a little chocolate every day until Christmas? Well, I had a little surgery advent calendar in my mind, except instead of getting chocolate, all I got was iron pills and an overwhelming sense of dread.

This morning, however, my world was rocked when I received a phone call from my surgeon's office letting me know that my surgery has been bumped to July 28th. It was like opening that last day of your advent calendar expecting a huge-ass chocolate Santa and instead finding a little piece of paper that said, "Christmas has been moved to January 27th. In lieu of chocolate Santa, please accept another month of anticipation and mall Christmas carols." Wrong and unnatural!

On one hand, I was disappointed. Leaving Champaign has actually been really hard for me, but I've had my goodbye party, said farewell to most of my friends, and reconciled myself to ripping off that big bandaid known as "the last four years of my life." I've spent weeks full of emo-ness mentally reenacting that scene from Thorton Wilder's "Our Town" where the chick is a ghost and is lamenting all the things she'll miss about earth ("Goodbye world! Goodbye to clocks ticking and my butternut tree...and Mama's sunflowers...food and coffee...and new-ironed dresses and hot baths..." ), except instead of clocks ticking and butternut trees, it was more like cheap bourbon, barbeque, $250 rent and fireflies. (I freaking love fireflies. They don't have them in Vancouver). I was mentally prepared to leave and I wanted to get the ass-reattachment show on the road.

On the other hand, however, I recognized an opportunity to cling harder to America. Even though my bags were packed, my apartment was sublet (subletted?), my dad was flying down to get my car and my cat had her own little kitty airplane ticket, I didn't have to leave. I could go up to Canada for a week for pre-op appointments and work-related stuff, (I'm off to Montreal soon for a tournament), then come back down for a whole month of rekindling my turbulent romance with the old U. S. of A. America and I could have one of those relationships where it's like "Oh, darling, I know we broke up because you cheated on me with my sister, but let's get back together because I'm lonely and have daddy issues, even though we both know that this will end badly. Turbulent relationships give my humdrum existence meaning!" You know, those people for whom the Facebook status "it's complicated" was invented.

Some might say, "But Arley. Aren't you just prolonging the inevitable? Why don't you just get it over with, move back to Vancouver and begin the chapter of your life entitled 'The Part Where Arley Goes to Concerts By Herself and Tries to Appear Both Receptive to New Friendships And Repellent to Drug Dealers/ Fetishists/ Men Who Believe "So, What's Wrong With You?" is an Acceptable Pick-Up Line'' Wouldn't that be the mature thing to do?" To you, I say: hells no. I have spent at least six months of the past year in bed (or at physio, being out-run by 95-year-olds, which is worse) and I am about to spend another god-knows-how-long doing roughly the same thing. I'm in a "months of bedrest" sandwich and I fully intend to make the filling of that sandwich be as exciting, entertaining and meaningful as possible. And if that means traveling back to Champaign for an extra month of seeing the people I care about...well....so be it.

Yes, it looks like I'm going to have to rebook my ticket on the Struggletown Express. The new plan is that I'm leaving Mika with A., going back to Canada for a week or so, (which will involve a trip to Montreal), then returning to Champaign for a month of couch-surfing, BBQ-eating, and hearing the phrase "hey, didn't you leave here a while ago?" from random people on the street. Because, hey, if my life wasn't relentlessly complicated, I wouldn't have anything to blog about.

It's Not You, It's Me: The Breaking Up With America Deportation Extravaganza

2010-06-06T10:56:00.000-07:00

In just over a week, Mika and I will be going back to Vancouver and I'm not the only one who's having a hard time being optimistic about the move. Mika has somehow figured out that we're leaving (more proof that she secretly speaks English) and is acting out. Case in point: last night. While A. and I were watching "Dead Ringers," Mika got inspired and unleashed her inner David Cronenberg by killing and snacking on a baby bunny, dragging it in through my window, and depositing it on my living-room rug right as the movie was getting all "heroin-and-bizarre-gynacological-instruments"-y. That night, she kept me up from 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. meowing and biting my chin. When I finally let her out, she packed her kitty bags and ran away to A.'s house, where she broke in through an open window and refused to leave. Yes, it looks like there's a little feline-shaped seat on the Struggle Train. At least she's not acting out by smoking crack behind the 7-11.

But while Mika's been throwing cat-tantrums, I've been trying to make the most of my final weeks in Champaign-Urbana. My original plan was to say 'yes' to every social opportunity, though I had to tweak this plan a little when someone rather strenuously offered me meth at a BBQ (not even once! Not. Even. Once). There have been too many highlights to mention (Kimberly, Erin C. and I rocking Allerton Park by posing beside every statue of a half-naked man, half-naked centaur, unintentionally suggestive Chinese musician, or Fu Dog; the Room 248 Reunion Party; randomly deciding to purchase and eat a large cake with LeFevs, Shelley and Donnie in a campus bar while drinking the world's nastiest $3 margarita), but the main event was "It's Not You, It's Me: The Breaking Up With America Deportation Extravaganza and Dance Party."

Though the name was long and egotistical, my goodbye party was really just a chance for me to hang out at The Esquire with people I might not see again. And you know what? Even though I have a semi-detached ass, a wonky hip, and a one-way ticket back to Canada, I have fantastic, fantastic friends. Erin C. made me an awesome cake based on the "Hark, A Vagrant!" web comic and bought me three cards: a retirement card for my Freaky Cyborg Hip; a "congratulations on getting re-attached" card for my ass; and a general card for me. (There are good friends, and then there are good friends awesome enough to buy you a card for your ass). Erin McQ bought me flowers and tons of other people contributed to my mission of getting sappily drunk on bourbon (mission accomplished). It was great to see all the 20+ people who showed up to help me break up with America, even though knowing what good friends I have in the Midwest will make it extra hard to leave.

Next stop on the Struggletown Express: figuring out how the hell I'm going to pack four years worth of stuff into one PT Cruiser.

I'm on a Boat!

2010-05-23T15:48:00.000-07:00

In exactly a month, I'm going to be on a fast train to StruggleTown, which will make stops in Take-20-Minutes-To-Put-On-Your-Underwear-With-A-Grabber-Ville, I-Can't-Make-Friends-In-Vancouver-Because-Everyone-There-Is-Too-Cool-For-Me-Town, and Morphine-Makes-Me-Sick-And-Itchy-Opolis. All aboard!

For that reason, I am making the month until my surgery count. Beers will be consumed! 80s hipster rock will be air-guitar-ed to! Ice cream and whipped cream will be eaten inappropriately on campus grounds! (Don't judge. Whipped cream is nature's perfect food). My goal is to do a million different awesome things so that when I'm injecting bloodthinners into my stomach, I won't think, "Damn, my life sucks," but "Hey, remember that time when I rode a freaking jet ski? How cool was that?" Yesterday's offering: I went on a boat.

How I got on this boat, I'm not entirely sure (friend of a friend of a friend), but the bottom line is that I spent all yesterday on Clinton Lake (turns out that there actually are bodies of water in Illinois, which was news to me) in a little speed-boat-y number with Shelley, Bridie and Donnie. The Aussies are going back to Aussie-land soon, so it was a good opportunity to spend time with them before everyone gets deported. (Somewhere some Homeland Security computer program is picking up the word 'foreigner' and 'on a boat.' Just kidding, Homeland Security! My visa is too legit to quit...until July 15th).

Clinton Lake is a warm lake, which apparently is due to the fact that there's a power plant that churns hot water into it (why is my life like something out of the Simpson's?). It's like a bathtub made of energy waste! Come on, nuclear power. Let's see some of those mutations we've heard so much about. Mama needs a new gluteus medius.

Anyhow, you really can't go wrong when you combine a gorgeous day, awesome people, water and alcohol. (Well, I guess water and alcohol can go terribly wrong, but bear with me). The highlight of the day was when I rode a jet ski. A jet ski! Like I was on freaking Baywatch! Or one of those girls in the James Bond movies! This, actually, is progress. Before the hip replacement, I could not physically sit on jet skis/motorcycles/bicycles etc. and I was so excited about being able to do so, that I couldn't help but exclaim, "I can straddle things now!" Turns out that, yeah, sound carries pretty well over water, and I'm sure that the men of East-Central Illinois really appreciated the update. I'm a classy, classy girl. (At least I didn't pass around the cheat sheet of acceptable post-surgical sex positions).

Do I have bruises all over my legs? Yes. Did I wear all the skin off my tailbone from the bumping of the jet ski? Yes. Am I sunburned because even though I applied sunscreen three times throughout the day, I am too white to be allowed near the water and I still have an incredibly red face? Yes. Was it completely worth it? Yes, yes, yes. Not to brag or anything, but sometimes it's good to be me.

Got My Mojo Workin' But it Just Don't Work on Shoes

2010-05-20T15:06:00.001-07:00

In the year since my hip replacement, I have not exactly been bringing sexy back. In fact, between the lack of hip flexion, the post-surgical rashes (which happily have resolved themselves), the swamp-creature gait pattern, the incisions, and the semi-detached ass, sexy and I aren't even Facebook friends. For a long time, most fashionable clothing pressed painfully against my hip or my detached gluteus medius, so I've gotten into a rut of jeans, sweatshirts and a five-year-old cami with a built-in bra that has holes in it, but I won't throw it away because American Eagle doesn't make them any more and long camis with built-in bras are rarer than hen's teeth.

In my defense, when it takes you about 8.5 hours to bend down to pick something up, you don't want to throw the "trying not to expose yourself on account of your short skirt" factor into the equation. (No good can come of it. No good at all). And when you're spending months at a time lying on your back (and not even in a sexy way!), your main fashion concern tends to be "do I have instant noodles stuck to my chest?" A few days ago, however, I said to myself, "Arley, do you ever wonder why the only cat calls you get are people mistaking you for a gay man and shouting homophobic slurs at you? Do you think that's a sign that maybe you should break out the party dress? Or at least put on some lip gloss?"

Point. Taken. After all, I am decidedly less gimpy than I was before and in about a month, I am going to have surgery all over again and will once again be getting dressed using a specially designed grabber with a hook on it. It was time to get my mojo working before my mojo got surgically removed. When Erin McQ and I went shopping and I found an expensive Calvin Klein sweater dress on sale for less than $20, it was like the heavens had parted and a sign had been handed down to me. That sign read: Arley, thou shalt wear thine sexy-ass sweater dress to thy sports banquet thou art attending for work in Ottawa in a few days hence.

Now, don't get me wrong. My goal with the sweater dress was not to score/hook up/get a little somethin'-somethin'. I have very little interest in dating at the moment because a) I'm moving halfway across the country in a matter of weeks and b) you know what's not great to do in the first few weeks of a relationship? Have major surgery that requires you to use a walker for extended periods of time. Plus, I'm pretty sure that "work function" + "skanking it up" is a recipe for "unemployment." But sometimes you need to give your self-confidence a boost by putting on a tight (but professionally acceptable!) dress, looking in the mirror and saying, "You know what? I am wearing the f*ck out of this dress. I am wearing this dress so hard that when people look at me and say 'daaamn,' they will not mean it in the sense of 'daaamn, what happened to you?"

Well, that was the plan anyways. Here was the reality. I spent all evening issuing press releases, so that I had only 10 minutes to get ready for the banquet. I was sweaty, my hair looked like I had been involved in a vigorous headbanging session, and I'd forgotten a makeup brush so I'd applied eyeshadow with my fingertip and I'm pretty sure that I got at least some of it near my eyes. I threw on the dress and a pair of red shoes I'd brought and strutted out of there with the best strut I could muster.

Still, for a moment, I felt as if the plan had succeeded. I catwalked (somewhere, Miss J from Project Runway is giving me side-eye) down to the banquet all with my shoulders back and my head held high. I did not even get to the banquet hall, however, when I saw the folly of my plans. I had not worn my sexy red shoes since the surgery. The last time I wore the shoes, I did not walk like a stroke-addled zombie. Now, my sexy red shoes were a little redder, because they had worn all the skin off the back of my heels, which had started bleeding.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how I spent the entire banquet in bare feet limping even more than usual with my shoes in my purse. And that is also why I have been wearing a pair of my mom's old flip-flops even though it's raining, because there is a huge chunk missing out of my right heel and putting on real shoes makes them bleed. And that is maybe why I felt the need to pull an all-nighter before I left at 5 a.m. for my flight home, which resulted in me showing up on A's doorstep to pick up Mika back firmly in my jeans and sweatshirt, with make-up raccoon-like under my eyes, limping and complaining of sleep deprivation. The only good side was that A. took one look at me and identified that I had a serious need for french toast, so we went to Le Peep and then I had a 3-hour nap. Le Peep french toast cures everything.

Oh for Cat's Sake!

2010-05-13T08:21:00.000-07:00

During my first flight after the hip replacement, I was a portrait of patience and tolerance. Mostly, this was because my incredibly slowness meant that I was the one holding up all the lines and stopping traffic. Back then, my attitude was, "yeah, it sucks to have to wait in line, but it's better than getting your leg cut off then put back on again in the wrong configuration." I was the Buddha of the Bank Line. The Gandhi of the Grocery store. If you took 5 minutes to select the exactly perfect box of Tic Tacs while standing in line, I would merely smile beatifically, basking in my own newfound sense of perspective.

Right now: not so much. Over the past year, I've gotten faster and with every second I shave off my sprint to the boarding gate, my tolerance levels wear a little thinner. For example, this morning I was waiting in line in the Champaign airport to go through security and the young couple ahead of me with a baby were receiving a failing grade in the Putting Your Shit in the Little Trays and Walking Through the Metal Detector 101. Could not do it. Could not.

They stared at the baby buggy as if it might fold itself up and slide itself through the screening machine. They gestured helplessly. They expressed surprise at being asked to remove their shoes, despite the three signs posted informing people to do this. The woman walked through with her cell phone in her pocket, then walked through again with her keys in her pocket, and while I fully understand that this woman's brain is probably fried with sleep deprivation, I had a brief flash of wanting to inform her that if she doesn't know that her cell phone or her keys or the change in her pocket or Lord knows what else is made of metal, then she's too stupid to reproduce and she should probably give the baby to me. (Part of this could have been the coffee deprivation and the fact that it was 6:30 a.m.).

I have no idea why this is. You'd think that the fact that I spent a good three months taking 20 minutes to walk around the block would give me some empathy towards other people's struggles. Incorrect. Instead, I want to go around telling people, "Look. I'm gimping along on a semi-detached ass and a hip socket that clunks more than the dialogue in any of the Twilight movies, and I seem to be doing just fine in the 'taking care of my shit' department. Please explain to me why you, with two working legs and two working arms, are finding the act of taking off your shoes, putting them in a bin, and running them through the screening machine to be so insanely difficult."

Alas, my bitchery has earned me an ass-kicking in the traveling karma department. First, my flight was stranded on the tarmac because of storms in Detroit for 2 hours. Then, it finally landed in Detroit was was delayed for 3 hours. So now I'm sitting in the Metro Detroit airport trying not to stare at a skinhead who has a swastika tattooed on his scalp and skeleton arms tattooed over his actual arms. (If you're going to be a neo-nazi, wouldn't you pick a place other than Detroit to live?). An elderly woman is standing by the gate, clutching her ticket and saying loudly, "For cat's sake! It's going to be another hour? Oh, for cat's sake!" (Somewhere, Mika is approving of a person substituting the word 'cat' for the word 'God'). It's clear that I have some serious atoning to do to the Gods of Travel if I ever want to get to Ottawa (I'm heading here for the Canadian national wheelchair rugby championships). Maybe I should sacrifice a chicken.

Think Fast!

2010-05-10T21:19:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been dragging my ass. (Well, ok, I've been dragging the part that's still attached. The rest is less 'dragging' and more 'flapping in the breeze'). I've been tired and cranky and feeling perpetually hungover, which sucks because if you're going to wake up feeling hungover, you should at least have the pleasure of looking next to you and thinking, "Whose that guy? And why am I in Mexico?" (Ah, memories). In days of yore, I would have simply sucked it up, given my body a pep talk (by 'pep talk' I mean 'three Diet Cokes, a sugar-free latte and some Sour Patch Kids) and powered through. Now that I'm new-and-improved-with-a-side-order-of-responsibility-and-common-sense, however, I decided to take a different route to reset my awesome meter: a detox diet.

This would be my second detox diet. I went on the same detox plan (phase 1 of the Fat Smash Diet) nearly a year ago before the first surgery. You're only allowed to eat small portions of oatmeal, fruit, veggies, egg whites, tofu, lentils/chickpeas/beans, yogurt and brown rice. My idea was to get rid of all the gunk so that my body was functioning at "all systems go" and I could stroll out of the hospital with my new hip ready to take on the world. (We know how well that one turned out). There are very few things you can control about your surgery (like, say, your ass falling off and the fact that nearly a year after the operation you're still walking like a zombie grandfather with a mild case of palsy), but I figured I could control the state in which my body arrived on the operating table. (You hear that, Dr. ___? I held up my end of the bargain! I laid off coffee, alcohol, and chocolate for a week!) You know how warriors used to fast and pray for guidance before battle? Same deal, but without the hunger-induced hallucinations.

I lasted 4 days on the diet. I actually felt amazing and you can eat as many fruits and veggies as you want, so I wasn't even hungry.My energy levels were back to normal, I was rolling out of bed ready to face the day, and I didn't even miss my beloved coffee. The problem with any detox diet, however, is that it's impossible to be a social butterfly. You instantly turn into that chick who's pushing a salad around her plate on a first date complaining about the sugar in the vinagrette while the guy looks awkwardly at his steak and mashed potatoes. I was the Victoria Beckham of Champaign Urbana (minus, you know, the gorgeous husband and the accent). On day 4 of the diet, I therefore found myself sitting in a Mexican restaurant with my friend Shawna. She was tucking in to a steaming, cheesy plate of enchiladas. I was picking at a bowl of lettuce covered in salsa.

All of a sudden, I little voice inside my head said, "Arley, you have only about 30 days left in Champaign-Urbana. You can eat lettuce with salsa for the rest of your life.' And it's true. I mean, on June 25th, the day after my surgery when I'm puking neon green bile from the pain killers and injecting myself in the stomach with blood thinners, am I going to say, "Gee, I wish I'd eaten a few more egg whites" or "Gee, I wish I'd had a freaking margarita." I decided that my time in Champaign-Urbana was too short to be wishing for a week of it to be over so I could have a cup of coffee. I ended the diet and went out for brisket.

So now, I'm turning my leftover egg whites into white-chocolate-coconut macaroons, which is still kind of diet food because a) they're made with egg whites and b) I don't have a hand mixer, so the journey from 'liquid egg whites' to 'stiff peaks' was a cardio workout in itself. The recipe cheerfully instructed me to "switch to the paddle attachment on your stand mixer" and I was like "bitch, please. All I've got is a bowl, a fork, and a set of biceps." Anyhow, I briefly achieved a zen-like state by staring into a churning bowl of frothy eggs and in the end I made a batch of slightly deflated macaroons, which I ate while trying to remember how to play Leonard Cohen's "Dance Me To the End of Love" on my guitar, and everything was lovely. Life lesson learned.

Blogging With My Mouth

2010-05-01T10:52:00.000-07:00

Since August, this blog has been my only outlet to vent about my hip replacement. Recently, however, I've started trying to turn my semi-coherent ramblings and elaborate similes about my detached ass into a more publishable form. Since this week is again a super-busy one, I thought I would show you videos of me reading from one such essay. Blogging...creative non-fiction...reading of creative non-fiction aloud to a live audience...all that's missing is for someone to do an interpretive dance about my hip replacement. By the time this ordeal is over, my hip replacement will have been thoroughly and totally documented in a variety of genres. It will be the most famous hip replacement ever.

Anyhow, both videos are of the same essay, but the first one is from when I went to my lovely friend Karo's class to talk about "Post." (Which was a good experience on numerous fronts, probably the most important one being that I was forced to get over the huge mental block I have about "Post" and actually re-read it. There was a time when I couldn't even open the book without feeling a little ill. Anyhow, the experience of confronting the 22-year-old I was when I wrote "Post" was less cringe-worthy than expected. I think we can call this emotional growth!) The nice thing about reading this essay is that I got to shock undergraduates by saying the word "motherf*cker" in an academic environment.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z1q4HmZ7mlc

The next video comes from a reading I did for the "Stories and Beer" reading series at the Iron Post in Urbana. It's the same essay, but people find me much more amusing because they are drunk.

http://www.smilepolitely.com/arts/stories_beer3/

Enjoy the spectacle of me trying to speak words to other people!

It's the Final Countdown

2010-04-28T16:26:00.001-07:00

Things have been a little quiet over here in Young and Hip-land. Part of the reason for this radio silence is that I'm working full-time while doing an internship while traveling for work while trying to write another novel while attempting to have one of those so-called "social lives" I've heard so much about while trying to give the cat the amount of attention she requires so that she will not destroy my shit while trying to coordinate my move back to Vancouver while....while..... drinking a lot of coffee. A lot of coffee.

The other reason, however, is that there's been very little to write about. All of the changes in my hip have been incremental and I wasn't about to subject anyone to a post on my newfound ability to lift my leg a fraction of an inch higher than I could before thus enabling me to wash my left foot for the first time in months. (Though I did privately celebrate this milestone). I'm still walking like a drunken extra in "Night of the Living Dead." Rolling over in my sleep on to the place where my gluteus medius is detached still hurts enough to make me dream that someone has sliced my hip open and I'm staggering around bleeding and being like 'damn, I should get me to a hospital.' My hip still clunks and shifts to a degree that often makes me cry out in surprise, (not in pain, really, just surprise), which I'm pretty sure has led people to believe that I have Tourette's Syndrome.

Today, however, I have news the report. I finally got my surgery date. On June 24th, I will go back under the knife to get my ass put back on, my leg length raised and possibly get a brand spankin' new socket. This means that I've got about 6 or 7 weeks left to live in America. This is good news on the "getting my ass put back on" front, but you don't need a weatherman to know that there's a weather system called Hurricane Getting-Deported-And-Operated-On-In-The-Same-Week on the horizon. You know what's not a great way to get your new life off on the right foot? Spending the first few months of it in bed eating frozen grapes and rubbing BioOil on your various scars. (That's also probably a bad way to start a E-Harmony profile. Note to self).

It's interesting to note the weird cyclical-ness (that's not a word) of this surgery. My first hip replacement was on June 23rd 2009. My second surgery will be on June 24th, 2010. Here's hoping this will be the last deja vu I'll experience, since I swear to God that if I wake up from this surgery saying, "Hey, shouldn't I be able to move this leg?" I will literally start shanking bitches with my IV needle.

Things To Do In Denver When You're Gimpy

2010-04-10T07:20:00.000-07:00

On this blog, I do my fair share of complaining ("My ass isn't attached!" "I walk like a broke-down marionette being operated by someone who's high on paint thinner!" "America keeps trying to break up with me, despite my clinging harder than Jessica Biel on Justin Timberlake!"). When you break it right down, however, my life is pretty sweet.

I mean, a few days ago I was hanging out in a hotel room in Denver with L.T., who plays for the Australian national team. The last time I saw L.T., we were in a cafe on the streets of Paris eating dainty pastries and speaking the kind of French that made actual French people ask me if I was sure I'm Canadian, since don't Canadians speak French? (In my defense, I took Chinese in high school). L.T. remarked on how great it is to have the kind of lifestyle where you can hang out in Paris with someone a few years back, get drunk on pineapple tequila shots with them in a bar in Champaign Urbana, then chill in a hotel room with them in beautiful Denver, Colorado. I mean, who else can say that? Who else has that life?

Yes, I am indeed lucky. Right now, my two passions (wheelchair basketball and writing) have come together in Denver. (Denver the city, not Denver my brother....which is a source of endless confusion). My former wheelchair basketball team the Fighting Illini are playing today in the national championship (I-L-L! I-N-I!) and there's also a huge creative writing conference called AWP on. It's like someone designed a weekend just for me.

Now, I tend to be a pretty shy person. I was 20 before I could look people in the eye and, even now, meeting new people tends to give me the same symptoms as overcaffeination/ meth addiction: talking quickly! Making large hand gestures that occasionally cause me to hit people in the face or knock steaming cups of coffee into my lap! Slight tremor of the hands! (The fact that I am usually overcaffeinated on top of this doesn't help matters). For that reason, AWP gives me the cold sweats. Not only are you supposed to talk to people, but those people are generally anti-social writerly types like yourself, who are equally nervous and overcaffeinated but who suspect that their entire writing career might rest on their ability to charm someone at the conference into publishing their brilliance. (The fact that half of these people confuse "writer" with "someone who wears outlandish clothing in a bid to get attention" is topic for another day).

Until last night, the only new person I had met at AWP was the woman who also walked with a cane (cane friend!) who I met in the registration line-up. We bonded over our mutual gimpiness and our taste in canes (she had a sleek fold-up model with a little hook on the end so you can prop the cane up against tables and stuff and it won't fall over on the people and cause great injury and embarrassment) and the fact that we were wasting our walking time standing in line. Luckily for me, this Cane Friend was not afraid to tell the woman in charge of registration that they should have a special line for people who had trouble standing and got us to the front of the line, saving us at least 30 minutes! Go Cane Friend! The registration lady obviously didn't want to face the wrath of two angry chicks armed with metal poles.

During the conference, however, I tended to keep my head down. Like, what was I supposed to say to people? "So....do you like words?....Because I like words...." "So....are you wearing that fedora ironically?....." "So...do you also find the bookfair filled with thousands of people whose sweat smells like raw, unbridled ambition a little disconcerting?"

Luckily, however, you don't need social skills when you have good friends. Last night, M. and I hit the town and stumbled upon a fiction reading at a cool little bar. M. is a social butterfly and quickly made friends with tons of people, dragging me into the conversation with her. Long story short, we ended up at a party in a house/gallery talking to all sorts of writerly types about writerly things. Thanks to M.'s icebreaking/wingman skills and the assistance of some Coors Light (hey, when you're in Denver drinking Coors is practically a requirement) and Fat Tire, I ended up speaking words to people I did not know! This is progress, considering that most of my social skills were learned when some of the lesbians on the Canadian national team got sick of watching me blush and stammer my way through interactions and took it upon themselves to teach me how to pick up men (I know, I know) and would give me little homework assignments at tournaments (talk to 5 people, find the "sole mate" of one of the single-leg amputees on the team, etc) in attempt to hone my skills. That, however, is a story for another day.

Freaky Cyborg Hip ENGAGE! Power up! Attack!

2010-04-02T09:16:00.000-07:00

In the 9 months since my surgery (has it already been 9 months? Is it a bad sign that it takes longer to fix my hip than it does to turn a speck of genetic material into a fully formed human being?) I have been waiting for my Freaky Cyborg Hip to wake up and go rogue. My new hip's not too great for the whole "walking" thing, so I figure it probably has other strengths: like shooting lasers...or destroying Tokyo...or even just re-enacting the Pink Floyd Laser Light Show. Who knows?

Well, today my Freaky Cyborg Hip got its chance to power up. I was in the security lineup at the Vancouver airport and after a mild bout of security-sanctioned groping, they asked me if I would like to step into the full body scanner. I jumped at the opportunity. (And by "jump" I mean "gimped over in the direction of the scanner in my socks hoping that the fabric of my socks was tough enough to ward off the swamp of foot fungus that must be on those carpets"). I mean, first of all, any day when I get off easy in the security-line groping department is a good day. (Those of you thinking that beggars can't be choosers need to check yourselves). But second of all: stepping into a weird, pod-like scanner and being pelted with lord knows what rays seemed like a good way to engage the Freaky Cyborg Hip. Isn't that how it happens in the movies? The hero steps into a pod and thanks to the Miracle of Science gets transformed into a cyborg?

Standing on the little footprints in the body-scanner cylinder and raising my arms above my head as the machine scanned my body, I felt like a freaking Power Ranger or Clark Kent in the phone booth or Iron Man or that guy in Avatar. I could almost hear the voice over: "She thought she was the recipient of a malfunctioning hip replacement. She thought she was heading to a small midwestern college town. She was wrong. This April, one woman learns that a journey of a lifetime can begin with a single, gimpy step. Arley McNeney stars in....Hip To Destruction." (What? You don't narrate your own life in the voice of Don LaFontaine?)

Any moment, I suspected, the cyborg in me would be activated and go on a rampage. And frankly, seeing as how the customs guy was going through Every. Single. Thing in my backpack and inquiring as to whether my Moroccan Hair Oil was "medicine" (I told him that it was, if bad hair counts as a medical condition), I could hardly wait. I was like, bring on the lasers, Freaky Cyborg Hip! Let's get this party started!

Not so much. I gimped out of the body scanner and was so busy trying to get a peek at what was shown on the monitor (spoiler alert: they don't show any nudity) that I bumped smack into an attractive guy. I apologized. Then, while putting on my backpack, I hit the same guy in the shoulder. I apologized. THEN, I turn to grab my cane, it slipped and I hit the guy AGAIN! With my cane! This poor guy thought he was going for a friendly vacation and I end up beating the shit out of him in the customs line!

Instead of activating the rambo switch on my Freaky Cyborg Hip, someone activated the "romantic comedy" switch! This is not quite the destruction I was looking for. Instead of destroying Tokyo, I reminded myself why I will probably die alone in a small apartment and my 57 cats will eat my face. Psyche/ self confidence destruction doesn't count! Worse, it was all the romantic comedy embarrassment without any "falling in love and living happily ever after" business. I've said it before, but I'll say it again: I want my money back.

Things That Rocked This Week

2010-03-29T23:15:00.000-07:00

This week, a girl who lived a few doors down from me while I was growing up, and who was friends with my sister, passed away from Cystic Fibrosis. Eva Markvoort blogged about her life and her preparation for death and was a spokesperson for Cystic Fibrosis research. When she received a double-lung transplant a few years ago, she allowed camera crews to film a documentary about her. (Check out her blog here: www.65redroses.com). I didn't know Eva very well, so I don't feel as if it's right to wax poetic about her, but I will say that I admire her commitment to both living well and dying well.

In that spirit, I've decided to inject some positivity into my own blog. I mean, if the worst thing that ever happens to you in life is that your ass gets detached and you have to walk like a zombie for a little while (knock on wood that it's only a little while), then you can count your blessings. So here, then, is a brief list of Things That Rocked This Week.

Watching the sun rise at Dunkin Donuts with A. at 5:45 a.m on the way to the train station. I am lucky to have a friend who's willing to get up at obscene hours to drive me places. I am also lucky that coffee exists in the universe.
Getting to come back to Vancouver for a little while and see my friends and family.
My mom's Easter feast. When Warren Zevon was dying of lung cancer and was asked by his pal David Letterman if he had any advice about living/dying, he said, "Enjoy every sandwich." I enjoyed every sandwich. And every slice of turkey. And about 18 pounds of Easter candy, especially anything with the word "mellowcreme" or "mallowcreme" in its name. What is "mallowcreme?" Lord knows. Probably rendered beef fat and high-fructose corn syrup, but man do those little pastel-colored candies go down easy.
My awesome job. I worked at a wheelchair rugby tournament this weekend and somehow ended up doing the play-by-play commentary for the webcasts, which would not normally be a problem (as you can imagine, I'm a talker) but for the fact that I know next to nothing about wheelchair rugby. Happily, Kevin Orr and Duncan Campbell were there to provide the expert commentary, while I was there to get the rules wrong, the names of the players wrong, the team names wrong, and say "um" a lot. It was actually a lot of fun, and now I know how to play wheelchair rugby. (If you want to see me in action, check out www.sportscanada.tv)
The fact that my awesome job allowed me to reconnect with some friends I haven't seen in ages and reminisce about the old days...when I once got stranded on a Greek island without any of my luggage and was rescued by three Canadian wheelchair rugby players. By "rescued," I mean "given a jacket and enough alcohol that I no longer cared what country I was in." You know those St. Bernards with the barrel of rum around their necks? Same principle. Anyhow, it was good to see D. and be filled in (six years later) about the drunken exploits I do not remember.
My mom bought me two nifty sweaters! One has an owl on it!
The fact that the Edible Book Competition is approaching. I still have not decided what my entry will be (and even if I did it would clearly be classified information. The Edible Book Competition is serious business!), but whatever it ends up being, I'll probably spend at least a few days covered in molten Starburst, which is my idea of a good time.
Champaign-Urbana no longer resembles a vast Arctic tundra.
The Chicago O'Hare airport did not lose my luggage. Granted, this was because I did not have luggage, but considering the potent screwing-up-your-travel-plans black magic of the O'Hare airport, getting out with only a minorly over-aggressive pat-down from security staff is a miracle.

Discrimination: Ur Doin It Wrong

2010-03-24T15:06:00.001-07:00

One of the burdens of being relentlessly attractive is that you're constantly harassed by cat calls and wolf whistles as you walk down the street. You can barely go a foot without someone complimenting you on what your mama gave you or what a fine, fine piece of top quality ass you are. And the guilt that comes from causing distracted motorists to crash into street signs: it keeps you up at night! Yeah, it's tough being pretty.

Okay, I wouldn't know. Usually, the comments I get on the street fall within the spectrum of "damn, girl, you're TALL" and "Hey, sweetheart. What's wrong with your legs? Want me to teach you how to spread them?" I do get cat calls, but they're literally from my cat and therefore have the subtext of "feed me now before I slice you." Well, today the boys of Champaign-Urbana took their harassment game to a whole new level. I got my first cat call. Cat call...homophobic epithet...to-may-to, to-mah-to.

Last night, I was walking to a friend's birthday party. Incidentally, the party had a "Crazy Hat" theme and I was decked out in an orange-and-blue toque (knit cap for you Americans) complete with a pom pom on top. In the dark, I kind of resembled "Where's Waldo?" (I'm not sure if this played into what happened or not). Also, I wasn't using my cane, so I was in full swamp-creature lurch mode. Inconspicuous as always.

As I neared the apartment, a silver Camry-Accord-Tercel-mid-level-manager-or-accountant-type car drove past me and slowed down. The passenger rolled down the window, leaned out, and informed me that I was a (wait for it...wait for it...) "fucking faggot." Now, I tend to assume that if someone's yelling at me from their car, they must know me, so my first reaction before I processed what he said was to wave and I had a moment of "wait...no...this isn't a friendly yell...Abort wave! Abort wave!" Too late. I half-waved and the guy (further enraged by my gesture) yelled, "Fuck you. You're fucking weird." In retrospect, what I heard as "fucking weird" was probably "fucking queer." Oh, men of Champaign-Urbana. You really know how to make a girl feel special.

Now, I've received my fair share of "hey, mister! You can't go in that washroom," which comes with the territory when you're six-foot-two, have shortish hair and live in a climate that often requires you to bundle yourself in warm clothing to the point where it's impossible to tell whether you're a male, a female, or the Michelin Man. These comments, however, are given in the spirit of misunderstanding and the commenter is usually way more embarrassed than I am, especially when I choose to smile politely and point out that I am the proud owner of a lady garden.

So yes, in the eyes of the frat-boy-gang-rapists-in-training crowd, I am a "fucking faggot/queer/weirdo." Which is kind of embarrassing on their part. Obviously, homeboy in the small-penis-mobile needs to go back to Hate-Based Stereotyping 101. There must be some sort of remedial class he could take to help him properly identify markers of otherness and respond with the correct slur for the situation.

Because, Lord knows I walk like a lot of things...Gary Busey on the season premiere of "Celebrity Rehab with Doctor Drew," Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining, pretty much any Frankenstein/swamp creature/alien in a 1950s B movie, but I do not walk like a stereotypical gay man. I mean, haven't these assholes seen "Will and Grace?" Do I sashay? Do I flounce? Do I strut? No, no, and not without pulling a muscle.

So while the disability-studies buff in me is interested in this guy's conflation of disability and sexuality, all the rest of me thinks, holy shit people. Watch a fucking episode of "Glee." Like, what cultural markers is this guy picking up on? The fact that I am wearing women's jeans...because I happen to be a woman? The fact that I was wearing a toque with a pom pom on top? Because that's not the garb of a stereotypical gay man. That's the garb of a stereotypical lumberjack. I believe the term you're searching for, you homophobic motherf*cker, is "cripple" or "overachieving bitch who thinks she's so great." Discrimination: ur doin it wrong.

I would have happily mentioned this to my hate-mongering friend face-to-face, had he the cojones to speak to me directly. (Actually, it would have probably turned out to be cane-to-face or knee-to-groin). But, of course, men like that thrive on shouting things from car windows and speeding away. Which is why they rarely get a good look at the people they're hating on.

Backstory (Hip-story?)

2010-03-21T08:52:00.000-07:00

When I started "Young and Hip" in August, my motivations for doing so went a little something like this: "Well, damn. I have been stuck in bed for six weeks and I'm bored as fuck and if I have to watch one more happy-people-buying-houses reality TV show I'm going to punch a hole through the wall, which would likely lead to a broken hand and render me even gimpier, so why don't I start a hip-replacement blog to keep my family and friends up to date about my progress (read: to complain to someone other than my mom) and possibly give some other young people having hip replacements a head's up that this shit is not all sunshine, lollipops and rainbows? That should keep me occupied for a few weeks until my hip magically gets better."

Well, it's late March and my blog has been going strong for 7 months and is nearly 400 pages long when put in a word processor (concision: you're doing it wrong). Lately, I've been getting emails along the lines of, "Hey, love your blog. That part where you talk about your detached ass and compare your walking to a heroin-addicted Phantom of the Opera: LOLZ! But, uh, what exactly happened to you?" (In fairness, people who have known me for my whole life are asking the same question).

So, here, for those of you who are just tuning in, is the story of What Exactly Happened to Me:

When I was 11, thanks to a freak inner-tubing accident and probably some DNA-based wonkiness, I slipped the growth plate on my left hip. It was pinned back on, the pins caused avascular necrosis (which translates rather dramatically into "bone death"), the pins were taken out, my adolescence got an extra serving of awkwardness thanks to a bright-blue half-body cast that stuck my legs out at 45-degree angles and meant that anything I wore on my lower body had to have snaps up the side like a baby onesie. (You'd think such easy-access underwear would have made me a hit with all the gentlemen, but you'd be wrong). The ensuing years were filled with crutches, canes, wheelchairs, arm-crutches and me growing to over 6 feet tall, but long story short: after 15 years of avascular necrosis, my femoral head basically began to look like Mickey Rourke's face.

While all this was going on, I was busily playing wheelchair basketball (I was on the national team from 2001 to 2007 and won two World Championship golds and a Paralympic bronze), getting degrees in Creative Writing and History at the University of Victoria, writing and publishing a novel called "Post," then doing my MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Illinois so that I could play wheelchair basketball with the U of I varsity team. Oh, and I also make ridiculously intricate cakes.

In November 2007, a few days before my 25th birthday, my hip decided it was fed up with me subjecting it to hours of wheelchair basketball, ill-advised attempts at hiking (though, granted, "hiking" in the midwest is more like "strolling up small hills with grand names like The Eagle's Peak"), and generally running it into the ground. My hip tried to quit me by either popping out or hooking itself on my femoral head, (doctors never did figure out exactly what it was doing), and I basically re-enacted that scene from "The Exorcist" (puking! Shaking! Leg twisted at sickening angles impossible to recreate by people who are not in the circus!). Over the next 18 months, it became clear that my hip was Just Not That Into Me because it was straying more than Tiger Woods in Las Vegas. There was only one thing to do: become a cyborg.

On June 23rd, 2009, I headed into the O.R. to become to proud owner of a Freaky Cyborg Hip. I was so confident that my hip replacement would go well that I had booked a cake-making gig for a week after the surgery, since everyone had told me that "they get you up and walking the same day! My 95-year-old grandpa waltzed out of the hospital after only 3 days and has had a successful career as an extreme sky-diver ever since! It was the best decision I ever made!"

Yeah, not so much. I was awake during the surgery (I actually got to see my femoral head after it was taken out), but when the epidural wore off, it became clear that something had gone terribly awry. I couldn't move my leg. I couldn't walk without inching my toes along the floor. My doctor went on vacation, I was stuck in the hospital, and no one could figure out why my Freaky Cyborg Hip decided to take a long nap.

To make another long story short (you can see how this blog got to be 500 pages), my original surgeon sort of dumped me after they discovered that my gluteus medius was detached, which was causing part of my problem. My new surgeon found out that my left leg is two inches too short and that my socket is probably loose. It also turns out that I am like the medical equivalent of Stonehenge because no one can figure out exactly why I'm still having so much trouble (maybe I'm crazy! Maybe the screwed-up-ness of the rest of the hip is preventing even working muscles from operating! Maybe evil trolls have cast a spell on me! Maybe my Freaky Cyborg Hip is too busy plotting to take over Tokyo to bother with that whole "walking" thing!)

I'm going to be having surgery this summer, but for now I'm living in Urbana, Illinois (I have friends here and the rent is super cheap) until America breaks up with me and sends me back to my native Vancouver. When I'm not blogging about my hip replacement, I work as a Communications Consultant, enjoy creative writing and am mildly-to-moderately obsessed with Canadian indie rocker Dan Bejar.

And now you know.

Balancing On One Wounded Wing/ Circling the Edge of the Neverending

2010-03-16T21:47:00.000-07:00

It's been nearly a week since I sustained my wrist injury and, yes ladies and gentlemen, I'm already pulling out melancholy New Pornographers' lyrics to capture my mood. If this keeps up, you're going to find me writing rhyming poetry about the state of my soul in my "Emily the Strange" notebook that I got on sale from Hot Topic (My heart is red/ my soul is black/ I walk like a zombie/ addicted to crack).

The bottom line is that my wrist still hurts and my wrist splint is starting to get that swampy cast smell and because I can't walk with my cane, I have to do the zombie-lurch around town, and twice today people have stared at me aghast and asked, "What happened to you?" When I responded that I'd injured my arm playing basketball, they looked at me with this expression that said, "No, I mean...in life." Of course, the zombie-walking has thrown off my back and my shoulders and I am basically one red-hot ball of cranky.

You'd think I'd be able to take this shit in stride (well, maybe "stride" is too graceful a word to describe what I do). I mean, last summer someone cut the ball of my hip off, replaced it with another one, but (whoops) forgot to reattach my ass. After that, you'd think a little wrist sprain would be par for the course: like, "lay it on me, life! A sprained wrist? That's all you've got? A few short months ago, I watched in an opium-induced haze as my surgeon showed me the detached ball of my femoral head." (That concision I was hoping I would learn from this wrist injury? Not so much).

Instead, however, one little sprain has earned me a first-class ticket on a fast train to Whiny-ville. Turns out, my right arm is a pretty useful appendage. In addition to that cane-carrying, it also helps me do the 8 hours a day of typing my job requires, as well all those life skills like dish washing and driving and being able to walk down the street without people thinking you were involved in some horrific car accident. Oh, right arm. I will never take you for granted again.

To make matters worse, for some reason this week I keep getting introduced to new people (and really awesome people at that) and let's just say that I am not exactly making a good impression. You want to know what doesn't exactly make all the gentlemen swoon? The whole "please to meet you, allow me to lurch forward in your general direction to shake your hand, then realize that I cannot shake your hand because my hand is in a splint and so stare nervously at the few inches of space between us" routine. When you add this to the fact that meeting new people is not exactly my strong suite and it tends to exacerbate my normal elaborate-hand-gesturing, train-of-thought-losing, over-caffeinated-ness....yeah, not the greatest of impressions.

So, if you met me this week, allow me to offer this message: "Please to meet you. I would like to clarify that I am not, in fact, a meth addict and that it is possible for me to speak actual words that make sense. I hope that you will find that when you get to know me, I'm not as ridiculous as I first present myself. Can we please find some way to blame this on my sore wrist/ damaged hip? Sincerely, Arley."

Now if only I could get that printed on a business card.

At Least My Left Arm Still Works

2010-03-11T21:04:00.000-08:00

Recently, I have been on a mission to find a new cane. Well, I am happy to report that the search is over. I no longer need a new cane....what I need now is a new wrist. Yes, today I took my gimpiness to new and unparalleled heights by fracturing/spraining my wrist. The same wrist I use to hold my cane. The same cane that prevents me from walking like the Phantom of the Opera. Translation: in the past 24 hours, my gimpiness has increased by roughly 200%. You know, because I really needed some special sauce on my disability sandwich.

The end result is that instead of being a six-foot-two chick walking in a slightly gimpy manner with a broken cane, I am now a six-foot-two chick walking in a highly gimpy, zombie-heroin-addict manner, minus the cane, with a broke-down wrist covered in a huge splint. (Unexpected bonus: because of typing difficulties, I might finally learn the noble art of concision). Someone really needs to give me my own category in the Darwin Awards...or at least a show on TLC. ("The Girl Whose Body Fell Off.")

And how did this happen? You can blame wheelchair basketball. Actually, you can blame me for returning to wheelchair basketball even though I was the proud owner of both a damaged hip made of ceramic and a partially detached ass muscle. You can further blame me for making a decision as I was being launched a few feet up in the air and was hurtling towards the ground to save the hip by sacrificing the wrist. I mean, I have been around the wheelchair-basketball block. I know that the first rule of falling is not to put your wrist out. I should also have realized that my hip is basically being replaced this summer and is therefore the prosthetic equivalent of a rental car. That shit is getting returned to the dealership around June. My wrist, however, is something I'm kind of stuck with. Bad read.

I have therefore abandoned my search for the perfect cane in search for the perfect way to not walk like you're about to eat someone's brainz. My immediate thought (because "House" is like crack to me) is that I could switch my cane to the opposite hand and walk like Dr. House. (House walks with his cane beside his injured leg, which is the opposite of what they teach you in cane-walking school). After some experimentation, however, it became clear that you must need to be a complex, twisted medical genius to rock that look. I don't have the coordination and wound up looking like someone's grandma who won't use a proper medical device because those are for "old people" and so drags herself around her apartment by using a broom handle as a "hiking stick."

The only solution is for me to go au naturale in the cane department. True, this will probably result in me frightening small children, but I've got places to go and things to do. Like hen-peck typing with my one good hand. Or explaining to the nice police officer that I'm not drunk, it's just that I had a hip replacement and my ass fell off and...

Hey, did I just get through an entire post without quoting Dan Bejar?

Quoth the Cane..Nevermore!

2010-03-06T21:16:00.000-08:00

For the past few months, I've been in the market for a new cane. (Exciting times, I know. Just living the dream). The problem is that my current cane is broken and makes a tapping noise, the source of which I have not been able to locate, so I feel like I'm walking around in an Edgar Allen Poe short story, since I'm followed by a perpetual tapping, tapping on my chamber floor. (Quoth the cane, nevermore).

You'd think this would be easy. Go to a medical supply store, pick out a cane that does not scream "I carry wads of graying ten-year-old Kleenex and peppermints in the pockets of my cardigan," adjust that cane to my height: problem solved. Off to the races. All systems go. Ever onward to victory.

No. Wrong. Problem not solved. All systems not go. Victory not...onward...to....(?) Because, when I went to the medical supply store in Champaign, here are the cane choices I have to choose from:

A cane patterned with American flags and eagles.
A cane patterned with red hats.
A zebra-striped cane.
A Las Vegas cane, because what happens in Vegas doesn't have to stay in Vegas. You can carry the bright lights of the Vegas strip around on your mobility aid. All the glitz, none of the having to pee in a Big Gulp cup because you can't drag yourself away from the slot machine.
a polka-dotted cane.
a cane with a kind of swirly, paisley design that managed to look both geriatric and acid-trippy all at once.
a cat cane. Because what I really need is to look a little more like a crazy cat lady.

Now, see....I like cats. And I like Las Vegas (or I did like it that one time I went there for a tournament and we got to take a free limo to all the games and basically rolled up in that joint like the pimps we are). And I even like red hats, though that whole red hat poem gives me horrible flashbacks of Grade 10 English and a kid who was so competitive with me that the teacher had to hide my assignments and give them to me after class because he would occasionally tear them up if I beat him. (True story). But do I want to carry any of them around on my cane? No.

The reason: I am six feet tall. I have the out-of-control hair of a young Bob Dylan or Dan Bejar (it's about the only similarity I have with Dan Bejar, alas). I walk like I inject heroin into my feet. I have a tendency to talk with my hands using elaborate gestures that routinely cause me to spill drinks and hit people in the face. The last thing I need is to draw more attention to myself.

I therefore require a cane that is both badass and inconspicuous: the kind of cane you could thrust proudly in the air at a Destroyer concert but also lay demurely under your chair at a meeting or, say, a garden party (I've never been to a garden party, but I once had this Garden Party Barbie, so I've always wanted to). I suspect that such a cane does not exist. I suspect that I will be walking around with my noisy cane forever....or at least until the surgery (fingers crossed).

Does anyone have any suggestions? Because right now that "snakes on a cane" option is looking pretty damn good.

The Church of New Things (Or Laptops Acting Like New Things)

2010-03-03T16:40:00.000-08:00

My beloved Dan Bejar once sang that "the truth is a thing to coax out of its shell." Well, a few days have passed since the "coffee on laptop = FML" incident and the truth has finally emerged from its shell...I better blog about this quickly before it goes back in. At the time, I blamed Dan Bejar for raising my hopes by singing (the moment I turned on my car) that "everything's going to be alright, it's going to be alright" when the douchy hipster at the Apple store had assured me that the laptop was royally fucked, that it would never turn on again, that I would have to buy a new one, and that everything most certainly would not be alright.

Yes, it's been a few days since CoffeeGate2010 and the fact that I'm not communicating with you via telepathy should alert you to the fact that my laptop still works! Hells yeah! Take that, Apple-hipster with your wrist cuff and your skinny jeans that are baggy in the ass because you consider cigarettes to be a cardio workout and your ipod bud in one ear where you are probably listening to Arcade Fire instead of listening to customers with their annoying problems and your hipsterly sneer. I should have known: I mean, who are you going to believe? Dan Bejar (the man, the myth, the poet-rocker legend) or some guy whose claim to fame is working at the Apple Store in Champaign-Urbana? Exactly.

Yes, I need to sacrifice some chickens (or, I don't know, maybe some heroin?) on the altar of the Church of Dan Bejar. My laptop seems to have emerged relatively unscathed, which is a sure sign that it is protected by an aura of pure awesomeness. Yeah, it smells of rancid coffee, and yes half of the lights on the keyboard have been extinguished, but it has taken a licking and it is still ticking (or whirring). (Granted, Apple-Store Boy has guaranteed me that my laptop won't last more than a few days...but I choose to live in the moment and in this moment my laptop is rocking at life).

So thank you to my beloved friends who soothed my laptop woes by either a) taking me to Arby's for some fortification b) lending me a mini laptop and some delicious red velvet cupcake to boot or c) giving me advice re: putting my laptop in a bag of rice, etc. etc. I am a lucky girl, and it's not just Dan Bejar who's smiling (smirking?) down upon me.

Why are you such a liar, Dan Bejar?

2010-02-27T13:55:00.001-08:00

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.

The Arley McNeney Appreciation Society

2010-02-25T09:15:00.000-08:00

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?)

Champaign-Siberia

2010-02-24T13:22:00.000-08:00

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!

Self Portrait with Waist-Trimming Belt

2010-02-18T20:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Yes, My Valentine's Day Post Will Be About My Cat. Don't Judge Me.

2010-02-14T18:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Home Sweet Home

2010-02-11T16:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Up in the Air

2010-02-07T17:32:00.001-08:00

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.

Always Late But Worth the Wait

2010-02-03T23:24:00.000-08:00

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!

A Matter of Symmetry and Chafing

2010-02-01T22:57:00.000-08:00

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?

You've Lost That Lovin' Feeling

2010-01-30T15:36:00.000-08:00

You ever break up with someone and then, after a few months of their absence, begin to wax poetic about all the warm, fuzzy things that person used to do until it becomes clear that you threw away the best relationship in the history of the world that no other relationship could ever top with the person of your dreams and that no one will ever love you again? And then you're ridiculously happy the next time you run into (read: stalk) that person, until after 10 minutes of conversing with them they say or do something that reminds you all over again why you're glad to be single and that your nostalgia was a mere product of your own loneliness, boredom and fear of spinsterhood? (No? Just me?) Anyways, that's the relationship I think I have with wheelchair basketball.

Last March, I broke up with wheelchair basketball because it was causing me nothing but hip-ache and pain. I was so burnt out that I literally felt a bit nauseous when I passed the bus we used to travel on. After watching a tournament a few weeks ago, however, I began to get that lovin' feeling. I missed playing a sport (rather than just exercising). I missed blocking shots and laying the smack down. So even though my hip was not exactly ready for action, I decided to suit up.

I found a wide chair and developed a strapping system that wouldn't hurt the place where my gluteus medius detached. The fact that this so-called "strapping system" was nothing more than a stretchy luggage strap that perpetually came undone and caused me to basically stand up every time I turned a corner did not particularly phase me. For a few weeks, I was joyous. I was playing the sport I loved! I was having fun! I was getting back to normal! The things that usually annoyed me about the sport (people bitching at one another, the fact that sport is a socially acceptable way to unload your rage on someone) seemed to be merely amusing quirks! Everything was hugs, kisses and cuddly puppies!

This past week, however, I've remembered why I broke up with wheelchair basketball and I've begun to suspect that my relationship with the sport might be better left to the occasional booty call. The problem is that the Type A personality in me wants to do things well. If I can't do something well, I at least want to do it to the best of my ability. I've therefore become frustrated with the fact that I'm using a chair set-up that would have been considered archaic and clumsy 15 years ago. (When your chair set up went out of style along with blue eyeliner, you might just have a problem). Because of my ongoing hip problems, I can't strap my knees down (because, when I do, sometimes my body zigs and my hip zags and I get flashbacks of last season). I can't use snowboard bindings (which will rub against the side of my hip). I'm beginning to get the off-and-on numbness and shooting pain down my leg that signals that my lower back is quitting me. My hip is perpetually sore.

Bottom line: my balance is bad, my speed is bad and my turning radius is bad, and it's hard to focus on the finer points of the sport when you're still stuck on the finer points of how to not suck at everything. Right now, the gap between the knowledge I have in my head and my ability to execute that knowledge is worse than it was before the hip replacement. Besides, now that I'm working, I have an outlet for the massive amount of energy I seem to possess, which means that wheelchair basketball is beginning to fail the "Is this worth missing "House" for?" test.

For this reason, I'm considering shuffling off back to retirement. My plan, however, is to wait until I get back to Champaign and am reunited with my own chair. Perhaps there's a way to change my strapping system for my chair so that I can keep up. If not, however, I think I might have to concede that while I love wheelchair basketball, we're just not meant to be. Wait...What's this? Have I also dropped out of the Screw-You-Body-You'll-Do-What-I-Tell-You-To-Do School of Decision Making and Pain Management? Have I turned in my membership to the Cartesian Dualism Society of Body Awareness? Am I actually being mature for once?

Taking Arley Lessons

2010-01-27T23:45:00.000-08:00

When "Young and Hip" first started many months ago, I was caught in an epic battle between good and evil with the raccoons in our backyard. Actually, it was more like a philosophical discussion over the right of humans to assert ownership over natural spaces. I believed that as resident of the house, I earned the right to do my hip exercises in my own pool. The raccoons, however, decried my capitalistic interpretation of land ownership and asserted that the pool was their food-washing sink and I should stop ruining their appetite with my faux-jean boardshort swim trunks from 1997.

Whenever I would dog paddle around in the pool, they would chatter at me from the water's edge and critique my form. At the time, I was cocky enough to yell at them, thinking that raccoons hated to swim and I was safe in the water. (In hindsight, I was probably confusing them with cats). When I still wouldn't vacate the pool, they stole one of my crutches and laid it across the pool's entrance as a makeshift "trespassers will be prosecuted" sign and then proceeded to throw anything they could find into the pool and steal my goggles for the rest of the summer. (Clearly, they'd been reading Che Guevara's writing on urban guerrilla tactics). Happily, tensions were resolved after we saved a raccoon who was getting his ass handed to him (literally) by a coyote on our porch. (Yeah, I'm really not helping the stereotype of Canada being nothing but wilderness. I swear that we live in the suburbs).

Winter came and I thought that the raccoons had waddled off in search of greener pastures and more abundant garbage cans. Recently, however, my sister's dog Sashimi has been going crazy for apparently no reason and it turns out that she wasn't just nuts: she was hearing the raccoons out in our backyard. And what were they doing there? Swimming! Dog paddling around in our pool! You know, doing their hip exercises. Those little buggers can swim! And, according to WikiAnswers (the ultimate source of knowledge), they can reach speeds of 4.3 km/hr (translation: faster than me, dammit). Not only that, but apparently they can swim in whatever chemicals we put in our pool to preserve it throughout the winter.

Yes, the raccoons have been taking Arley lessons. They must have watched me flailing helplessly around and thought, "Damn, I can do better than that my stubby little legs can barely support my weight." I think the students have bested the teacher. (Actually, their waddling gait is surprisingly similar). While I've been splashing around to the lyrical stylings of Ricky Martin at deep water aerobics, the raccoons have taken over my pool and have been doing some laps. Every day's a polar-bear swim for them!

First, the rats eat my car and try to murderize me. Next, the raccoons assert dominance over my pool. I am like the anti-Cinderella. I think it might be best to avoid any wild-game preserves or shark tanks from here on in.

Snakes on a Cane!

2010-01-25T23:07:00.000-08:00

The hunt for a new cane continues and you know what? For once the ads on the side of my blog did something more than make me think, "Wow, clicking on link that could probably give my computer a rash." Today, one of the ads on "Young and Hip" was for "Kentucky Walking Sticks." I clicked it and what to my wondering eyes did appear but....a hand-carved walking stick....with a glow-in-the-dark snake carved around it. (!!!). I don't even need a sword in my cane if I have a glow-in-the-dark snake hanging out there being like, "Dude. You think I'm scary now. Wait until the lights go out. I'll go radioactive on your ass."

Imagine the fun at movie theaters. They're going to have to change the announcement to, "For the courtesy of others, please turn off your cell phones and refrain from wiggling your glow-in-the-dark snake cane at young children as if to make it dance." It's like a nightlight and a weapon and a mobility aid rolled into one. You cannot go wrong with a snake cane. Well, of course, unless you're planning on going on a date. I have a hard time picturing some guy saying, "Hey, check out the glow-in-the-dark snake on that one! She's like a sexy Jaffar from Aladin! I'd sure like to give her a magic carpet ride."

Ok, so the symbolism is wrong, but it's a good thought. CaneWatch2010 continues!

Sorry, TSA. I Think I Need a Sword in a Cane

2010-01-24T00:17:00.000-08:00

I've been trying for awhile to find a better cane. Granted, my cane is no longer a suspect in my attempted murder, but that doesn't mean that it's meeting my mobility needs. Ok, actually it's doing an OK job with my walking-related mobility needs, but when it comes to social mobility, let's just say that I might as well leave my house wearing a sweatshirt with the face of a kitten with a Bedazzled collar on it. (Though, according to the website, the cane does come in a variety of patterns including 'camouflage' and 'floral' so maybe I just need to upgrade. That camouflage cane will come in handy for all the hunting I do....until I drop it on a rock and startle all game in a 20-mile radius).

Well, today the power of the internets solved my cane dilemma. Did you know that the TSA has confiscated over 200 canes with swords in them?! Why haven't I already gotten in on this? I mean, you probably need a waxed moustache and a Spanish accent to properly pull off the sword-in-cane look...and you'd probably need to twirl said cane or at least pose rakishly with it to get maximum effect....but still! The my-cane-might-conceal-a-dangerous-weapon look is a look I could rock.

Maybe I don't even need to have an actual sword because, let's face it, I would impale myself or someone else accidentally within 24 hours. Maybe I just need a cane that's badass enough to make people think that there might be a deadly weapon in there. A cane that says, "Don't make me unsheath whatever's lurking inside the shaft of this bad boy" (that's what he said). A cane that says, "Perhaps this is a mobility aid that allows me to walk in a less gimpy manner....or maybe it's where I keep my ninja sword!" I'm not sure what such a cane would look like (black lacquer?) but if you have any suggestions I'm open to them.

Because, let's face it, there's nothing people like better than overreacting to airport threats. One German guy gets caught with a sword in his cane and suddenly all the rest of us are going to be pulled aside for some TSA-sanctioned foreplay. Even by mentioning this, I've probably found myself on some sort of no-fly list, haven't I? Oh well. I guess any kind of fondling (even if it involves rubber gloves and the phrase "I'm just going to check to make sure you don't have artificial skin") increases my social mobility.

No Updates, Just Cat Pics

2010-01-23T01:25:00.000-08:00

After the emo-ness (emosity?) of yesterday, I figured that today needed a little dash of catness to put everyone (read: me) in a better mood. Luckily, A. sent over these photos this morning of my little cat Mika leading her glamorous life. So, while I have no updates to report (the fact that I'm working now reduces my "walking to Starbucks and getting mistaken for a heroin addict" time!), Mika the cat will fill you in on the details of her life.

And thanks, everyone, for your good wishes!

We Interrupt Your Regularly Scheduled "Young and Hip" Post to Join this Pity Party in Full Swing

2010-01-21T22:05:00.000-08:00

After my mom's SmartCar abruptly quit in the middle of the highway, mechanics weren't sure what was wrong. They ran every test in the book, took the SmartCar out to try to replicate the problem but found nothing. The mechanic called us and said that they might not ever know what went wrong, but sometimes "these things happen" (yeah, and when they happen I nearly get crushed by a semi) and they would keep looking. To me, this was a worst-case scenario. I was not about to get in a car that, for reasons unknown, had nearly killed me and could do so again. I was therefore actually happy when they discovered that rats had been making a spaghetti dinner out of the car's electrical wires. Even if it meant that the car would be in the shop for weeks, even if it meant picturing dirty, dirty rodents crawling around my vehicle, knowing is better than not knowing.

It's the same thing with my hip. Yesterday, I went to see a new neurologist. I had originally planned on canceling the appointment, since I've been stuffed with more electrified needles than a robot porcupine and no one's found anything interesting. A. convinced me, however, that I should never turn down an appointment, so off I went to get up on the needle table, lie back and take it like a man (well, you know what I mean).

Which is what I did: first, the strength tests, second, this weird cattle-prod thing that basically does the same thing as the needles, only less needle-y and more zappy, third, the needles, done by a neurologist in training under the supervision of an older, more experience neurologist. You know what's worse than getting electrified needles in your sore hip? Having those needles put in by a rookie while the expert leans over saying, "Give it a little more effort. Sometimes those nerves are really deep in there."

At the end of the test, (surprise, surprise), the result was the same: nothing showed up. No evidence of nerve damage. No evidence of anything. This neurologist (who has actually fairly nice) took it one step further from the usual "we don't know what's wrong." The verdict: I've got a case of the crazies. Clearly, I don't want my new hip to work. I'm putting up mental blocks to keep myself limping like the queen of the polio zombies because it drives all the boys wild. After all, a hip replacement can be "pretty traumatizing" (not to the 8.5 million old people who shuffle on in there every year) and stressful and if I would just take an anti-depressant, I might "feel less anxious about the hip replacement" (no, I would feel less anxious about my hip replacement if I could, you know, walk on it) and "sleep better" (I'm sleeping fine) and maybe this would convince my crazy self to walk better.

Sitting on the hospital bed in that ridiculous hospital gown with pen marks all over my body from where they'd marked the cattle-prod trigger points, it was all I could do not to burst into tears. It's not like I haven't heard this before. When I was 11, my leg kept collapsing after the surgery to repair my slipped growth plate and they told me it was all in my head. In reality, a screw had come loose and was poking up in my hip socket, causing avascular necrosis. Chances are that if some surgeon hadn't been so quick to dismiss me as crazy, I would be able-bodied right now. When I couldn't work my abductors post-hip-replacement, they told me I was crazy and I just needed to "reconnect with my body" because my mind was shutting off my hip. And while they were blaming me, my gluteus medius was detached. Who knows what would have happened if they'd discovered that the week after the surgery, as opposed to six months later? When I complained that my hip had become more painful as opposed to less during my hip-replacement recovery, my surgeon told me it was nothing to worry about. And now the socket is probably loose. You can therefore see why I'm skeptical about this latest diagnosis.

I just don't know what more I can do. I just don't know how I can want to walk any more. Before the hip replacement, I was fully confident that it would go well. I did 6 months of hip-strengthening exercises pre-surgery and was bragging that I would be doing laps around the oldsters in the hospital within a day. I even offered to do my mom's friend's birthday cake a week after the operation. When the surgery happened, I stayed awake because I wanted to see the hip after it was taken out. I wasn't traumatized, wasn't even particularly worried (the sedatives helped with that). I was just chilling beyond the little curtain they put up so you can't see, singing John Cale's "Half Past France" inside my head, higher than a Romantic poet after an opium binge.

So when the epidural wore off and I realized that I couldn't move my leg, no one was more surprised than I was. Since then, I've done every physio exercise that anyone has asked me to do. I've swam, I've biked on the stationary bike until my ass was literally worn raw, I've ran on the elliptical machine, I've done weights, I've gone for walks, I've done core training, I've had electrified needles stuck in my hip, I've had someone stick a long needle into my hip socket to inject freezing there, I've tried to think good thoughts, I've done absolutely everything. None of it has done any good. From the moment I woke up, I knew that something was wrong and something is still wrong and, if the doctors are right and it's "all in my head," something will be wrong forever because I don't know what more I can do.

These past 8 months, my damaged hip replacement has cost me nearly everything I cared about (except for family and a few friends, who I'm grateful for). It cost me my last year in Champaign. I can't stay in the country past July and I will never get back those lost months. Because of my hip, I'll be deported if I don't move back to Canada on my own free will. I've lost most of my friends who have (understandably) moved on with their busy lives, or who are tired of the constant medical drama surrounding my life and want out. I've lost my athletic career. I've lost my creative spark. I've lost 8 months when I could have been dating. I'm living at home with my parents, (who I love and my grateful for), sponging off them at 27 years old. After a four-month respite in Champaign, I'm going back to Vancouver for more surgeries, surgeries that have fairly bad odds, and I'll have to stay there.

After the appointment (where my socks somehow disappeared after the technician took them off), I pulled myself together enough to go back to work for a few hours. Then I sobbed all the way home in the car, and for a few hours thereafter. Because this neurologist appointment means that nothing will get better. If I am crazy, then my mind's rejected my hip. I don't know what else I can try and even the surgery (though it will reattach the hip, fix the socket and raise my leg length) won't make me walk better. If I'm not crazy, however, then it means that the doctors have stopped looking. I mean, damn, they put my mom's SmartCar through more rigorous testing to determine what's wrong with it and you can get out of a SmartCar.

Rats! Hate Rats!

2010-01-19T21:13:00.000-08:00

I better get a bouquet of flowers for my cane (it would probably settle for some antibacterial lotion) because I owe it an apology. A few days ago, I nearly met my Maker (my Maker, not my Maker's Mark) when my car randomly developed narcolepsy in the middle of a highway exit ramp. At the time, I blamed my cane for trying to murderize me by pressing against the metal key, since it had motive.

It turns out, however, that I was pointing the finger at the wrong culprit. The verdict is in and the plot against my life was committed by....rats! That's right. 2010 is the Year of the Rat. First, the rats murdered one of their brethren and and stuffed him in the walls of our house; (probably, they had been watching that season of "The Wire" where Marlo, Snoop and Chris hide bodies in the row houses). After they got a taste of blood, they must have wanted more because they turned their attention to a bigger target: me. They snuck into my car and chewed up the wires, which is what caused my car to stroke out. Car murderers! I don't know what their motive is, but I'm going to go ahead and assume that it's because no one accuses me of carrying the bubonic plague or sets traps with peanut butter to snap my neck. (Because, honestly, given my love of peanut butter, that would totally work).

When Erin C heard about my brush with death, she thought that maybe the raccoon mafia had contracted out their hits to a gang of rats. Or maybe it's a raccoon-on-rat turf war! Perhaps that's why Sashimi has been randomly barking at 3 a.m. She knows that murder most foul is afoot! Maybe she can smell little raccoon meth labs. Sashimi has a toy rat that she loves to shake around, so I think I'm going to keep some treats in my pocket so that she will stay at my side and take care of any wildlife.

In other news, tomorrow is my appointment with my neurologist. Yup, more needles in the ass.

What Not to Wear When You Are Missing Half Your Ass

2010-01-18T23:39:00.000-08:00

Even though I originally started "Young and Hip" to share my experience with other young people having a hip replacement (that's probably the only good thing about having a hip replacement....people constantly say, "But you're so young!" Yes, my hair may be more salt than pepper, but I am but a wee babe in arms when compared to the usual hip-replacement crowd), I've actually spent most of the 94,000 words I've written on this blog so far (that's 341 pages double spaced for those of you keeping track at home) talking about my anti-ass. (It's sentences like that one that are going to push me past the 350-page mark!)

My anti-ass, for those of you who don't name your body parts, refers to the fact that since my gluteus medius has become detached I've lost muscle tone in my rear end and now am literally half-assed. It's hella sexy. Normally, my concerns about my anti-ass are limited to the fact that the damn thing gets bruised when I sit on any surface that isn't my bed. Today, however, I made the mistake of taking my anti-ass shopping and it turns out that missing half your rear end when you're trying to buy pants is more annoying than Stacey London and her ever-increasing collection of catchphrases ("Shut! Up!" "Shut the front door!" "Oh, shut up!").

After my near-death experience last night, I thought I should reward myself with a little shopping. Since I've got a new job, I also wanted to get some more clothes that aren't made of sweat-pant material. (Hey, do you know how long it took post-hip-replacement for me to be able to even put on undies? Count your lucky stars I'm wearing pants). My mom and I went out to Coquitlam Center and it turns out that the Gap (before you sentence me to burn in yuppie hell, you should know that the Gap is the only clothing store who carries pants with a 36 inseam that do not cost $150) is having a massive sale. Trousers for $20!

That was the good news. The bad news is that my two legs have become two very different sizes. My right leg, which has spent the past 8 months shuttling around its useless friend Lefty, is a size 8/6. My gimpy leg, however, is about a size 4. (The fact that I share my pants size with all of cyberspace is maybe what A. means when he says that I should be more careful about what I write about and what image I'm presenting of myself. A. does not read 'Young and Hip,' but he has heard me talk about my anti-ass more times than he cares to count, so I think he maybe has a point). You'd think that since it's the ass that's detached, the rest of me would stay pretty much even. Not so! My left thigh has atrophied probably 2 or 3 inches. Even my left calf is smaller.

Seriously, this shit is crazy to look at. I should hire myself out to those internet diet-pill companies. They can take a picture of my right side as the "before" picture and then the left side as the "after" picture. One half of me is slowly turning into a supermodel. If I wasn't so conscious of what image I'm presenting to you people, I would post pictures. (Okay, give me two days and I'll probably post pictures).

You might be thinking to yourself, "Chill out, Arley. Don't Stacey and Clinton say that you should always tailor your clothes anyhow? Don't Stacey and Clinton say that you should dress the body you're in and be proud of it?" Yes, this is true, but the last time I checked Stacey and Clinton weren't waiting for surgery to determine whether or not their ass would grow back. Because, seriously, if all goes according to plan, after the surgery I'm going to do physio so hard that my anti-ass is going to transform into Super-Ass before you can say "too much information." And if that doesn't work, I'm going to lapse into a funk, live off Hagen-Daaz, and grow up ass the old fashioned way.

My Cane Tried to Kill Me!

2010-01-17T20:46:00.000-08:00

So....I think my cane is trying to kill me. It's not like it doesn't have a good motive. I mean, it spends all day groaning under the weight of my 6 foot 2 frame and how do I repay it? By dropping it on the ground and/or the feet of passersby, thereby chipping its bronze sheen? By complaining about how it makes me look like an old lady? By saying, "Oh, I can't wait until I get my surgery and stop walking like a the queen of the polio zombies and can get rid of this annoying cane?" Being a cane is a thankless job. Whatever the motive, however, somebody better call a detective from "The First 48 Hours," because my cane needs to spend some time in the interrogation room where the detective will say, "Look, we know what happened. What we don't know is why. This is your chance to tell your side of the story...because you're a good cane...and sometimes good canes make mistakes....but you need to tell me what happened" and my cane will break down and confess everything. (Ok, so I watch too much "The First 48.")

The action went down tonight as I was driving back from the tournament. (I will post more about the tournament and all of its dramatics later). I was covered in dried sweat (you know how when you sweat really hard and crystals of sweat and grit dry on your body and you're covered in a sort of greasy film?), so exhausted from full-court-pressing for two games straight, including one that went into double overtime, that I could hardly lift my arms above my head, and bloated from inhaling a nasty-ass beef brisket sandwich at Montana's (oh Black Dog, you have ruined every other brisket for me). I just wanted to get home, take a long, hot shower, put on my sweatpants, watch Ricky Gervais get drunk while hosting the Golden Globes, and collapse into sweet unconsciousness. Who needs sleeping pills when you can just full-court press for a few hours straight?

My cane, however, had other plans.....plans that involved murder. I was driving my mom's SmartCar, exiting Highway 1 westbound on to Brunette highway to go back to New West, singing along to that "Someone's Got to Go" song (my cane was probably thinking, 'that someone is you, bitch'), when the force of turning on the off-ramp caused my cane to shift. This was the chance my cane was looking for! It pressed its metal shaft (that's what she said) on to the bit of metal key that sticks up in the slot. The radio died. The car completely shut down right in the middle of the exit ramp. My cane had short-circuited my car in the middle of traffic! (This, of course, is just a theory, since a mechanic hasn't examined the car yet. Maybe my car just really hates the lyrical stylings of Kelly Clarkson, which I guess makes it a ReallySmartCar).

I forced the car into park, turned it off, then got it to grudgingly restart. A few meters later, however, it died again in the right-turn lane and was down for the count. HomeCar was taking a nap right in the middle of danger. I got out of the car (I was remembering how a few months back a woman and her kids died when their car stalled in the HOV lane and someone rammed into them) and it immediately started to rain hard and the wind picked up. Did I mention it was dark? It was dark. And cars were swerving around me, honking, as I rummaged through the SmartCar's registration package to get the number for roadside assistance.

As I was talking to the roadside-assistance people, a semi got itself wedged between my car and the median trying to turn right. The trucker got out of his car, all pissed off, filled with that special brand of anger that comes from spending your life drinking Mountain Dew, doing speed and being cut off by all the Miatas and Sonatas and Corrolas of the world). Because that is the one ingredient this heaping serving of drama-pie needed: a little dash of trucker rage. The trucker began yelling at me:

Trucker: Move your car!
Me: If I could move my car, it wouldn't be in the middle of the road with its hazards on.
Trucker (making angry hand gestures): Well, push it!
Road-side operator guy on the phone: Ma'am, what is the VIN # of your vehicle?
Me: Just a second. (Struggling to read the VIN # in the dark with the wind whipping up the paper).....
Trucker: Push your car! You're blocking the road! Push your car!
Me: I can't push it! I just had a hip replacement!
Trucker: A what?
Me: A hip replacement!
Trucker: No you didn't! Move your car!
Me: I can't. It won't move. I can't push it.
Roadside operator guy: Ma'am, do you have the VIN #?
Me: (giving the VIN #) Sorry...some trucker is stuck and trying to talk to me....
Trucker: Move your car! You're blocking everything! You're blocking the road! (As if I would magically say, "Oh...you're right. I AM blocking the road. How silly of me. Well, now that I've got some fresh air and have picked some wild flowers from this ditch, I'll just get right back into my vehicle and be on my merry way.")

Eventually, I got back in the car and the trucker tried to push it. No dice. The SmartCar really doesn't have power steering, so when it's in park, it's impossible to move. Another truck driver (stuck behind the first, blocking all the rest of the cars) got out to yell at me, then try to push it. No dice. Finally, my dad arrived on the scene and he got the car to start just long enough to push me on the median. We waited in the rain for another 20 minutes for the tow truck to come and haul the lazy-ass SmartEnoughToKnowIDon'tHaveToHaulYourAssAroundIfIDon'tWantTo Car to the mechanic's.

It's just my luck. Just when things were looking up in ArleyLand, fate decided to throw in a little plot twist. Considering what might have happened if my car had stopped suddenly only seconds before, when I was going 100 km/h (65 miles an hour) on a wet highway on a dark night, I'm just happy it was a plot twist I got out of alive.

Jump! Might as Well Jump!

2010-01-15T20:46:00.001-08:00

Another day, another deep-water aerobics class where I find myself straddling a pool noodle while rocking back and forth, thinking: damn, some of those old ladies sure can grind it! When the closest you get to rockin' the sexy-cowboy position involves a pool noodle and the company of dozens of old ladies you are either a kinky, kinky mofo or else need to take out an E-harmony profile. (Which I will not do, because getting rejected from E-harmony would just be the last straw. If E-harmony declines to match me with singles on the deepest levels of compatibility--yes, I do watch too much tv, thank you for asking--you might as well drop off a shipment of 10 cats and a do-your-own-macrame kit because I would be down for the count in the boxing-ring of love).

I will say this about deep-water aerobics, though: I do like grooving to '80s music. In fact, I have been humming that "jump! Might as well jump!" song throughout my day, even though I couldn't jump if you put a lifetime supply for chai lattes a few inches above my reach. Still, if I could dance with 90% of my body hidden safely under water, my entire life would be like being in a musical because you could not stop my feet from flying.

Lately, my mom has taken to telling me about how she read that every minute you sit on your ass, you take a certain number of hours off your life. (Yeah, I should probably cash in my chips now). In this spirit, I decided to take Sashimi (my sister's dog) for a walk. I think I've mentioned that Sashimi is less a "dog" and more a "fur child." She is a little ball of fluff and her main motivation for going on walks is that random strangers lavish attention on her. The sidewalk is her runway! The park is her stage! The strip of grass outside our house is her fancy, fancy bathroom! (Now, granted, if someone would comment on my beauty every time I stepped out of the house, I would be walking more than the postman).

Walking a dog when you're using a cane is like living in an episode of Mr. Bean. The dog (complete with hot-pink leash) does not want to walk on the side of you without the cane. She wants to be on the cane-side, running circles around the cane, causing it to get tangled up and forcing you to do little twisting, half-pirouette movements to keep from reenacting that scene in "101 Dalmatians" where the two humans meet for the first time and wind up tied up in a compromising situation thanks to their dogs' leashes. Except, you know, instead of being tangled up with my future husband thanks to the wacky hijinxs of our dogs, I was tangled up in my cane with my feet sinking in water and mud.

It doesn't help that Sashimi dislikes going to the bathroom in the rain and lead me on a hunt for 30 minutes trying to find a place to drop a special princess present on the grass. She finally found the perfect spot (it looked remarkably like the other 8 million spots she rejected) and then pranced off like the pranciest prancer who ever pranced (while I struggled with being able to bend low enough to pick up after her)....and went back to tying me up with her leash. I don't know who did this "sitting on your ass makes you dead" study, but that person should go walking with a half-detached ass and a prancy, prancy dog.

Young, Hip and...Employed?

2010-01-13T17:17:00.000-08:00

For the past six months, "Young and Hip" has been a case study in what happens when a Type A personality goes without work/a social life/ the ability to sit on hard surfaces for an extended period of time. (All play and no work makes Arley a dull girl...or at least an obsessive girl....who subjects her reading public to detailed knowledge of every ass bruise and electrified needle). Well, I am happy to report that I can officially pack away the "no one will hire me because I have an MFA in creative writing" jokes because I have landed myself a job. Good thing the jokes about my lack of a social life, love life and ability to walk without looking like a monster are still applicable or else I might have had to close up shop!

Starting tomorrow, I'm going to be working for BC Wheelchair Sports. They're hosting the World Wheelchair Rugby Championships in September and need someone to help with their communication plan. I'll be making sure that their Twitter profile, Facebook profile, blog and website are pinnacles of awesomeness, so that lots of people will want to come out and watch. (Ever seen the documentary "Murderball?" You should. Seriously, the quad rugby guys have more documentaries made about them than that tree-man guy! They're famous!)

So, yes, I am very excited to be doing an interesting job with cool people, especially since I can do much of it online and can therefore go back to Illinois soon. I am also excited that my days will no longer consist of reading celebrity gossip websites (sorry Dlisted, I suspect your number of hits is about to fall by like 500%) and trying to find decent books at the public library. I am going to have to tie a string around my finger to remember not to talk about my anti-ass on their official blog.

If you're interested, check out the World Wheelchair Rugby Championships website here!

I'm on a Roll/ I'm on a Roll...This Time. I Feel My Luck Could Change

2010-01-11T23:15:00.001-08:00

One thing I've recently discovered: wheelchair basketball is a lot easier when your hip stays in the socket. It's actually, like, fun and shit. (I know. Imagine that). Even though I'm slower than a novel by Marilynne Robinson (and, truthfully, a lot less beautifully rendered), and even though I had the experience of "I'm executing this skill....five seconds too late for it to be of any use" on a regular basis, I had a great time at practice this evening. It helped that I was shooting pretty well--I even made a three-pointer on a hail mary jack-up at a buzzer--and also that it's hard not to laugh when you're strapped in so loosely that you're basically standing up every time you do anything.

I must say, however, that being back at practice in New West brings a soul-crushing feeling of deja vu. The last time I practiced at Douglas College on a regular basis was from 2005 to the summer of 2006, right before I moved to Illinois. It was a terrible year, worse than this past year actually. This year has been dramatic (surgery! Detached tendons! Loose sockets! Anti-asses! Graduation! Loss of pretty much everything I hold dear, except my family and a few of my friends!), but 2005-2006 was like Chinese water torture: just unceasing little drips of loneliness and boredom and rainy Vancouver winters. Now, granted I at least knew in 2006 that I was moving to Illinois and that I was about to make a positive life change, whereas now I have no ready escape routes, but still. I will take dramatic over unceasing ennui any day.

So, yes, wheelchair basketball is going well, except for the fact that I've lost most of the feeling in my right foot. (Usually, I can't feel my right big toe, but now it's sort of spread to the whole foot). I don't really care about this. As long as the hip stays in the socket, I'm a happy camper. I can't help but wonder, however, whether this is really a good idea. Am I just regressing? Am I just retreating back to the life that made me so unhappy in 2005-2006 simply because I have no other options? Am I trading in my long-term health for a few moments of stress relief? Are wheelchair basketball and I about to go into one of those on-again/off-again/on-and-off-at-the-same-time-again relationships? In other words: am I booty calling wheelchair basketball because I haven't had a date in awhile or am I forming a positive relationship?

The Law of Cane Physics

2010-01-10T18:54:00.000-08:00

It's no secret that I am not a fan of the fact that my poor, bruised anti-ass acts up if it's forced to spend more than a few hours outside of the padded comfort of my bed. (I seriously need to start bubble-wrapping that thing). While the bookworm in me should relish the downtime as a chance to burn through my must-read list, I've been forced into the arms of reality TV because the only library I've had access to is a little...shall we say....minimalist.

In fairness, most libraries seem sparse after you've spent years at the University of Illinois, home to one of the best (if not THE best) library in North America. You want a book? The librarian helper monkeys brave sleet, snow and subzero temperatures to deliver it to your mailbox, which is like receiving a special gift from the literature fairies every week. If they don't have it, they use their magic network of awesomeness to get it for you, even if they have to ship it in from across the world. Your wish is their command. It's like being a celebrity, instead of instead of someone bringing you hookers and blow, it's some guy from Michigan's PhD dissertation.

You can see how being away from U of I's library is like being Jennifer Aniston after divorcing Brad Pitt. For this reason, I decided to brave the SkyTrain to go down to the Vancouver Public Library to see if I could find a few more books to keep my mind at ease while my anti-ass is recovering from whatever brutality I've inflicted upon it (like, you know, going to a restaurant).

I will spare you the intricate details of my library visit, but suffice to say that there were the usual homeless people using google image search to look at porn, the screaming kids, and the people who think that a nice, quiet library is the perfect place to rehash the details of how, like, totally hammered they were last night and how they, like, actually lost a shoe. On the skytrain! Which is hilarious! So hilarious that it has to be said at top volume for maximum effect! Anyhow, I did not get to take any books out, but I did spend a few happy hours re-reading Sinclair Ross' "As For Me And My House."

Whenever I sit down, there's always the question of what to do with my cane. If you lay it on the ground, people trip over it....and those people are never the good-looking ones who you hope would fall in your lap, but are generally angry people who snap something terse at you and then feel bad once they realize you're a poor, unfortunate invalid, but not bad enough to spare you the evil look when they limp off. If you lean it up against something, however, it's nearly guaranteed to fall and make a huge noise, thus causing you embarrassment when everyone turns to look, which only gets worse when someone (usually someone elderly and therefore only marginally less disabled than yourself) takes it upon themselves to gallantly pick up your cane. You can't win! When I used to walk on crutches, people would call them the Death Sticks because of their tendency to fall down on unsuspecting passersby.

There's a simple, mathematical formula for this, actually. The quieter the place, the greater likelihood that your cane will crash to the ground and set off some sort of earthquake. In a loud nightclub, it will be held magically upright as if by a forcefield. Enter a library, however, and it will fall faster than drunk college girls in stilettos on icy sidewalks, (which, by the way, is one of the pleasures of living in a midwestern college town). It's a law of physics. I would get one of those collapsible canes that fit in your purse, but they tend to collapse at inopportune moments...like when you're using it to walk.

Anyhow, it turns out that I don't have to risk pain and social embarrassment for a little entertainment anymore. My friend Steph (who's been chronicled on this blog before) is starting up a weight-loss blog where she's going to try to lose 50 pounds in 50 weeks. Check it out here! Tell 'em Arley sent ya.

Hurrah!

2010-01-09T11:33:00.000-08:00

After a rocky (and stinky) start, 2010 is perking up. Not smelling any better (oh, dead rat in the walls. Why won't you decompose already?), but perking up all the same. Another minor triumph: I found out through Facebook that my first novel, "Post" was named to list of the Top 10 Canadian Sports Lit Books by the journal "Canadian Literature." See, previously the only Top 10 list my book occupied was the World's Best Wheelchair Basketball Novel, mostly because it's the only wheelchair basketball novel. It's therefore super flattering to have my book listed alongside some truly fantastic books. (By the way, if you want to pick up a copy of my novel, you can buy it here or here).

You've Got Me There, Peg-Legged Biker!

2010-01-08T10:02:00.000-08:00

So, I walked in to the kitchen last night to see my dad chatting with this gray-haired biker with a limp. (This is not an unusual sight in my kitchen). I had to interrupt their little pow-wow to get my cane and it turned out that the limpy, gray-haired biker had to move his car so I could get my car out of the driveway. I guess my dad must have mentioned my hip-replacement woes, because when the biker was going down the stairs, he turned to me and said, "Just be thankful you're not me."

"Oh yeah?" I said. (Because, really, what do you say to that? "Yeah, I thank my lucky stars every day?" "Actually, I've always wanted to rock a pair of leather chaps so I'm a bit jealous?")

"I've got myself a wooden leg." He bent down and knocked on his leg.

"Oh," I said. "Well." For perhaps the first time, I was left rendered speechless. So, there you go. My pep-talk of the day: When all else fails, at least I'm not a middle-aged peg-legged biker. I think I need to get that on a T-shirt.

Back to the Future

2010-01-07T10:48:00.000-08:00

If I was a dog (those of you about to make a bitch joke need to take off the Captain Obvious cape) I would be one of those border collie breeds; if you don't give me enough exercise or stimulation, I will start nipping at your heels and terrifying small children (or, you know, obsessively blogging...whichever). It's become clear that the elliptical machine and the occasional deep-water aerobics class is not enough to satisfy my need for adrenaline. That's why last night I decided to suit up and play the sport I swore I'd never play again: wheelchair basketball. Don't think of it as a potentially dumb decision. Think of it as a gift to those who have to put up with me on a regular basis. Sport: Adderall for Type-A personalities.

The last time I played basketball (nearly a year ago), I was at the height of physical fitness, even if I was at the nadir of hip-fitness: training 20 hours a week, traveling every weekend for tournaments, eating, sleeping and breathing basketball, waking up in the middle of the night from bad dreams where I neglected to triple-switch effectively and so was stabbed in the hip (the latter, of course, was due to the fact that my hip would come out when I was sleeping, so nearly every dream ended with me getting stabbed in the hip, which would result in some truly bizarre scenarios). I was in my own chair with its industrial-strength side guards and two-foot-high backrest. I had a specially designed foam wedge with a smiley face on it named Gregory James Mantooth III (long story) to put between my legs to keep my hip in a good position. I was strapped in with snowboard bindings. I was a prime specimen of awesomeness (a slightly gimpy prime specimen of awesomeness...but still!)

Fast forward to last night: instead of my own chair, I was cruising in a chair two inches too wide, since I hoped having the wide chair would prevent the place where my gluteus medius is detached from pressing tightly against the metal. Instead of snowboard-binding straps to lock my ass into place, I was basically going au naturale, takin' it back to the old school. This resulted in me practically standing up every time I tried to do anything, but it did prevent my hip from hurting. For those of you who don't play wheelchair basketball, playing in a too-big, strapless chair is basically like going into the NBA wearing flip-flops a few sizes too big.

Now, my original intention was to take it easy and demote myself down to the farm team by practicing with the developmental players. There were two problems with this: 1) people with not a lot of basketball experience tend to be the most dangerous to play around because they don't have the chair control to not hurt other people. I was not planning on breaking a hip my first time in the chair. 2) My brain translates "take it easy" into "jump head-first into a situation with no regard to consequences and flail around until some joint pops out of its socket." For this reason, I found myself scrimmaging in a nearly all-male game (Shira was the other female) with members of the national team, including Pat Anderson, who's considered by most people to be the best player in the world. Why start slow? Why not just throw your out-of-shape self into a huge chair and take on some of the best male players in the world? This is how I roll (literally).

To their credit, everyone was really tolerant of the fact that I was a few seconds (okay, a lot of seconds) too slow. The good thing was that I could see all the plays unfolding and knew where I should be, but the bad thing was that everything happened just a bit too late. I was going slow-motion when everyone else was on fast-forward. Still, it was great to be playing: to be sweating, to be working at something that's mentally stimulating, to be "playing" as opposed to "burning calories." I didn't even particularly care that I was the slowest one or that I missed probably 10 shots in a row. I might have dropped the odd f-bomb when I missed a point-blank shot, but it was a jovial f-bomb. An f-bomb of joy, if you will.

So, hurrah! For only the third or fourth time in the history of this blog, I have something positive to report. For the first time in ages, I managed to make it through a practice without having to stand on the sidelines doing the "putting my hip back in" dance. No one had to hang me from a doorframe and reef on my leg. Gregory James Mantooth III is now enjoying a much-needed rest in the Illini equipment room. Could it be that this hip replacement has actually affected my life in a positive way?

Eh? Huh?

2010-01-06T12:28:00.000-08:00

Thank you Busey Bank for helping me along with my New Year's resolution of getting up earlier. At 7:30 this morning, I got a text message from T-Mobile saying that my monthly payment didn't go through. This event coincided with my sister's dog Sashimi jumping up on my bed and planting her foot right on my sore hip, then grinding it in. Good morning!

Since I was up, I decided to go again to deep-water aerobics. This time, I did it without the running belt, since I have a weird ability to not sink. It may be one of my greatest talents, alongside making tootsie-roll chest hair for naked man cakes and coming up with elaborate similes to describe my gimpiness (like an elephant getting tasered! Like a dance party at a polio-survivor's convention!) I am like a human pool noodle in both floatiness and gracefulness. Turns out that, yeah, deep-water aerobics is a lot harder when you do it au naturale. It was a good workout. The nice thing about deep-water aerobics, too, is that most of your body is under water, so no one gets to see your flailing about.

Alas, there was no more talk of crafting or maybe I was just concentrating too hard on staying upright. After the class, I chatted with some of the younger ladies. One of them remarked that I talk like an American. I noted that when I'm in America, people say I talk like a Canadian. ("What is pa-sta? I only eat paw-sta"). "No," she said, "You definitely sound like an American." This is the ultimate hallmark of placelessness. I'm too American-sounding for the Canadians and too Canadian-sounding for the Americans. It's like I'm from my own special country: The Great Nation of ArleyLand! Population: 1.

Don't Call Us, We'll Call You...In a Few Months

2010-01-05T13:23:00.000-08:00

You know what baffles me about the medical world? Timelines. Case in point: when I last saw Dr. SecondOpinion, his secretary said she would phone me around January 4th when the office opened after Christmas break to give me my surgery date. Now, when I hear "I will call you on January 4th," I think, "Someone will call me on January 4th or shortly thereafter." (Crazy, I know). When I called today (January 5th), however, the receptionist was super surprised that I called and actually laughed and said, "Oh, we won't get the surgery date for months yet, but it won't be sooner than June." If you won't get the surgery date for months, then why not say to me, "We won't get the surgery date for a month yet so I'll call you around February?" Why say January 4th? If I know I won't get the surgery date until February, then I won't start pestering the receptionist until February. I am nothing if not obedient.

Oh well. His secretary is super nice and actually phones back, so I can't really be pissed at her. Besides, all this would be a minor thing if I lived in Vancouver. The only reason it's annoying is because I'm trying to coordinate living in two places at once. Part of me is beginning to think that my decision to live in Champaign this year was a mistake and that I should have just ripped the proverbial bandaid off, sucked it up, and moved back to Vancouver. I could have been working and cuddling with my cat in a cute apartment as we speak.

Oh well. A. always tells me not to "write revisionist history" and in fairness, there was no way to predict that 7 months after the surgery, I would be still be walking like the poison-apple-giving wicked-witch old crone from "Snow White." And, on the surface, staying in Champaign another year seemed like the perfect solution: time to write in a place that's cheap to live, a way to avoid paying too much for a Vancouver apartment since everyone's holding off listing their apartments until after the Olympics so there's no inventory, a chance to keep searching for American jobs to keep my options open and not rush in to some job that I hate out of panic.

Oh well. The good news is that I have a general timeline. After my neurologist appointment on the 20th, I'll head back to Champaign until my surgery in June. Maybe I'll get a June 23rd surgery date and have my new surgery exactly to the day of my old surgery. That would be a perfect, may-the-circle-be-unbroken kind of thing. It's the circle of liiiiiife, and it moves us aaaaallllll.....Till we find our plaaaaaaace....On the path unwinding.....

Sweatin' With the Oldies

2010-01-04T14:19:00.000-08:00

One of my New Year's resolutions was to find a way to exercise that doesn't involve cruising along to nowhere on the elliptical machine. (Don't worry, elliptical machine. You are still my first love, but a girl's got to play the field to avoid getting bored). Swimming's great when you can do it in your own pool, but when 9,000 other people have listed "working out more" as their New Year's resolution, doing laps is a good recipe for getting kicked in the head or pushed into the lane-dividers by someone whose favourite stroke is "the windmill."

My theory is that when you've got a hip replacement and you walk like someone named Gladys or Doris, then you need to channel your inner old person to find appropriate ways to exercise. Enter deep-water aerobics, which is the go-to choice if you're a post-menopausal lady who used to model for the Sears Catalogue circa 1962 and are anxious to maintain your figure in order to keep your retired-car-salesman husband from straying. If you draw your eyebrows on with a pencil and you often get a hankering for Denny's Rooty Tootie Fresh and Fruity breakfast (okay, who doesn't?), deep-water aerobics is the sport for you. (Ok, granted, there were several younger people there, but still).

My aerobics adventure had the added benefit of helping me achieve another New Year's resolution: to go to bed and get up earlier. Mission accomplished! When I arrived 5 minutes early for the class, I found the other aerobicizers in the bleachers all huddled around some lady's Christmas scrapbook like teen girls giggling over a yearbook; (scrapbooking, by the way, is not for the faint of heart. I went to Michael's to get Steph some wedding scrapbook stuff for Christmas and I seriously spent 30 minutes trying to figure out which type of silver pen was the best one out of the 12 different types). Anyhow, this seemed to be my kind of place: I like crafts and I like working out. If I could somehow incorporate cake decorating into the mix, I would never leave the pool.

Actually, everyone at the class was pretty friendly. I was worried that the scrapbookers wouldn't want some young'ins encroaching on their turf, but happily some teenage girls (one of whom was wearing a bathing suit whose v-neck went down to her bellybutton and must have required some two-sided tape to even wear it) showed up and their giggling and eye-rolling served as a magnet for the full force of everyone's angst. Or at least it did for my angst, and I have enough to go around for the whole class.

Deep-water aerobics was a decent workout, except that it really made my ankles sore. (My ankles, to be fair, are perpetually sore and I can't figure out why). In the water, you can do exercises that would have caused me a concussion if I attempted them on dry land and at the end of the 45 minutes I felt like I'd accomplished something. (This feeling was dampened somewhat when I looked up how many calories deep-water aerobics burns and discovered that it barely covered the calories in my daily chai). Oh well. Any time I get to bop around to "It's Raining Men," it's a good day.

As a bonus, I got to soak my weary bones in the hot tub. I usually avoid hot tubs for three reasons: 1) they make me faint and I try not to lose consciousness around any bodies of water 2) you probably find more diseases floating around a public hot tub than you do on the Rock of Love bus and 3)When I go into a hot tub in winter, I always wind up feeling like Sam McGee in "The Cremation of Sam McGee" and find myself walking around the rest of the day thinking, "There are strange things done in the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold.." (For those of you non-Canadians, "The Cremation of Sam McGee" is a Robert Service poem-turned-creepily-illustrated-children's-book about a guy who lugs around his dead friend on a dog sled looking for a place to cremate him. When he finally lights Sam McGee on fire in the furnace of an abandoned ship, he springs back to life because he's so happy to finally be warm...It's the perfect gift for people looking to dissuade their children from a career as a gold miner).

Anyhow, yes, deep-water aerobics is an activity I will try again, if only for the people watching and the ability to pop around to music without being mistaken for someone having an epileptic seizure. Half-way through the class, two ladies hauled out some pool noodles so that they could sit and chat about scrapbooking with greater ease and I thought, "yes, this might be my kind of class." Heavy breathing AND crafts! This is a sport I can get behind! The only down side was the difficulty of using my cane on slippery, wet tiles, especially when (as I was heading into the change rooms carrying my cane) two ladies who had been snickering to each other as I passed remarked, "It doesn't look very effective to use a cane like that!" It was all I could do to not snap, "You know what, bitches? There are times to be graceful and times to not get a concussion and this sure as fuck doesn't look like a ballroom-dancing competition to me so why don't you back the fuck off so I can hit the showers because right now the chlorine is eating away my skin?" Hm. Maybe I should add "do not give in to powerful feelings of rage" to my New Year's resolutions.

Can I Put Boggle-Master on my CV?

2010-01-04T00:41:00.001-08:00

So, 2010 is only a few days old and already it's off to a rip-roaring start. There is a dead rodent in the walls of my house and my mom has busted out a half-dozen air fresheners, which has given the house the odd smell of dead rat flesh and lollipops. The exterminator who came out said that barring ripping up our walls, there's nothing to do but sit back, relax, light some incense and wait for putrification to work its magic. We're really getting the decade off right around here. (On the plus side, isn't burning sage supposed to ward off bad spirits? Can you buy it in bulk?)

It's therefore no surprise that I was looking for any excuse to leave my house, which is one reason why I showed up at a wheelchair-basketball game for the first time since the hip replacement. I think I've mentioned before about how, after a season of being hung from doorframes after every game while people tugged at my spasming leg to put it back in the socket, I was burnt out beyond belief, disappointed in myself for not being able to play through the pain (what? You mean that sometimes life doesn't go according to the script of Nike commercials?) and basically of the opinion that I would rather stab myself in the eye with one of those electrified neurologist needles than do another triple-switch within the tea-cup defense. You would therefore expect that I would be able to watch a game and think only, "Yeah, that shit used to be fun....until it made me want to rip my stupid hip off and beat myself senseless with it...and then it was not."

You would, however, be wrong. Apparently, when I said "I never want to play basketball again" I meant "I never want to play basketball again until 6 months of wearing an ass groove in my bed makes me long for the feeling of hitting a sweet-ass jumper with only a few seconds on the clock." (Shut up. I have probably hit at least one sweet-ass jumper in my career). The game was surprisingly hard to watch (and not just because of the ass-bruising involved in sitting on bleachers). I was practically humming with nervous energy, in full-blown basketball mode thinking, so-and-so should have switched earlier on D because he was in help position and so-and-so would be more successful playing up on the press if she'd sag to the level of the ball and that was a nice pick-and-roll because the off-side created good spacing....and....and.... I can't help it. When someone coined the phrase "Type A personality," the A stood for Arley.

The last time I tried wheelchair basketball, I ended up sore and disappointed. This hasn't, however, stopped me from getting coach Cheryl to bring me a wheelchair to Wednesday's practice so I can suit up for round 2. I have already started planning elaborate schemes involving neoprene straps, the removal of side guards, and the re-arranging of other straps to make my hip more comfortable. Now, some of you are probably thinking, "Uh, Arley. Could the fact that you need a ton of modification to even SIT in the wheelchair, let alone PLAY in the wheelchair be a sign that maybe you should take up needlepoint and leave wheelchair basketball to those of us who do not have semi-broken hips made out of ceramic?" To you, I respond, "My doctor said I can't do any more damage and that I could do whatever I wanted." And to those of you who say, "Could it possibly be that your doctor's definition of 'doing whatever you want' and your definition of 'doing whatever you want' are slightly different because he is banking on the fact that you are not insane?" I say, "Hey, the stupid thing is already broken and I'm going to have surgery anyhow. How much more damage can I do?" And to those of you who say, "Isn't that the same logic that got you into this mess in the first place?" I say, "Good point, but I'm doing it anyways."

After all, if my new hip is going to act like my old hip, then I'll treat it like my old hip, and let's just say that I treated my old hip rather poorly. Actually, today has really been a day of deja vu. This morning, I woke up with a sharp pain in my hip and when I forced myself into a sitting position, I heard a loud clunk as the hip went back into place. It's been a little off kilter the whole day and tonight, as I was leaving dinner with some of my basketball friends, the stupid thing locked up and my ankle got twisted around, forcing me to pull myself up using the table and stand there with my leg at some grotesque angle while everyone (except my friends, who had already left the restaurant) stared at me. Just like old times! Nothing to see here, attractive gentlemen of Granville Island! I'm just going to give my hip a sharp twist and send that bad boy back home! Seriously, if someone told me that my old hip had miraculously grown back, I would believe them.

Oh well. Besides feeling like a total tool for having to gimp out of the restaurant like someone's stroke-addled grandmother, the night actually turned out very well, mostly because it involved Jameson and a rousing game of Boggle with Shira, Elisha and Cheryl where I conducted a master's seminar on the art of Boggle-ry. Seriously, I brought the Boggle Thunder. I was throwing down eight-letter words like they were Thor's mighty hammers. I may not have a job...or a love life....or a social life....or the ability to get through a dinner without having to wretch my hip back into its socket...but sweet Mary mother of Jesus can I play Boggle. Hey, I will take an ego boost wherever I can find it.

A Long December

2010-01-02T11:17:00.001-08:00

For the past couple of years, I have posted lyrics from that Counting Crows song as my status update on New Year's Eve: "it's been a long December and there's reason to believe that maybe this year will be better than the last." (It has, for the record, also been a long June and a long July and a long August...) For two years I've posted that status and for two years my life has hopped on a fast train to SuckVille, stopping only briefly in RidiculousTown and AreYouSeriousThisIsActuallyHappeningBerg to re-fuel. So this year, I'm modifying it a little: "it's been a long December and there's reason to believe maybe this year they will reattach my ass." See? Infinitely more practical!

I should, however, have had enough foresight to toss in another lyric from that song: "the smell of hospitals in winter and the feeling that it's all a lot of oysters, but no pearls" because that is exactly how I spent my New Year's Eve: in the Royal Columbian Hospital as Steph's husband got stitches after a dog bit him in the face. Is it a bad sign that I'm starting 2010 in the hospital watching an ER doctor make fun of Steph's husband while using a syringe full of saline to clean out his deep facial wounds, causing a spray of watery blood to land on my arm? Somebody call Adam Duritz because my life story is ripe for a melancholy ballad.

I guess, however, that I should be grateful that I wasn't the one with the hospital bracelet around my wrist. Also, that I managed to cram in two different parties into my NYE celebrations. First stop, to Shira and Jeff's house for a nice, low-key celebration, where I ate my weight in cheddar-flavored rice-and-soy crisps; (yeah, I know, when I party, I party hard). I couldn't drink because the only way to get from New West to Vancouver if you're not near a SkyTrain stop is to drive. I left around 1 a.m. and, because the party never stops when the ArleyMachine is a'rollin', I drove back to New West for a party with Steph and her friends, where I kicked it up another notch by sippin' on some club soda with lemon.

Luckily, my hard-core partying (I might have even had some carrot sticks) didn't interfere with my ability to drive Steph's husband to the hospital, so I finished the night by flirting with (okay, it was not so much flirting with as it was 'speaking words to') the cute ER doctor. It was certainly a memorable evening. May old acquaintances be...smart enough keep their faces away from a cranky dog's mouth.

I guess all that's left is to set some New Year's resolutions. The problem is that there's so much to choose from. In 2010, I will need to get a city/country to live in, a job, an apartment, a date, a social life and a hip that doesn't make me stagger around like a New Year's Eve reveler after too much bubbly. That's a To-Do list longer than Barack Obama's! Here, then, are some things that I would like to do in 2010 (as opposed to things I have to do...like get my shit together).

Get myself back on a good sleep schedule. Since becoming unemployed, I've gotten into the bad habit of going to bed at 1 a.m. and not getting up until 10. All I need is a World of Warcraft addiction and I would be the poster child for slackerness.
Try, for about the millionth time, to kick my Diet Coke addiction and get back on the wagon. Diet Coke is my crack. If I could inject it in veins, I could.
Drink more water.
Figure out different types of exercise I can do. Right now, I'm pretty much stuck with the elliptical machine or swimming (which sucks because I have to do it at Canada Games Pool along with dozens of other people in the same lane trying to kick you in the head). It would be so nice to do exercise that's actually meaningful and challenging. Every time I watch a basketball game on TV, I get a little twitchy.

Happy New Years, Young-And-Hip-sters!

Strange Victories, Strange Defeats

2009-12-30T01:27:00.000-08:00

There hasn't been much good news around these parts lately: it's been all car-related crime sprees, poor surgical outlooks and the fact that the only groove I've been able to get into has been the ass groove I've worn in my bed. But today, a minor victory. Today, not only did I beat an old lady while walking down the street (I should probably say "passed an old lady" or "blew by an old lady leaving her in a cloud of dust and wonder"), but she gave me a little nod as if to say, "Carry on, soldier. I can see that your train is bound for glory and I will not stand in the way of such greatness. Nay, it is a privilege to have been out-paced by such a fine specimen of human potential such as yourself." (Translation: I walked faster than an old broad with a cane and she stopped to let me past). But still! In days past, I would have struggled mightily to pass the old woman and she might have cussed me out in the process (see here). Today, however, I smoked up behind her (that didn't come out right either) and she stopped and gave me a little wave with her cane to let me on through. Progress!

In other news, Steph and Adrian are staying with me while my parents are in San Francisco. I need to be babysat in case I break into the liquor cabinet. No, actually it's because I have never liked to stay in my parent's house by myself, which, yes, makes me a giant wussy (or something that rhymes with wussy). But, seriously, staying alone in my parents' house is like being in a very tame horror movie. It was built in 1908 and often you hear footsteps when no one's home, doorknobs turn rapidly and doors open and close really quickly. My uncle won't stay over because one time he slept in the attic bedroom and heard voices all night. Plus, there seems to be a mini crime spree going on lately around these parts, and I figure I should have other people around on account of the fact that I can't run from danger. (A. says I need a gun. I disagree).

Anyhow, Steph and I watched "(500) Days of Summer" and I realized two things: a) I am probably a hipster. Damn. b) I should probably start dressing better. What if I meet my soul mate while out and about and he mistakes me for a homeless person because of my sweatpants? (Maybe that cop was my soul mate). What if I end up spending my life singing songs to my house plants simply because I chose to wear sweatpants on some day in Starbucks and my soul mate took one look at me and thought, "I wonder if she injects heroin into her feet" as opposed to, "Hey, I kind of dig Amazon chicks?" Damn. I guess it's worth it to risk a concussion to put on skinny jeans.

Elementary, My Dear Watson!

2009-12-27T23:24:00.001-08:00

I just returned from watching the new "Sherlock Holmes" movie (along with roughly 3/4 of people in the Greater Vancouver area...seriously, there was a mini riot at the ticket counter and I was forced to sit 3 rows from the front), which stars that sexy beast Robert Downey Jr., and it has become instantly apparent what I need to make my life better/cooler: a carved wooden walking stick that acts as the sheath for an immense dagger, which I could activate whenever I was in danger and use it to kick ass and take names. Dr. Watson has one of these in the movie and I think it would be just dandy for a variety of reasons:

A "walking stick" trumps a "cane" because the former belongs to sophisticated, wealthy people who can list 'strolling' as a hobby along with 'collecting 17th century writing desks' and the latter belongs to me and half the old people at my grandma's care home.
While the fact that I am 6 foot 2 (and will soon be 6 foot 2.5!) gives me some natural defenses, it never hurts to have a dagger concealed on your person, especially since today someone broke into my dad's car and a few days ago someone broke into my mom's car.
Even if my walking stick does not have a hidden dagger, people have seen enough movies where walking sticks conceal weaponry that they might decide not to fuck with me just to be safe. Also, worse case scenario, I could pull some Splinter-style Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action and generally throw down. If an arthritic anthropomorphic rat can do it, so can I! Bonus: instead of being a "hero in a half-shell," I could be a "hero with a half-ass." Double bonus: perhaps my ninja skills could be parlayed into a career as a crime fighter, which is probably the only thing I'm qualified to do with an MFA.
People would think, "Is she disabled or is she just preparing for a long and arduous hike?" instead of, "Hey, my grandpa had a cane just like that. Someone should give that girl a Werther's Original."

There are, however, down sides to consider. I would have to sacrifice my "comfort-grip" handle; (how easy is it to hold on to a carved eagle's head?). I might also look like one of those assholes who wears a cape, has a scraggly ponytail, carries a cane for non-walking-assistance-related purposes, and addresses everyone with an affected British accent as "m'lady" or "m'lord." There were a couple of those at U of I and something about them always filled me with a powerful surge of rage. (Granted, many things fill me with rage: like metafiction...and the fact that I haven't been able to wash my left foot for 6 months because I just can't reach the fucking thing).

Anyhow, yes, I must admit that it would be easier to pull off a walking stick if I lived in the 1800s. Since I don't, however, I'll continue my hunt for something that's a little less geriatric (but also allows me to walk with minimal gimpiness).

In other news, my new laptop is fantastic. It's so nice to be able to actually put the computer on top of your lap, which was not possible with my previous Macbook because the battery would get so hot that it would burn my thighs; (and to those of you asking whether that's the only burning I've had in my loin-region lately, shut up. I will start dating when I can successfully move my leg well enough to do the hokey pokey. I mean, how are you going to rock a headboard if you can't even put your left leg in, pull your left leg out, put your left leg in and shake it all about?)

Merry Christmas Part Two

2009-12-25T10:55:00.000-08:00

I wasn't planning on blogging this Christmas, (seeing as how most of you are probably face-down in a plate of wife-saver casserole after a little too much mimosa/eggnog anyhow), but the gifts have been unwrapped, the stockings have been unstocked, the cinnamon buns have been devoured and I've had too much coffee. Besides, does something really happen if it hasn't been thoroughly analyzed online?

You might notice that my blogging is feeling a little more streamlined...a little sleeker....perhaps just a touch more awesome (not possible, I know, but still). The reason: I got a new MacBook pro for Christmas!! This is an embarrassment of riches because I already had a MacBook, though granted it had been through the wars when I used to take it every weekend aboard a bus when I was playing varsity ball, then would proceed to fall asleep on top of it. And, granted, it's been broken since the first day I got it, when it fell out of its box when I was trying to carry it while walking with crutches because I'd just moved to Champaign and had no car. And, yes, it was kind of getting to that point where the wireless connection had stopped working unless you were 1 foot from the router and it would randomly shut down a couple of times a day and make a kind of clunking/whirring noise. But still! The computer was only 3.5 years old and was perfectly good, so I was totally, utterly and completely surprised. So thank you to my mom and dad for not just allowing me to live with them while I complain my way through a failed hip replacement, but for buying me a computer that allows me to complain to other people via my blog with greater ease. Everyone wins!

What else did I get this Christmas (besides the warm, glowing feeling of being surrounded by family and friends)? Two maternity bras. Yes, my stocking was stuffed not only with enough chocolate and candy to re-up my candy drawer (shut up, yes I do have a candy drawer) for the year, but also a helpful hint that I should fire up the babymaker and cook up some grandchildren. To which I say: chill out people. Let's tackle one major life milestone at a time. How am I going to chase babies when it takes me 5 minutes to walk up a flight of stairs? My mom's reaction when I commented on why she was buying me Christmas gifts from Thyme Maternity: "you better not put this on your blog!" Sorry, mom. In her defense, apparently maternity bras are nice and stretchy, which is handy when you're not...uh..."gifted" enough to fill an A-cup, but still require a little support. Apparently, I have been wearing them for years without knowing it. (Too much information? Too much information).

And how else did I spend Christmas? A whirlwind trip to Victoria, where I ate another turkey dinner (Pavement was describing me when they sang the line about "my heart is made of gravy") and hung out with my grandma, my aunty Sue and her family, and a ferry ride where I read Timothy Findley's "Famous Last Words," which is not the most Christmassy book in the world (it's about Nazis, metafiction and the complicated intersections between broad political events and individual lives), but is a kick-ass novel all the same. Seriously, the fact that Timothy Findley is not famous anywhere but Canada never fails to astound me. If you're looking for a good book and don't mind getting some brain matter on your favorite armchair because your mind will be blown a little bit, my faves of his are "The Wars" (I've read it three times this year), "Not Wanted on the Voyage" and "Famous Last Words."

Alright, enough blogging. Time to experiment with my new Macbook. It has bluetooth capabilities, y'all!

Merry Christmas!

2009-12-24T10:14:00.000-08:00

Well, it's the night before Christmas and whatever sick fuck who does the programming for A&E has decided to show a marathon of "The First 48 Hours," which follows cops solving grisly homicides. I've got a newfound respect for A&E (excluding, of course, "Steve Segal: Lawmaker"). This is my kind of way to celebrate Christmas.

As it turns out, someone else had a similarly twisted idea of how to get the holiday season started. My mom came out this morning to find that someone had smashed in the window of her smart car. And what did they steal? Absolutely nothing. No money, no CDs, no Christmas presents, just a few reusable grocery bags. Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night. To add insult to injury, after my mom went down to ICBC to file a claim, she came home to find that our side door is broken again and she couldn't get in.

And so this is Christmas and what have you done? Answer: filed a break-and-enter claim, wrestled with a broken door and watched cops solve murders. Oh well. This evening, we're having people over for our traditional Christmas Eve Chinese-food feast. On Christmas morning, we're going over to Victoria to have supper with my grandma and my mom's side of the family. Here's hoping that Christmas picks up.

Merry Christmas, readers of Young and Hip (a.k.a. mom)! May your days be merry and bright, and may all your Christmases be free of minor crimes!

Must. Remain. Positive.

2009-12-23T23:28:00.000-08:00

Well, it's a few days after the news from Dr. SecondOpinion that I probably won't be becoming a professional salsa dancer any time soon, and I'm doing my best to be positive, since a) it's the holidays and b) there's no point turning "Young and Hip" into "Deep Shit I Would Have Written In My Lisa Franks Diary Circa 1998 During That Phase Where I Used to Wear Capes And Once Composed a Poem Dedicated to My Eyebrows, Which I Had Recently Had Plucked For the First Time." It has, however, been a rough few days: disappointing news at the doctor's office; a close friend who is apparently tired of my endless barrage of bad medical luck and wants out; Christmas stress; oh, and I went to my family doctor today and apparently I'm also anemic. (I had been thinking that the redness in my face was fading nicely thanks to a new lotion I've been using, but, no, it's just a lack of iron. Every day, I seem to take another step closer towards becoming an laudanum-addicted Victorian socialite).

It's weird, though. Since I was 11, I've had a chronic pain condition and that moment during the arthrogram when they stuck freezing (translation for you Americans: numbing) in my hip and the pain went away for the first time since August of 1994, it felt like someone had turned off a radio that had been playing static so long that I had forgotten how annoying it was until it wasn't there. It's weird to think that the pain relief I only got for 45 minutes after someone jabbed a needle into my hip socket was what was supposed to happen forever, and for 95% of patients does happen.

It's also weird to think that it may never happen: that I may not have an escape-hatch for my disability anymore. Before, yeah, I was disabled, but only until the hip replacement. Now, if this surgery isn't successful, I guess I better finally invest in the gold-plated cane that shoots lasers I've been wanting because that thing will be by my side forever til death do us part. Kind of like a marriage...but without the 50% divorce rate. (Actually, 50% is the success rate they're giving my surgery).

And so, today, I took a walk to clear my head (and buy a Christmas present for my brother Denver). It all went downhill rather quickly when realized that I was playing Nick Cave's "People Ain't No Good" (I didn't mean it! Most people are very good!) and Ray LaMontagne, who I find hard to listen to at the best of times because I associate him with a moment I had a month or so after I moved to Champaign in 2006, driving with A. and R. in R.'s truck coming home from a party at the farm of the director of the MFA program, a moment where I thought, "hot damn. Life is good. It's all sunshine and lollipops from here on in. Ain't nothin' that could possibly go wrong."

Anyhow, long story short, I walked too far (in inappropriate pants, which kept falling down), wound up sore and had to resort to listening to the Phantom of the Opera to prevent me from feeling like I was in the sad part of a movie walking alone in the rain while emo music plays. I find The Phantom of the Opera endlessly cheering and not just because I know all the words and once wanted more than anything to play The Phantom (or the narrator in Joseph and the Amazing Technicolour Dreamcoat...but strangely not Christine, who I thought was a wimp). After all, no matter how bad your life gets, at least you're not being stalked by a demented, hideously disfigured evil genius who lives in the cave-like basement of an opera house and is posing as the angel your father promised to send you before his untimely death. Silver linings, people. Silver linings.

"This sure here is a lot of shit happening"

2009-12-21T15:54:00.000-08:00

A few minutes ago, I picked up the phone to hear someone say, "This sure here is a lot of shit happening." It was some carpet-cleaning guy calling, unaware that he'd already dialed my number and that I had answered, but it kind of encapsulated my day. Today, I went to see Dr. SecondOpinion. I was hoping that I would get an early Christmas gift in the form of, "No, you don't need surgery! A steady diet of jujubes and gingerbread will clear the problem right up!," but no such luck. Alas, it looks like I found myself once again on Santa's Naughty List because I just got handed a big old lump of coal in the form of medical news. Not the worst news, mind you, but not exactly what I was hoping for.

But first, the good news: Dr. SecondOpinion and his staff/interns enjoyed the X-ray Christmas cookies. His secretary was very impressed and if I've learned one thing from grad school, it's that secretaries secretly run the show and you should do everything possible to stay on their good side. Dr. SecondOpinion's response was particularly priceless: "Those cookies are really...imaginative," which made me laugh a little on the inside because it's exactly what you say to two-year-olds who show you their scribble drawing: "Oh, honey, that's a nice pony you drew...I mean, airplane. Yes, it's a very nice airplane. You're very imaginative." Anyhow, yes, if Dr. SecondOpinion thought I was smoking crack to have given him such a strange Christmas gift, he didn't show it. He even ate one.

My Freaky Cyborg Hip, however, refused to share in the Christmas joy. Since I don't want to rain on your holiday parade, I will keep it brief (okay...brief-ish): it's apparently really hard to re-attach the gluteus medius muscle and Dr. SecondOpinion only gives me about a 50/50 chance (at best) that the problem can be repaired. My socket might be loose (the test was apparently inconclusive...the only thing it proved is that I can swoon faster than a Harlequin romance novel heroine). If it's loose, they're going to repair it and give me one that's more "appropriate" (whatever that means). They're also going to make me an extra half-inch longer on my left side because even though I feel like I'm taller, I'm actually still too short. And, yes, that is the first time that the word "Arley" has been found in the same sentence as the phrase "too short" in the history of the universe. (Seriously, TLC better break out the cameras because by the time I get done with this crazy carnival ride, I'm going to be like 19 feet tall). Still no word on why my hip flexors are going all Rip van Winkle on me.

And when can all of this be done? According to his secretary, probably not for another 6 months. (This is not terrible news according to his secretary because the wait-time used to be 3 years, so I guess I should count my blessings on that front). Part of the wait is because the month-long cluster-fuck known as the Olympics is coming to town, which puts everything into a crazy back-log because they're not allowed to do elective surgeries during that time. (Just in case, you know, the entire German hockey team does a massive amount of steroids, gets avascular necrosis and all need hip replacements). The other part is that my case isn't technically an emergency and so I'm not high on the wait list. Now, you might think, "Wait a minute. Isn't your tendon flapping around in the breeze like the backdoor flap of an old man's pajamas?" Yes, this is true, but that shit isn't going to kill me. It's just going to make me walk like a heroin addict. Possibly forever.

At the end of the appointment, Dr. SecondOpinion asked if Dr. ___ would be performing the surgery and my heart momentarily skipped a beat at the thought of having to kick off my New Year with SurgeonWatch2010; (at least I know that I can stalk him at Starbucks now). Luckily, however, when I explained that Dr. ___ had kind of....uh...vanished....Dr. SecondOpinion agreed to do the surgery. I was so happy I could have made him 12 more batches of X-ray cookies.

None of this, however, explains what the hell happened in the first place. I'm not the most aggressive person in the world. To borrow A.'s phrase, I am "too fucking polite," possibly because I am "too Canadian." I am willing to ask a question, but I'm not willing to say, "Hey! Answer my question right fucking now!" Though Dr. SecondOpinion is a fantastic doctor, he doesn't really have time to answer the full page of questions I always write out. (That, to be fair, was actually a strong suit of Dr. ___'s. He didn't mind being peppered with questions). Seeing any surgeon is a little like releasing a genie out of a bottle, except instead of having three wishes, you maybe have time to toss out one or two questions before he dashes out the door to serve the next 12 people who are waiting. Since I knew I could probably only ask one or two, I decided (a good decision, I think) to focus on future-oriented questions, instead of "seriously, how did this happen? Like, seriously, who should I be directing the full force of my rage towards?" questions. This means, however, that I may never know exactly what went wrong: did Dr. ___ fuck up? Did I fuck up? Will I fuck up again during the next surgery?

I left the appointment in a bit of a tailspin. When my mom and I went shopping afterwards, however, there was a minor Christmas miracle. For the past 6 weeks, I have been looking for a pair of Olympic mittens for Karo. She's done a lot for me and I figured this was a small thing to repay her with. It turns out, however, that those Olympic mittens are rare as a sunny day in Vancouver because they tend to sell out 45 minutes after a shipment comes in. Seriously, trying to find those things is like trying to buy ketchup in the Soviet Union circa 1986. Vancouver has a case of mitten fever! To make a long story short, I thought I'd got the right mittens, but they were youth ones, so today I went to the Bay to see if I could find the adult ones. When I asked the clerk, she originally said that they'd sold out and I should try again on Wednesday. Just when I was about to leave, however, she said that she'd bought a pair for her grandson but since it's too late to send them before Christmas, I could have her pair. Aww! What a nice lady. I could have hugged her.

I came home all excited and went to my computer to see if I could find Karo's email asking for the mittens to see if she needed them before Christmas or not. For the life of me I couldn't find the email, which means that perhaps I'm on crack and hallucinated Karo's mitten-related needs, or perhaps someone else asked me for the mittens, not Karo. So Karo, let me know if you do need the mittens and when you need them by. I will send them your way!

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...Craziness!

2009-12-20T23:06:00.000-08:00

Another day, another cookie recipe, and the holiday baking bender express continues full steam ahead all the way to Crazytown. Yes, I took the advice of those of you who commented on my last post and decided to go ahead and make the X-ray-themed Christmas cookies for Dr. SecondOpinion. The cookies are a Mexican-hot-chocolate sugar cookie (chocolate plus cinnamon = delicious!), but unfortunately I had to decorate them with phony icing because buttercream doesn't hold up well enough that you can pipe with it and royal icing is a pain to make.

Now, there are a couple of ways that Dr. SecondOpinion could react to these cookies:

He will be touched by the magical spirit of the holiday season and decide to re-attach my anti-ass immediately. There will be no need, however, because my Freaky Cyborg Hip will be feeling so festive that it will have magically healed itself. Then we will all hold hands, sway in a circle and sing that happy friendship song from "The Grinch Who Stole Christmas." (And what happened next? Well in New West they say, that Arley's half-broken ass grew two sizes that day.")
He will think I'm batshit crazy, say, "Thanks....cookies in the shape of X-rays....exactly what I always dreamed of having in my life....Listen, I've got to run but I'll call you soon." Then, he will pull a Dr. ___ Ninja stealth move and disappear into the sunset, never to be heard from again.
He will think, "Damn, homegirl has way too much time on her hands, possibly because her current state of gimpiness prevents her from leading a fulfilling life, and I should therefore operate as soon as possible to prevent her from making me a life-sized human skeleton out of candy canes out of sheer boredom."
(Most likely). He will say, "Gee. Thanks for the cookies." He will eat them. Nothing more than this will happen because if you're going to bribe someone, you should damn well pick a better incentive than chocolate-cinnamon cookies that resemble X-rays. I guess I will just have to give them in the spirit of the season, instead of the spirit of "please-fix-my-hip-I-will-do-anything-literally-anything-please."

Oh well. Whatever way it works out, at the very least I burned off some pre-appointment jitters. The more I bake, the less I compose extensive lists of questions that I will not get the time to ask. Everyone wins!

So, yes, over here in ArleyLand, the Christmas festivities are continuing fast and furious. Last night, I had a special Christmas dinner with Steph and 18 other people. Suffice to say that I have eaten my weight in turkey and all the fixin's. I have learned a valuable lesson and it involves the necessity of brining poultry; (hey, I'lll take life lessons wherever I find 'em).

So, yes, here I am modeling an oven mitt on the day of the big dinner and accidentally looking like I'm smacking my dad on the ass. Whoops! I've also posted some pictures of the X-ray cookies.

Have Yourself a Merry Little Baking Bender

2009-12-18T14:26:00.000-08:00

This holiday season, there will be a lot of things I can't do. Rockin' around the Christmas tree: out. Dashing through the snow in a one-horse open sleigh: the risk of ass-bruising is too great. Having myself a merry little Christmas: well, maybe, but in my experience I am more likely to have myself a merry little egg-nog bender and go to sleep at 8 p.m. There is, however, one area of Christmas where I can bring my A-game: Christmas baking. When it comes to cranking out the calories, I am like the wicked witch from Hansel and Gretel. You want to fatten someone up? Come to me.

In this spirit, my mom and I did some holiday baking. We made:

Sugar cookies
Rice Krispie treats with toffee bits
Mars Bar square (like rice krispie treats, but with melted chocolate bars instead of marshamallows)
Nanaimo bars (a.k.a "those tasty, highly fattening squares that Americans can never pronounce")
an ice-cream cake

Later, we will also be making some weird cookie concoction that involves creating a sandwich out of gingerbread cookies and nutella and then dipping the whole thing in melted chocolate bars. Then we will make a down payment on a diabetic insulin reader because we are sure to lapse into a diabetic coma before Boxing Day (translation for Americans: the Canadian equivalent of Black Friday that occurs the day after Christmas. Traditionally, people would box up food to give to the poor. Now, they shank bitches who stand in their way of getting a good deal on a flat-screen TV).

Anyhow, today I was nothing if not highly efficient. I'm pretty sure that the latte-fueled baking spree probably averaged at least 2,000 calories an hour. Take that, sugar-plum fairy. Little kids should go to bed on Christmas Eve with visions of me dancing in their heads. Actually, I take that back. Me dancing in anyone's dreams would be highly traumatic.

The problem with baking, however, is that it's pretty difficult for me to stand for the amount of time required to complete a recipe. After a few hours of sitting and standing in the kitchen, my hip intervened to cut the party short. It probably remembered my surgeon saying that 1 pound of fat on the body is felt as 6 pounds on the hip and didn't want to lug around a lifetime's worth of sugar cookies well into 2010.

This reminds me: I have my big appointment with my surgeon on Monday. Would it be creepy to make him dark chocolate sugar cookies in the shape of X-rays with little hips piped in white icing on them? And then on one write "Have a Hip Christmas?" Your thoughts?

I'm Sorry, I Thought You Were a Traffic Cop, Not the Fashion Police

2009-12-17T12:47:00.000-08:00

In the six months since my surgery, I've opened my mind and heart to the wonder of sweatpants. Because my hip flexors still don't work, it's impossible to get dressed without doing a Mr. Bean routine of spine-contorting ridiculousness, and if I put my jeans on without nearly falling on my face, I consider it a good day. When your hip flexion is so poor tht you haven't been able to wash your left foot in six months because you can't reach the stupid thing, you're willing to take anything that might make your life a little easier, even if you run the risk of committing a cardinal fashion sin. Sure, you may wind up on What Not to Wear, but at least you won't give yourself a concussion while trying to wriggle into skinny jeans. What I didn't realize, however, is that sweatpants can get you in trouble with the law.

This morning, I left my house earlier than normal (okay, the fact that I left my house is impressive in itself) so that I could pick Steph up at the auto mechanic's, since she had dropped her car off to get its brakes repaired. I dropped Steph off at her place, then headed to Starbucks to get a daily fix for myself and my mom. Because it was the ungodly hour of 10 a.m., (it's so hard to believe that this time last year I was getting up at 5:30 a.m. every morning), I was still dressed in my sweatpants and sweatshirt. And, ok, there may have been a small chance that my sweatshirt still had a bit of blue frosting on it from when I made Christmas cookies a few days ago. And I might have smelled faintly of garlic, due to the ungodly amount of tsatsiki I consumed last night at Steph's Greek night. And, yes, my glasses have been just a little bit crooked for the past 2 years because I sat on them and they can't be fixed because there's a hairline fracture where the....anyhow, it wasn't my most glamorous look.

I ordered the coffees without incident and left the Starbucks. Since I had one coffee in each hand, I had my cane slung over my arm instead of using it and was merrily gimping along, anticipating getting home and settling down to a delicious non-fat Americano misto (mmm....delicious American mist....), when I was passed by a police officer, who muttered something at me.

"Hm?" I said.

"What do those coffees cost?" he asked. "Like, 10 dollars a piece?"

"Uh....yeah....," I said, "It's highway robbery. You should investigate...."

The police officer gave me a weird little smirk and headed off to wherever he was going. I got into my car thinking, "Wow...that was weird." When I got home, I told my mom about the encounter and she was able to shed some light on the situation: Sherlock Holmes must have thought that I was a homeless person and disapproved of me spending my panhandling money on Starbucks instead of groceries...or meth. (I would say that it's better to have a Starbucks addiction than a meth addiction, but I suspect that meth is probably cheaper per hit).

See, this is the danger of sweatpants. If you walk like someone who injects heroin into their toes, you need to bring your fashion A-game or else apparently New Westminster's finest officers will mistake you for a homeless person. Sweatpants may be comfortable, but if you wear them without walking with the appropriate grace and charm, you just may be arrested for vagrancy.

And So This is Christmas And What Have You Done?

2009-12-16T10:47:00.001-08:00

Everywhere I go, I feel like I hear the world's most depressing Christmas carol: the one that goes "and so this is Christmas and what have you done? Another year over and a new one just begun." They should give a free sample of Xanax out along with that CD because that song is basically designed to give you a full-blown anxiety attack with a side order of quarter-life crisis. Like, shut up, Christmas carol. Don't judge me just because I've spent literally half of this year in bed nursing a semi-detached ass and a failed hip replacement and I have no long-term job/life prospects and not even a clue as to where I'll be this time next year. (Is it a bad sign that since I've laid up, TLC has had the time to debut four different series about midgets/dwarves: The Little Couple! The Little Couple Who Just Had a Baby! The Little Couple Who Run a Chocolate Shop! A Dwarf Adoption Story! Ok, TLC, you clearly have an embarassment of little-people riches, so can you please wake me up when you're doing casting for "The Very Tall Girl Whose Ass Fell Off?")

Anyhow, what have I done this Christmas? Well, my little black stormcloud continues to wreak a special brand of holiday havoc. When I first returned home from the U.S., the first thing I did was have a shower....which promptly caused a little rain storm in the kitchen below the bathroom. (My mom accused me of "showering wrong" as if I had been flinging the hand-held shower around with wild and reckless abandon and for a week I had to shower in my parent's bathroom, which meant nearly killing myself trying to get my gimpy ass in and out of a huge clawfoot tub). That was flood #1. I guess my black magic has a special love of destroying waterworks because today, just as I was about to bake sugar cookies, the garbarator backed up and spewed sludgy water all over the floor. I think I need to consider a career as a dowser because I have become an expert at finding new and exciting sources of water (water on the floor....water from the ceiling....).

Here's hoping that my little storm cloud takes a break over Christmas. We do not need to be celebrating this holiday season by building an ark.

All I Want For Christmas...Is My Ass Re-attached

2009-12-14T18:31:00.000-08:00

It's 11 days until Christmas and I'm getting into the Christmas spirit the proper way: by lying in bed eating celery sticks, watching a marathon of "Intervention" and nursing my poor bruised anti-ass, which I subjected to cruel and unusual punishment yesterday by going on an exercise bike for the first time in months. This weekend, I went to Victoria with my mom to take care of my grandma, which was fun, but which meant that I took my old-lady act to new and unprecedented heights (or lows, depending on how you look at it) by spending my Saturday night watching old British murder mysteries, eating Werther's Originals (seriously) and dozing in a laz-e-boy. I have seen the future and the future involves the dry wit of British gentlemen-detectives.

Now that I'm home, it's time to kick my anti-ass into high gear and get ready for a visit from Old Saint Nick. I'm making my list and checking it twice. What am I getting my little feline destroyer for Christmas? A shot of antibiotics in the ass and a rabies vaccine. Two weeks ago, Mika threw down with a neighbourhood cat and someone took a chunk out of her hind quarters: (translation, she's got a minor case of anti-ass-itis...just like her owner). A. has been taking good care of her, but two weeks later Mika's wounds opened back up so she earned a quick trip to the Good Friends Animal Clinic. Mika will be fine, but her catnip budget has taken a bit of a hit. Homegirl better start selling Avon if she wants to remain in the lifestyle to which she's grown accustomed because she's got bills to pay.

And what do I want for Christmas? Well, if Santa could re-attach my ass muscle, I would be much obliged, though I know that Old Saint Nick's surgical training probably leaves a lot to be desired and I'm not sure how may gluteus mediuses the elves encounter at Santa's Workshop. If I'm making a wish-list, I should probably also request a dash of holiday magic. Since returning from my whirlwind tour of the Midwest, my spirit-of-Christmas-meter has been in the red. I will spare you the many emo reasons why I need a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past--having me hop on a fast train to WhinyVille benefits no one--but suffice to say that I could use a little holiday cheer. The good thing about Christmas, however, is that while there may not be much goodwill among men (hell, I'll take mild interest among men if it's directed at me), there is sure as hell a lot of chocolate. And gingerbread. Oh, gingerbread, you are a light in a dark, dark world.

SurgeonWatch2009: The Dramatic (not really) Conclusion

2009-12-10T09:54:00.000-08:00

For most of the month of October, I began a campaign I called SurgeonWatch2009, where I attempted for over a month to get a hold of my original surgeon, Dr. _____, who had mysteriously vanished after promising me that he would call the very moment he got the MRI reports the day after my appointment. After a month of the whole "don't call us, we'll call you" routine when I didn't even have an appointment date, I assumed that Dr. ___ had taken a little visit to Bermuda, gotten sucked up into the Bermuda Triangle, and was chilling out diagnosing early-stage arthritis on the Loch Ness Monster. Enter Dr. SecondOpinion.

In the back of my mind, I've always wondered with happened to Dr. ____. Did he think, "If I just ignore her long enough, her torn gluteus medius will repair itself in much the same way that a tantrum-throwing two-year-old will eventually calm down if no one fuels their rage?" Or did he simply forget and stash my case in the back of his mind behind the memo to clean the gutters and the reminder that the dog needs to get its anal glands squeezed? What miracle would have to happen for him to call me?

The miracle of Starbucks! Yes, on the way to see my neurologist, my mom ran into Dr. ___ at the Richmond General Hospital Starbucks. He didn't exactly come over for a chit chat, but the image of me gimping along the Richmond Hospital Lobby must have jostled something loose in his mind and made him think, "Gee....I feel like I know that girl from somewhere....I have this faint memory of saying, over two months ago, 'don't worry, we'll find out why you can't walk and fix you right up'...."

This must be why, today at 9 a.m., SurgeonWatch2009 came unexpectedly to a close. My mom received a call that went like this:
Secretary: Hi! Is this Arley or Arley's mom?
Mom: This is her mom....
Secretary: Oh, hi there! This is ___! From Dr. ____'s office!
Mom: Hi....
Secretary: Dr. ___ just got a report from Dr. Needles McNeedleson and he was wondering if you still needed his assistance or if you're seeing another surgeon....?
Mom: Uh....I think we're good....We're seeing Dr. SecondOpinion....
Secretary: Okay then! Take care! Bye!

It was exactly the conversation I wanted....two months ago. Now, the funny thing about this is that Dr. ___ received a report from Dr. SecondOpinion a month ago, so in theory should know that I've taken the Arley Dog and Pony Show elsewhere. I guess it's like when you're in high school and some guy you're interested in stops calling, and you don't hear from him for months until he sees you at the mall having a fro-yo with a new man, and all of a sudden he pops back into your life being like, "Hey, baby! It's recently come to my attention that you've got your shit together and are blissfully happy with someone else, which means it's exactly the right time for me to waltz back on to the scene for another round of my manly mind games!"

So, yes, my mom told Dr. ___ that he didn't have to worry: Dr. SecondOpinion has it all under control. Now here's hoping that Dr. SecondOpinion does, in fact, have it under control and won't send me back to Dr. ___.

Man Down! Man Down!

2009-12-08T16:28:00.000-08:00

You know, there's never a dull moment when I'm around. If I'm going to have a hip replacement, it's not good enough to just get one of your plain, old vanilla "uncomplicated hip replacement that actually results in you being able to walk without looking like a swamp creature." No, I go big or go home (and then, you know, stay home in bed for months at a time). Same goes with routine tests. I mean, why just get a test, when you can get a test AND faint like a wealthy Victorian woman whose organs are being warped by her corset? Exactly.

First stop in the Neverending Needle Tour: a trip to see the neurologist for a friendly course of electric needles. When we got to Richmond General Hospital, I went to the washroom while my mom hung out in the lobby, where she witnessed a sighting of a rare and exotic creature whose presence has been endlessly speculated about but never confirmed: Dr. ____! Yup, after the many long weeks of SurgeonWatch2009 trying without success to get ahold of Dr. ___ and doing battle with his secretary, it turns out that the way to find Dr. ___ is to haunt the Starbucks at Richmond General Hospital. Yup, after a long day of working the orthopedic power saw, homeboy needed to recharge with a tall, skinny, nonfat cinnamon dolce latte. That's the power of Starbucks, ladies and gentlemen: bringing the people together.

Well, almost. Dr. ___ said hi to my mom, but by the time I came out of the loo, he had vanished back into his natural habitat with nary a trace. This is probably the best because I'm not sure what I would have said to Dr. ___ if I'd seen him. It would be like one of those awkward run-ins with your ex, "So....hey.....how's it going?...Yeah....it's been awhile....How's that monstrosity of a hip working out for you? Still causing you a world of pain and making you walk like a polio-stricken zombie?" or it would turn into a full-fledged Jerry Springer smackdown. It's a good thing I didn't end up going on those steroids, because I might have had to throw a few chairs.

After meeting one prick in the lobby, it was time to head to the neurologist for a few more; (sorry, that wasn't very nice. I don't mean it Dr. ___! I'm sure you're a very nice man). Yup, I had another one of those "being penetrated multiple times by an electrified needle plunging in and out of various muscles while the neurologist urges you to 'just relax.'" Yup, for about half an hour, I was sweating profusely, closing my eyes and thinking of England. And this, ladies and gentlemen, is the reason why so many people arrive at this site via a google search for "sex with needles." (You're welcome, fetishists...I can't help you with the sex, but we've got plenty of needles around here).

And the results of my needle orgy? The neurologist is again giving me the diagnosis of "WTF?" Apparently, my hip flexors are getting worse, but there's no reason why. Maybe my hip flexors are just lazy. Who knows? Dr. Needles McNeedleson is therefore sending me to another neurologist for more red-hot needle lovin'. Fun times.

The next day, it was time for a second date with the needles: this time, for another try at the nameless "big-ass needle in the hip joint" test. I'd tried this 5 days earlier, but because my body isn't a fan of the X-ray dye, we had to cancel the test and go back to the drawing board. They were going to give me steroids, but I guess they didn't want me howling at the moon and turning over cars (any more than I already do) because they found some magic MRI dye potion (which my radiologist informed me was literally worth more than gold) that wouldn't give me a case of the shakes. Crisis averted.

Well, almost. The test went off without a hitch. On the CT monitor, I got to watch the needle snaking its way into my hip joint, (which ranks right up there with some of the more awkward sensations I've ever experienced. I was frozen, so I couldn't feel pain, but I could feel the needle poking against the joint and stuff). It was actually kind of cool. They put in the special dye and you could see it leaking out where the tear was. Then, they injected some freezing and presto, I was done!

But the excitement of the day was not over. I got up off the bed and was walking around pain free (it was a Christmas miracle!) and thinking, "Man, that needle was not a lot of fun, but sign me up for this whole 'no pain' thing because this shit is good. Maybe radiology-needle guy can follow me around for the rest of my life, topping me up." As the doctor was giving me some last-minute instructions, however, things started to go black and I felt like I was going to throw up. It was a "man down" scenario because I had fainted faster than an opium-addicted Victorian lady in a romance novel.

This was highly embarrassing. I mean, I've had hundreds of needles filled with sugar water injected into my spine, been hung by doorframes as people tugged on my out-of-joint hip, stayed away throughout my hip replacement so I could see my old hip, and had countless electrified needles jammed into my ass. Did I faint then? No. But when someone takes the pain away, all of a sudden I'm swooning like a delicate lady flower. WTF, body? WTF indeed. I guess my body had had enough of the pin-cushion routine and decided to check the fuck out.

So, that was it. I had to hang out on a gurney for an hour hooked up to monitors to make sure I could remain upright and then I went home and slept for three hours straight. Hey, all that fainting is hard work!

Total Eclipse of the Snark

2009-12-06T19:36:00.001-08:00

I promised to return from my American Thanksgiving extravaganza with lots of stories possibly involving firearms. Well, I've finally carved out a slice of time in my fast-paced lifestyle of watching true-crime shows ("48 Hours" is my new obsession) while watching my sister's dog gnaw at bull genitalia (she's still at it) to write about my Thanksgiving experience traveling with A. to Michigan to spend time with his family there. Spoiler alert: what the experience lacked in firearms, it made up for in homemade cinnamon buns.

After months of wearing out the perfect ass groove in bed, I was excited to get on the road and check out some cool-ass truckstops; (I have an inexplicable attraction to American truck stops. They're endlessly fascinating to me: pizza ovens for your big rig! Plaster statues of dolphins! Little crystal figurines that read "In the Garden of Mothers You Are the Sweetest Rose!" Energy drinks available at the soda fountain! I could go on and on). Better still, we were cruising in A.'s Dodge Aries, which is built for comfort and offers the ultimate in road-tripping awesomeness. Even though I still have trouble sitting for long stretches of time and ended up having to recline the seat way back and make A. stop every hour or so to let me have a little walk, it was great to get on the road. (A. and I have a lot of experience in the road-tripping department, having managed to once travel across the country without murdering one another, and he's an ideal road-tripping partner).

Actually, I've been trying for the past week to write something about my Thanksgiving experience. The problem I've been having, however, is that is was just so....good. 'Young and Hip" deals mostly in snark and innuendo and my time in Michigan had none of that. It was amazing to spend time with A.'s relatives, who were hospitable and kind and such wonderful people that I can't describe the experience without sounding like a Hallmark card. It was five days of eating home-cooked food, playing with kids (a little three-year-old re-named three of her stuffed animals 'Arley'), being barfed on by a newborn and hanging out with A.'s family playing cards or talking. A.'s relatives don't curse and I actually surprised myself by going 5 days without saying anything that would get bleeped out on daytime television. And you know what? It wasn't that hard. It was actually refreshing to go 5 days without sarcasm or snark or fighting or swearing.

Well, this is all very good for me, but doesn't quite provide the blog with the dramatic tension needed to write an interesting post. Long story short, the day after Thanksgiving, A. and I were driving back home in the dark singing aloud to John Cale's "Paris 1919" and drinking truck-stop coffee and eating M&Ms and I thought....man, my hip may not be running on all cylinders, but I am pretty freaking lucky. I've been in a bad mood lately, sick of my hip not working and the aimlessness of my life now, so my mini vacation was just the exact thing I needed.

Ok, let's dry up this sappiness! Tomorrow I see my neurologist, which likely means more needles in my ass, and nothing gives me a case of snarkiness like a few well-placed needles in the ass.

Feast!

2009-12-04T15:29:00.001-08:00

In the next room, my mom is cooing at my sister's dog, "Is that a good bull's penis? Is that a good bull's penis? You get that bull's penis!" (Apparently, dried bull's penis is a delicacy if you're a mini American Eskimo). I am watching some woman give birth on one of those TLC reality shows and cursing the fact that the hours of work I put into a spreadsheet for my internship has been replaced by the phrase "we're sorry." (You better be sorry Google Docs because my eyes are going to shank you if they have to hurt themselves by staring at a computer for another 8 hours doing data entry). Ah, yes, jut another day in my life here in New Westminster.

I've written a lot about how I don't know very many people in New Westminster and how I'm a little hard up for social interaction. Last night, I had two choices for how to spend an exciting Friday night: stay at home watching the hit TLC series "Say Yes to the Dress" (a.k.a The "It's My Day!" Show) or go with my parents to a banquet for the Trial Lawyers Association. The choice was easy: at home, I would eat a supper of scrambled eggs and cereal with a handful of chocolate chips for dessert and watch my sister's dog gnaw on bull genitalia. At the banquet, however, I would get a six-course meal and the potential to mercilessly judge the cocktail gowns of middle-aged women (note to middle-aged wealthy women: if you are over 50, any gown that requires a roll of two-sided tape to strap yourself into is probably a fashion don't).

Most of my clothes are in Illinois, so I didn't have a thing to wear to the ball and let's just say that none of the mice around here can sing or use a sewing machine; (plus, the only chance of me fitting in to a glass slipper would be if it was a ballerina flat). Happily, I had recently received my Nana's dress and belt from the 1940s. My Nana is one of the coolest people I know. When I was 11, she wrote her memoirs and I was tasked with typing it up. Let's just say that she used the phrase "mad Russian love" more times than my innocent 11-year-old eyes were equipped to deal with. She even devotes a page to her beliefs on the french kiss; after an 85-year-old man dropped dead after she french-kissed him on his wife's grave, she notes "I need to cut back on the french kisses as they are a soul searcher and a deadly weapon when teasing someone, especially someone well past 80." Wise words indeed. Anyhow, I felt pretty awesome in Nana's dress, even though it's hard to get your mojo working when you're wearing something that smells like your grandmother.

Recently, my friend Karo sent me a comic with the caption "Hey, man! It's been awhile since I trapped you in a long conversation about my medical history." This is what I feel like whenever I go to a social occasion. The minute people see the cane, I have to rehash the entire story: had a hip replacement; hip replacement went tits up; hopefully all will be well soon; doctors are doing all they can. I begin to feel like that drunk chick at a party who corners someone to boozily lament about all of her wordly cares; ("and...then...like...he left me for my sister's friend and...like...I loved him...I...like....really thought we had a connection.")

Luckily, however, I was not the only one with a cane. When you're hanging with the over-40 set, you're bound to not be the only one twirling an Air-Ride cane with an ergonomically designed grip. And, indeed, there were probably a 6 or 7 other people limping along in their tuxes and evening gowns. Cane friends!

Alas, none of these canes were attached to handsome, single lawyers. I did, however, get to enjoy a sumptuous feast: fancy rolls; chicken soup with puffed pastry on top; salmon with micro greens and asparagus tips; beef tenderloin with bernaise sauce and Alaska crab on top and seasonal vegetables and a dessert table that boasted pretty much anything you could stick buttercream or chocolate into. It was pretty fancy business when $2 you-call-its and bar peanuts are your idea of a classy get-together. Yeah, I may have to rely on my parents for social occasions, but at least I get to eat tenderloin while I do it.

'Roid Rage

2009-12-03T13:28:00.000-08:00

If sometime around the evening of Dec 7th you find me out on the street lifting cars over my head and bending street lights into sculptural shapes while beating my fists on my chest, don't worry. Either it's a full moon or I've been endowed with super-human strength thanks to the dose of steroids I'll be taking. But Arley, you might be saying, don't you already have the strength of a lady ox? Why are you playing a friendly game of "Day in the Life of Mark McGwire circa 1999?"

Well, because nothing is ever easy when you're riding the Arley train. Today, I showed up bright and early to Vancouver General Hospital ready to have my hip socket receive some sweet lovin' from a big needle so that they could get a picture of what's going on with my Freaky Cyborg Hip. I changed into some sexy 18-sizes-too-big hospital shorts and limped off ready to steel myself, lie back and think of England. Soon, the technician came in to explain the procedure. He asked me some questions and everything was going swimmingly until I mentioned that I had experienced a freaky reaction to iodine contrast fluid a couple of years ago.

Long story short, when I was experiencing the world's most ridiculous case of mono, my spleen was so enlarged that you could see it poking out from under my ribcage and they did a CT scan to figure out what exactly was going on down there. After I filled out 8.3 million consent forms, they injected me with iodine to get a better look at my SuperSpleen, which was apparently cranky that it served only a minor purpose in the body and wanted a little more attention. I guess that SuperSpleen wasn't ready for its closeup, though, because a few minutes after the dye was injected, I turned bright red from head to toe and began to shake uncontrolably, which ironically wasn't one of the 8 million reactions listed on the consent form. The nurse gave me a big, old WTF, called a code something-or-other into the intercom and people started running around putting oxygen on me and hooking me up to monitors. Besides having to stay for an hour for observation (and being unable to drive my car home, which meant that A. had to come and get me), however, I was just fine.

Well, it turns out that sometimes when it comes to allergies, what starts as "shaking and turning red" could quickly turn into "big old heap of trouble" with repeated exposure. Long story short, they wouldn't do the test. Access denied! At first, I thought, "Well, darn, Arley. You should have kept your big, old mouth shut!" I realized very quickly, however, that it's better to postpone the test for a few days and be sure that I'm not going to have one of those "patient on 'House'" reactions.

So what's an allergic gal to do? Well, they're going to put me on a course of steroids and anti-allergy medications a day before the test and hope that the second time's a charm. Luckily, they were able to re-schedule me for Dec 8th, so the delay won't affect my appointment with Dr. SecondOpinion on the 21st. And, hey, maybe the steroids will make the rash I've had since the hip replacement clear up. Hey, a girl can dream.

Wait. You mean talking about your sex life in front of 250 undergraduates is a bad idea?

2009-12-02T13:55:00.000-08:00

After a 16-hour transportation pentathlon (car, train, walking in circles trying to locate the subway station, subway and plane), I'm finally back in Vancouver and right back to my old habits. Laying in bed: check. Watching the episodes of "House" I missed online: check. Chai latte: well, it was a half-sweet, nonfat caramel brulee latte because since I've been away from Vancouver for three weeks my yuppie street cred meter was in the red and I needed an extra dose of Starbucks-order ridiculousness, but still. It's good to know, however, that even though I'm now thousands of miles away, my legacy is shining brightly in Champaign-Urbana.

Case in point: two nights ago. A. and I wanted to see "The Road," but unfortunately it hasn't found its way to the thriving cultural metropolis of Champaign-Urbana yet; (you can, however, see "Twilight" pretty much any hour of the day). The only solution was to rent a video. When we were paying for the video, the cashier was looking at me oddly. I figured she must have just been dazzled by my Amazon-esque good looks or else was investing some major energy into figuring out why I was wearing two gloves on one hand and only one on the other (answer: my cane-holding hand gets cold because I can't put it in my pocket).

Just as we were about to leave, the cashier said, "I know this will sound weird, but did you ever talk at a human sexuality course?" Well, yes, that was me. Because of my herculean tolerance for embarrassment (it's kind of a super power), I was briefly the go-to person to talk about my sex life (don't laugh) in front of 250 undergraduates for the "Disability and Sexuality" panel every semester at one teacher's human sexuality class. I would talk about sex as a pain-control mechanism--I have actually had doctors tell me that I should have more sex for this reason, which was definitely on the top-10 list of "world's most awkward conversations" and a sign I should get out more (when your 50-year-old surgeon is urging you to have more booty calls, you just might be on a fast train to spinster-ville)--and various other people would talk about getting it on when you're a paraplegic etc. etc. In theory, this was supposed to enlighten the masses and prevent drunken college girls from having to boozily ask guys in wheelchairs at the bar if they can...like...you know....like...do it.

Now, see, the problem about me speaking at a human sexuality panel is that I tend to make jokes when I'm uncomfortable and it's not exactly easy to feel zen-like when you are staring out at a sea of 250 undergraduate faces hoping that none of these kids are also in your Rhetoric class while you try to explain that even though you'll never do the "reverse cowgirl passion pretzel," having a disability forces you to be familiar with your body in a way that able-bodied people rarely are and....You can see where this is going. Let's just say that I've walked out of several of these human-sexuality talks wondering, "Did I really just tell 250 people that I should incorporate myself as non-profit agency so that I can tell guys at the bar that having a one-night stand with me is tax-exempt under the charitable giving act because of what it does to my pain levels?"

I told the cashier that, yes, that had been me.

"Oh my God!" she said. "You were, like, the best thing about that class! People talked about you for weeks." (I'm sure they did).

"Thanks," I said. "I always walk out of those things suspecting that I've led people to believe that I'm a bit promiscuous."

"Yeah, totally!" she exclaimed. "You sounded like a total slut! It was so hilarious!"

I looked at A., who was biting his lower lip to keep from laughing and studying me in a way that said "why am I not at all surprised one single bit that this is happening?"

"Well, I'm glad you liked it," I said.

This exchange actually went on for a few more minutes, but I've forgotten most of what was said because I was too busy mulling over the fact that probably more people remember me for saying that I don't consider myself "wheelchair accessible" because most of the disabled guys I know are man-whores than they do for even my most soul-stirring speech on the importance of effective paragraph transitions.

Finally, as we were heading out the door, the cashier looked between A. and I and grinned knowingly. "You two have a good night," she said. I'm not sure, but I think she winked.

And you know what? I did have a good night. A good night of watching "Star Trek" with my cat stretched out on my lap. You know, like every good sexpert.