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

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.

Up in the Air

Last night, I went to see "Up in the Air" with Steph, Adrian and their friend K, which is about a guy who flies around the country firing people until a young upstart tries to create an online firing system that would ground him permanently right as he's about to earn the coveted "10 million miles" frequent flier card. He takes her on a trip to show her the ropes and ends up rethinking his relationship-less existence. (Those of you wondering what my excuse for a relationship-less existence is, I say shut up. I have friends!)

Actually, George Clooney's character's life on the road didn't seem so different from mine when I was an athlete except that instead of a plane, it was a bus (at least for the varsity stuff) and instead of fancy-pants hotels, it was this hotel in Oklahoma that had an unlocked secret passageway behind all of the rooms and various fist-size holes in the walls; (that's not fair, actually. We did stay at quite a few Hampton Inns with their warm cookies in the lobby and their free make-your-own waffles).

Like George Clooney's character, I once traveled enough to have an efficient, zen-like packing routine. Unlike George Clooney's character, however, my mental packing checklist included items such as "Is the foam-rubber wedge you use to keep your hip from subluxing that you have named Gregory James Mantooth both present and wrapped in plastic to prevent its smell of sweat and Lysol from contaminating your clean clothes?" or "Do you have your bag of Krazy Glue, Nu-Skin, bandages, cotton gloves and industrial-strength "Working Hands" salve designed for people who work outdoors in extreme weather conditions to prevent and repair hand cracks?"

Also unlike George Clooney's character, I have the unfortunate combination of incredibly long legs and a hip that refuses to be wedged into tight spaces, plus the added awkwardness of the fact that my hip is fake and I have to go through the whole "the metal detector is beeping because I have a fake hip...yes, I know I'm young...No, I really had a hip replacement....there is no need to be fondling the waistband of my jeans like that. I generally require people to buy me dinner first...."conversation. Unless I have the aisle seat, it is literally impossible for me to sit in a coach-class seat, which means that I have gone to some pretty spectacular lengths to get one, including the time I bought a gin and tonic for a New Orleans Saints player if he would give me his aisle seat and then talked with him for 2 hours about Noam Chomsky, which he was reading. (Go Saints!)

The disorientation that George Clooney's character feels when he goes from a life of endless travel to being grounded, however, really resonated with me, as I think it would resonate for anyone who's ever retired from any sport or job. Even though I don't like traveling, I do like the 95-miles-an-hour-dangerously-skirting-the-line-of-utter-collapse-juggling-8000-balls-in-the-air-built-in-excuse-for-not-internet-dating lifestyle. That's why I'm glad that after 8 months of stewing in the slow cooker of hip-replacement recovery, I've finally hopped back into the pressure cooker.

For one, I have a full-time job now in addition to my internship for the publishing house. I'm a Communication Coordinator for the 2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships and I'm doing a lot of their social media stuff. You can check it out on Facebook ("2010 World Wheelchair Rugby Championships"), Twitter @2010wwrc and online at www.2010wwr.com. Those of you who have seen "Murderball" will know that wheelchair rugby is a kick-ass sport, so any of you in the BC area will have to come check it out from Sept. 17 - 26th. Tomorrow, I'm also moving back to Champaign Urbana and will try my best to overtax myself to the point of exhaustion with a social life, a job, a writing career (one of these days, I really need to stop writing about American truckstops and turn my attention back to a novel), and an internship. Oh, and I might start training with my old varsity team if my hip cooperates. I may get another case of mono, but at least I won't be bored!

Now here's hoping that that whole "German guy with the sword in the cane" thing won't add an additional few hours of security frisking to my airport routine.

Just another moment in my glamorous life

I have spent the past 15 minutes trying to figure out whether the creatures swinging from branch to branch in the tree outside my window are baby squirrels or some crazy brand of tree rat. On the positive side, they have tails that could be described as "fuzzy" and are going to town on the unripe walnuts in the trees in a distinctly squirrel-like fashion. On the "rat" side, they are missing large patches of fur and have weird beady little eyes and we have suffered tree rat infestations in the past, since our cats are ridiculously useless in the "doing their job" department, catching only one single rat, which had already been caught in a trap, and then putting great effort into bringing said rat upstairs still in the trap (crowing with pride all the while and strutting around) and dismantling it in our hall.

The amount of mental energy I am expending on this important issue suggests that it might be time to dust off the old resume and look for employment. My plan was to spend another year in Champaign-Urbana, Illinois, where I went to grad school, and teach various forms of writing. Since school starts in about two weeks and I haven't heard, however, I'm guessing that I'm going to get my little Canadian ass put on the first bus back to Vancouver.

And, so, I am taking stock of my employment options. Alas, "MFA in Creative Writing" does not necessarily translate into "give me a corner office and stock options." I'm beginning to see the flaws in my previous life plan, which was to have Oprah feature my first novel on her show and get me a million dollars in royalties, which I would use to purchase a house in Berkeley and spend the rest of my life selecting the perfect organic carrots from the farmer's market and raising babies. (Come on, Oprah! What do you have against quadriplegic sex scenes? Let's go!). Alas, the royalities from "Post" have so far topped out at around $800, which is hardly keeping me in the lifestyle I've grown accustomed to and would barely support my chai-latte habit.

Here is the problem. I am still having trouble with the whole "sitting down and standing up" business. This means that traditional jobs open to MFA grads (read: Starbucks) are off-limits to me. I am therefore on the hunt for a job that doesn't require me to sit for long periods of time, stand for long periods of time, or come home smelling of grease and ketchup. Ideas? Suggestions? Offers of marriage to a wealthy (but handsome and intelligent) man? What sort of jobs are hip-replacement friendly?