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!
You say limp. I say swagger.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Must. Remain. Positive.
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.
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.
Monday, December 21, 2009
"This sure here is a lot of shit happening"
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!
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!
Sunday, December 20, 2009
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...Craziness!
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."
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.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Have Yourself a Merry Little Baking Bender
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?
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I'm Sorry, I Thought You Were a Traffic Cop, Not the Fashion Police
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
And So This is Christmas And What Have You Done?
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.
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.
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