This one time I tried to be sexy. It didn't work.

So on a scale of one to completely sucking at life, I am most definitely on the sucking end of the spectrum this week. I honestly can't even talk about my knees or any part of my body today or I will break into tears and salt water is bad for the keyboard and for my new mascara-wearing look. It just all really sucks and is unbelievably frustrating right now. I'm thinking of completely overhauling this blog to something like, "My adventure in orthopaedics: My knees suck at life and don't deserve any more attention."

Anywhoo, let's talk about something else. How about...Miley Cyrus. What the eff was that performance at the VMA's? Firstly, I'm pissed because although I did not legally patent "twerking," I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I pulled that same move off in 2001 on Rick's Lounge dance floor. That was MY move. And to make matters worse, Miley's tweaked the twerk into some "sexy" dance. NO, Miley, NO! it's not a sexy dance move. It makes people laugh. It's a joke. It was my go-to make your friends howl with laughter dance move. Shit. Miley ruined one of my best dance moves. Unless...perhaps there is an alternative explanation for what she was doing on that stage. It's far fetched, but...there is this test my orthopedic surgeon has done with me before to check for lumbar involvement with lower back pain. The patient stands and touches her toes and the doctor stabilizes the patient's hips by holding the iliac crests. So either Miley was just being a skankball with Robin Thicke or she had asked him for an examination of her lower back. Either way, it was yucky and I was concerned that I had contracted an STD from witnessing such a display.

Did Miley think that she was being sexy? Is that the look that she was going for? Sexy means different things to different people. Obviously, Miley's version of sexy is skanky slutty plastic gyrating hot pants. As an adult, I am mature enough to create my own interpretation of sexy - my definition of sexy, for example, is someone who is funny, interesting, intelligent, and witty...and a British accent helps. Unfortunately, during our awkward, self-conscious teen years, it's difficult to arrive at our own thoughts and opinions; we are very much influenced by the media. In my teens, I associated sexy with a topless Claudia Schiffer rolling around in her Guess Jeans. I ran out and bought those sexy red guess jeans immediately...but that was nothing! Now these poor kids are seeing a waify girl dry hump a giant foam finger in icky lingerie. Where do I buy plastic panties???? Good god.

I had a dear friend in high school, Carly, who was, without a doubt, sexy. She just pulled it off - long dark hair, smouldering eyes, and form-fitting clothes. She stood out in a crowd. She was actually very shy, but it was often interpreted by boys as "mysterious." While the rest of us girls laughed nervously at any joke a boy ever told, Carly would sit quietly, seductively play with a strand of her long dark hair, and appear completely unimpressed. The boys loved it. Whenever we would go out with Carly, we always attracted attention. Unfortunately, as her sidekick, I was often approached by boys requesting, "Introduce me to your friend."

In addition to being smoking hot, Carly was always up for an adventure. It was grade 11. It was New Year's Ev, and Carly convinced our group of girlfriends to abandon the high school scene in Prince Albert and head to Saskatoon for a legit University party. To be honest, I'm not sure if we were ever officially invited or anything, but Carly convinced us that this was where we belonged - it was time to expand our horizons and see what our future held...hot, mature, educated men who would be enamoured with us! (yes, because the only men in their 20's who would be remotely interested in giggly awkward high school girls would be the super creeps. Hello?)

As 5 of us girls attempted to cake on the makeup and glam up the hair, other than confident Carly, I think a few of us girls suspected that this party might be just a bit out of our small-town highschool party league.

Janna practiced her "sexy pout," also known as smiling seductively without ever revealing her braces.

I desperately covered up the acne on my forehead by creating a sideswept bang with my terrible Clarol orange-blonde dye job.

Krista struggled with her clothing for the evening and finally settled on jeans and a ratty t-shirt in an attempt to look as though she really didn't give a shit (that was important too of course - never look too eager to impress).

Finally by 10:30pm, we were drunk, full of boozy confidence,  and ready to hit up our first University party.

Carly found the yellow pages and began searching for a taxi service that could transport us to the party.

"What do you mean you stuff animals?" she responded drunkenly into the phone, "we need a ride to a party!"

"Shit, Car..." we interrupted her, "You called the taxidermist, hon. Too far...back up in the yellow pages."

Ohhhhhhhh, "Never mind. Thank you, " she responded as she hung up the phone.

Surprise surprise! at 10:30 on New Year's Eve, we were having a fair bit of difficulty reaching a taxi service that could take us to the coolest university party of our lives.

Finally after an hour of busy signals, Carly reached a dispatcher.

"Is everyone in the party able to walk?" asked the dispatcher.

Silly question. We weren't that loaded, "Yes," replied Carly.

"The van will be there in 10 minutes, " replied the dispatcher.

5 giggly, drunk, "sexified" 17 year old girls stood outside, anxiously awaiting the taxi van. To our shock and dismay, a Handi-van pulled up - a van for handicapped people - like with the wheelchair accessible doors...not to mention the large dark font on the side of the van "HANDI-VAN"

"Oh my god. We cannot show up to the party in this!" exclaimed Carly. Our goal was to blend in with all the other sexy university people at the party, dammit. This was totally going to blow our cover! "They" would know that we were grade 11 PA girls, trying desperately to fit in at this (in our minds) epic New Year's Party.

We had no choice. This was the only ride option. We took it.  In retrospect, I'm surprised they took us, actually. Perhaps after all the booze we consumed, we passed for possessing some type of disability.

Now just add "Handicapped transportation" in blue font on side

Hoping no one at the party would notice a Handi-Van pulling into the driveway, we emerged from our "taxi"in stealth mode and attempted to throw off the awesome vibe as we entered the super cool University party.

Upon entering, seeing a group gathered at the window laughing hysterically, it was apparent that most of the party-goers had witnessed our epic entrance in the handicapped van.

"Hey, you come on the short bus?" one smartass University student asked.

"Is this a telemiracle fundraiser? Ring those phones!" another ingenious university student added.

One guy started communicating to me in sign language, as the party-goers laughed at his witty attempt to make me feel super cool.

This wasn't going well and I was too embarrassed and intimidated to see the hilarity of the situation.

As I looked around the best party ever at a real house lived in by real university students, I took in the scene: people chilling on couches, rolling joints at a table, and honestly, looking quite bored with life. This party kinda sucked.

We drank enough of their University booze to lose one of our girls to cool University dude's bathroom - where she was found puking, um....aggressively. I experienced my first awkward exit from a weed circle, lamely explaining, "I have to go to the bathroom," minutes before midnight and minutes before the joint would be in my hand. By 1am we were ready to go. We called back our handi-van driver and were relieved to be transported home in our very spacious and super sexy ride.

I think we all died a little inside that night. We certainly didn't make the impression that we were striving to make (what the hell impression were we trying to make anyway?) But most of all, the party was actually...disappointing. It was kinda lame. Was this what university life was like because It kinda looked sucky. Music? Dancing? Nope, just a lot of weed smoking and handi-van ridiculing. We would have had more fun if we would have invited the Taxidermist over.

But...when we returned to high school after winter holidays and fellow students asked what we did for New Years, we replied confidently, "Oh we went to an Epic University new years party." Haha. Lame.

We never spoke of the Handi-Van...until now. Cover is blown, girls.

Que Sera Sera

Last we chatted, I had confessed to you that left knee is a now a biatch and right knee's status has improved dramatically from "asshole" to "on the edge of pretty decent. "

Since then, I met with Dr. M to discuss this interesting change of events. We contemplated the possibility of an MRI to properly diagnose the biatch, but decided against it at this time. Knowing or not knowing won't really change our course of treatment right now. I'm in no shape to undergo any surgery on my left knee. Presently I need to keep making the right knee happier and stronger. 

Dr. M then shared his sandwich with me (he always wants me to eat his food) and we chatted about life. 

"So how are you doing?" he asked with a mouthful of bread.

Like that annoying brown-nosing kid at the front of the class whose hand shoots up eagerly every time the teacher asks a question, I began to confidently list all the things that would surely rank me as superior healer, "Oh I'm doing really well, " I bragged, "I alternate physio with push up and sit up ladders to increase my endorphin rush, I meditate on healing my soul, I visualize changing my gait pattern, I watch Dr. Phil and have incorporated his sweet sixteen tips for success, " I continued, "and then I make a list all that I'm thankful for. I'm just doing awesome. "

Dr. M looked up slowly from his sandwich (in disbelief?) "Ok," he replied calmly, "How are you sleeping?"

"Well...I'm not. I'm usually awake most of the night freaking out about my knees and my future, " I replied honestly. 

Dr. M then went on to explain his theory of why I was struggling at night. He suggested that I had created somewhat of a competition for myself. (Gasp! Me??? competitive???) I was working so hard to "win." I was setting a bar of undefined awesomeness that I was striving so hard throughout the day to achieve. I was operating at an unnatural high during the day and my brain was telling me to calm the eff down by waking me up at night. He likened my brain activity to that of a stock market. I was so artificially high that it was forced to correct itself; hence the dives I took at night in the form of spazz attacks. My brain was yelling, "Enough. You win. Stop the madness and just "be" already!"

I listened intently and it slowly occurred to me that he was right. He was so right. How does this man know me so well? I thought I was doing all the right things, trying so hard to be that "perfect specimen" rehabbing machine, when I realized something. I am so tired. I am exhausted. It's one thing to remain positive and work hard, but just like that social studies project in sixth grade where I chose 5 states to report on instead of the required 2 (and then cried because I had to work all night to finish it on time), I was overachieving and it was interfering with my well-being. Overachieving sounds like a positive word, doesn't it? It suggests "going above and beyond what is required." It's really not a positive thing. There is certainly a fine line between overachieving and striving for an unachievable, undefinable goal. 

With enlightenment and insight comes discomfort. So I went home and had a good solid cry. I put Natasha Bedingfield's, "Pocketful of Sunshine" on repeat and bawled. At one point I looked down and noticed my white shorts were now black and splotchy with ink (I just recently started wearing mascara for the first time - you know, to create a "glam" look) and with that discovery my crying hit the point of no return. Do you know what I mean when I say "hitting the point of no return?" It's that point where you just feel so utterly and pathetically sorry for yourself that you are no longer functioning like a proper human being. Maybe you're walking around your house sobbing, "This isn't fair! I hate my life!" when suddenly you stub your toe and then you're all like, "And now I stubbed my toe??? Well what else can possibly go wrong?  GAWWWWW!" That's exactly what I did. "My stupid knees! And I'm tired of trying so hard to be effin happy! And now my stupid mascara wrecked my stupid white shorts!!!  GAWWWWWW!" (I really hope I'm not the only one who has hit the point of no return before; otherwise, this is really quite embarrassing, isn't it?)

Anyways, once that was over and done with (it felt pretty good, dammit!) I began to really think about and process Dr. M's words of wisdom. He suggested that I stop worrying, "worrying is only wishing for things to go wrong." He suggested that I take one day at a time, just go with it, and adopt a new life mantra, "Que sera sera - What will be, will be."

Cool. It was all too much to process at that point. So I decided to spin my own "Kirstie" interpretation on his recommendations. 

"What did Dr. M say today?" asked Ev when he returned home to find his puffy-eyed wife sitting quietly in her dirty white shorts. 

"He said that I should party like a rockstar," I replied with quiet confidence. 

So that's what I did. 

With an exceptional group of friends ready to participate, I fed that biatch knee pina coladas, malibu and juice, vodka and club soda....you name it - the knee got it. 

Typically at the lake, we sit around the campfire and chat into the night - we rarely have nights past midnight or 1am, but I was on a mission. I had gotten this left biatch knee drunk and I wanted to take advantage of it. 

We found ourselves at a campfire down the road, where we met up with some more exceptional people. Only good things can happen when exceptional people party with exceptional people. As the night progressed, something magical happened. An impromptu beach dance party erupted and carried on into the wee hours of the morning. It was epic. As Pitbull blasted, "Give me everything tonight...for all we know we might not get tomorrow..." about 15 of us danced our hearts out on the sand, under the stars. I'm not sure exactly how I "danced." I suspect that it wasn't pretty. I kinda awkwardly clung onto objects or people, and I certainly admit to a little bit of jumping on that biatch left knee - but it was in no shape to complain...and I did not give a care or even think twice about it. 

Then there was this moment of drunken clarity. As I danced with reckless abandon on that cool sand, just like a regular, real person at a beach party, I looked up at the stars and thought, "This is living. This is one of those amazing, fantastic moments in life." The moment lasted for a split second and then I was right back in there, arms flailing in the air as Pitbull chanted, "grab somebody sexy tell them heeeeeeey!"

It wasn't all happy endings and fairy tales. The knees certainly protested the next day...and the day after....and maybe the day after that. In addition, my exceptional group of friends were anything BUT exceptional the next day. They were so totally hung over and useless that they could barely get out of bed....and unfortunately lawyer's husband lost his favourite pair of socks in the sand (who wears socks to a beach party?) But it was completely worth it and I will never forget that priceless moment under the stars. I wasn't looking for that moment. I wasn't searching for that feeling - I just went with it. It just happened. Que sera sera.

Sometimes that's a risk you just gotta take. 

Stop kissing, dammit!

I haven't really blogged about my knee for a while because...well, because I'm kinda sick of talking about it, to be honest, - which means that you're probably sick of hearing about it.

But since this blog is supposed to be documenting my recovery, here it goes: I've got some good news and...I've got some bad news.

Good news first. For the last 4 weeks, I have been dedicating my life to learning how to walk again. Apparently, I've been walking "wrong" for 34 years. Wha? Why didn't my kindergarten teacher catch this major flaw in 1985? (Report card: "Kirstie has learned her alphabet. She makes friends easily. Her walking is f'd right up"). My knees naturally turn inward when I walk - Dr. M calls them "kissing knees" - sounds romantic, but it's these amorous knees that are causing me so much pain. When I weight bear and my knees turn inward, the majority of weight is directly on the lesion where my transplanted cartilage lies. It's not a smooth surface, so it "sticks" and results in some pain and, to be honest, it just freaks me right out. But...if I concentrate really hard, squeeze my right butt cheek like my life depends on it, I can turn my knee outward and re-distrubute my weight on the lateral portion of my knee. Brilliant! Easy, right? Um.... ya, no, it's really hard and it makes me whiny. Can someone call me a waaaaaaambulance?

That's enough you two. 

With a full-length mirror at the end of the hall, I have been walking laps of my hallway, squeezing that right ass cheek and constantly watching my knee, ensuring that it does not kiss the other. I'm like the parent chaperone at grad that restrains the horny high school kids from making out on the dance floor. It's mentally and physically exhausting, but it's a strategy that is currently working for me, it's beginning to feel natural, and there is limited pain. It feels decent. I've been able to ditch the crutch in my house, and am currently walking short distances with little pain and a pretty decent gait. Boo ya!

Now...for the not so good news. The other knee. It's made it known that it is pissy. Initially, I made excuses for it, "It's tired of doing all the work, dammit! Let it be pissy!" but recently, it's begun to act much like the right knee did in the early stages of my injury. It aches. It sounds like rice krispies when I extend it or walk down stairs. It's also "sticking" occasionally when I pivot. All these symptoms could simply be inflammation...or, given my history and my diagnosis,  they could very well be precursors or indicators of cartilage damage. If I was a car, my "Check Engine" light would be on. Dammit. Where do I get serviced? Don't answer that. If I was a car, I'd probably be a gently used BMW. It looks good on the lot. Shiny. Looks to be in good condition. Some poor sap buys that BMW, drives it around a few times and...BOOM, the f'n wheel just falls right off. So the spare gets put on the Beemer and now you have this nice shiny car driving around with a fricken donut. It looks dumb. The stupid car can't go past 30km an hour, nor can it travel on the highway. It's not really good for anything. And just when you think things couldn't get worse, the "check engine" light comes on...you just know that something else is wrong with this fricken car. You'd be better off selling it off for parts or trading it in for a newer model.  I am a lemon, dammit.

So I'm not gonna lie, I'm fearful. I kinda feel like a ticking time bomb. This knee could hold out for weeks, months, years, or even never manifest into anything concerning...or it could go at any minute - I can walk around saying, "Well now I blew out my other knee."

I've been attempting to distract myself as best as I can - working the knee that is recovering nicely, writing, meditating, masturbating (haha, just checking to see if you're listening), enjoying time with friends, and watching dumbass guests on Dr. Phil (I may have shit knees but at least I'm not stupid!) What else can I do? My subconscious, on the other hand, is not easily distracted. My latest recurring dream goes something like this: I'm driving a boat/plane/train but there is something stuck to my windshield, completely obstructing my view. I have no idea what is ahead of me. Instead of slowing down, I speed up, faster and faster - until I crash into rocks and/or mountains. I get it, subconscious, - it doesn't take a rocket scientist to analyze that one. I have no idea what's ahead of me. I am blindly moving forward and it's terrifying....but that really doesn't make me any different than anyone else on this Earth, does it? So I guess all I can do is squeeze that butt cheek and keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Easy for him - he doesn't have knees

It was real - farts and all.

Ev and I are celebrating our 8th year of wedded bliss this week. We started dating at age 17 which makes for a grand total of 17 years. That's like half our lives, people! I love being married to Evan. I think Ev is intelligent, extremely driven, exciting, and possesses this wicked quiet/sarcastic sense of humour. And after all these years, we really do have a lot of fun together. After the year we have just endured, I can say with certainty that Ev has definitely lived up to his marriage vows - you know the ones about "in bad" and "in sickness." I think that if I could offer one tip for single peeps out there, I would recommend that you choose a mate that will be there for you during the really challenging times. Anyone can stick it out during the good; the bad, on the other hand, is a different story. It's just too easy to run away. Ev has made it clear that he is here to stay. He waited for me. He stuck it out through those months where I was completely disconnected from him and the world around me. When I hear the lyrics to Mumford & Sons, "I will wait for you," I always think of my buddy, Ev, patiently waiting for me to return to life. It couldn't have been easy for him.

I am very happy and content to be a married woman but I do have a few friends who are single and the single life always intrigues me. Sometimes it sounds kind of exciting - but extremely complicated as well.  For example, how do you know when you're monogamous? Do you wait for the "in a relationship" status update on facebook or is it official once he's tagged you in a photo? Perhaps once he's retweeted you on twitter? And did you know that there are implicit dating rules? According to reliable sources, once you're headed out on that magical third date, you'd better be prepared to get down to business (if you know what I mean, wink wink). Wow. I would so suck at dating. Not only would I be unbelievably awkward ("So, like date 3, huh? Do we drink first? eat dinner? When does this all go down? Should I just take all my clothes off?"), but I would have no idea how to even find a guy to date. My radar for finding good, interested guys for romantic purposes is completely out of service. My radar would look like the giant cell phones from the 90's that came in a massive carrying bag. Case in point, a few months back, I was quite certain that this one guy was making advances towards me. I met him briefly and he was quite flirtatious and said something charming about my back (warning sign: if a guy's interested, he's NOT looking at your back). I was definitely a little high on my Rx meds at the time, but I kinda enjoyed the harmless attention and it was flattering that an attractive man appeared to be interested in me. I soon found out that this guy was gay - like lives with his boyfriend gay. He was only being nice to me. He probably felt sorry for me. He was not flirting with me. I also heard that he's a total asshole. So my radar managed to pick a gay jerk. See? I am totally clueless.

Ev and I started dating in Feb of our grade 12 year in high school. Initially, we hung in large groups of friends and always kind of gravitated towards each other. I wasn't sure if he was more than just a friend, but I suspected that perhaps he was interested in me romantically, so one night, I set a "trap."

My first glimpse of Ev 

While watching a movie at a friends house, I asked Ev to help me get the popcorn off the top shelf. In my warped mind, if he reached in behind me and touched me/brushed up against me as he retrieved the popcorn, then it was obvious that he was "so into me." (keep in mind, my only dating reference at age 17 was YM magazine). Ev glanced at the top shelf, politely shoved me to the side, and grabbed the popcorn. No touching. No romance. It was dead. Dammit. (Hilarious looking back, knowing that Ev is just not THAT guy who engages in top shelf, reach around groping).

So I kind of gave up on the idea of dating Ev and continued to hang out with him as friends.

One day; however, something changed. I can't put my finger on it. I'm not sure if it was a phone conversation or just a gradual change of feelings, but I knew I was interested and it was apparent that Ev was interested as well. Ev's interest was confirmed when I arrived late to a party and all my friends were approaching me excitedly, "Evan Lindsay has been asking about you all night." Yes! Sweet! Score!

We made plans for a first date. The original Star Wars was back in theatres. I didn't give a shit about the movie, I just desperately wanted to sit close to Evan Lindsay. Ev picked me up in his little silver Mazda 626. It was a cold February night. We chatted easily on the way to the theatre, when suddenly, Ev rolled down the window, "It's kind of hot in here!" he claimed. Um Ok. I found out a year later that he was so nervous that he farted. Bahhahahaha. Totally romantic. As I gazed into his panicky green eyes, I had no clue that he was trying to distract from his scent.

Once seated in the packed theatre, we sat awkwardly next to each other while I watched Ev tortuously attempt to hold my hand for 2 1/2 hours. He would slowly sneak his hand about a millimeter within mine - so close -  and then pull away, take a drink, turn and smile. Repeat.  It was agonizing. 2 1/2 hours!!!

Once the movie was over, Ev dropped me off at my mom's house and stood staring at me in the foyer with a silly little grin on his face. We were out of things to say. We were silently staring (uncomfortably) at each other and I just really wanted to kiss this guy. He never made a move. He just stood there grinning awkwardly. Finally, I looked at him and said, "Ok, I really want to kiss you." So we kissed. It was the best kiss I've ever had. I still get butterflies thinking about that awesome kiss 17 years ago. It was respectful. It was sweet. It really was the perfect kiss. I think I sported this goofy lovesick grin on my face for about a year after that kiss. In fact, I'm sporting it right now just thinking about it.

We then sat on the second step of my mom's stairs and talked for hours about our hopes and dreams. I knew that this guy was special. I knew he was different. I felt an intense connection with him. That night, Ev missed his curfew (the Raider hockey team had strict curfew for 10pm) and willingly paid the $100 fine to sit on that step and talk to me. Awesomeness.

That's really the only dating experience I have. It was pretty simple - no facebook to check for a change in relationship status, no texting to "safely" flirt before boldly trying it in person, no twitter to investigate the tweets. It was just two people trying to figure out if they fit into each other's lives. It was real, farts and all, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Holy Sh*t it's Shark Week!!!

If you followed my last blog, "Seize the Day," you might recall a fabulous celebration that is near and dear to my heart - Shark Week. Shark week is a special week designated by the Discovery Channel in July/August of every year, dedicated to raising awareness and respect for sharks. Last year, shark week fell at the perfect time in my life - I was pissed off about my knee and needed an escape from my reality. Funny enough, this year, I was pissed off about my knee and needed an escape from my reality. Cue the sharks!

My friends and I love sharks, we really do - last year we went scuba diving with the sharks in Honduras, and although I was absolutely terrified, I was seriously in awe of these graceful creatures. Sharks get a bad rap. That unfortunate underbite paired with the terrifying theme song from Jaws creates an image of a vicious killer. Sharks don't want to kill people - I mean, sometimes they screw up and confuse a surfer for a seal or whatever, but everyone makes mistakes. Besides, we need to be cognizant and respectful of the fact that the ocean is actually their home, not ours. So what? Let's say you trespass into some stranger's house and notice the owner is shady looking with bad dentition, are you just going to kill him? Leave the poor sharks alone.

In order to properly celebrate the majesty of the shark, I believe that it is our duty as shark lovers to drink our faces off drink like fish commemorate the sharks for one unforgettable weekend.

What an awesome weekend with awesome people.  My stomach and cheeks hurt from laughing so hard - best therapy ever!

Shark cupcakes because....well, why not?

My Tiger shark beats your Bull shark

No alcohol involved at all.

because sharks want to surf too, you know

We are dedicated to looking like idiots in the name of sharks.

Shark week brings out the douchebag in Evan

Sometimes sharks get angry

Holy shit it's shark week!