Ass Lasers to the Rescue!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Taking This Sitting Down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This Cane Was Made for Walkin'

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

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

See what I mean? Whiny.

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

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

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

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

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

Hip Replacement 2.0: The Anti-Ass Strikes Back

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Matter of Symmetry and Chafing

Anyone who's read this blog for more than a few minutes is probably familiar with the state of my anti-ass. (Reason #154 why I'm single, but who's counting?) For those of you who've had intensive psychotherapy to block out the mental image, let me jog your memory. The loss of my gluteus medius has cost me my ass, which has become an anti-ass which, whenever I sit on a hard surface, becomes a bruised anti-ass, which is red hot sexy and probably Reason #155 why I'm single. (And, yes, I have written more about my anti-ass than I have about the hip-replacement surgery itself. Priorities! The public needs to know!).

Well, feel sorry for my anti-ass no longer. Even though I still may be walking like the monsters in the Monster Mash music video (thanks, Cheryl), I have found a way to balance myself out. Actually, wheelchair basketball has found a way to balance me out. (See, wheelchair basketball. How could I ever break up with you?)

Today, I tried out a new strapping system. I upgraded from the "stretchy luggage strap" to the "weight-lifting belt around my midsection." Pro: I don't stand up every 3.5 seconds and am more stable. Con: my two hip bones have become massively bruised. These bruises, however, give me symmetry since they line up with the bruises on the back. It's like yin and yang. This is good news because my anti-ass now has an office mate in the Department of Complaints, Minor Inconveniences and Old-Lady-ry: the anti-hip. (I'm not sure if the muscles around my hip have actually worn away or if weight-lifting belt + midsection is just a natural recipe for some chafing).

Ok. Yes. I have actually just written a blog post about hip chafing, (which is still not as bad as my post about my monkey slippers). This, however, is serious business. I mean, what am I going to say to the old ladies at deep-water aerobics tomorrow? You just know that the minute I step out in my sexy one-piece bathing suit that's literally disintegrating from the chlorine rocking two huge bruises on my hips, Myrtle is going to be looking at Gladys and being like, "Check out that tall gimpy one. Homegirl obviously had a good night." And Gladys will be like, "Oh. Yeah." And Myrtle will be like, "Lord, I've been there. When I used to give it up against that bathroom stall back when in the '60s when I was strapped for cash, my hips were raw for weeks" and Gladys will be like...ok, too far? Too far.

Anyhow, the point is that deep water aerobics is bad enough without having old ladies speculating about how you wound up with bruises and chafing on your hips. Why do I get the sense that I'm the only one who ever has these problems?

Rats! Hate Rats!

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

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

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

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

What Not to Wear When You Are Missing Half Your Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Law of Cane Physics

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elementary, My Dear Watson!

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

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

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

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

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

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:

1. 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.")
   
2. 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.
3. 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."
4. (Most likely). He will say, "Gee. Thanks for the cookies." He will eat them. Nothing more than this will happen because if you're going to bribe someone, you should damn well pick a better incentive than chocolate-cinnamon cookies that resemble X-rays. I guess I will just have to give them in the spirit of the season, instead of the spirit of "please-fix-my-hip-I-will-do-anything-literally-anything-please."
   

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

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

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

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.

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.

Do-si-do-not-try-this-at-home

I have very few truly useful talents in life. If you want someone to make lace out of white Airhead candies, I'm your girl. Want a tasteful yet awkward yet kind of hot quadriplegic sex scene? I can do that. Want to insult someone's mother with an X-rated song about her sexual prowess? Done. (Long story). I do, however, have one skill that actually has positive effects in my life: a nearly limitless capacity for embarrassment, (which kind of explains the quadriplegic sex scenes and my hit song "Cobi's Mom"). When I was in France visiting my friend Doc, for example, I had no problems diving right in and butchering the French language (I speak only a bastardized, basketball-focused French, despite the fact that I am Canadian) if it meant that I might fit in with the locals. Sure, I made a fool out of myself 90% of the time (for example, saying "I demand pasta!" instead of "Can I please order some pasta?"), but I did learn a lot of French and I'm pretty sure the locals gave me an A for effort, even if I earned a "WTF are you trying to say?" in execution.

It was this capacity for making a fool out of myself that led me to try Contra dancing last night. My new roommate, M., plays in a contra-dancing band and when she noticed that I have a soft spot in my heart for fiddle music, (I'm Canadian; it's in my bloodstream), she invited me to come along. Contra dancing is kind of like square dancing, but not in squares. The caller teaches the dance and everyone walks through it, then the music strikes up and people dance their hearts out. Have you ever been to a Spirit of the West concert when they're playing "Home for a Rest" and everyone starts dancing in circles and linking arms and swinging each other around? Well, that's what contra dancing is like only more graceful and purposeful and complicated and not fueled by alcohol.

Now, I have a rather ambivalent history with this sort of dancing. I am from New Westminster, which is one of the few places (outside of the U.K, I'd imagine) that still celebrates May Day with folk dances and maypole dances. When I danced the maypole in Grade 4, my maypole got hopelessly tangled, (though I blame this on my partner whose name was Michael Rhodes and about whom, because he was kind of a jerk to me in the way that 10-year-old boys are often jerks, I had invented a truly mean song to the tune of "Michael Row the Boat Ashore" that started "Michael Rhodes is like a boat ashore: totally useless," which was the beginning of my career as a writer of inappropriate songs).

Anyhow, there's a reason why the equation of "really tall" + "cannot move her hip in various directions" + "walks like a polio-stricken duck" + "was once forced to dress up as a foam-rubber dinosaur during her jazz-dancing recital as a child, even though I was able-bodied at the time, because I was too incredibly awkward to be trusted to perform the dance moves" does not add up to "should dance in public."I, however, thought, "what the hell? The only thing I have to lose is my dignity and I'm pretty sure that flew out the window when I spent 5 minutes this morning trying unsuccessfully to zip up my boots by going fishing for the zipper with a wire coat hanger."

So, I went contra dancing. When I walked in to the gymnasium and saw dozens of people who were very good at the dances and even had special shoes for the sole (no pun intended) purpose of contra dancing and special skirts (some guy was even wearing a kilt) for the purpose of having more fun while twirling, I wondered if I would be able to participate without the aid of a couple shots of whiskey. I wasn't even sure that I would be able to dance in my jeans (which, because of my anti-ass, generally fall down dangerously low whenever I move) and my runners. Sure, people are nice now, I thought, but it's all fun and games until someone gets a concussion at the hands of a six-foot-two uncoordinated Amazon who do-si-didn't when she should have do-si-do'ed.

I quickly noticed, however, that everyone seemed entirely unselfconscious. No one seemed to mind if someone made a mistake. No one said, "Get your gimpy, uncoordinated anti-ass back to Canada." People were helpful and supportive and not at all condescending and seemed excited about having a new person to dance with. When you've spent three years in a grad school bubble, it's really nice to participate in the larger community and hang out with people from all walks of life. Besides, there were brownies, and I'll do pretty much anything for a brownie.

Also, I'd been reading Barbara Ehrenreich's "Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy," the thesis of which is that collective acts of joy actually play a vital role in both our own wellbeing and the health of our communities and that North American society is sadly bereft of these moments of unrestricted movement-based happiness. (There's more to her thesis and the book is actually pretty fantastic if you want to check it out). What would Barbara Ehrenreich do? I asked myself. She would probably bust a move.

So, yes, I hopped right in and tried contra dancing and luckily my roommate guided me through the first dance even when I got lost and/or dizzy from all that spinning. At the beginning of every dance, I was really awkward (surprise) and sometimes accidentally harmed people by slamming into them because I turned out when I should have turned in. And, yes, it is difficult to move in a circle when you cannot bring your left leg out to the side (curse you, detached gluteus medius!) or to the front (curse you, mysteriously not-working hip flexors!). And, yes, I did have flashbacks of myself circa 1992 dressed up in a fluorescent dinosaur costume tripping all the tiny dancing girls with my long, foam-rubber tail.

But, you know what? I actually had a lot of fun. One of the things I really miss about basketball is the combination of exercising while thinking. Basketball is a really brainy game; you make more decisions during one basketball game than you will off-the-court all month. There's something about hopping on an elliptical machine that, despite the happy exercise-induced neurochemicals, feels a little hollow. Engaging your brain while you engage your body is quite fun, especially when fiddle music is involved.

So will I take up contra dancing as my next extreme support? Maybe. My hip was more than a little cranky about being forced into various positions that it cannot physically do, but maybe that's good for it. Perhaps the cure for my hip is a steady regime of dancing, kittens, and mint-chocolate-chip brownies.

So, I Guess I Can Cross "Driving the Get-away" Car Off My List of Potential Occupations

For the past few weeks, I have been marveling at Dr. ___'s secretary's ninja skills. Well, I should have been taking notes because today showed that I clearly need some remedial ninja lessons. Stealth mode: you're doing it wrong.

Let me give you a brief synopsis of the evening:

• Attempted to dress as Julia Child, but got my big-ass arms stuck in the 1950's waitress costume my mom had. Spent 10 minutes trying to wiggle my way out of it. Finally had to get my mom to free me, which took another 5 minutes. Upon seeing me in my underwear, my mom remarked, "Oh my god! You have a gaping hole on the back of your leg!" Is it a bad sign when the only "oh my God!" moment you've had when naked in the past few months involved a) your mom and b) the extreme muscular atrophy surrounding your anti-ass?
• Dressed in my sister's Rainbow Brite costume, which screamed "wardrobe malfunction!" Discovered my mom's cache of '80s cocktail dresses and eventually picked out a kick-ass black-and-white polka dotted mini-dress with a huge train and a bow on the back and dressed up as a cigarette girl. (In my defense, I suspect that even the most cat-like ninja would be impaired by a train made of 2 feet of polka-dotted fabric and a great, big bow).
  
• Called A. to remind him to not let Mika out on Halloween so that she would be safe from fireworks and drunken assholes. As we were speaking, Mika did her own trick or treating by bringing in a dead bird and dropping it on A.'s backpack. (Snickers bar...lifeless finch....same diff).
  
• Went to Cheryl's house for a pumpkin-carving party. Did not carve a pumpkin because, really, the only positive thing to come out of me handling a knife would be a very exciting blog post.
• Finally, after a quick shower and Steph doing my hair and me being totally late, I arrived with Steph at Jay's party.

Now, see, I am not the hugest fan of Halloween, probably because I already walk like a zombie, so I pretty much celebrate the holiday year-round whether I want to or not. Unless you have a comfortable costume, (or you're drunk, which I wasn't considering the got-hungover-without-being-drunk fiasco of last weekend), you're pretty much guaranteed to spend the evening fidgeting around uncomfortably after the initial "like, oh my God, you look great. What are you supposed to be? I'm a slutty nurse/ladybug/witch/sorority-girl-with-devil-horns!" moment. And, let's face it, between the anti-ass and the swollen hip and the gluteus medius muscle detached from my body, "comfortable" is not something I feel on a regular basis, so my tolerance for restrictive clothing is pretty much at zero.

I was dressed as a cigarette girl, which means that I had the dress and little white gloves and a jaunty cap (it was really jaunty) and my hair done up and, of course, my cigarette tray filled with Popeye cigarettes (sorry, Popeye candy sticks). First, the gloves came off (didn't want to ruin them while gorging on chocolate and chips). Next came the cigarette tray (because it kept dumping candy cigarettes in my lap). Then, the hat, which (though jaunty) was giving me a headache. Then, my hair fell down so I took all the bobbie pins out. Within about an hour, my costume became less "cigarette girl" and more "broke-down '80s prom queen whose hair is out of control even by '80s standards because she's been getting it on in the back seat of someone's dad's Buick." It became increasingly clear that either I had to go home and lounge in my sweatpants or else I was going to get sick of the dress' boning and wind up naked.

So, at 11 pm (yes, lame, I know), Steph, L.P. and I tried to sneak out so that no one would give us the side-eye for our lameness. This was tricky for a number of reasons.

1. I was driving my mom's SmartCar, which only seats 2 and there were three of us
2. One of the three was wearing a gigantic polka-dotted cocktail dress with a train.
3. Everyone at the party was surrounding our car and lighting fireworks within a foot of it.

What's a ninja to do? Using our sneakiest of sneak moves, Steph, L.P. and entered the vehicle in a way that was probably more "clown car" than "crouching tiger, hidden dragon," since L.P. was sort of crouched side-saddle on Steph, holding on to her shoulders. Since the fireworks were in front of us (not to mention a crowd of innocent bystanders), we decided to pull a U-turn. Problem was, some middle-aged lady was so engrossed by festivities that she stood in front of my car and would. not. move. Blowing the horn was, of course, not an option, so we made frantic hand gestures. She didn't notice. More frantic hand gestures. Still nothing. I tried inching towards her in an attempt to give her a gentle love tap with my bumper; (I'm pretty sure the only injury you can get at the hands of a SmartCar is that you'll melt into a puddle from its cuteness). She still didn't notice. Finally, she tore herself away from the riveting spectacle of someone lighting one single firework to move the two feet we needed her too.

Next problem: while small, the SmartCar is difficult to turn because you can't crank the wheels when the car's not in motion. We therefore did (in front of everyone) a 96-point turn, trying to turn the world's smallest car around on a fairly big street. With everyone watching us. And me having more blind spots than Fox News because there was a mass of L.P-on-top-of-Steph-ness blocking my side mirror. And Steph laughing hysterically every time I did one more turn. Ninja. Fail.

After dropping both Steph and L.P. off, I went home to the loving arms (okay, legs) of my sweatpants, whereupon I noticed that my stuck-in-a-dress ordeal had left bruises on my arms. That's how stuck I was.

So, yes, happy fucking Halloween and bring on the daylight savings time.

Don't Call Us, We'll Call You: Takin' It Back to the Old School

Another day, another message on Dr. ___'s answering machine and I am beginning to feel like a stalker. If Dr. ___ had a facebook page, I would totally be creeping on him. (I just checked to see if Dr. ___ really does have a facebook page, but unless he dresses up as a 20-year-old goth kid with high cheekbones from Michigan on his days off, I suspect that he does not. Oh well. There goes my chance to beat him at Bejeweled Blitz or send him a fix-my-fucking-hip-themed snowglobe). So, yes, SurgeonWatch2009 continues with a vengance.

In the meantime, I decided to get out my frustration the old-fashioned way: by pumping some iron. I used to really like weight-lifting. There's just something about lifting hundreds of pounds of solid metal above your head that makes you go fuck yeah. In fact, back in the day my max bench press was 245 pounds. I was kind of a beast.

For about two years before the surgery, I couldn't weight train because a) I had some mono-related heart problems and for a good year the only exercise I was allowed to do was watch "Bulging Brides" or "Last 10 Pounds Bootcamp" on TV and b) when I was finally cleared to weight train, I almost immediately developed the "hip not staying in its little socket home" problem, which weight-training aggravated. Want to know what's not fun? Having your hip come out of its socket while you have over a hundred pounds of metal suspended over your head. True story.

Since it's been 2 years since I've done any serious weight training, I decided to go back to the basics so I didn't get injured, because Lord knows that the last thing I need is a torn rotator cuff to match my torn gluteus medius. If I'd had my way, I would have gone back to the modified Jillian-Michaels cardio-plus-mild-weight-training workout I was doing before the surgery, (which was fun in a "my face is so purple I suspect my head might explode" kind of way), but none of it was post-hip-replacement friendly. Luckily, I remembered that way back in 2001, when I was starting to get serious about weight training, a friend of mine sent me the program he used to do when he was a national-team wheelchair racer in the 1980's, which he had named the Lifting Heavy Things workout. Even more luckily, I am an email packrat and never throw anything out, and I had even saved the workouts in a handy folder.

I figured that since my life is beginning to resemble the summer of 2001 more and more (no job, living with my parents, etc. etc.) I might as well embrace the deja vu by taking my weight training plan back to where it started. You know, like the circle of life, but with lat-pulldowns instead of the whole birth/death/ashes to ashes business. The fact that the weight-training program was created in around 1986 didn't deter me in the slightest, since the '80s gave us all sorts of awesomeness, like Pavement and Felt and The Pogues and Jesus and Mary Chain and, of course, me. (Speaking of me being born, International Arley Appreciation Day is Nov. 15th. Mark your calendars and prepare your sacrifices to the Arley shrine that I know you have in your house. I will also accept mixed tapes/CDs and cake).

Anyhow, weight-training ended up being a rather ambivalent experience. Yeah, it felt good to feel the familiar lactic-acid burn, but on the other hand I was depressingly weak and kitten-like and nearly everyone was stronger than me. To those of you who say "stop comparing yourself to other people! It's the journey, not the destination!" I say, "What's the point of weight training if you can't out-bench-press teenage boys, causing them to crowd around your lifting station with ego-deflation and reverence, whispering amongst themselves that, dude, she can totally bench press more than you and she's, like, a woman?" Another downside: I was so unused to weight-training that my arms began to shake, which made using my cane a little wobbly.

It is, however, good to mix up the workout program. I've been relying too much on the elliptical machine, which is making my anti-ass swollen. This is not entirely bad, since it would be very easy for people to mistake the swelling for my having a real ass. Nothing like a little inflammation to even things out down there. It does, however, make sitting down particularly unpleasant.

Anyhow, yes, bottom line: despite the fact that my workout should be renamed Lifting Fairly Light Things To Prevent Injuries, it was a tiny, little victory. Considering my obsessive nature as of late, though, I will have to work hard to not over-do it. I don't want to have to report in a month's time that either a) I have become a quadriplegic from dropping a bench-press bar on my throat or b) my arms have gone all Popeye-on-steroids. Moderation: not one of my strong suits.

Okay, "WTF?" is Not an Official Diagnosis

Today, I saw my surgeon and I was expecting to be able to post an exciting blog entry; I was hoping for "Surgeon Waves A Magic Wand And Cures Me!" but I would also have accepted "Blog Indefinitely Postponed as Arley Serves a Jail Sentence for Taking the Surgeon Hostage Like In That Episode of 'House' But Finally Gets Answers When Some Plucky Intern Makes an Intricate Diagnosis With Only Minutes to Spare Before the FBI Open Fire." Well, I'm sorry to report that there were no fireworks/revelations/arrests/epiphanies/answers/ or throw-downs, which once again proves that my life needs to take a page out of the scripts of various TV medical dramas and wrap up after an hour.

After four hours in the doctor's office and probably 100 games of "WordFu" on my Ipod Touch, we're no closer to knowing what's the matter with me. At this rate, you'll be seeing me on one of those "Real-Life Medical Mysteries" shows along with that 16-year-old who stopped developing when she was a toddler. (The good news is, I'm getting closer and closer to my own TLC series: The Human Zombie Girl. Just in time for Hallowe'en).

After examining me, my surgeon agreed that, yes, something is clearly wrong with my hip. (Thank you, Dr. Obvious!) The X-ray, however, seems to be fine and, though we'll have to wait for the official MRI reports to know more, those look good too. Apparently, my prothesis has been nearly entirely cemented in by bone, thanks no doubt to my low-grade chai latte addiction. All is quiet on the Western front.

Now, see, this strikes me as strange. I can understand how some things would be very hard to diagnose. If you come in with abdominal pain, for example, it could be anything from ovarian cancer to a bad corndog to labour pains (there is, after all, an entire TLC series about women who didn't know they were pregnant). But how can two major muscle groups just stop working without any rhyme or reason? It's not like malevolent hip gnomes cast an evil spell on me or someone is jabbing pins into an Arley voodoo doll; (cut to some disgruntled Rhet 105 student cackling evilly and shouting, "I'll show her how to write a thesis statement. A thesis statement of pain!").

I know that the advent of quantum physics has shaken up our worldview--seriously, how can a thing be in two places at once?--but I maintain that the whole "causality" thing should still be in operation and that if two major muscle groups surrounding my hip stop working, there should be a concrete cause and that cause should be obvious on one of the many tests I've had. At least, however, my surgeon seems to understand that I'm currently sitting on the sidelines of the game of life and he needs to figure out what's the matter so that I can be subbed back in. He's going to have little chat with my neurologist once the MRI reports come in see if they can't figure out what's wrong with me. More tests may have to be performed, specifically something like "deep nerve testing." Why do I have the sinking feeling that my poor anti-ass is in for a lot more electrified needles?

The Anti-Ass Says No!

Yesterday, I wrote about wanting to train for a triathlon, where I would substitute the elliptical machine for running and the stationary bike for the real bike. Though my mom denounced the plan as my "imaginary triathlon" and I suspected that my physios would not be pleased, I did the first day of training yesterday: 48 minutes of stationary biking followed by 24 minutes of swimming. At the end of the day, I was feeling all cocky. I was going to do something useful! I would end each day with the pleasant feeling of exhaustion that working towards an intense physical goal brings! I would once again bask in the structure and purposefulness of a training plan!

Yeah, turns out I need to clear some room on my Shelf of Broken Dreams (right beside "becoming an Egyptologist" and "having the toned legs of a volleyball player") because the stay-put triathlon is on hold. In my enthusiasm, I forgot to ask permission from my anti-ass. Is the anti-ass down for more than 30 minutes on the stationary bike? No, it is not. The anti-ass says "hells to the N.O.!" I therefore woke up with a black-and-blue swollen ass so painful that I could hardly sit on it. I'll spare you the S&M similes, but suffice to say that there are more fun ways to get an ass that looks like mine. And those ways involve dungeons.

When I went to physio, even laying down was painful and I sheepishly told the physio of my plan. She rather gently suggested that "perhaps I should put the triathlon on hold until I can walk" and that "maybe I should avoid activities that are going to leave my buttocks black and blue." Good points and life lessons both! She did, however, acknowledge that perhaps I need to spend a little more time around "healthy people" to work out my frustrations (read: not the 85-year-olds with walkers) and should go on a training plan at a gym that involves more whole-body weight training so I feel a little more normal.

After physio, my mom and I headed downtown because the MRI people called me yesterday and said I needed to come in for follow-up images. I've never been called in for follow-up scans before, probably since before you didn't need any precise images to say, "Yeah, Arley's got a hip that looks like something a four-year-old would make out of Play-dough." Considering how the tech at my last scan was bragging about what great images they got, however, being called in again to spend some quality time chilling to MRI-techno is never a good sign. Especially since the radiologist had written "STAT!" in big letters over my chart and the technician referred to my scans (again) as "interesting."

As the technician strapped me into the machine, I for some reason felt the need to bring up my aching anti-ass.
Technician: Does it hurt your hip to lie down like this?
Me: No, it's just that my...buttocks...are a little sore and they're spasming and it's making my hip spasm too.
Technician: *while giving me one of those "you're one of those people who has a safety word, aren't you?" looks* .....did something happen?...
Me: Oh, no, it's just that I was cycling on one of those stationary bicycles and it always bruises my...rear end.
Technician: Oh.
Me: Yeah, so it feels like my ishial tuberosity bones are out of alignment, but really it's just the swelling in my ass...buttocks.
Technician: .... *writing down something in her chart that will probably make the radiologist giggle*
Me: It's kind of black and blue down there!
Technician: So, it's the stationary bike that caused it?

It turns out, however, that my anti-ass saved the day. After the scan, the technologist told me that my ass was indeed swollen (she asked several follow-up questions about the nature of my ass bruising/swelling), but that the swelling might actually have been useful, since it helped the technicians to see the muscles more clearly. That anti-ass: such a considerate little thing.

After the scan, I once again tried to milk information from the technologist and I was once again treated to a big, old "access denied." Probably for the best. Reading between the lines when it comes to MRI techs is a little like reading between the lines when your boyfriend makes some cryptic remark that leads you to believe that he is clearly having tawdry motel sex with some unknown woman, when really he is just playing some shoot-aliens-and-carry-big-guns video game at his friend's house and doesn't want you to know that he's about to spend the next two hours trash-talking his buddies using various anal-sex metaphors. (What is it, by the way, about the combination of men and video games that always results in elaborate homoerotic metaphors from even the most straight-laced of men?)

Anyway, the point is that "reading between the lines" very quickly devolves into "turning into a psycho hose-beast" and it's best not to fear the worst before the worst happens. Who knows what they saw when they peered into the dark recesses of my hip? Maybe they saw an image of the Shroud of Turin. Maybe they found weapons of mass destruction (I knew those lasers would kick in one of these days). Maybe my Freaky Cyborg Hip gave them a little wink and a wave and smiled with its eyes like Tyra Banks. Who knows? Either way, opening the MRI scans on my computer can only lead to, "Oh my God! See that little grey smudge that looks like clouds right beside that whitish-grey circly thing that looks like the wax in a lava lamp? Clearly, it's cancer!"

I will therefore let the radiologists and the surgeons do their jobs, while I'll do my job, (which is making elaborate lists of questions to ask the surgeon when I see him tomorrow. Questions like, "So...what the fuck, man?" or "Does this mean I've broken your streak of hundreds of perfect hip replacements?") Unfortunately, I'm currently doing my job all drugged up on pain meds and resting on my side to take the pressure off my anti-ass. Why do I feel another ass massage coming on?

A Moment of Silence for my Anti-Ass

A few days ago, I wrote about how my poor anti-ass was being put through the ringer with this whole recovery business. It's been bruised, massaged, jabbed with electrified needles and today, it again got man-handled within an inch of its life. Right now, my anti-ass is probably lodging a human rights complaint with the U.N. and trying to claim refugee status in Brazil (why Brazil I don't know, but when I was there I was impressed by the sheer number of women wearing spandex shiny pants, so I suspect they are a pro-ass culture).

Today at physio, I complained to my physiotherapist that I feel as if my ass bones (the fancy name for them is "ishial tuberosity") are out of alignment and that my hip's been really sore because of it. She decided to investigate. This investigation soon found me lying on my stomach with my underwear around my ankles (for the second time in three days!) as she "palpated" the area to see what the problem was, (which, again, was not nearly as sexy as it sounds). I was just glad that there were no electrified needles involved. As I squirmed and winced, she informed me that my ass was black and blue, probably because of the vigorous ass massage I received. Also, everything in the area was severely swollen and inflamed, which was inhibiting my ability to walk. You know how I thought that all my hard work had finally allowed me to grow an ass? Yeah, not so much. It was just swelling.

I therefore spent the next 30 minutes lying on my side with my pants down around my ankles with four suction-cups suctioned on to my ass, which were hooked up to a machine that sent an electrical current into the area to calm everything down. Unfortunately, the area was so sensitive that I felt as if I was being electrocuted in a very minute way. Now, I have four red circular welts in the shape of the suction cups all over my ass, which goes nicely with the bullseye-shaped rashes there. (Yeah, disregard that last post about wanting to get back on the dating market. I think this may take awhile). What's next for my poor ass? Waterboarding?

But the disappointment did not stop there. I've been ordered to stay away from the elliptical machine, which sucks the big suck because getting back on the elliptical machine was one of the high points of my recovery. Also, my physiotherapists do not want me to go back to Illinois. If I go now, they say, I will simply learn to compensate for my lack of hip flexors and I will never walk properly. (Also, they want me to stick around to get more tests on the whole "nerve damage" business). It's a tough call. 

At least, however, I will soon have a distraction from all this soul-crushing disappointment. Today is S's rehearsal dinner, tomorrow is our spa day (no more anti-ass massages!) and then Saturday is the wedding. My hip is going to have to suck it up because we're walking down the aisle whether it likes it or not...and we're catching that bouquet even if we have to do a nose dive on the floor and cut a bitch. Because that's how we roll.

Nancy, Prepare the Needle Room!

So, say you've slept roughly 7 hours in the past 4 days, the (delicious) Triple O Hamburger you ate the night before on the ferry is sitting like a lump of molten lava in your G.I. tract and your emotions are racheted up to the highest power by wedding-induced "I-believe-again-in-the-power-of-love-but-worry-I-will-end-up-living-with-500-cats-who-will-eat-my-face-when-I-die"-ness. What's the best remedy? The Post-Wedding Medical Professional Triathlon!

And so, instead of sleeping in and recharging my batteries before I once again board the wedding train, I got up at 7 a.m. for three medical appointments in a row. First up: physio! This was uneventful. I managed to get through the session, even though I nodded off briefly during my "try to touch your ass with your heel" exercise, because I have been going to physio so long that I could do my exercises after a lobotomy.

Second stop: a neurologist appointment. Now, my neurologist is a nice-enough guy, but every time I see him I wind up lying on a bed while he pokes electrified needles into various sensitive parts of my anatomy, making me feel more than a little like Frankenstein (as if the lurching around wasn't enough). I wasn't expecting to get jabbed, since I was hoping that the neurologist would just pat me on the back, give me a gold star and send me on my way. Yeah, not so much. Instead, the doctor examined me and said the five little words I was hoping not to hear: "Nancy, prepare the needle room." You'd think they would call it something nicer. Like, "Nancy, prepare the fuzzy kittens and hot fudge sundae room." Or even, "Nancy, prepare the room where bad things will happen briefly but then will be mercifully over." Fast forward to the doctor plunging his needle up and down vigorously into my hip (it sounds sexier than it was) saying, "Well, that's interesting," which incidentally are the other words you never want to hear out of a doctor's mouth. "Huh. That's certainly interesting."
"What?" I asked.
"It's hard to tell," he said. "Can you flip over? This is really interesting."
Which is how I wound up on my stomach with my underwear down around my ankles with the doctor putting his electric shock needle repeatedly into my ass, which was also not as sexy as it sounds. You know what? My poor ass. This blog may be about my hip replacement, but my poor anti-ass has really been through the ringer these days: getting bruised on hard chairs and stationary bicycles, getting vigorously massaged, and now, getting jabbed repeatedly with a needle that conducts an electric current through your nerves so you can hear them like whale song. What a little trooper.

According to the neurologist, he can now see signs of damage on my hip flexors, though it's difficult to tell whether it's old or new damage, and it could turn out to be nothing at all. Or, you know, it could turn out to be nerve damage and I'll never walk properly again. The neurologist ordered more tests.
"You know, you really have to make sure you do the exercises," he said. "You really have to be dedicated. Are you sure you're doing the exercises every day?"
What I wanted to say was: "Right. Dedicated. Do you know what I was doing at 6:30 a.m. yesterday morning? I was in the B.C. Ferries lineup leaning over the hood of my car as if I'd just been arrested, thrusting my leg out behind me repeatedly, while hundreds of people stared slack-jawed at me while they shuffled off to get their coffee, because even though I'd pulled an all-nighter, and even though I was out in public, I wanted to get my damn exercises in. And do you know where I was at 11:30 p.m. of that same night, even though I was so tired that I was literally going cross-eyed and I hadn't slept for 41 hours? Right. I was doing my exercises. Even though I was so fucking exhausted I could barely remember my own name, I was still doing my clamshells and pillow squeezes. I have a fucking PhD in Dedication with a certificate in Not Getting So Frustrated That I Throw My Cane Through a Plate-Glass Window. Do not even start with me or I will cut you."
What I said was: "Yeah."
"Because you have to do them every day," he said.
"I do them," I said. "I'm not keen to walk around like the Phantom of the Opera for the rest of my life."
He stared at me for a few seconds, then patted my leg reassuringly and left the room.

Next stop: my G.P. My appointment was for 11 a.m. and at 1 p.m. (two hours and five magazines later) he finally poked his head in the door. After hearing that I might have nerve damage, his suggestion was to send me to a physiatrist, which I mistook for a psychiatrist when he first said it.
"No," he said. "A physiatrist specializes in broken, damaged bodies like yours. Their job is to make the best of terrible situations where the patient is never going to get better. They come in after all the rest of the doctors have given up hope and tell you how to get the best out of your broken, damaged body, even though it will never be the same."
Well, thanks so much. Now I feel a whole lot better. At least someone knows what to do with my scrap-heap of a skeletal system. Do you think he counsels other people this way? "Don't worry Little Johnny. A dermatologist will be able to cure that digusting mess on your face that looks like someone dumped bacon grease all over the rotting remains of some lasagna and then lit it on fire repeatedly. I mean, by the time he's done, your face will be so pitted that most women will still throw up a little in their mouths when they see you but, hey, let's make the best of a bad situation."

Yeah, screw the physiatrist. All my broken, damaged body needs is a fifth of whiskey (why do I keep talking about drinking when there are nuns who drink more than I do?) and the Collected Works of Sylvia Plath.

Just a Friendly, Medically Sanctioned Ass Massage!

The day before S.'s wedding, everyone in the bridal party is going for fancy massages and I've signed up for some freaky lymphatic massage that is supposed to get all the toxins out of your system, since I figured I might as well start fresh before I put all the toxins back into my system with my upcoming diet of Lean Cuisine, ramen noodles and bathtub-brewed grain alcohol. Plus, who knows: it might do wonders for my skin rashes, which (in case you were losing sleep waiting for an update on my never-ending post-surgical rash war) have evolved into hives that look exactly like little bullseyes. I know. Fancy.

Today, however, I can go ahead and switch my lymphatic massage to a mani-pedi because I am already getting a free massage at physio. One of my regular physios is off on holidays. Luckily, the physio who is replacing her is very nice and is full of good ideas. It's good to have a fresh set of eyes to evaluate me. After all, I have less than two weeks to get my gait pattern looking a little less "night of the living dead"-ish before I walk down the aisle, so I will take all the help I can get.

During physio, I was complaining (as I am wont to do) about how I am nearly three months post-surgery and still cannot do a move known as "the clamshell" (I'll spare you the details), which I could do before my surgery, even though I am busting my ass (well, bruising my ass anyhow) doing three hours of rehab a day. The new physio's suspicion was that my muscles are too tight to physically perform the exercise and that they needed to be stretched and/or massaged.

First, she hung my leg off the side of the bed. Before the surgery, this move would be cause for a Grade A Ultimate Hip Freakout Spasm Dance Party and I had flashbacks of becoming stuck while getting out of my car, wedging myself in a half-prone position over the seat while trying to free myself and having to phone J.B. to come and save me. (Thanks, J.B.!) While my leg dangled over the bed, the physio reefed on my good hip to provide a better stretch, which caused me to squirm with discomfort since, according to the physio, "I have absolutely not a single ounce of padding there." The stretched worked. I got looser, but still could not do the clamshell.

Luckily(?), the physio had one more trick up her sleeve. Cut to me, a few minutes later, writhing around on the table so much that one of my socks came off, as the physio kneaded her palm, first into my thigh, but then right into the muscle on my anti-ass. Passersby slowed down to watch me squacking and flapping around as the physio gave me a vigorous ass massage, as if she was auditioning for a role on "Physios Gone Wild." (Why is it that so much of physiotherapy involves me performing moves that I usually won't do without being bought dinner and a movie first?)

Now, I have a high pain tolerance. I once allowed a doctor to inject hundreds of needles full of sugar water into the ligaments around my spine (you know, for kicks) without complaint and I put up with my hip's diva antics. In fact, the pain post-surgery has been easy to deal with (my surgeon keeps reminding me that he hammered a long metal spike into my femur, so I probably should be in more pain), most likely because my theory is that if I'm not shaking and puking, it's nowhere near as bad as it used to be. Still, I will admit that when the physio was going to town on my anti-ass like it was a lump of bread dough and red-hot agony was radiating throughout my entire leg, I had to go to my happy place for a little bit. But, man, when she finally (finally) stopped and the pain went away, my hip felt fan-freaking-tastic. It was a beautiful day in the neighbourhood indeed.

I had to hand it to her: the medically sanctioned ass massage worked. At the end of her treatment, I could almost kind of do a quasi clamshell! Victory! Not only did I show a bit of progress in the hip-strength department, but I also can check "first post-surgical ass grab" off the list of post-hip-replacement firsts. Done and done!

The physio assures me that I can repeat the massage on myself by using a tennis ball. I know that I will be able to massage my thigh just fine, but I'm still not entirely sure how I'm going to perform a solo ass massage. So, if you come to visit and you find me up against a wall pressing a tennis ball into my ass and making groaning noises, don't judge! It's doctor's orders! Just be happy I'm not asking for volunteers.