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

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

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!

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

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!

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

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?

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.