Monthly Archives: April 2015

Captain’s Log: To Boldly Go…

Advisory: the following contains irreverence for Star Trek, reference to bodily functions (aka toilet humor) and nearly-naked photos. You have been warned.


Just days before I was to undergo my hip replacement, this arrived in the mail.


I cannot tell you the relief of receiving the oddest looking thing ever to grace a commode. My first thought upon seeing my elevated toilet hover craft? “It looks like something from Star Trek.” Embracing my new command chair, I was able to boldly go to Spectrum Hospital and face the unknown. So sit back and enjoy this week’s episode of: Hip Trek. (Not a copyright infringement, at all.)

Spaced-Out: The finale to my front and rear! These are the voyages of the starship Enterpoop, Its six week mission: to explore embarrassing losses of dignity, to seek out new ways of putting on socks, to sleep like there’s no tomorrow…

Star Date: 0413.2015

Acting Captain’s Blog, First Officer Reporting: The captain has been relieved of duty by the medical officer. We arrived at the planet Spectrum for a brief layover to augment the captain’s hyperdrive by installing a new dilithium crystal stabilizer.*

Staff arrived disappointingly clothed in green jumpsuits—a total breach of Hip Trek protocol which dictates that medical personnel wear tight, crushed velvet blue shirts with black pants or mini dresses with Go Go boots. As the procedure would take some time, the captain donned a space suit designed to make her look like a Macy’s Day Float…appropriate considering some of the drugs later prescribed.

Macy's Float Kiri
As expected, the Captain’s bloated ego becomes more apparent out of uniform.

A nurse—most likely a vicious Romulan—by the name Phlebo ToMist attempted to excavate blood using an unnecessarily pointy object.

SHO'VA SHAK! (Okay, help me out, I think this one is from Star Gate) Let's try Klingon: Qu'valth! P'tok!
SHO’VA SHAK! (Okay, help me out, I think this one is from Star Gate) Let’s try Klingon: Qu’valth! P’tok!

The Romulan seemed disappointed when she finally hit a vein only to discover the blood wasn’t green after all.  The captain suffered this all in silence.**


According to tricorder readings, Bones (aka the surgeon)–plotted a star chart on the captain’s hip.

Insert your own 'map to Uranus' joke here.
Insert your own ‘map to Uranus’ joke here.

It looked as though he’d trained with Picasso. The captain was relieved to later awake from sedation to discover her nose reassuringly undisturbed.

The side effects of the procedure included a foggy-headed delirium wherein aliens appeared at odd intervals to monitor the implant and offer to take the captain to the head. The captain may have professed love to the anesthesiologist at one point. Fortunately Bones insisted she maintain near incapacitating level of narcotics in her system so any embarrassing details are but a blurry memory.***

Stardate: 0415.2015

Captain’s Personal Blog: Against medical advice, I have resumed my post. I will admit, Bones may have been right and the frag-bickle-lorum suggests I haven’t all my flurguls in a row. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he is right though.

It seems as though my body has been taken over by an alien force that requires me to relearn all of my former functions using a variety of odd devices.


There is the sock-o-nator which works only in one direction apparently—which required repeated humiliating lessons before I figured out what I was doing wrong.  Fortunately the crew was much less medicated and on hand to help out.

Please ignore the First Officer's lack of uniform--it was pajama day on the bridge.
Please ignore the First Officer’s lack of uniform–it was pajama day on the bridge.

I have a new transporter that, while of limited distance, allows me to move my leg from the floor to levitate at a level that alleviates the pain in my port nacelles.

One to beam up, Scotty!
One to beam up, Scotty!

There is the claw-like apparatus I call the ‘payload retrieval device’; it has a myriad of uses but primarily helps me locate the Captain’s briefs.

Panties pictured may or may not actually belong to the Captain--she's not telling.
Panties pictured may or may not actually belong to the Captain–she’s not telling.

Lastly, there is my space shuttle which helps me to drag my carcass from one staggering location aboard ship to another until my body finally remembers how to function as a single, albeit sore, working unit.

I have the most humiliating habit of referring to this as my 'stroller'.
I have the most humiliating habit of referring to this as my ‘stroller’.

And now, my moment of reflection must be cut short as we are on course to the planet Vex-Lax; it’s time to resume my captain’s chair and boldly go. Captain’s log out.

Make It So Number one!
Make it so, Number One!

Asteroid Bedazzled Footnotes:

*In other words, to have an anterior hip replacement—dilithium crystal stabilizer sounds much cooler, doesn’t it?

**A total lie, but at least she didn’t scream “Get it out, get it out, get it out” as she did during a past similar hunt for a saline portal whilst preparing to produce her progeny. (This is 100% true. In my defense, the phlebotomist hit a nerve that to this day is funny when touched.)

***This entire post is brought to you by hydrocodone, tramadol and diazepam without which hallucinations such as this would not be possible.

Stay Tuned for Next Week’s Adventure: When the captain gets mortally impaled with a Bat’leth!

I am Bionic Woman hear me roar!
I am Bionic Woman hear me roar!



Race to the Finish: A Limping Victory


Shhhh with Clock
Image courtesy of

I have been keeping a secret from you. Two really. I think it’s time to come clean. I have been emboldened by Karen Copeland, a writer who shared her struggles about being honest in the blog-o-sphere. Sometimes it is easier to write about that which is funny, or at least funny in retrospect, than it is to contemplate the scary that is the now or immediate future. As most of you know, I have been trying to buy a house…well…find a house first and then buy it. Who knew finding it was going to be the easier of the two prospects?*

I did it. I found the perfect, tiny house in Grandville, Michigan. Perfect in that it was way over budget and still had toxic gas seeping through the floor boards.** (Everybody chant: Mediation is Salvation!) Okay, so it was perfect in that it was still on the market and would actually pass an inspection. Why didn’t I just wait and see what the spring influx of housing would bring? Because, I was running out of time.

I have been juggling two major life changes. I have only told you about one of them because, to be honest, if I think about the second one, over which I have absolutely no control, I want to vomit. So instead, I have focused exclusively on the house purchase to the point of wearing blinders to the other big, scary thing in the hopes it would go away. It hasn’t and it won’t; and the stupid thing is, I knew that. I’ve known it for about four years. What I hadn’t known then was that I would be in a race between buying a house and facing the ‘Big Scary Thing’ and that the race would come down to a matter of days between the two cataclysmic events. Today, they collided.

I have been waiting on tenterhooks for a call from the mortgage company regarding the closing date. And waiting…and waiting… I finally get the call and I am chatting with my broker before he takes off for spring break. Bad news, he’s going out of town. The good news? I get to close this week. Yay! Which is critical because, if I didn’t, my two big secrets were going to meet and it was going to get ugly.*** And then I get the call…

“Hi, this is Shelly from Dr. ReallyDutchName’s office. I’m calling to let you know your total hip replacement surgery has been scheduled.”

I am mid-conversation with the terminally perky nurse who is informing me that my surgeon will be slicing and dicing me open at 1:30 p.m. Monday and that, oh, by the way, I can’t eat or drink anything after midnight the night before…the man hates fat people and this is his way of ensuring I know, at least once in my life, what raving hunger feels like…when my phone interrupts to tell me that my realtor is calling.

I get off the phone with little Miss Ray of Sunshine RN and find out that my closing can take place either Thursday or Friday this week, which would I prefer? So there you have it. Thursday I will be buying my Barbie Dream House and Monday I become the Bionic Woman—thus fulfilling two lifelong goals. Now I just have to figure out how to move into the new house without leaving my bed. The universe is a perverse bastard sometimes. 

Old-lympic Hopeful--my dreams of running in the Olympics aren't necessarily dead!  Check the story out at:
Old-lympic Hopeful–my dreams of running in the Olympics aren’t necessarily dead! Check the story out at:

Asterisk Bedazzled Footnote:

*Those of you who have read the past few (thousand) whiny posts about my poor judgment in housing prospects are rolling on the floor laughing. In review: Bad House#1, Bad House #2, and Lament for a House

**I got over my fear of mutant radon when faced with the fear of not finding a home in time.

***Like day-two in re-hab ugly.