Getting Back On the Bike

This May, I rode a bike for the first time in 17 years.

You might say to me, “Wow, riding a bicycle. Colour me impressed. It’s not like my four-year-old niece goes off-road extreme mountain biking and punches cougars in the face when she encounters them out in the wilderness or my 80-year-old grandma is training for her 18^th triathlon and built her own bike out of the bamboo she cut down herself during her trip to Nepal or anything. Did you bust out your fanny pack for your epic trip around the Seawall?”

Okay, yes, I realize that I am living in the epicenter of the Active Westcoast Lifestyle and everyone and their dog rides a bike here. This, however, is a big deal to me because it’s literally the only thing I can do post-hip-replacement that I couldn’t do before. (Well, I have found a few extra uses besides bike riding for my newfound ability to straddle, but let’s not go into that).

I resisted posting about this for several months because the person who taught me how the ride a bike is someone I was casually dating at the time. It’s a long-standing opinion of mine that blogging about an ex (even a casual, short-term-relationship type ex) is a one-way ticket to AwkwardTown with stops along the way at AiringYourDirtyLaundryInAWayThatWillCauseYouShameVille and TheMinuteYouMentionDatingCreepersOnTheInternetAreImaginingYouFucking-opolis.

I’ve decided to blog about learning how to ride a bike, however, because so much of Young and Hip has chronicled my disappointment with my hip replacement. I often get emails asking me if I regret it, and I worry that I am talking people out of a life-altering surgery. But even though I’m over a year post-hip-replacement (and two years since the first one), my hip still swells up like the ass of a baboon in heat if I try to do such extreme sports as…deep water aerobics. Or walking down the street. Or sitting in a chair for longer than 20 minutes. I still walk with a cane. I can never play wheelchair basketball again. If I work out for more than a couple of days a week, I’m in constant pain. Over the past year, I’ve honestly struggled with the knowledge that this is as good as my hip will ever get.

But back to the bicycling. I met D. on an online dating site. I was immediately comfortable around him, which is astounding because usually on dates I talk like a crack-addicted LOLcat (“O HAI!!”) and knock things over with my elaborate hand gestures. A few weeks after we met, I mentioned that I wanted to learn how to ride a bike. I joked about getting adult training wheels so I wouldn’t fall and bring about Total Hip Replacement 3: Rise of the Prosthetic Fractures. D offered to teach me.

I assumed that he meant that we would rent a bike by the seawall and he would attempt to catch me if I looked to be veering towards certain death. But D. surprised me by researching how to safely teach an adult how to ride a bicycle. Thanks to a few websites and several Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies becoming confident cyclists, he came up with a plan. (Is it a bad sign that one of the nicer things a man has ever done for me involved Youtube videos of old Chinese ladies?)

And so, on one of those rare Spring days when it’s sunny in Vancouver and your Seasonal Affective Disorder calls in sick, D and I went to Stanley Park armed only with the wisdom of the internet. D’s method involved me coasting down a grassy hill first with my feet touching the ground to get a feel for the movement, then again with my feet up, then finally while pedaling. And it was….really easy. Though the writer in me died a little, I had to admit that the cliché is true: you really never forget.

This was a surprise because when I tried to ride a bike several years before the hip replacement, I couldn’t get my left leg on the pedals, it nearly got caught in the chain and A. (who was holding on to both me and the bike) and I ran into a tree. This time, however, I took off riding up a hill. Wobbly, yes. Slow, absolutely. Graceful, sure as hell not. I, however, felt like Lance Fucking Armstrong winning the Tour De Fuck You Hip Replacement Because That Shit Just Happened.

D. and I took a break for lunch and then he rented a bike and we rode together around the Seawall. Because of my lack of speed and the fact that I was wobbling more than Lindsey Lohan after a rough night, cyclists kept chiming at me. At first, I mistook this for a friendly salute, as if they were saying, “Greetings and salutations fellow cycling enthusiast! May your journey be safe and free of ass-chafing!”, but D. informed me that ringing your bell is actually cyclist speak for “fuck you.” (Well chime chime to you too, Vancouver bike commuters).

Soon, however, I was coasting down hills, picking up speed and wondering how long it had been since I’d gone fast. That’s the one thing I miss about sport, and it’s something that elliptical machines can’t replace: just going balls out fast. I will spare you any clichés of feeling free – nothing’s free in Vancouver, let’s be honest – but for the first time my long recovery felt over. I was ‘better.’ Sure, it wasn’t the better I expected or wanted, but even though my hip was swollen and my back was sore and my anti-ass was like “fuck off right here and now,” it seemed like a better I could live with.

I looked at D., who was flushed from pedaling and who had gone to all this effort to teach me how to do something he didn’t even enjoy, and at Stanley Park, which was being all picture-post-cardy, and I thought: Best. Date. Ever. And that feeling continued for several more weeks….until it didn’t. And then it was over. There’s a Gloria Steinem joke here somewhere.

After the breakup, I’ll admit that I spent a day or two sulkily listening to “Blood on the Tracks,” but it doesn’t take long to get over a six-week thing with someone you only saw a couple of times a week. And it’s even easier once you realize that that the only thing shittier than a breakup is being unable to date because you’re stuck in bed post-surgery injecting yourself with bloodthinners and groggily watching some reality TV show about the joys of home renovation.

Because – watch out people! Literary Device Alert! Here comes a very subtle metaphor because I am a fancy, fancy writer! – after two years of medical limbo, I am happy to be back on the dating bike, and the social life bike, and the getting the fuck on with my life bike. (That’s a lot of bikes. What’s the metaphorical equivalent of padded bike shorts?) And even though it means accepting the notion that the cane is here to stay, I’m happy that the Great Hip Replacement Debacle is receding into a small point in the rear view mirror. It’s nice to not to catch myself starting the bulk of my stories with, “So I was at physio and an old lady said…”

So even though it didn’t lead to happily ever after, I’m glad to have a story that begins with the phrase “So I was dating this guy and he taught me how to ride a bike,” even if it ends with the phrase “yes, grandma, I’m still single. No, I’m not a lesbian.” Because several weeks after D. and I broke up, I bought myself a bike. Her name is Dorothy Mantooth and right now I only ride her around the quiet streets in my neighbourhood because cars seem like huge metal dinosaurs chasing me, though I have delusions of becoming a Serious Biker Who Wears Spandex And Refuels With Those Energy Gels.

A few weeks ago, I rode around the Seawall again. I passed a gaggle of elderly ladies stopping every few seconds to take photos of birds. I passed a tourist couple who kept announcing Vancouver’s beauty every 3.8 seconds to one another. I even passed a pair of girls who looked mildly athletic. Granted, I got my ass handed to me by several middle-aged rollerbladers, but let’s go ahead and chalk this up to a solid victory.

So if you’re in the Vancouver area and you see a very tall girl on a white bike making the Seawall her bitch, that is me, and I’m passing on the left. Chime chime, motherbitches!

And if you’re not in Vancouver and you’ve had a hip replacement and are looking for a safe way to relearn how to ride a bike without falling, here is a video of me doing so on a very good day with a guy I was dating. If you want to do a drinking game to this clip, take a shot everytime I say “yay!”

Back in the Saddle Again

I have just four words to describe my first post-surgical outing to the PNE:
Deep.
Fried.
Oreos.
Yes!

Okay, I would have to step down as the Crown Princess of Verbosity if that was my entire post, but luckily there's a lot more to say on the subject. I'm not sure what lead me to think, "Gee, I have been in bed for a month straight and have had major surgery, so I should really ease myself back in to the land of the living by going to Vancouver's largest summer fair on a long weekend along with thousands of other people who would shank your mother for the last mini-donut....for 8 hours."

Actually, that particular thought process was caused by a few key factors:
1) I'm kind of a moron when it comes to gauging my tolerance for things.
2) I heard the siren song of the funnel cake in all its deep-fried, powdered-sugary-y seductiveness. Also: the siren song of the cotton candy, the poutine, the fresh-squeezed lemonade, the donairs, and (of course) the deep-fried oreos. It was a veritable siren-song doo-wop group.
3) It was a chance to spend time with several of the friends I still have in Vancouver. Plus, sometimes you've just got to give your hip a little pat and say, "Okay, hip. You've been in the driver's seat for the past month, but now it's time to scootch over to the passenger's seat and buckle up tight because I'm about to rev the engine."

The problem with going places post-hip-replacement is not the walking, though granted that sucks quite a bit. No, the real issue is sitting. There are many different shows at the PNE (the horse jumping....the Chinese acrobats...the SuperDogs...the random guy in a booth who spray-paints a Hummer about 8 million times a day then cleans it with some special cleaning product and progressively gets more loopy as the spray paint fumes get to him) and all of these shows require sitting on hip-precaution-breaking seats. I therefore had to travel with a chaperone: my huge-ass hip replacement cushion.

I thought I was being crafty by shoving the hip-replacement cushion into a backpack. The problem: getting it in and out of the backpack was harder than squeezing my ass into skinny jeans. It was literally a two-person job. Maybe my hip-replacement cushion had also been snacking on some deep-fried oreos, because as the day progressed, it got harder and harder to wrestle it into the bag. Worse: the person who ended up helping me was Shira and Jeff's friend C., who I barely know, and whose system has not built up a tolerance to my usual level of ridiculousness. (He was, thankfully, very nice about the whole thing). Nothing like the phrase "Hi, nice to meet you. Want to spend part of your relaxing weekend help me shove an ass cushion roughly the width of your grandma's Laz-E-Boy into this backpack 8 or 10 times a day?" to really make an impression. Really good way to meet people in Vancouver.

Still, it's good to know that I'm easing my way back into the saddle (the metaphorical saddle...the literal saddle would break hip precautions). Giddyup!

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.....

Oh for Cat's Sake!

During my first flight after the hip replacement, I was a portrait of patience and tolerance. Mostly, this was because my incredibly slowness meant that I was the one holding up all the lines and stopping traffic. Back then, my attitude was, "yeah, it sucks to have to wait in line, but it's better than getting your leg cut off then put back on again in the wrong configuration." I was the Buddha of the Bank Line. The Gandhi of the Grocery store. If you took 5 minutes to select the exactly perfect box of Tic Tacs while standing in line, I would merely smile beatifically, basking in my own newfound sense of perspective.

Right now: not so much. Over the past year, I've gotten faster and with every second I shave off my sprint to the boarding gate, my tolerance levels wear a little thinner. For example, this morning I was waiting in line in the Champaign airport to go through security and the young couple ahead of me with a baby were receiving a failing grade in the Putting Your Shit in the Little Trays and Walking Through the Metal Detector 101. Could not do it. Could not.

They stared at the baby buggy as if it might fold itself up and slide itself through the screening machine. They gestured helplessly. They expressed surprise at being asked to remove their shoes, despite the three signs posted informing people to do this. The woman walked through with her cell phone in her pocket, then walked through again with her keys in her pocket, and while I fully understand that this woman's brain is probably fried with sleep deprivation, I had a brief flash of wanting to inform her that if she doesn't know that her cell phone or her keys or the change in her pocket or Lord knows what else is made of metal, then she's too stupid to reproduce and she should probably give the baby to me. (Part of this could have been the coffee deprivation and the fact that it was 6:30 a.m.).

I have no idea why this is. You'd think that the fact that I spent a good three months taking 20 minutes to walk around the block would give me some empathy towards other people's struggles. Incorrect. Instead, I want to go around telling people, "Look. I'm gimping along on a semi-detached ass and a hip socket that clunks more than the dialogue in any of the Twilight movies, and I seem to be doing just fine in the 'taking care of my shit' department. Please explain to me why you, with two working legs and two working arms, are finding the act of taking off your shoes, putting them in a bin, and running them through the screening machine to be so insanely difficult."

Alas, my bitchery has earned me an ass-kicking in the traveling karma department. First, my flight was stranded on the tarmac because of storms in Detroit for 2 hours. Then, it finally landed in Detroit was was delayed for 3 hours. So now I'm sitting in the Metro Detroit airport trying not to stare at a skinhead who has a swastika tattooed on his scalp and skeleton arms tattooed over his actual arms. (If you're going to be a neo-nazi, wouldn't you pick a place other than Detroit to live?). An elderly woman is standing by the gate, clutching her ticket and saying loudly, "For cat's sake! It's going to be another hour? Oh, for cat's sake!" (Somewhere, Mika is approving of a person substituting the word 'cat' for the word 'God'). It's clear that I have some serious atoning to do to the Gods of Travel if I ever want to get to Ottawa (I'm heading here for the Canadian national wheelchair rugby championships). Maybe I should sacrifice a chicken.

Things To Do In Denver When You're Gimpy

On this blog, I do my fair share of complaining ("My ass isn't attached!" "I walk like a broke-down marionette being operated by someone who's high on paint thinner!" "America keeps trying to break up with me, despite my clinging harder than Jessica Biel on Justin Timberlake!"). When you break it right down, however, my life is pretty sweet.

I mean, a few days ago I was hanging out in a hotel room in Denver with L.T., who plays for the Australian national team. The last time I saw L.T., we were in a cafe on the streets of Paris eating dainty pastries and speaking the kind of French that made actual French people ask me if I was sure I'm Canadian, since don't Canadians speak French? (In my defense, I took Chinese in high school). L.T. remarked on how great it is to have the kind of lifestyle where you can hang out in Paris with someone a few years back, get drunk on pineapple tequila shots with them in a bar in Champaign Urbana, then chill in a hotel room with them in beautiful Denver, Colorado. I mean, who else can say that? Who else has that life?

Yes, I am indeed lucky. Right now, my two passions (wheelchair basketball and writing) have come together in Denver. (Denver the city, not Denver my brother....which is a source of endless confusion). My former wheelchair basketball team the Fighting Illini are playing today in the national championship (I-L-L! I-N-I!) and there's also a huge creative writing conference called AWP on. It's like someone designed a weekend just for me.

Now, I tend to be a pretty shy person. I was 20 before I could look people in the eye and, even now, meeting new people tends to give me the same symptoms as overcaffeination/ meth addiction: talking quickly! Making large hand gestures that occasionally cause me to hit people in the face or knock steaming cups of coffee into my lap! Slight tremor of the hands! (The fact that I am usually overcaffeinated on top of this doesn't help matters). For that reason, AWP gives me the cold sweats. Not only are you supposed to talk to people, but those people are generally anti-social writerly types like yourself, who are equally nervous and overcaffeinated but who suspect that their entire writing career might rest on their ability to charm someone at the conference into publishing their brilliance. (The fact that half of these people confuse "writer" with "someone who wears outlandish clothing in a bid to get attention" is topic for another day).

Until last night, the only new person I had met at AWP was the woman who also walked with a cane (cane friend!) who I met in the registration line-up. We bonded over our mutual gimpiness and our taste in canes (she had a sleek fold-up model with a little hook on the end so you can prop the cane up against tables and stuff and it won't fall over on the people and cause great injury and embarrassment) and the fact that we were wasting our walking time standing in line. Luckily for me, this Cane Friend was not afraid to tell the woman in charge of registration that they should have a special line for people who had trouble standing and got us to the front of the line, saving us at least 30 minutes! Go Cane Friend! The registration lady obviously didn't want to face the wrath of two angry chicks armed with metal poles.

During the conference, however, I tended to keep my head down. Like, what was I supposed to say to people? "So....do you like words?....Because I like words...." "So....are you wearing that fedora ironically?....." "So...do you also find the bookfair filled with thousands of people whose sweat smells like raw, unbridled ambition a little disconcerting?"

Luckily, however, you don't need social skills when you have good friends. Last night, M. and I hit the town and stumbled upon a fiction reading at a cool little bar. M. is a social butterfly and quickly made friends with tons of people, dragging me into the conversation with her. Long story short, we ended up at a party in a house/gallery talking to all sorts of writerly types about writerly things. Thanks to M.'s icebreaking/wingman skills and the assistance of some Coors Light (hey, when you're in Denver drinking Coors is practically a requirement) and Fat Tire, I ended up speaking words to people I did not know! This is progress, considering that most of my social skills were learned when some of the lesbians on the Canadian national team got sick of watching me blush and stammer my way through interactions and took it upon themselves to teach me how to pick up men (I know, I know) and would give me little homework assignments at tournaments (talk to 5 people, find the "sole mate" of one of the single-leg amputees on the team, etc) in attempt to hone my skills. That, however, is a story for another day.

Freaky Cyborg Hip ENGAGE! Power up! Attack!

In the 9 months since my surgery (has it already been 9 months? Is it a bad sign that it takes longer to fix my hip than it does to turn a speck of genetic material into a fully formed human being?) I have been waiting for my Freaky Cyborg Hip to wake up and go rogue. My new hip's not too great for the whole "walking" thing, so I figure it probably has other strengths: like shooting lasers...or destroying Tokyo...or even just re-enacting the Pink Floyd Laser Light Show. Who knows?

Well, today my Freaky Cyborg Hip got its chance to power up. I was in the security lineup at the Vancouver airport and after a mild bout of security-sanctioned groping, they asked me if I would like to step into the full body scanner. I jumped at the opportunity. (And by "jump" I mean "gimped over in the direction of the scanner in my socks hoping that the fabric of my socks was tough enough to ward off the swamp of foot fungus that must be on those carpets"). I mean, first of all, any day when I get off easy in the security-line groping department is a good day. (Those of you thinking that beggars can't be choosers need to check yourselves). But second of all: stepping into a weird, pod-like scanner and being pelted with lord knows what rays seemed like a good way to engage the Freaky Cyborg Hip. Isn't that how it happens in the movies? The hero steps into a pod and thanks to the Miracle of Science gets transformed into a cyborg?

Standing on the little footprints in the body-scanner cylinder and raising my arms above my head as the machine scanned my body, I felt like a freaking Power Ranger or Clark Kent in the phone booth or Iron Man or that guy in Avatar. I could almost hear the voice over: "She thought she was the recipient of a malfunctioning hip replacement. She thought she was heading to a small midwestern college town. She was wrong. This April, one woman learns that a journey of a lifetime can begin with a single, gimpy step. Arley McNeney stars in....Hip To Destruction." (What? You don't narrate your own life in the voice of Don LaFontaine?)

Any moment, I suspected, the cyborg in me would be activated and go on a rampage. And frankly, seeing as how the customs guy was going through Every. Single. Thing in my backpack and inquiring as to whether my Moroccan Hair Oil was "medicine" (I told him that it was, if bad hair counts as a medical condition), I could hardly wait. I was like, bring on the lasers, Freaky Cyborg Hip! Let's get this party started!

Not so much. I gimped out of the body scanner and was so busy trying to get a peek at what was shown on the monitor (spoiler alert: they don't show any nudity) that I bumped smack into an attractive guy. I apologized. Then, while putting on my backpack, I hit the same guy in the shoulder. I apologized. THEN, I turn to grab my cane, it slipped and I hit the guy AGAIN! With my cane! This poor guy thought he was going for a friendly vacation and I end up beating the shit out of him in the customs line!

Instead of activating the rambo switch on my Freaky Cyborg Hip, someone activated the "romantic comedy" switch! This is not quite the destruction I was looking for. Instead of destroying Tokyo, I reminded myself why I will probably die alone in a small apartment and my 57 cats will eat my face. Psyche/ self confidence destruction doesn't count! Worse, it was all the romantic comedy embarrassment without any "falling in love and living happily ever after" business. I've said it before, but I'll say it again: I want my money back.

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.

Jump! Might as Well Jump!

Another day, another deep-water aerobics class where I find myself straddling a pool noodle while rocking back and forth, thinking: damn, some of those old ladies sure can grind it! When the closest you get to rockin' the sexy-cowboy position involves a pool noodle and the company of dozens of old ladies you are either a kinky, kinky mofo or else need to take out an E-harmony profile. (Which I will not do, because getting rejected from E-harmony would just be the last straw. If E-harmony declines to match me with singles on the deepest levels of compatibility--yes, I do watch too much tv, thank you for asking--you might as well drop off a shipment of 10 cats and a do-your-own-macrame kit because I would be down for the count in the boxing-ring of love).

I will say this about deep-water aerobics, though: I do like grooving to '80s music. In fact, I have been humming that "jump! Might as well jump!" song throughout my day, even though I couldn't jump if you put a lifetime supply for chai lattes a few inches above my reach. Still, if I could dance with 90% of my body hidden safely under water, my entire life would be like being in a musical because you could not stop my feet from flying.

Lately, my mom has taken to telling me about how she read that every minute you sit on your ass, you take a certain number of hours off your life. (Yeah, I should probably cash in my chips now). In this spirit, I decided to take Sashimi (my sister's dog) for a walk. I think I've mentioned that Sashimi is less a "dog" and more a "fur child." She is a little ball of fluff and her main motivation for going on walks is that random strangers lavish attention on her. The sidewalk is her runway! The park is her stage! The strip of grass outside our house is her fancy, fancy bathroom! (Now, granted, if someone would comment on my beauty every time I stepped out of the house, I would be walking more than the postman).

Walking a dog when you're using a cane is like living in an episode of Mr. Bean. The dog (complete with hot-pink leash) does not want to walk on the side of you without the cane. She wants to be on the cane-side, running circles around the cane, causing it to get tangled up and forcing you to do little twisting, half-pirouette movements to keep from reenacting that scene in "101 Dalmatians" where the two humans meet for the first time and wind up tied up in a compromising situation thanks to their dogs' leashes. Except, you know, instead of being tangled up with my future husband thanks to the wacky hijinxs of our dogs, I was tangled up in my cane with my feet sinking in water and mud.

It doesn't help that Sashimi dislikes going to the bathroom in the rain and lead me on a hunt for 30 minutes trying to find a place to drop a special princess present on the grass. She finally found the perfect spot (it looked remarkably like the other 8 million spots she rejected) and then pranced off like the pranciest prancer who ever pranced (while I struggled with being able to bend low enough to pick up after her)....and went back to tying me up with her leash. I don't know who did this "sitting on your ass makes you dead" study, but that person should go walking with a half-detached ass and a prancy, prancy dog.

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.

Total Eclipse of the Snark

I promised to return from my American Thanksgiving extravaganza with lots of stories possibly involving firearms. Well, I've finally carved out a slice of time in my fast-paced lifestyle of watching true-crime shows ("48 Hours" is my new obsession) while watching my sister's dog gnaw at bull genitalia (she's still at it) to write about my Thanksgiving experience traveling with A. to Michigan to spend time with his family there. Spoiler alert: what the experience lacked in firearms, it made up for in homemade cinnamon buns.

After months of wearing out the perfect ass groove in bed, I was excited to get on the road and check out some cool-ass truckstops; (I have an inexplicable attraction to American truck stops. They're endlessly fascinating to me: pizza ovens for your big rig! Plaster statues of dolphins! Little crystal figurines that read "In the Garden of Mothers You Are the Sweetest Rose!" Energy drinks available at the soda fountain! I could go on and on). Better still, we were cruising in A.'s Dodge Aries, which is built for comfort and offers the ultimate in road-tripping awesomeness. Even though I still have trouble sitting for long stretches of time and ended up having to recline the seat way back and make A. stop every hour or so to let me have a little walk, it was great to get on the road. (A. and I have a lot of experience in the road-tripping department, having managed to once travel across the country without murdering one another, and he's an ideal road-tripping partner).

Actually, I've been trying for the past week to write something about my Thanksgiving experience. The problem I've been having, however, is that is was just so....good. 'Young and Hip" deals mostly in snark and innuendo and my time in Michigan had none of that. It was amazing to spend time with A.'s relatives, who were hospitable and kind and such wonderful people that I can't describe the experience without sounding like a Hallmark card. It was five days of eating home-cooked food, playing with kids (a little three-year-old re-named three of her stuffed animals 'Arley'), being barfed on by a newborn and hanging out with A.'s family playing cards or talking. A.'s relatives don't curse and I actually surprised myself by going 5 days without saying anything that would get bleeped out on daytime television. And you know what? It wasn't that hard. It was actually refreshing to go 5 days without sarcasm or snark or fighting or swearing.

Well, this is all very good for me, but doesn't quite provide the blog with the dramatic tension needed to write an interesting post. Long story short, the day after Thanksgiving, A. and I were driving back home in the dark singing aloud to John Cale's "Paris 1919" and drinking truck-stop coffee and eating M&Ms and I thought....man, my hip may not be running on all cylinders, but I am pretty freaking lucky. I've been in a bad mood lately, sick of my hip not working and the aimlessness of my life now, so my mini vacation was just the exact thing I needed.

Ok, let's dry up this sappiness! Tomorrow I see my neurologist, which likely means more needles in my ass, and nothing gives me a case of snarkiness like a few well-placed needles in the ass.

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.

Consider Me Appreciated

It's the day after International Arley Appreciation Day and, believe me, I feel completely, utterly and totally appreciated. A. appreciated me by taking me to this kick-ass German restaurant in Gibson City (I believe I have written before about this restaurant and the peculiar experience of eating weinerschnitzel while being watched over by the protective gazes of dozens of taxidermied animals hanging from the walls and ceiling). Erin McQ appreciated me with funfetti cupcakes. The Aussies appreciated me (maybe a little too much) with pineapple-flavoured tequila and Miller Lite. Countless other friends appreciated me by dragging themselves through the rain to the bar for my birthday party. I am one appreciated (and slightly hungover) Arley.

So how am I spending my first day of being solidly 27? Using the wisdom I've collected in my 27 years on earth to end child poverty? Making appropriate life decisions befitting of someone who is closer to 30 than 20? No and no. I began the day by walking 2.5 miles in the rain wearing inappropriate footwear. See, I (wisely) chose to leave my car at the bar last night, on account of the pineapple-flavoured tequila. When I woke up this morning, my thought process went something like this: I should get my car before it gets towed. Maybe I should call a cab to take me there. Wait, do I have a phone book? I do not. Damn, this is a completely insurmountable obstacle that I could not possibly overcome by calling 411. Maybe I should take a bus. Damn. I do not have a bus schedule or any idea about bus routes. Another insurmountable obstacle. I know! I will walk 2.5 miles to my car! In the pouring rain! In a city where drainage problems often cause great lakes to appear in the middle of sidewalks so that you feel like some old-school explorer/fur trader portaging your way across vast and churning rivers! Even though I cannot put on any of my boots because I cannot reach the zippers and so will be forced to wear my slippers, which have a boot-like sole but are not actually anything remotely resembling waterproof! Even though walking 2.5 miles is a great recipe for spending the rest of the day sucking at life! It is clear to me that this walk is a fantastic idea and will help me brush off the pineapple-tequila-related cobwebs and leave me renewed with youthful vim and vigor.

You all can probably guess how this ended: me, limping badly, soaking wet, with my glasses all fogged up and my wool coat smelling of wet dog. When you check back with me tomorrow, do not be surprised if I am dying of consumption. (I feel like "consumption" is the new "swine 'flu" and I like to be ahead of disease trends).

Happy Birthday, Young and Hip!

While International Arley Appreciation Day is still a couple of weeks away (Nov. 15th, mark your calendars), today is another important milestone: "Young and Hip" turns 3 months old. If my blog was a human being, it would be able to recognize people by face and scent (I can't do that some days), squeal, gurgle, coo and do a "mini pushup" (something I also probably can't do). When "Young and Hip" first started, I promised A. that my blogging career would not last longer than a few weeks, since I would quickly get better and be back on my feet in no time (after all, I started "Young and Hip" when I was about 6 weeks post-surgery, which is about the time it takes 90-year-olds to start doing laps around me in physio) and run out of stuff to write about. Clearly, I was not anticipating my own ability to write 500 words about monkey slippers, or the fact that...well...I would be 19 weeks post-surgery and still walking like Rush Limbaugh after too many Vicodin cocktails.

And what am I getting "Young and Hip" for its birthday? A visit to Dr. SecondOpinion. Yes, tomorrow I will finally see an orthopedic surgeon. (Granted, not the one I've been trying to see for the past few weeks, but a surgeon all the same). And, believe me, I am taking this shit seriously. I'm a motherfucking general when it comes to preparing for doctor's appointments. I pretty much make D-Day look like a flashmob event. So, yes, I've written out a list of questions and typed up key symptoms and a rough timeline of the problem's history and prepared a file with my MRI CDs and the MRI report. Dr. SecondOpinion, I'll see your Type A personality and raise you a touch of OCD caused by 19 weeks of ass bruising and frustration. I am ready to fucking go.

Basically, I work from the assumption that my doctor is going to assume I'm an idiot and it's my job to at least pretend that I'm a competent giver of medical testimony. Nothing ruins your credibility like forgetting how many weeks post-surgery you are or whether your or not your grandmother had cancer (in my defense, when you hear the word "colostomy bag," you tend to tune out pretty quickly). I'm also working from the assumption that Dr. SecondOpinion and Dr. ____ are buddies and that Dr. SecondOpinion will side with his fellow colleague. (I picture them in a room with dark wood paneling and the stuffed heads of various jungle predators mounted on the walls, smoking cigars and talking about the Empire).

A delicate touch is therefore needed (and, if you haven't noticed, "delicate" and "Arley" are not often found together, hence the need for planning). It's an issue of balance. I want to be polite but also somehow answer the question, "So, what does your original surgeon think of this problem?" truthfully without saying, "he doesn't seem to give a fuck." I must be be empathetic but firm. I must respect his authority while still demanding answers. Perhaps I will say, "I know I'm not ordering food from McDonalds here and that a thorough diagnosis takes time, but..." Perhaps I will smile and be appropriately dressed and reference my Master's degree and Paralympic bronze medal and the fact that I'm only 26 a few times. Above all, however, I will be cheerful and open-minded. I've actually been seen by Dr. SecondOpinion when I was 16 and we didn't get along so well, though I'm fully willing to admit that I didn't get along with most people when I was 16. (I was listening to a lot of Hole and Bad Religion at the time). I have, however, heard from a lot of people that he's actually a nice guy and that he's one of the most respected surgeons in Vancouver, so I've decided to go into this appointment with a clean-slate mentality. My goal is to seem so mature yet so filled with youthful vim and vigor that he will forget the surly 16-year-old I was.

After all, I only get one shot at this. My biggest concern is that Dr. SecondOpinion will give me the old, "Oh, you don't walk that badly. Just start working at some surgeon's office who specializes in post-polio syndrome and you'll fit right in!" The phrase "give it some more time" or "these things usually take care of themselves" will absolutely devastate me. I have given this hip 19 weeks of time, which is roughly double the length of a Hollywood marriage. These things are not taking care of themselves. I know that surgeons are not miracle workers, but my hope is to come out of the appointment with a clear course of action and the knowledge of whether or not I can pop down to Illinois for a few weeks.

So, yes, tomorrow I will be rallying my mental troops and preparing for my Freaky Cyborg Hip's big day. What's that saying? Hope for the best but prepare for the worst? Bring it on, life. I'm prepared. (Just wait: my next blog post will be titled "Okay, Maybe Not"). And, now, I am off to go knock on some wood.

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.

Why Can't All Medicine Be Covered in Brownies?

In the interest of improving my hip, I have had electrified needles jabbed in my ass, swung my legs around in bizarre physio swings as 85-year-old men tried to look up my shorts, had ass massages and chilled out in MRI machines. Today, however, I finally had a treatment that didn't cause me post traumatic stress disorder. I've been talking about it for ages, and today it finally happened: I got to eat some delicious Coco Mero frozen yogurt: the yogurt of my dreams, the yogurt that I have been pining for in the fro-yo-free wilds of Vancouver. (Is it a bad sign that I can count "getting to eat good frozen yogurt" as one of the best things that's happened to me in months?) Today, however, E.C. and I has a frozen yogurt dance party (okay, maybe not dancing, but we did bob our heads to the blaring pop music) and I suspect that my hip will thank me for it.

In the frozen yogurt place, there's a big sign that lists all of the many health benefits of this particular frozen yogurt: improved digestion! Improved immune system! May possibly be tolerable for people with lactose intolerance! Good source of calcium! Low fat! (Source: the Yogurt Association of America, which makes me wonder if this association sends powerful yogurt lobbiest to Congress). If this sign is to be believed, then yogurt will straighten out my immune system, which will fix my rashes, then help my hip stay in place with its calcium, and improve my digestion to boot. Better still, I get to cover this immune-system-boosting, calcification-speeding-up, low-fat deliciousness with caramel syrup, white chocolate chips, sprinkles, cheesecake bites and brownie pieces, then draw a little happy face with chocolate syrup on top. (I wonder if my T3's would go down easier if they were covered in caramel syrup and white chocolate chips? I might have to experiment).

So here, for your viewing pleasure, is a picture of my fro-yo sundae. If you look closely, you can see the little chocolate-syrup face watching you, which looks more than a little evil in photo form. (In real life, it was less evil and more delicious). Try not to be too jealous.

Get Ready, Champaign-Urbana. Here I Come!

I spend a lot of time on this blog complaining about not being in Urbana. Actually, I also spend a lot of time in real life complaining about not being in Urbana. My plan was to move back on Saturday and stay there blissfully strolling to Farmer's Markets and chilling with my cat. Alas, the Gods of Hip Arthroscopy intervened and it was not to be. I picked "walking" over "feeling like a functioning human being" and so I have another few months of marinating in Vancouver rain trying to inject some life into my hip. This is disappointing, sure, but since I'd already booked the ticket, I decided to sneak away for a week in Urbana of rest, relaxation and debauchery (oh, who am I kidding? My idea of debauchery is going to bed at 1 a.m. after having a drink or two).

I therefore may be a little inconsistent in the whole "posting" department for the next week. If you're wondering where I am, here are some possibilities:

• Rolling around on the ground clutching my stomach out of sheer and utter fullness after having polished off half a cow at The Black Dog.
• Rolling around on the ground clutching my stomach out of sheer and utter fullness after having polished off half a cow (and a serious amount of Midwestern buffet delicacies) at The Ribeye. (Actually, I think A. owes me two Ribeye meals. Bonus! You should expect me to be roughly 500 pounds the next time you see me). We will probably also spend time stalking celebrity U of I coaches.
  
• Trying to convince my cat that she should not hate me.
• Being rebuffed by my cat, who is clearly on "Team A." and even killed him a bird as a token of her affection, which she has never done for me.
  
• Eating frozen yogurt at that fancy self-serve frozen yogurt place I have been talking about since I arrived in Vancouver. ("And the yogurt isn't overpoweringly sweet and is nice and tart! And they have a full buffet of cute little toppings to put on them, like cheesecake bites! And it's actually pretty reasonable if you don't fill up the cup, which is as big as my head!")
• Hoping my car starts (crossing my fingers that A. drove my car while I was gone).
• Trying to cram a couple of months of socializing into one week. Call me, people!
• Staying out until obscene hours of the night with the Aussies and my other teammates, then going home to sleep while they have to go to chair skills or something equally sadistic the next day. Ha ha!
• Trying to sneak into various gyms and pools around the greater Champaign-Urbana area in order to keep my hip in fighting (read: limping) shape.
• Watching Bravo television at A. & K.'s place and trying not to consume all of the snack food they have laid out. (Failing at this. Devouring every last pretzel, M&M or tiny little lollipop).
• Watching "Bones" with E.C. (read: squealing at the TV every time a semi-romantic moment between the protagonists occur, while shouting, "Why won't you make sweet love, Bones and Booth? Can't you see you're meant for each other?").
• Getting my box of books out from behind K's desk (Thanks, K!) and stalking my former officemates. (Oh, room 248. How I miss you!)
• Setting up my apartment.
  

As you can see, it will be a busy week. Luckily, given my two-week spree of wedding hectic-ness, I am well-versed in lack of sleep and the healing powers of Scotch. Bring it on, Champaign-Urbana. I'm ready for you.

Next Stop: Two-Headed Babies!

Today, I had an MRI and took another step towards fulfilling my life goal of being able to glow in the dark; (I figure that if my Freaky Cyborg Hip won't shoot lasers, I should have another superpower). Since I was 11, I have been X-rayed, CT-scanned, MRI'ed, bone scanned and ultrasounded. I have had 3D plaster models made of my hips and some weird X-ray that delivers video images in real time. My insides have had more pictures taken of them than Lindsay Lohan after a rough night. It's a good thing that I'm not doing the whole "childbearing" thing yet because I'm pretty sure that two-headed babies are somewhere in my reproductive future.

Alas, however, the neurologist needs to get to the bottom of why my hip flexors are still on vacation and that means doing an MRI. Since my Freaky Cyborg Hip has metal components, however, the MRI technicians weren't even sure if the MRI would show anything, and when I arrived at the office they were (true story) googling "hip replacement" + "MRI" in an effort to figure out what to do with me. (What did medical professionals do without the google? Perhaps they used a magic 8 ball).

I therefore spent a good hour trapped in a tube with my hip straight-jacketed into this little contraption and my feet tied (and duct taped) down, (one more thing in my life that sounds like it could be sexy, but absolutely isn't). The technician offered to let me listen to the radio, but I declined, since I didn't know of a station that wouldn't subject me to an endless parade of elevator music or weak-sauce pop. If there's anything worse than being trapped in a long tube for an hour, it's having to listen to that new Black Eyed Peas song while being trapped in a long tube for an hour. Besides, MRI machines create their own music. Anyone who's ever had an MRI knows that they make a rhythmetic clunking/whirring noise that sounds remarkably like techno. In fact, I amused myself for several minutes by singing that Fat Boy Slim "Funk Soul Brothers" song in my head, since it matched perfectly to the sounds of the MRI machine. I had to remember that the technician could hear everything I said, or else she might have come into the room to hear me getting my groove on, singing, "Right about now...the funk soul brothers check it out now..." (The fact that my only 'techno' reference is a 10-year-old Fat Boy Slim song is a sign that I am not exactly a fixture on the club scene).

After exhausting my mental catalogue of techo songs, I took a little nap. True, the MRI was not the most comfortable spot in the world, and true, the machine was blasting quasi-techno music in an effort to ferret out whatever's wrong with my "broken, damaged body," but at least I knew that if I drifted off for a few minutes, I wouldn't wake up to find a rat sitting on my chest, getting ready to eat my face off. All in all, it was one of the least traumatic MRI's I've ever had, and now I just have to wait for the results. I tried to pump the technician for information, but she would only tell me (rather tactfully) that they'd "found some information that might be useful." I will therefore spend the next few weeks wondering if "useful" means "we found something that has let us know with absolute certainty that you will walk like a zombie for the rest of your life" or if it means "we found something that is easily fixable, since it turns out that the doctor left his wrist watch/scalpel/glasses/shirt button/whatever in your hip socket" or if it means "everything looks hunky dory and in six months you will be more graceful than 60% of the people on Dancing With the Stars." I guess this is a step up from the last time I had an MRI, when the X-ray technicians began whispering, "Oh my God! She can walk. How do you think she walks?" when I got off the table. Baby steps.

Going to the Chapel and We're Going to Make It To the Altar Without Becoming a Youtube Sensation!

If you do a search on youtube for "bridesmaid disasters" and "poor disabled girl does faceplant on the aisle and winds up with her dress over her head while a hundred people point and laugh," you will be disappointed because guess what? A videoclip of me won't be there. That's right, I made it through my maid of honour duties and fulfilled my wedding objective of not becoming a viral video on Youtube! Finally, my dignity can declare a minor victory over the forces of soul-crushing embarrassment! Here are some of my other wedding-related sucesses:

a) Not winding up in the hospital for any hip-related misfortune (and I even did the twist...kind of). Is it sad when your main objective when going out for the evening is to not screw up your body so badly that you need to undergo major surgery?
b) Not screwing up the poems I was reading by stumbling, burping, making any Freudian slips, throwing up, crying, choking, having the kleenex I'd stuffed down the front of my dress fall out, etc. etc.
c) Not getting hammered and winding up having a tawdry sexual encounter with one of the groomsmen in the handicapped bathroom. (Mostly because, you know, I wasn't asked...and because the drinks were $8 each...).
d) Not nearly concussing anyone while hugging them.
e) Getting through my speech even after a few Johnny Walkers (thanks J. and dad!) and making it through the night without reaching the "I'm so drunk. I'm SO drunk. I'm so DRUNK" stage of intoxication, which for me is after about two drinks because I am a lightweight.
f) Achieving the first post-surgical slow dance and, again, not concussing anyone.

For the past few months, I've been working extra hard at physio trying to walk normally enough to walk down the aisle without my cane. Alas, that goal ended up being one more thing that is apparently not in my Freaky Cyborg Hip's contract (I really should have read the fine-print before I hired this hip). Everything turned out just dandy, though, because on the way back down the aisle, the best man pulled out a cane and a top hat (and also had a feather boa for me) and we danced down the aisle together. It was a sweet way to make me look a little less freak-of-nature-y and J. gets an A+ for creativity and general awesomeness.

So, that was it. The wedding was beautiful. S. looked absolutely gorgeous. The food was so fantastic that I nearly threw up after eating 8 different desserts; (it had to be done). I had a great time. It is a little sad, though, that the wedding is over after all of this planning and anticipation. Now that my 10 Days of Wedding Insanity are over, I'm going to have to find something else to look forward to. And since it doesn't look like "walking normally enough to return to Champaign" will be looming on the horizon any time soon, I am on the hunt for new forms of distraction. Ok, someone needs to get engaged/married/pregnant so I have something to look forward to. Take one for the team, people!

Here are some photos of me walking (well, ok, "walking" is maybe a bit too optimistic a term) and dancing ("dancing" is definitely too optimistic a term) down the aisle.

Can I Blame This on My Hip?

Devoted fans of this blog (read: my mom) might be led to think that most of the ridiculousness of my life is hip-related. Incorrect! Before the hip replacement, I was perfectly capable of filling my days with chaos and insanity. The hip has just added an extra level of weirdness. Case in point: last night, at S.'s rehearsal dinner. Since the parking garage I had my car parked in closed at 10:30 (I thought), I left the dinner early with two British friends of S and A's; (we had bonded after being placed at the misfits table). After finally finding the parking garage, (which is a feat, given my stunning navigational prowess), I was surprised to learn that the garage actually closed at 10 and my car was locked inside. 

I therefore gave the two Brits an intimate tour of downtown Vancouver parking garages, as we broke into a construction zone and climbed over unpoured concrete, boards, rebar and mice (clearly, a hip-safe activity) in an effort to sneak into the garage and retrieve my car. We finally succeeded in this effort a few minutes before the security guard drove up to charge us $35 for releasing us and the poor Brits got a taste of the bottomless fury of Canadian security guards as they ran interference for me. (Thanks D & L!). I then gave them a taste of Cracktown Central as we drove home along East Hastings at night, (the area that my beloved Dan Bejar has referred to as a "fucked up Mardi Gras," which is one of the most accurate descriptions I've read of East Hastings). I finished up the evening by being unable to locate the address of where they were staying, resulting in us having to wake up the friend they were staying with to get directions. 

Alas, none of this I can blame on my hip, though I was planning on pulling the "I was too disabled to walk quickly and didn't get back to the garage in time" cripple card if I'd had to talk to the security guard. 

Next up, I will direct my particular brand of crazy to S & A's wedding. If I don't post for a few days it's because my trip down the aisle has gone terribly wrong and I've become a viral video on YouTube. Just do a search for "wedding" + "girl who accidentally smacked someone in the face with her cane while she was trying to be a bridesmaid" and I'm sure you'll find me.