The Church of New Things (Or Laptops Acting Like New Things)

My beloved Dan Bejar once sang that "the truth is a thing to coax out of its shell." Well, a few days have passed since the "coffee on laptop = FML" incident and the truth has finally emerged from its shell...I better blog about this quickly before it goes back in. At the time, I blamed Dan Bejar for raising my hopes by singing (the moment I turned on my car) that "everything's going to be alright, it's going to be alright" when the douchy hipster at the Apple store had assured me that the laptop was royally fucked, that it would never turn on again, that I would have to buy a new one, and that everything most certainly would not be alright.

Yes, it's been a few days since CoffeeGate2010 and the fact that I'm not communicating with you via telepathy should alert you to the fact that my laptop still works! Hells yeah! Take that, Apple-hipster with your wrist cuff and your skinny jeans that are baggy in the ass because you consider cigarettes to be a cardio workout and your ipod bud in one ear where you are probably listening to Arcade Fire instead of listening to customers with their annoying problems and your hipsterly sneer. I should have known: I mean, who are you going to believe? Dan Bejar (the man, the myth, the poet-rocker legend) or some guy whose claim to fame is working at the Apple Store in Champaign-Urbana? Exactly.

Yes, I need to sacrifice some chickens (or, I don't know, maybe some heroin?) on the altar of the Church of Dan Bejar. My laptop seems to have emerged relatively unscathed, which is a sure sign that it is protected by an aura of pure awesomeness. Yeah, it smells of rancid coffee, and yes half of the lights on the keyboard have been extinguished, but it has taken a licking and it is still ticking (or whirring). (Granted, Apple-Store Boy has guaranteed me that my laptop won't last more than a few days...but I choose to live in the moment and in this moment my laptop is rocking at life).

So thank you to my beloved friends who soothed my laptop woes by either a) taking me to Arby's for some fortification b) lending me a mini laptop and some delicious red velvet cupcake to boot or c) giving me advice re: putting my laptop in a bag of rice, etc. etc. I am a lucky girl, and it's not just Dan Bejar who's smiling (smirking?) down upon me.

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.

Hip School Dropout

After the surgeon-related excitement of yesterday, you'd think I'd be spending today digesting the news with a little peppermint tea. Nope, I kept the hip party going because that is how I roll. Usually, people only need a good six weeks of out-patient physio before they "graduate" and stride limp-free into the sunset. I, however, have been at physio for nearly four months and am the recovery equivalent of that 20-year-old guy who's taking Grade 8 English for the fifth time and scares all the 13-year-olds by flexing his muscles and stroking his imposing facial hair (just, you know, without the muscles and facial hair).

Well, not anymore. After discussing Dr. SecondOpinion's news with my physio, we decided that I should become a hip school dropout and stop going to physio until I get some sort of medical intervention. After all, you can't strengthen a muscle that isn't attached and after four months of trying to get my hip flexors to wake the hell up, it's likely that there's not much that can be done for them either.

I don't mind physio. I like the physiotherapists, I like being forced to get out of bed early, and it does give my life a little structure. On the other hand, however, I was getting bit frustrated getting no results and my spot is better off being taken by someone who will be able to do a "clamshell" after a few weeks. So, yes, this means I'm going to have to find another hobby to replace the great amusement I used to get from putting on my ipod and cranking up really bizarre rock music (think Frog Eyes) while watching elderly people work out, so it seemed as if the 85-year-old lady balancing on the physio trampoline and the old guy swinging his leg in a sling were starring in some sort of fucked-up music video. Perhaps I should start knitting.

The fact that Monday will be my last day of physio means that once I get my needle-in-my-hip test and see Dr. SecondOpinion, I will be free to go down to Illinois for awhile. When that will be, however, remains to be seen. This means that I will indeed miss the Neko Case concert I've been talking so much about. I am a sad little hipster.

Don't Call Us, We'll Call You: Okay, This Shit is Getting Boring

SurgeonWatch2009 has been going on so long that I've run out of snarky ways to discuss my surgeon not phoning, so I will give it to you straight up, no chaser: no, Dr. ___ did not call today. After countless days of playing the most one-sided game of phone tag ever, (tag, you're it! Tag, you're still it! Tag, you've been it for three weeks!), I took a day off from SurgeonWatch2009. But today, alas, was not without its disappointments.

You know how I've been talking about how badly I wanted to get down to Illinois to see the Neko Case concert because my friend knew the guitarist and had VIP access, and how my plan was to book a flight the minute I saw the surgeon and knew what the hip-timeline was? Yeah, well, the ticket kind of fell through. So, now, endless questions: do I try to purchase a ticket without knowing whether I can even make the concert? Is there a way to purchase a ticket so that, if I am not able to go, A. could go in my place? Can I even purchase a ticket? Should I take this as a sign that the concert is not to be? This question is made all the more prudent by the fact that I've learned that Sarah Harmer is opening for Neko Case and Sarah Harmer's "Dogs and Thunder" is one of the first songs I ever learned to play on guitar and is my very, very favorite to sing when I'm having a bad day and I really want to hear it live. Fuck. Why can't Urbana be closer to Vancouver?

It did not help that it was dark and rainy in Vancouver today and that I was a dumbass who decided to walk for an hour, then do half an hour on the elliptical machine at my mom's friend's house, then try to walk back home. I slogged through the rain for half an hour until I got a couple of blocks from my house and my hip quite literally refused to go any further. I had to stop, rest, and turn off my Ipod so as to devote my full powers of concentration to walking the last block or else I would probably have still been standing there, humming "I Believe I Can Fly" and trying to levitate home, since it probably takes more than the Jock-Jam remix to get all 160-odd pounds of Arleyness of the ground.

When I used to play basketball, Tuesday practices were devoted to "chair skills," which is a euphemism for "push so hard you vomit your breakfast several times in your mouth and have to swallow it because you're in the middle of a set and can't stop" (sorry, gross). I actually really loved chair skills (there's something so fantastic about being done, when you've exerted absolutely every ounce of energy you have and you're pleasantly tired and that drink of cold water tastes like the best thing in the world), but every once in awhile when I would hit the wall, I would count down how many more pushes I had until I could rest. Just knowing that I only had 50 more pushes (even if it was untrue) gave me something to focus on and made everything seem more managable.

So, there I was, dragging my hip along the wet-leaf-strewn minefield of the sidewalk, counting outloud to myself. I'd set 200 steps as my target goal and it actually turned out to be pretty accurate because I reached my front yard at 190 steps and I got inside the house at 212....where I promptly took a shitload of Extra-Strength Tylenol and had my mom make me tomato soup (thanks, mom!). When I got home, I also learned that my brother's girlfriend's mom (who's an orthopedic nurse) had sent me tons of information about repairing a torn gluteus medius. (Thanks!) I'd found so many conflicting reports on the internet that it was great to read some information that's been sanctioned by an authority higher than Google. Here's hoping that Dr. SecondOpinion can get the surgery party started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why I Will Never Again Drink a Mango Margarita

I am good at many things: getting myself into bizarre situations, writing elaborate similes, baking X-rated cakes, the list goes on. Something I am not good at, however, is drinking. The reason: I get terrible hangovers. Worse, my body does not seem to understand that to get a hangover, you usually have to be drunk the night before. Clearly, it missed the memo that a hangover is nature's way of saying, "Sure, waking up next to that unfamiliar man in a seedy hotel room wearing someone else's clothes was fun, but I hope you enjoyed yourself because you're about to pay the price for your misbehavior." Hangovers: nature's time-out chair.

Last night was Steph's birthday party and I made her a cake (the pictures of which will shortly follow). For her party, she made mango margaritas. Now, usually, I stick to whiskey, since I'm allergic to wine, can't drink more than two beers without my stomach feeling like it's filled with bread dough that's quickly rising and threatening to rupture my stomach lining, and can't drink sugary chick drinks because they give me bad hangovers. Last night, however, I decided to break my whiskey-only rule and drink some mango margaritas because a) they weren't very strong and b) the fact that I hadn't been hungover since my surgery suggested that perhaps my Freaky Cyborg Hip could hold its alcohol better than I could and maybe I'd been cured of my bad hangovers. Yeah, not so much.

As the evening went on, I decided to break my "I don't get drunk because it makes me annoying" rule, so I had a couple of mango martinis. After four (the drinks really weren't that strong) and a beer, I felt only mildly buzzed. That's when the little angel on my shoulder began alerting me to the following facts:

• The only good reason to get drunk is to get the courage to hit on someone and there were no single men at the party.
• It's going to take me probably 8 mango martinis to get drunk, which will put me on a fast train to Hangover Town, stopping only briefly in ThrowUpYourGutsInFrontOfEveryoneVille.
• I drove to the party and should stop drinking because I can't stay overnight since my parents would worry if I didn't come home and, yeah, sure, I could take a cab but that costs money I don't have and then I have to get someone to drive me down in the morning, which is annoying.

The voice of reason won. I stopped drinking and quickly became sober, even though my hip began to hurt really badly for some reason, and I spent a great deal of the evening completely distracted by my Freaky Cyborg Hip, staring off to space with my "pain face" on, which is the vacant, glassy-eyed heroin-addict-y expression I get whenever my hip hurts. (A random side-note about my pain face: it's fairly easy to recognize and once, many years ago, A. and I were in the same fiction workshop and he noticed that I was clearly in pain because I was staring off into space. A few hours before, I'd been in the hospital because my hip was having one of those turning-blue-and-being-excruciatingly-painful episodes and I'd gone into shock and my hip was still in a weird position and it was all I could do to stay sitting and not rip my hip out and beat myself senseless with it. So, A. smiled at me in order to cheer me up. I smiled back. The teacher noticed me smiling and made a big fuss in front of the whole class asking two or three times whether I'd like to share what was funny with the whole class--this is, remember, a graduate workshop--and basically treating me like some unruly kindergartener. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I will never do a PhD).

Bitter digressions aside, the bottom line is that I never did get drunk. This is why I was surprised when I woke up this morning with a mouth that felt like I'd been making out with a ball of cotton and a terrible headache. How, I asked, does one wind up with a hangover when one has not been drunk? Isn't that like being wrongly imprisoned for a crime one did not commit?

So, yes, I am still in bed though it is 5 p.m. listening to Jesus and Mary Chain and editing my novel. This is turning into the week of '80s indie rock.

The Medical Receptionist Appointment Bazaar

In all my waxing nostalgic about Illinois road-trips and 80's indie rock, I forgot to mention one important update: yesterday, I got an appointment with another surgeon to give me a second opinion. (Actually, considering that I have yet to hear from Dr. ___, I guess it's actually a first opinion). When I called, the receptionist told me that I would have to wait until Nov. 23rd. Luckily, however, my appointment-making skills have been hardened in the crucible of Dr. ___'s secretary, who graduated with high honours from the School of Pissed-Off Medical Receptionist-ry with a degree in Patient Avoidance and/or Intolerance and a minor in Advanced Eye Rolling. I persisted, stressed the urgency of the situation, pulled the whole "Dr. SecondOpinion has already been informed of my case," and presto: my new appointment date is Nov. 4th.

I'm beginning to believe that booking an appointment with a medical professional has reverted to the barter system and now resembles a Turkish bazaar (without the "Hey! Pretty Lady! Hey! Canada! What is the mistake in your body?" business). Perhaps receptionists are trained not to give you the first appointment, but to make you barter with them to insure that you're sick/hurt/desperate enough to really want it. It's only a matter of time before appointments start going like this:

Receptionist: I can fit you in in three month's time. It's my very best deal for a pretty cancer patient such as yourself.

Patient: Three months? You insult me. Two weeks!

Receptionist: Two weeks! I worked long and hard setting up this appointment, writing your name down in the book and highlighting it in yellow marker! Two weeks is an insult! For a loyal patient such as yourself, what about two months?

Patient: Two months? For an appointment without current magazines in the waiting room? Hah! The doctor down the road can get me in in one month and he has a subscription to "People." Three weeks!

Receptionist: Three weeks! I have children to feed! What would people say if they knew I'd given you an appointment in three weeks! Six weeks. That's the best I can do.

Patient: Will you throw in a quick MRI appointment?

Receptionist: For you, my most valued and attractive patient, I think I can make this deal. But do not tell anyone that I got you in in six weeks and threw in a quick MRI appointment. I will be bankrupt in a week and my children will starve.

While I'm glad that I won't have to wait until the end of November to get an appointment, the Nov 4th date puts a damper on my plans to return to Illinois to see a Neko Case concert on Nov 6th. This Neko Case concert is not just any Neko Case concert. My friend Tiff knows the guitarist and had gotten us VIP access, which means that I might have been able to hang out with Neko Case, who clearly would have been charmed by my dry Canadian wit and Ricky-Lake-on-Stilts good looks and invited me to tour with them as their head tambourine player. (The fact that none of Neko Case's songs have tambourines...and that I have no sense of rhythm does not deter me in the slightest).

Considering that I've been wearing my cranky pants quite often these days, it really helps to have something to look forward to. Shortly after the surgery, when I couldn't walk at all, A. would make plans with me to go on a 10-day canoeing trip next summer in the Great Lakes area and, when I was feeling particularly feeble and shitty, I would imagine myself all healthy and able to walk, tromping through the wilderness and portaging my canoe like I was one of the early explorers (minus the beaver-pelt undies and destruction of Native peoples). It made me feel quite a lot better. When Tiff told me about the Neko Case concert, that became the thing I would look forward to. I would say, "Well, it sucks that I'm getting an electrified needle jammed into my ass now, but just think: in a few months I will see Neko Case in concert and if I'm lucky she will play 'At Last' off "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood.'"

But now, damn. Barring a last-minute flight, instead of going to the concert I will be weighing my medical options while sitting in bed listening to "Fox Confessor Brings the Flood." Now I need something else to look forward to: ideas?

The World is As Soft As Lace

I have a rare talent for chaos. It's actually kind of a special gift, like the ability to play the violin or recite pi to 14 digits. Case in point: it was Steph's birthday last night (happy birthday, Steph!) and I went out for dinner, which should have been a simple exercise in social manners and stuffing myself to the point of exhaustion with garlic-saturated meat products. Wrong! Before the first appetizer had been served, Hurricane Arley had been upgraded to a category 5 storm.

Steph had told me that the dinner was at the Greek restaurant on Columbia Street, so I arrived, as promised, at the Greek restaurant on Columbia street. Simple enough, yes?, but Steph and Adrian were nowhere to be found. While looking for them in the restaurant, I walked up a flight of stairs and my cane struck a pottery vase on the landing, which promptly shattered into roughly 8.7 million pieces. If there had been a bomb inside the vase, it could not have made more noise and, of course, most of the shrapnel landed on the owner of the restaurant. Everyone in the restaurant stopped and stared and, just when the owner was probably thinking, "Well, at least she's going to buy $20 worth of chicken souvlaki and she's going to need a drink after this soul-crushing embarrassment and Lord knows she's going to tip well..." Adrian walked in to inform me that, whoops, the birthday dinner was actually being held in the Greek restaurant across the street. Party. Foul.

Happily, I did not destroy any decorations at the actual restaurant and had a good time. Three hours later, I arrived home feeling nauseous from way too much tzasiki and pita bread, poisoned with garlic, and generally overwhelmed with the suckery of my current state of medical ridiculousness. Long story short, I wound up downloading some Felt in an attempt to cheer myself up. Felt is an indie-rock band from the '80s. Ever heard the Belle & Sebastian song "I Don't Love Anyone" with the lines "I met a man today/and he told me something pretty strange/ there's always somebody saying something/ he said the world was as soft as lace"? That's an allusion to Felt.

Everything was well and good until I put on "The World Is As Soft as Lace," which is my favorite Felt song. The minute that the opening chords began, instead of feeling buoyed by memories of happier times, I felt as if I'd been hit in the stomach with a sledgehammer. I hadn't listened to that song in years. I don't own as much music as I would like because a) I stupidly left my CD collection in my car four years ago and some fucktard broke in, taking every CD he wanted and breaking in half every CD he didn't and b) for the past three years, I have had access to A.'s stellar record collection, which is like the indie-rock version of the Library of Congress, and he often makes me tapes for various occasions; (I am a sucker for a finely crafted mix tape).

Because most of my Felt collection is on tape and my only tape deck is in my car, I associate "The World is As Soft as Lace" with driving: cruising through the Midwest in A.'s Dodge Aries with its smell of lemon hand-wipes and dust while drinking truck-stop coffee from styrofoam cups with way too much sugar; crossing the bridge into the Bay Area after three weeks on the road to see the city spread out before me practically radiating hipness (or was that smog?); fishtailing along fresh snowfall at 5:30 a.m. in the dark on the way to basketball practice. And that, of course, reminded me of my three years in Illinois, of a time when I was happily driving my hip into the ground with a frenetic, mono-inducing life of friends, basketball, teaching, school, Ninth Letter, road trips, and thesis writing. And that reminded me of a time when my first novel was just getting published and I was on the national team and everything was looking rosy. And that reminded me that here I was, lying in bed with my stomach massively distended by white bread and garlic, after four months of medical purgatory and no action plan and no indication of when I can return to Illinois and no idea of what to do even after my hip is healed....Yeah, I definitely had a moment where I wanted to throw something across the room, only to realize that I had already thrown one artifact across the room and should probably keep my destructive rage in check; (this, by the way, is the power of Felt, ladies and gentlemen).

So, yeah, another day in Medical Purgatory. Still haven't heard from Dr. __. Still approaching my birthday with the chance that I will be celebrating International Arley Appreciation Day in the operating room. But I guess if I didn't have a few "fuck the world" moments I would be like one of those beauty queens receiving the fifth-place pity trophy on stage and trying to keep the five-hundred-watt smile up without shanking a bitch with her eyes.

Things That Are Keeping Me Sane Today

I've written at great length about my dwindling patience (okay, actually I've written at great length about pretty much everything. 'Writing at great length' is one of my many talents/weaknesses/character flaws and is the reason why I can't write short fiction). Anyhow, as the weeks tick by, I grow less and less willing to sit on my ass and wait for my hip to stop pulling a Rip Van Winkle and wake the fuck up. Luckily, however, life has handed me a welcome distraction. I've recently plunged headfirst back into my novel for another round of editing, which means that unless you are a woman in 1946 traveling by train from Ymir to New Westminster, I will not be interested in you until around Hallowe'en. My hip can take a number and head to the back of the line.

So what kind of fun-filled adventures can I look forward to when I switch my brain into editing mode? Many, such as waking up in the middle of the night in a panic over whether I have been using the word "trifecta" incorrectly -- (turns out that, yes, I kind of was) -- or spending 30 minutes trying to decide between the word "destroyed" and the word "shattered", or walking up to the New Westminster Public Library to get some work done and being passed by at least 4 four-door baby-blue Toyota Corollas (Corroli?) from mid-90's identical to the one I used to drive and so spending the majority of the day feeling as if I was being stalked by myself circa 2002. Right now, I am alternating between blogging and scouring the internets for recordings of WWII fighter jets taking off.

When your life is feeling out of control, there's nothing better than editing. (Well, okay, there are some things better than editing, namely your surgeon figuring out what the hell is wrong with your Freaky Cyborg Hip, therefore allowing you to get a job and a social life etc. etc. but let's take what we can get, shall we?) Editing allows you to make bold, decisive decisions that will lead to concrete improvements. Comma faults can be tidied up! Annoying tendencies to over-use the "clause - colon - list" sentence pattern can be eradicated! Images can be made crisper and more visceral! Demi-scenes can be moved around so as to heighten the narrative arc! I may not be able to activate my hip flexors, but I can damn well make sure that when two children are playing feverish war games in a hotel-turned-brothel circa 1946, they are doing so with historically accurate plane sounds. This is a deeply satisfying feeling.

Other things that have been keeping me sane:

• Carey Mercer of Frog Eyes' blog "Clouds of Evil." His description of Canadian taxi-hailing customs rocks my world three ways past Sunday: http://cloudofevil.blogspot.com/ I wish my blog had descriptions of people mistaking Dan Bejar for my lover. (Well, I suppose my blog could have those kinds of descriptions, but they might result in a slander lawsuit from Dan Bejar not wanting his street cred ruined by being associated with six feet of cane-twirling, penguin-walking, crazy-haired Arleyness).
  
• Cranking up Pavement's "Wowee Zowee" and playing air guitar, although this activity is admittedly not as fun when A. is not around to be excruciatingly embarassed by my air-guitar face.
• Having breakfast at Adrian and Steph's place. I am not the first person to note that bacon cures all wounds and I won't be the last. (Unless, of course, you are either jewish or vegetarian).
  
• Yeah...ok...that's pretty much it. But still. Small victories.
  

If I Should Fall From Grace With God Where No Doctor Can Relieve Me

Before my surgery, I would avoid standing-room-only concerts, since I'd spend the entire night trying to lean against various walls/gates/garbage cans/random strangers, then hobble out of the place the instant the last song was over and spend the next day in bed hopped up on painkillers. After the surgery...yeah, not much difference. I did, however, get through my first post-surgical concert and the only damage was getting my mind totally blown...and probably a mild contact high from breathing the same oxygen as lead singer Shane MacGowan. I can't think of a better band to welcome me back to the world of live music than The Pogues.

I was introduced to The Pogues when I was 17 by K.G., a guy I used to play basketball with. I had been listening to second-generation Celtic rock/punk music (Flogging Molly, Great Big Sea, etc) without having ever heard of Shane MacGowan, which is kind of like being a fan of Pat Robertson or Joel Osteen without having ever heard of Jesus. K.G. offered to show me the light and soon I was spending significant chunks of my undergraduate career in his apartment drinking green tea, eating veggie burgers and getting my worldview throughly rearranged by the weird-voice trifecta of Bob Dylan, Shane MacGowan and Neil Young; (I kind of missed the "spend your undergraduate career having sloppy drunken sex" memo). K.G. and I had some ridiculous falling-out five or six years ago (oh, my melodramatic teenage years!) and I haven't seen him since, but my love of The Pogues remains.

So, even though the concert would require me to stand for hours, I was determined to see The Pogues before Shane MacGowan drops dead from the various substances he's been injesting since the '70s; (I've listened to an interview where he claims to have eaten several Beatles records because he was high and believed he was making a statement to Russian diplomats about American Imperialism). My dad drove me to Seattle where the concert was being held (he wanted to go to a car swap meet there) and by 7:30 I was thoroughly hopped up on Extra-Strength Tylenol and Diet Coke and ready to rock; (I know. So punk rock). My plan was to go early and find a seat so that I would not spend the rest of the night getting bodyslammed by wankers flailing around to "Body of An American."

I used the cripple card to get me to the front of the line, but by the time I got indoors all of the seats had been taken by people who were smirking and sitting on their precious chairs as if on thrones and chatting with their equally smirky friends who could watch their chairs when they went to the bathroom so that no six-foot-tall limpy Canadians could steal them. I tried guilt-tripping the ones who were holding empty seats for their friends ("Is that seat taken?...Oh?....It is?....Well, *hobble hobble, pathetic look* I guess I'll just have to find...somewhere else to sit...I just had a hip replacement, you know...") but no one cracked. I did, however, use my ninja stealth powers to steal a folding chair when a bouncer wasn't looking--this bouncer must have either been half-blind or else let me have the chair, since I'm pretty sure that a six-foot-two chick dragging both a cane and a folding chair while limp-shuffling along was not exactly inconspicuous--and planted the chair right in the middle of the dance floor. Not too many people had arrived for the opening act and I could even still see the stage.

I was feeling mighty smug until the folly of my plan became clear. If you're in a room with hundreds of people who are guzzling beer (and, judging by the smell, subsisting on a diet of rancid meat and onions), the very last place you want to be is at ass level. The stench (and people tripping over me and spilling their beers) drove me from my chair and I spent the time between sets sitting on a bench outside the bathroom pretending I was waiting for a friend, feeling a little sorry for myself.

But when Shane MacGowan and the Pogues finally arrived on-stage, all of the waiting and chair-stealing and leaning against various objects was worth it. True, Shane MacGowan is moving a little slower these days (who isn't?) and he dropped the mic stand into the crowd roughly 15 times and forgot some of the words and was often several beats behind the music and whenever he spoke it sounded like a toothless bear growling into a walkie-talkie, but the man can still do the banshee scream during "If I Should Fall From Grace With God" like he fucking means it. Though his voice hasn't aged like fine wine, it has perhaps aged like leftover chili: more depth, if less spiciness. And the band, to their credit, did a fantastic job of keeping up with him. I was so happy that I didn't even mind when two hipsters dressed like European toddlers circa 1894 kept bashing into me in their attempts to dance. (Well, ok, I did mind, but I didn't elbow anyone in the forehead).

A couple of days before the concert, A. asked me what on earth I saw in The Pogues. I have tried for three years to turn A. into a Pogues fan, but still whenever I have them playing in the car he begins to writhe around in his seat and beg me to turn them off because the fiddles and '80s-production-values saxophones and mandolins are too much for him. Even the fact that the Pogues make up an important part of the soundtrack for "The Wire" couldn't convince him of their greatness. At the time, I gave some half-assed answer about how they were "fun" and I "just liked them."

Towards the end of the concert, however, I realized what my answer should have been. Throughout the night, the band dedicated many songs to Kristy MacColl, who collaborated with Shane on "Fairytale of New York" and who toured with them in the late '80s. Kristy MacColl was killed in a boating accident while saving her son and Oct. 10th would have been her 50th birthday. As one of the last songs, Shane dedicated "Rainy Night in Soho" to her ("we watched our friends grow up together/ and we watched them as they fell/ some of them fell into heaven/ some of them fell into hell"..."now the song is nearly over/ we may never find out what it means/ still there's a light I hold before me/ you're the measure of my dreams."). "Rainy Night in Soho" is one of my favorite Pogues songs because of its ambivalence: equal parts sadness and regret and fondness and nostalgia and resignation.

I think this ambivalence is what I love most about The Pogues' songs. Most of the lyrics are about lives that have not gone according to plan, loves that have not gone according to plan, and hopes and dreams and ambitions that have been waylaid. This is, of course, familiar territory for most musicians, but I think the reason that Shane MacGowan is a genius is because he doesn't just write a love song, or a breakup song, or a my-life's-fucked-up song or a drinking song: he writes all of them at once. Even the darkest songs have moments of humour or sweetness and even the love songs are a little bit sad. He is kind of like the Cormac McCarthy of songwriting: not afraid to show the shit and puke and blood of every-day life, not trying to glorify or vilify a lifestyle, but merely explore it.

Now, don't get me wrong, I love Destroyer and Pavement and Echo & The Bunnymen and all those bands who create layered sonic landscapes and write sly, biting, often-nonsensical lyrics with puns and little jokes, those songs that make you think, "Yeah, this could be a break-up song, but it could also be about heroin." But at this stage of my life (at the ripe old age of 26), what with the hip and the unemployment and the short-on-longterm-goal-ness of my life, I'm beginning to appreciate The Pogues less for their high-energy dance music (because, let's face it, I am officially at the age where being in the mosh pit might kill me) and more for the emotional tenor of their songs.

I suspect that this is a common Pogues response. Towards the end of the night, I was caught in the ambivalence of never wanting the show to end and wanting the show to end immediately so that I could sit down. I looked around and there were several old guys (I suspect I was not the only one with a fake hip since I was not the only one who pumped a fist in the air during the lyric "I will not be reconstructed!") leaning and shifting uncomfortably: one hand swaying in the air during "Rainy Night in Soho," one hand on their aching backs, probably wishing like I was that they could be up at the front sustaining hearing loss and rib-cage bruising from being crushed against the railing. (I was remembering being at the front of a Spirit of the West concert nearly 10 years ago, when I snuck into the club using my cousin's ID and ran into K.G. and during the show the drummer, who was celebrating his birthday, fed K.G. cake). Even Shane had to shuffle off the stage every once in awhile for a little rest and a cigarette. It was this "we're fucked up in the most mundane, least punk-rock ways but we're still on our feet with our firsts in the air" quality that resonates with me, and it's the reason why The Pogues are a great band.

So, yes, it's 2 p.m. the next day and I'm still in bed recovering from the night before and I haven't done my exercises, but it was totally worth it. (And, K.G., wherever you are, thanks).

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.

And This, Ladies and Gentlemen, Is Why I'm Single

I've complained quite often on this blog about being deprived of conversation now that I've been living on Planet Recovery for the past three months. This is changing, (I can sit upright for more than 30 minutes at a time, which extends my range!) but I am still a little too eager to jump at the chance for any kind of social interaction. I feel like the social equivalent of a short, fat kid trying to suck in his stomach and stand on tip toes in the dodgeball line, every muscle in his body saying, "Pick me! Pick me! I promise not to disappoint you!"

For this reason, I was excited to go to Granville Island with G., who I met at S.'s wedding last weekend, to talk about MFA programs. Actually, she could have called me up and invited me to talk about the best way to peel dead skin off your legs with a shoehorn (which is a subject I incidentally know quite a bit about) and I would have been there in a heartbeat. I was just happy to be out in public, doing normal-people things and having normal-people conversations and not thinking about physiatrists and nerve testing and how my life feels like something out of a Bright Eyes song. (Emo!)

I had a great time talking with G., so much so that I ended up following her like a little lost puppy to work at the Vancouver Fringe Festival and watching a play. (She gave me the VIP treatment and put me in the front row). Then, we chatted again and I watched another play with G's husband and his brother C., who I'd also met at the wedding and who I had really enjoyed talking to, since he seemed very smart and was in a profession completely opposite of mine, which is not hard since I do not currently have a profession. (Though, again, he could have been talking about the intricacies of the mating rituals of Asian dung beetles and I'd probably be enthralled). Seeing as how all of the males I've met since my hip replacement have been either doctors or 85-year-old men at physio, I actually found myself sitting at the table at the wedding and thinking, "Wow, I am finally having a conversation with an adult male who's not trying to jab electrified needles into my ass. This must be some kind of progress."

Now, I have always been the Crown Princess of Awkwardness, even when I don't have the gait of an 85-year-old heroin addict. When I used to play on the national team, some women on the team designed the "I Learned From Lesbians Love Lessons" program, (which was not as kinky as it sounds), and would send me around to fulfill little homework assignments in an effort to help me get my mojo working. (It actually worked. Shortly after, I wound up in a long-term relationship, so perhaps I need a refresher course). I have been single for over two years, and this whole hip replacement and "going to a lot of weddings" business has convinced me that it might be time to put myself back on the market. (Previously, it was difficult to be on the market when there was a good chance that you'd have to ask your date to crawl under the table at the end of the night and pull on your leg to get your hip back in its socket, and I was happy to remain single).

Still, I am thinking baby steps here. I'm not looking for a one-night stand or a passionate fling. I'm not even looking for a date or a relationship or anything like that. Hell, I'm not even trying to flirt with someone. All I'm looking for is the ability to converse with an adult male who I do not know and remain at least semi-coherent. I wanted to start at the bottom and work my way up. Alas, this was not to be.

After the play, G.'s husband planned to go back home to work, G. was working until midnight, and I had high hopes that C. would join me for dinner, since I was so hungry that I wanted to eat my own face and if C. accompanied me I would be spared the awkwardness of eating alone in a restaurant, which is a pet peeve of mine. I figured, "Hey, if I can make an adult male interested enough in my personality to want to continue a conversation with me over dinner, even if this adult male has not an iota of sexual interest in me, then perhaps once day in the distant future I can manage a date." So I dropped subtle hints. No dice. I dropped not-so-subtle hints. No dice. I did not ask outright, since I did not want to put the poor guy on the spot, and it became clear that my mission had failed.

As we parted ways, G. hugged me and C. also went to hug me (or shake my hand...it was unclear). Unfortunately, when I turned to hug C., I was caught off balance and I ended up falling forward, smashing my face into his nose. Yes. That's right. Instead of impressing him with my effervescent personality, I maimed him. I am lucky that I did not fracture his nose. This is more proof that my life is like a bad Ben Stiller movie: There's Something About Arley.

As I sat on my stool in a trendy restaurant slurping my Thai chicken and rice soup, which I'd ordered so I would be in and out quickly and the serving staff would stop looking at me in that way that suggests they're thinking, "Look at that poor disabled girl. She's so brave to eat by herself at a restaurant," I felt incredibly disappointed, more disappointed than I'd been when I found out I might have nerve damage, more disappointed than when I woke up from surgery unable to walk. Here I was rocking my skinniest of skinny jeans (were they too skinny? Were they too tight? Was the fact that they were covered in dust and cat hair a deal breaker?), with my little quasi-biker jacket with the cool metallic details (was it too harsh? Did it say "she thinks she's so edgy" as opposed to "friendly person you could have a conversation with?"), and I could not even get someone to eat dinner with me. Was it my personality? Does the fact that I'm 6 foot 2 and have crazy hair and talk so loudly that my last boyfriend had a hand signal to tell me to lower my voice make me an inadequate dinner companion? Did I make too much eye contact? Did the muscular atrophy in my left leg subconsciously alert the cave-man recesses of his brain that I am in possession of a "broken, damaged body" (to borrow my G.P's phrase) and therefore have a reduced chance of offering him stellar genetic material to combine with his own? My God, all I wanted was some dinner-time conversation! It's not like I was planning on pinning him against my Jeep and having my way with him!

My emo pity party got exhausting quickly. After all, I hadn't really been rejected because I hadn't actually asked, and it's not like I'd pulled out my flirting moves. I drove home, listening to the new Swan Lake album, singing aloud to the part when Dan Bejar sneers, "Dearest...darling...no one's in it for the long haul...Look here Kelly (?) no one's in it at all." So, alright, back to the drawing board. It's clear that I need more work in the social department. At least I should work on the "leaning forward while retaining my balance" business so that, when I finally land a date, I do not send them to the hospital. Baby steps, people. Baby steps.

Hijinx! Mayhem! Hilarity! Wedding Cake!

It's been a few days since I've posted to the blog and I know you all felt terribly deprived because you did not have an up-to-the-minute analysis of my position on various reality TV shows and/or the status of my Freaky Cyborg Hip. Well, dry your tears people of cyberspace because I'm back after a two-day spree of wedding-related awesomeness. (Actually, I'm back after a two-day spree of wedding-related awesomeness and a one-day spree of feeling like death warmed over and being unable to string more than a few words together into a coherent sentence while recovering from pulling an all-nighter, which is a sure sign that I am indeed getting old).

Allow me to lay out a rough timeline of the past 48 hours:

9 a.m: Arley, strung out on coffee, races to the craft store to buy fondant for the wedding cake she's making, still stinging from the Great Fondant disaster of the previous night, the front of her shirt still covered in melted marshmallows and icing sugar (that's confectioner's sugar for those of you from the U.S.)

1 p.m.: Arley dances around to Belle & Sebastian while applying small sugar pearls and dragees to her cake with jeweler's tweezers. Tries to avoid slipping on sugar pearls and dragees, which have rolled to the ground.

2 p.m.: Arley pronounces the cake finished, updates her status on Facebook to reflect this happy occasion, then gets her ass in the shower to try to scrub food colouring off her entire body. Wonders how she managed to get sugar pearls in her hair without any adhesive to hold them there and suspects her crazy hair was salting them away for a little snack so it can fatten up for the winter.

5 p.m.: After a hair stylist tames the ridiculousness that is her hair, Arley gets changed into her little black party dress, which she purchased when she was 19-years-old, and which makes her look a little like a high-end cocktail waitress circa 2001. Tries to figure out this whole "makeup" thing without looking even more like a high-end cocktail waitress circa 2001.

7 p.m: Minor wardrobe malfunction trying to cram the Freaky Cyborg Hip into a limo.

7:45 p.m.: Minor wardrobe malfunction trying to get the Freaky Cyborg Hip out of the limo (you're welcome, men of downtown Vancouver).

11 p.m.: Arley positions herself on the dance floor beside an elderly man wearing some sort of lace-trimmed, bell-sleeved tunic-type shirt, who is trying (read: failing) to dance with his much-younger (possibly mail order) girlfriend to the new Black Eyed Peas song. She hopes that this will make her own dancing look better by comparison, but since her own dancing involves moving one knee a fraction of an inch back and forward and moving her hand holding the cane from side to side the way Muppets dance, she is only minimally successful.

Midnight: The band at the supper club plays an '80s dance-party medley of "Phantom of the Opera" on keyboard while the lead singer wears a Phantom mask, which transitions into "Gloria." Arley, who did not think it was possible to have Phantom of the Opera sound even more '80s, finds her world rocked in a serious way. Arley's hip just wants to sit down.

3 a.m.: Arley finds herself in a busy bar on Granville Street getting her elbows up to avoid being crushed by drunken undergraduates. Hears that stupid Black Eyed Peas song for the 18th time. Watches young men check her out until they see her cane, then look momentarily confused and disappointed. Arley's hip is about ready to pack its bags and head to Mexico.

5:30 a.m.: Arley and her pissed-off hip arrive home. Arley gets changed, throws another party dress into a bag, worries that no sleep + wedding cake + inability to walk down stairs carrying 40 pounds of cakey goodness = disaster.

5:35 a.m.: Arley's dad wakes up and mercifully helps her out with putting the cake in the car (thanks dad!), thus avoiding cake armageddon. Arley drives slower than she ever has in her life to the ferry, hearing that stupid Black Eyed Peas song on the radio for the 19th and 20th time.

9:30 a.m.: Arley delivers the cake unscathed, does a victory touch-down dance, feels the weight of the world lifted from her shoulders, then heads to the coffee shop for breakfast. Changes into her party dress and realizes with great horror that she has neglected to bring a camisole for under the low-cut dress and will be doomed to spend the rest of the evening trying not to have the third wardrobe malfunction of the weekend. Arley's hip has given up complaining, knowing that it will do no good.

11:30 a.m.: Heavy winds + low-cut dress + not very talented in the chest department = third wardrobe malfunction of the weekend. Arley hopes the wedding photographer did not capture this tender moment on film. On the up side, however, S. and J. had a spectacular ceremony and Arley cried a little. Arley's hip cried a lot.

3 p.m.: The cake is cut! The pressure is off! J. and P.A. are playing fantastic live music! Arley is dancing her muppet dance! Touching speeches abound! Arley once again believes in the power of love! She is also in that hyper stage of sleep deprivation and finds everything exciting! So exciting!

6 p.m.: Arley stays for the afterparty and meets fantastic people and listens to more live music and tries to do one of those Jewish dancing-in-a-circle dances. Realizes that she is too disabled, goyish and uncoordinated to partake in said Jewish dancing-in-a-circle dances.

8:45 p.m: Arley waits for the ferry with the fantastic people she met and finds herself relating, with excessive hand gestures, the story of the bat in her apartment and hopes she did not scare the aforementioned fantastic people with her sleep-deprivation-induced exhuberance. Tells herself, "Ok, McNeney. Take it down a notch." Arley's hip offically gives its notice.

9:30 pm: Arley, who thought that she had a PhD in B.C. Ferries after the year she spent living simultaneously in Victoria and Vancouver, is stunned to see that the "Queen of" ferries have received upgrades and no longer look like Soviet battleships circa 1974. Also, they serve yam fries (!!).

11:00 pm.: Arley arrives home and falls into a state of total and utter unconsciousness as if under anesthetic, though somehow manages to wake up with that ridiculous Black Eyed Peas song stuck in her head and now, two days later, it remains there.

I've included some pictures of the cake.

Short on Long-term Goals

One great thing about having a hip replacement is that it tends to concentrate your life down into a singular focus: how to learn how to walk again. For three months, you don't think, "Gee, I wonder if I should be worried that I'm 26 years old and relentlessly unemployed and that the entire sum of my life's work so far is 'used to put a ball through a hoop. Wrote about said experience in novel form. Got a highly lucrative master's degree in creative writing. Own a cat with whom I am apparently not currently on speaking terms.'" All you think is, "Heel toe. Heel toe. Heel toe." It's a little bit zen-like.

Better yet, elderly relatives are too busy asking you about your recovery to politely inquire about what happened to that nice boy you used to "go around with," the one who was so handsome even if he did look a little bit "ethnic," and whether you plan to get serious about anyone since when they were your age, they had three children and ladies in that day and age didn't even talk to a man if they didn't consider him a worthy prospect and it's such a shame that these so-called modern women don't mind giving away the milk for free. For three months post-surgery, no one is trying to set you up with their cousin's friend's brother. No one asks you what you plan on "doing" with that degree of yours. No one wonders aloud if they're ever going to be a grandparent. All anyone's concerned about is whether you'll be able to walk again.

Having a hip replacement is also a lovely excuse for procrastination. After all, they tell you in the little hip-replacement handbook that you shouldn't work for at least six weeks. And no employer is going to want someone who has to go to physio for hours on end. And it's probably best not to go on a date when you have to bring along a four-inch foam cushion, a grabber, and handout of acceptable post-surgical sex positions. Everything is very simple. Rehab. More rehab. Reality TV. Have your mom bring you a sandwich and some frozen grapes and maybe some fizzy water with a splash of orange juice but not too much because citrus fruits make your hives worse.

Well, I'm walking a great deal better than I was before, the pity party is over and it's time to start spinning the wheel in the Game of Life. Since March, I've managed to retire from competitive sport, graduate from grad school, and get a hip replacement. I am post-retirement, post-grad and post-surgical. The problem is that now that most of the things that were keeping me occupied have now disappeared, I need fewer "posts" and more "pre"s and "peri"s. In short, I need to take a page out of Stalin or Mao's handbook and get myself a Five Year Plan (without, you know, murdering any bourgeois parasites or erecting a home-made steel mill in my backyard).

The problem is, however, that my long-term goals are listed below:

• Drink whiskey with Dan Bejar of Destroyer/Swan Lake/New Pornographers fame and somehow be super-cool and suave while doing so as opposed to, say, fainting or blubbering that I like totally think he's awesome and love his music.
• Write pretty words and have people pay me for doing so.
• Live in a place where I can ride my bike to go grocery shopping. (Granted, I cannot yet ride a bike and do not own one, but this is why it's a long-term goal).
• Meet Michael Ondaatje and somehow be super-cool and suave while doing so as opposed to, say, fainting or blubbering that I totally think he's awesome and love his writing and want to have his babies and have considered getting some of his poetry tattooed on my hip and that he is my imaginary literary boyfriend.
• Do a triathalon, except I had to strike this from the list because if i run I'll end up finding my ass back in an operating room.
• Keep on rocking in the free world.
• Keep on keeping on.
• Don't stop believing.
• Hold on to that fee-eeeling.
• Streetlight! People! It goes on and on and on and on
• Get a job that will prevent me from starving/freezing to death but which will also allow me time to write. Right now, that job seems to be "have Oprah feature my novel on her show, which will allow me to get a million dollars in royalties and retire to Berkeley where I can ride my bicycle to cute organic markets and raise babies."

So, apparently half of those goals are not actually goals but Journey lyrics, so this could be a problem. Anyone know Oprah's phone number?

A Friendly Greeting From the King of Canes!

If you go to your average Starbucks, you will probably see the following sights: a very angry man filled with rage because he asked for a three-pump skinny vanilla latte and there is very clearly only two pumps in this skinny vanilla latte; an old guy who just. wants. a. coffee. dammit; a group of young mothers discussing the benefits of home-made baby food and name-dropping stroller brands....and me, ordering a tall, non-fat, no water, extra hot chai latte. But go to the Starbucks on 6th in New West and you will see a different sight, because that Starbucks has its own biker gang, who sit in their full leathers outside the shop and talks about hard-core biker shit; (you can just imagine the news report: "at night, they cruise the mean streets of New Westminster armed to the teeth. By day, they prowl the local Starbucks, scaring the foam off their cinnamon dolce lattes"). I call them the Hells' Baristas.

Today, now that I have a brand, spankin' new gait, I decided to take a page out of the Hells' Baristas handbook by walking up to the local Starbucks. My plan: walk up there, get a chai latte, chill with the Hells' Baristas to up my street cred by several degrees, then walk home and celebrate my independence.

One of my favourite albums to walk to is John Cale's "Paris, 1919," because it is impossible not to have a spring in your steps when you're listening to a rock album about the Treaty of Versailles, especially when roughly 80 violins are rocking the shit out of those eighth notes and there's a fucking bass taking the party down low and slow and John Cale is at the piano directing traffic and bringing a little dose of Velvet Underground cool. Sometimes, I will admit, I have been known to sing a little bit while walking down the street and move my pointer finger as if I am conducting an orchestra, which is probably reason #289 why I am single.

So there I am, strolling jauntily down the street, just about to open the door to Starbucks, when an obese man dressed all in black burst through the door with a black cane that appeared to have some sort of duck/cobra/deer head on the handle. The man sees me, stops half-way through the door, twirls his cane around like he's starring in a dinner-theatre production of "Singin' In the Rain," winks (winks!), then thrusts his cane in the air in triumph. He said something to me, but since I could only hear the sweet strains of John Cale singing the "you're a ghost la la la la la la la" part, I did not catch his message.

I can only assume that I had just been greeted by the King of Canes, or that there is a secret handshake (cane shake?) that one needs to know to be inducted into some secret cane society. It has also crossed my mind that the man had performed some sort of cane-user's mating ritual, since all that thrusting and twirling of a long stick does seem a wee bit phallic. The King of Canes disappeared and I gave my hip an extra dose of calcium, while getting to overhear such gems as "Now, experts recommend that you register for a policy of 8 to 9 times the person's annual income if you want to profit off the death of a loved one." (true story). The Hells' Baristas gave me side-eye but did not challenge me to a turf war and I spent 20 happy minutes sipping my latte while reading the latest headlines; (apparently, Stephen Harper recently appointed to the senate a former NHL coach who admitted in a 2005 memoir that while he could sign his name, he could not read sentences. Oh, Canadian politics. How I love you). I think I might have to make a ritual out of a daily Starbucks run. So watch out, Hells' Baristas. I am jonesing for a latte, I am armed to the teeth with a three-foot metal bar and I am ready to rumble.

Nighttime on the City of New Orleans

Right now, I am sitting on the train they call the City of New Orleans, am literally in Kankakee, and will have gone 500 miles since the day is done. Is it a bad sign when your life is plagiarising Arlo Guthrie songs? (Though, given the macabre quality of some folk songs, I guess I should be glad I'm not stuck in one of those old-school folk songs where a man takes his low-down woman, often named Bess, to the river and/or strangles her with her long, blonde hair).

I did not see any passing trains that have no names or freight cars full of old black men, but I did see the following (and I think Arlo Guthrie should update the song to reflect this).

• Over two dozen people wearing Michael Jackson tribute shirts.
• A conductor who called me "precious" and stopped the entire line of passengers with loud cries of, "People, you're going to have to step aside. Precious is coming through here."
• A 20-something asshole who claimed (loudly) to have diplomatic immunity and that his passport was signed by the Minister of the Interior, remarked (loudly) that he had come from the Middle East and wondered if everyone thought he was going to blow up the train, noted (louder) that he was going to "pitch a tent in his girlfriend's p*ssy and camp there for 48 hours straight," (which sounds uncomfortable), then compelled the drunk chick he'd met on the train to burn his knuckle hair with her lighter, which she did and the entire train smelled like burnt hair.

Good morning, America, how are ya? Don't you know me, I'm you're foreign alien with a tenuous claim to be residing in your country. I'm the train they call the City of New Orleans. I'll be gone 2500 miles when the day is done.

The Handbike Attacks!

My biggest fear going into the surgery was inactivity (little did I know how much inactivity I was in for). For this reason, I purchased one of those cheap little pedals that you can use to work out either your arms or your legs and set up shop in the kitchen by putting the pedal on a table under a bathmat so it won't move around. I never thought I would be so happy to use a handbike.

I have a rather ambivalent history with handbikes. Two years ago, I was not allowed to play basketball because no one knew whether my crazy hip was causing nerve damage. I was therefore the only one who didn't suit up when the Fighting Illini visited Alabama for a women's tournament. And I was the only one to receive a concussion.

Frustrated by being on the sidelines, I slipped away for a little handbiking in one of the facility's many workout facilities. I had my ipod cranked up and was sweating away in the little room, sweating out my incredible frustration levels, getting the old exercise-induced endorphins flowing, totally caught up in the kick-ass fiddle of some Celtic rock, when I reached down to change the track on my Ipod. And was thrown backwards. For a moment, I thought that someone had thrown a rock at me and I looked around to see where the attack was coming from. There was a sharp pain in my forehead and blood on my fingers when I put my hand up there to test. And suddenly it occurred to me: I had not been shot or hit by any other flying projectile. I had not been bitten by an exotic Southern bug and I had not been the victim of a random attack. I had conked my stupid head on a sharp metal piece protruding out of the handbike when I bent down to change the song. With blood running down my nose, I went to sheepishly alert our poor athletic trainer Jen that I would require some assistance.

Ten minutes later, I was remarking on how painfully bright the light coming through the windows was. A few minutes after that, I was suddenly immensely tired. I have a few hazy memories of JB poking me and urging me to wake up and fighting off the urge to tell her to f*ck off because I was so incredibly, unbelievably exhausted and I had a bad headache. That's right. I was the only one player in the entire tournament to not spend a minute on the court. And I was the only one to be off for two weeks with a concussion. Because I am just that special.

Fast forward to today. Same euphoric state of hand-bike bliss, different music (The New Pornographers' "Challengers"). I reached out to again change the volume on my Ipod and felt a pain in my hand, which was quickly turning red and throbbing. It turns out that you get what you pay for. My poor little handbike was not used to my particular brand of enthusiasm and friction had caused the metal I had rested my hand against had been heated to red-hot. I had been burned by my own kinetic energy.

Still, (since I am supposed to be in the business of doling of hip replacement advice), a handbike is a cheap and effective way to get your heartrate up when you're spending months perfecting the ass-indentation in your bed. It is more fun than trying to predict just how low TLC will go in their quest for the most ridiculous reality show (their latest offering: "I'm a Hoarder!") Just make sure that you invest in a model that does not pose a significant burn risk or you, too, will be unable to fully grip the handrails as you descend the stairs because the side of your hand has been lightly seared.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

I've never been a fan of free time, mostly because I've never had much of it. Between grad school and writing and teaching and wheelchair basketball and my robust social life (don't laugh), I have grown used to a certain level of chaos. Because I am of the "put your head down and keep going" school of problem-solving and life-living, time off can be a dangerous opportunity to think too much. The most difficult part of the hip replacement has therefore not been the pain, (which there wasn't much of), but the sheer frustration of being forced to stay in one place for an extended period of time. Recovery has therefore not just required adjusting to a new joint, but an entirely new itinerary:

My life pre-replacement: Get up at 5:35 a.m. to my cat (who faithfully wakes me 5 minutes before my alarm) licking my face. Tell her she's pretty. Go to practice for 2 - 3 hours, 45 minutes of which will involve me standing up out of my chair and doing the hip-relocation booty dance and another 15 of which will involve me adjusting my mantooth (that's a story for another post), shower at the ARC and realize that I've forgotten some important article of underclothing. Try to dress in a way that does not make this fact obvious. Impart my endless and unceasing wisdom (most of it thesis-statement-related) to the youth of America. Remind my drowsy/hungover freshmen that if I can get up at 5:30 a.m. and be at least semi-coherent they can damn well stop sleeping in the front row. Teach another class (selflessly offering more shining pearls of knowledge i.e. "how to make a citation sandwich"). Sit in my office and grade diligently (read: complain about grading, gossip and empty the office candy jar -- oh room 248 how I will miss you). Work out again (repeat hip reduction booty dance. Call "Jennnn!" and have her tug on my leg and hang me from various high places). Return home to sit on the couch with E.C., watch my cat renovate her cardboard box condo, and catch up on the latest episode of "My Big Redneck Wedding" while eating Lean Cuisine and microwave popcorn (or else hang out with A. drinking whiskey, listening to records and talking about evolution). Pack my gym bag for the next day and have a detailed conversation with my cat about whether she is, in fact, a pretty girl. Try to read a book, but fall asleep after a few sentences (sorry David Foster Wallace. I may never be done with "Infinite Jest). Wake up dreaming of drowning because my hip has come out during the night and my back is spasming, making it hard to breathe. Repeat. (Note: this is also a really great recipe for getting mono).

My life post-hip replacement: Wake up already dressed in my recovery uniform (shorts and a T-shirt). Try to remember when I last wore a bra. Watch "A Baby Story" and chide the women on the screen for whining and crying during their epidural because mine really wasn't that bad. Do exercises, most of which involve me either with my legs spread apart or slung face-down over my bed and think, "Wow, this is not the most fun I've ever had in these positions." Read a book. Stare out the window. Go for a walk with my mom and pass women walking their babies in various states of domestic bliss. Watch one of those home-buying shows and tsk-tsk at people buying expensive homes with 100% financing in California circa 2006. Stare out the window. Brood, usually over the whole unemployment/ deportation/ "short on long-term goals"-ness of my life. Get on the exercise bike/ hand bike and spend a blissful hour working my ass off, getting all wonderfully sweaty with my IPod cranked way the hell up as Dan Bejar sings with just the right amount of self-loating and sarcasm and anger and regret and meloncholy that "tonight is not your night/ no it's not your night -- ooooooh yeah." Stare out the window and realize that my sweat smells of chlorine. Get into the pool and paddle around trying to ward off roving raccoon gangs. Realize that I have had "The Internationale" stuck in my head for a solid two weeks. Remind the racoons that "freedom is merely priviledge extended unless enjoyed by one and all." Shower. Put on another pair of shorts and a T-shirt (see "In Praise of Grabbers"). Still no bra. Fail to resist the siren's song of Smarties ice cream. Spend twenty minutes trying to find the perfect pillow to stick between my legs so I can sleep on my side. Brood. Sleep. Repeat.

As you can see, blogging is not just a way to share my experience with other young people having a hip replacement, (since I'm not sure anyone who's not my friend has discovered this blog), but a way to rehab my brain. Less over-thinking, more telling other people about my ass: just what the physio ordered.

It's a...lump of decaying, knobby femoral head!

**Note: If you are not a fan of hearing about people's surgeries, you should probably scroll down to the next post while thinking happy thoughts about kittens and rainbows**

I wanted to keep the hip. I mean, it was mine. Who fed it a steady diet of delicious calcium via all those chai lattes? Me. Who stressed it to the point of collapse by insisting on going to her mother's step aerobics classes and doing circuit-training Biggest Loser style? Me. Who yanked on my leg whenever the hip came out in the middle of a wheelchair-basketball game and convinced it to stay in its little hip home? Okay, that was Jen Brown and Zach, (with the help of one Gregory James Mantooth), but who had to stick her hand into the fist-sized indentation that opened up on the side of my leg whenever my hip came out and manually power it, since the hip was too busy exploring the rest of my pelvis and not doing its job? That's right. Me.

Besides, I was already using two plaster models of my hips as bookends and I thought the real thing might be a good paperweight. It would have been very satisfying to look at my hip sitting inertly on the table and think, "Who's laughing now, motherf*cker? You've been deported from the nation of Arley. Not so easy to cause problems now, is it?" (Right now, my hip is probably up in hip heaven laughing its ass of at me getting kicked out of America). Many people were grossed out by this, even when I offered to tell them that it was not a hip but a moon rock, but after all the drama my diva hip put me through, I felt like I had earned it.

Alas, it was not to be. Apparently, it's against some biohazard law to keep your own bones, since every bone taken out of someone's body has to be biopsied and safely disposed of. You all can therefore breathe a sigh of relief because you will not see my hip sitting on the mantle like something out of a Margaret Atwood short story. I did, however, get to see it.

I was awake for my hip replacement. "Awake" is perhaps too optimistic a term. I had spinal anesthetic and was sedated, which meant that I spent the surgery in a rather blissful state of semi-consciousness. Though I have never done heroin, I suspect the feeling would be the same. It was like being in a Dan Bejar song. (Actually, I remember having the John Cale song "Half-Past France" stuck in my head, which was a very appropriate soundtrack). In fact, I was so completely indifferent to what was going on that when I felt sawing and pulling and tugging, it seemed to be happening from very far away. They might as well have been doing renovations down the street. I even heard someone say, "Oh my God!" when the hip was taken out and felt completely bored by it. (It turned out that I was the proud owner of the worst hip my surgeon had ever seen).

I was taking a little power nap when my surgeon tapped me on the shoulder. He was holding the hip in the palm of his hand and asked if I wanted to see it. I was expecting something like coral: something brittle and porous and sharp. Instead, the hip looked like a lump of molten glass. It was completely flattened and there were little knobs all over it that stood out in relief because there was a red substance stuck in the grooves and indentations; (I thought it was blood at the time, but I suspect it was the same antibacterial stuff they paint on your leg. My toes were pink for a month post-surgery). The hip was all shiny in the powerful operating-room light and (this could have been the drugs talking), was weirdly lovely. It was a strange feeling being shown a chunk of your own bone, especially since so much of the surgery seemed to follow the script I'd seen watching C-sections on "A Baby Story," (the epidural, the nurse murmuring supportive things, the feelings of tugging and pulling), except that while the new mothers cried with joy at seeing their newborns, I was face-to-face with a chunk of decaying femoral head.

And that was the end of that. The doctor took the hip away (he'd promised to take a picture of it with his camera phone, but he forgot and I was too busy chasing the dragon to remind him) and I was wheeled out of the operating room into recovery, where I was swathed in warm blankets. I remember thinking, "Well, that's over and done with! Let's get the recovery party started! Bring on that morphine drip!" At least I got the morphine....

Attack of the Anti-Ass!

Because of the atrophy on my left side, I have long possessed what I call the "anti-ass." The anti-ass is concave instead of convex and has always left me lop-sided, which resulted in pressure sores on my sits bones when I played wheelchair basketball and pants that flapped in the breeze on one side. (You can insert your own "doing everything half-assed" jokes here, if you'd like).

So, six months before the surgery, I decided I was going to re-grow my ass. Thanks to a fitness program I cobbled together from physiotherapist recommendations and episodes of "The Biggest Loser," (more the latter than the former, truth be told), I succeeded in conquering my anti-ass and grew just enough curve that my backside no longer looked like that of an old man. Since the surgery, I've been doing even more exercises to maximize my glutes, so I thought that the days of my ass-related problems were long over. I was wrong.

Last week, one of my physiotherapists allowed me to try to stationary bicycle. This was a great breakthrough for me because a) the cardio junkie in me could work up a sweat and b) I haven't ridden a bicycle since I was injured, not counting the time last summer when I tried to ride my friend's bike, which involved him holding on both to me and to the bike and running alongside me like human training wheels.

My great uncle was nice enough to lend me his stationary bike and I worked my way up from 10 minutes to 25 minutes in just a week. (Unfortunately, I also managed to break the timer, the resistance knob and one foot strap -- sorry Uncle Hugh!). Yesterday, I was riding like the wind, sweating all over my bedroom, and bopping around to a bizarre playlist consisting of Echo and the Bunnymen, "Eye of the Tiger," John Cale's "Paris 1919" and part of the soundtrack of "The Phantom of the Opera," when I realized that sitting had become not quite so comfortable. A check in the bathroom mirror confirmed it: the anti-ass was back. Not only was my ass black and blue, but I'd rubbed all the skin off my tailbone.

I'm assuming that those of you out there in able-bodied land have a reasonable solution for this problem and I would be interested in hearing it. All those professional cyclists look like they could use a sandwich and they don't seem to be complaining about bruised asses (though perhaps the bovine growth hormones they're injecting into themselves makes them somehow immune to this problem?). I don't see any Average Joe commuters having trouble sitting through business meetings. Until I develop the appropriate ass calluses, I'm sitting on two pillows, and this doesn't seem to be helping the problem. Does ass bruising come with the stationary-bike territory? Suggestions ?