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.
You say limp. I say swagger.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Oh for Cat's Sake!
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.
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.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Think Fast!
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.
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.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Blogging With My Mouth
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!
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!
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
It's the Final Countdown
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.
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.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Things To Do In Denver When You're Gimpy
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.
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.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Freaky Cyborg Hip ENGAGE! Power up! Attack!
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.
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.
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