Can't take me anywhere

Shortly before Christmas, when Scott saw an ad for an upcoming Chick Corea performance at Massey Hall, he murmured, "Sounds like it would be okay." That monotone mumbling is about as excited as Scott ever gets about things, so his unsolicited comment caught my attention. I was aware that Scott might have been trying to gauge my reaction to see if a pair of tickets would be a suitable Christmas present for me. As I was short on gift ideas, however, I decided to keep silent while I made a mental note to order a pair of decent floor-level seats for him. "He'll like it," I thought. "Jazz can be upbeat and funky and energizing. He'll like it. He will." I ordered the tickets before considering the facts that a) the show was on a Wednesday night, when Scott would be exhausted from work, and b) this was not a hoppin' jazz orchestra performance, but a solo show.

When you attend a solo acoustic piano performance at a venue such as Toronto's historic Massey Hall, sound carries. The audience can hear a muffled sneeze, a quiet snore or the unwrapping of a cough drop. Thankfully Scott and I were responsible for none of those noises. Another sound that travels well is that of suppressed giggles building up until they erupt into an utterly inappropriate snort of laughter.

Scott and I took in Chick Corea's performance this past Wednesday evening. Partway through the show, I noticed movement in the left balcony (dead centre in the photo above). I glanced up and saw a man waving frantically. I figured that he was trying to get the attention of a friend on the opposite side of the hall. As I watched, however, his waving changed, and changed again. And again. He looked as though he were drowning, then as though he were shooing away a cloud of gnats, then as though he were enthusiastically blessing a congregation. When his movements resembled those of someone either conducting an orchestra or playing air-piano, I figured it out. Balcony Man was enjoying the subdued performance in a positively unrestrained manner. I was rivited.

I elbowed Scott and tilted my chin toward the balcony. He watched the flailing arms for a few moments before giving me a look that said, What the heck?? Throughout the performance I spotted more and more people noticing Balcony Man and doing just as I had done, nudging their companions and silently directing their gazes upward. Before long, a healthy portion of our fellow patrons were either entranced or amused by Balcony Man's display.

I examined the woman in the aisle seat next to Balcony Man. Her long-suffering expression suggested that she was with him, but not necessarily by choice. I suspect she was a paid caregiver of some sort. She was leaning as far away as she could from Balcony Man, her elbow on the armrest and her chin in her hand. She wasn't watching the stage, she wasn't looking at Balcony Man, and she certainly wasn't meeting the stares of the people nearby. I reflected on how tough her job must be. Then I mentally patted myself on the back for not laughing.

At intermission I asked Scott if he wished to leave, as I was concerned that his frequent yawning indicated boredom. "No," he insisted, "I'm tired, but this is entertaining." We visited the lounge, where he had a Guinness and I enjoyed Kahlua on the rocks. I forgot about Balcony Man. I looked around at all the adults in the lounge and suddenly I noticed that Scott and I - gasp - fit in! I realized that it had been a very long time since we had been to any sort of grown-up event without being surrounded by youthful friends who make us feel like teenagers. I felt... sophisticated. I felt mature. It wouldn't last.

We soon settled back into our seats to await the second half of the show. That's when it happened. We watched three unsuspecting women, who were either seriously late or simply relocating from another section, shuffle into the row behind Balcony Man. As the lights dimmed the woman aiming for the farthest seat lost her footing and cartwheeled into the aisle. She vanished from sight with a very loud ka-thump (ka-thump being another sound that carries well in Massey Hall). All eyes were on the woman as she reappeared and hastily took a seat directly behind Balcony Man. It wasn't long before she and her companions realized their mistake, as the flailing resumed as soon as Chick Corea began tickling the ivories again. The trio quickly moved to a different section.

Slapstick really tickles my funnybone. I feel heartless, but I simply cannot control myself after witnessing a quality act of clumsiness. Graceless accidents, so long as they don't involve blood, crack me up. I had to clamp my hands over my mouth and silently remind myself that I am mature. I am mature. I am mature. I tried to focus on the wonderful piano music, but all I could do was mentally replay the woman's tumble over and over again, and it became funnier each time. When I spotted the lady on the other side of Scott hiding her face in her hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, my own pent-up mirth nearly got the better of me. And when a man hurriedly exited the hall and Scott whispered, "His clamp must have failed," I was done for.

So, so sorry, Mr. Corea.

I'm it (again)

I have been tagged by Alaskan Mama to share with you Five Things You Don't Know About Me. First, let me think about my audience. Friends, colleagues, parental units, strangers. There are very few things about me that at least some of my readers don't know, and a few things that no one needs to know. After all, if I had wanted anyone to know this stuff, I would have divulged it already. Alas, I can't resist a good meme. Allow me to delve into the deepest recesses of my shame in order to share with you...

1. I am dismayed by my laziness but far too comfortable to do anything about it.

2. I have just registered to become a potential donor of stem cells or bone marrow even though I have never had the courage to donate blood.

3. Back in university, I was once so sleep deprived that a thick string of drool descended from my mouth as I tried in vain to converse coherently with my roommate. She was such a good friend that she pretended not to notice even as it pooled on my desk.

4. When it's humid, I sweat like a man.

5. My ears must be uneven, because every pair of glasses I try on looks like this:

I won't tag anyone specific, but I invite any interested parties to search in their own pits of humiliation in order to share with the blogosphere.

Freeze! Hold it right there, buddy!

I am a naturally silly person who, sadly, cannot keep a straight face, so these folks are my new idols.

NonSense

According to Google, "Google AdSense™ automatically delivers text and image ads that are precisely targeted to your site and your site content—ads so well-matched, in fact, that your readers will actually find them useful."

So, readers, did you find this useful?

Psssst!

(Let's not ruin it by saying it aloud (I have a tendency to jinx things), but I think the rice-and-Pepto-Bismol diet is working. For the first time in several nights, Ferris did not wake me up with a stinky surprise. A great big THANKS! to everyone who provided suggestions, support and sympathy.)

In other news... Here are the latest and greatest Sitemeter search stats for my blog.

Someone in Bletchley, Essex, UK, found my blog by Googling "pugs are hideous," while another UK resident found it by Googling "pet spider poems." You know, when I was a kid I adopted a spider. It lived in the back yard on my mother's clothesline pulley. Every day when I went outside to feed our pet rabbit I would shake earwigs out from a crevice in the rabbit hutch. I would catch them in an old tennis ball canister and shake them silly so that they would be dizzy when I tossed them into the -- hold on, I think this is falling into the category of "things you really ought not reveal about your childhood." Never mind, then.

A fellow Torontonian arrived at my site by entering the search words "bodypaint by jen calendar 2006," while another local found it by Googling "lmao." Trust me, no one would be laughing if they had the misfortune to view me in nothing but bodypaint. I would probably get sued for causing severe emotional trauma.

An individual from Reynoldsburg, Ohio, was probably disappointed with the fish bathroom pics that resulted from their pursuit of "panda theme room" photos. (Were they seeking ideas for a panda-themed room, or for a theme room for pandas?)

This wallcovering is fab!

I'm very curious to know why somebody in the Salem-Keizer Public School system in Gervais, Oregon, was searching for information on "shroom babies." Perhaps FASD wasn't enough to explain the behaviour of some of the students?

My condolences to the person from Kelso, Missouri, who was on a quest for "free cat poems for funerals." Did the local cat lady pass away? And did you really need to include the word "free"? Surely no one would actually charge for a funereal cat poem.

Lastly, I really feel for the person from Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania, who Googled, "can you die from a broken toe." Scott nearly murdered Ferris after finding out how much his broken toe cost.

By the time you read this...

...I will be knee-deep in poop. Amelia, Leigh-Ann, anyone with dog experience -- HELP! I could drive a half-hour to the clinic to pay another ridiculous amount for medication, but as I mentioned in my last post I'm reluctant to do so, while Scott is simply "not $%$#!@ going to %$&#@!# pay for &$#!@%$ more medicine. Let's just give him Pepto Bismol." Have any of you tried this on your dogs? Do you have any other suggestions for restoring Ferris' gastro-intestinal health? I'm growing tired of interrupting my sleep several times to scrub the floors, and there are only so many times that Scott will be willing to stuff his nostrils with tissues and take Ferris outside in the middle of the night. I will be most grateful for your input!

What's he so bloody happy about?

You know it's going to be bad when...

...the stench wakes you up. The painkillers (for which we paid $77) caused Ferris to develop something I had never before had the misfortune to witness: projectile diarrhea. I first awoke to the smell at two o'clock in the morning. I made it to the living room in time to see Ferris vomiting a few feet away from the biggest mess he had ever made. He had actually grossed himself out. Once he was finished puking, he greeted me ecstatically. I spent the next fifteen minutes using up a roll of paper towel and at least a dozen Lysol wipes. Fun.

I returned to bed but awoke a few hours later to the very same stink. Once again, Ferris greeted me with his full-body wag. It was as if he was awaiting praise for his latest display, which resembled a giant Spin-Art creation gone very, very wrong.

Scott brought Ferris outside, where he repeated his spinning poop routine. I was still scrubbing the floor when they came back in. And silly me, I thought it would be safe to go back to bed for a little while. Before long, I awoke for a third time to olfactory overload. A new roll of paper towel, a new container of Lysol wipes, and another trip to the back yard where Ferris could yet again recreate his artwork. The vet instructed me to stop giving Ferris the painkillers and she offered to dispense a medication to stop the diarrhea. I said thanks but no thanks. With my luck, the anti-diarrheal would cause Ferris to, I don't know, bleed from the ears, for which another medication would be required. If I weren't broke from the vet bills, I would be buying stocks in veterinary pharmaceutical companies.

For those who wake up single on Valentine's Day...

...how about getting a cat?

Broken toe: $975

So the vet phoned to update me on Ferris' condition. The fracture may have affected the joint, which could lead to arthritis eventually. Ferris was anesthetized for about half an hour and required a double-layered fiberglass splint. He is now awake and apparently comfortable. He will have to wear the splint for several weeks and have it changed regularly at the clinic. If it gets wet (by being exposed to, say, snow), it will have to be changed more often.

In addition to keeping Ferris' splint dry, we are also supposed to ensure that Ferris remains as calm and still as possible. "Easier said than done" doesn't cover it. This is Ferris we're talking about.

And what about Montana? How are we to stop him from wrestling with Ferris?

Between the exam, the X-rays, the bloodwork, the anesthesia and the splint, our total bill comes to $975. That's right. A broken toe on a big dog costs nearly a grand.

Did I mention that I cancelled my pet insurance?

$%#@&#!!!

For your viewing pleasure, a copy of Ferris' x-ray. Apparently Ferris has fractured a toe. My mom used to break her toes on a regular basis by stubbing them on the piano and other heavy furniture. I seem to recall that there was no need to anesthetize her and affix a fiberglass splint to her foot. With Ferris it's a different story. A very expensive story. Hence the $%#@&#!!!