Groundhog's Day

Well, I will try to make this a day I would want to repeat, but so far it is not promising to be. On the other hand, it is better than yesterday, which found me quarantined in my house with a sick dog.

This morning, as soon as the boys were on the school bus, Suki and I visited the vet, adding a $311 checkup and vaccination bill to the $287 spent Monday on the emergency carpet cleaning necessitated by her illness. Pets are expensive, but they are worth it. Aren't they? We put up with destructive behavior, inconvenience, the mess and the expense because we get so much gratification from having a pet in our household.

At home all day, it is difficult not to listen to the news, although lately I have eschewed news coverage in favor of classical music or a book on tape. Reporting of the riots in Egypt is generally superficial. I know our government is walking a political tightrope as we wait for an outcome, and Israel's is sweating bullets. The more I listen, the more concerned and helpless I feel, so I shut it off and turn instead to matters that affect me more directly, more immediately.

You might think my house would be quite clean after my being trapped inside it for an entire day, but today you would be wrong. Having scrubbed a particular section of carpet three times in less than 24 hours, I was in no mood to clean the rest of house.

Instead, I added some bling to a pair of fancynancypants, email photos of recent sewing work to a friend with a celebrity connection on the West Coast. I practice Saint-Saens, Bach and Boccherini, and fill out a fitness profile for a personal trainer a friend and I are going to meet tomorrow. I do the dishes, and half heartedly move the laundry along. I think about how easy it is for me to feel connected to people even when quarantined for the day, and how different it used to be for my historical counterparts, before all this technology transformed our lives.

Even without blogging or exploring facebook, I feel very connected to people yesterday during my day of solitude, in so many ways. Let's take a look at six and a half hours in my life, home alone...

From early in the morning, I am engaged in an extended email conversation about our orchestra's next concert program. Also by email, I coordinate an upcoming chamber music recital, and contact my photographer about publicity shots she recently took of me and two of my musical colleagues.

My sister sends me a long, wonderful text message so that I know she is doing well and this brings a big smile to my face. A friend calls to inform me that the aforementioned email conversation is actually a group thread, something I had not surmised from the limited information displayed on my iPhone screen.

I telephone my mother, who is on Long Island supervising three moving men packing up the contents of my late grandmother's apartment. I listen to her explain why she has just decided not to send me any of my grandparents' things, despite our earlier conversations to the contrary, despite conversations I had with my grandmother about things she would like me to have. I decide not to react when she tells me that the cost of send furniture to Ohio is prohibitive, and in the next breath, that she is sending it to Florida instead and if she can't use it in her (fully furnished) home, she'll take it to consignment stores, because it is so much easier to get rid of stuff down there.

I decide not to let this hurt me. I tell myself I don't need more stuff in order to remember my grandparents. I remind myself of all the jewelry my grandmother gave me when she was alive. I look to my kitchen windowsill, at one of the pictures I keep of Mama, smiling and holding one of my babies, and I remember some helpful things she told me to get through situations like this.

Next, I call my aunt in New York City, thinking she might want to talk about this emotional milestone in her life. Instead, I listen to her tell me about her last dinner out with my sister, Sunday night, and how much she wishes she could see her even more often, and how much she misses my sister's kids, who live on the other side of Manhattan. When she tells me to say "hi" to my kids for her, or no, better yet, to give them hugs from her, I pretend that I will.

I remember more things my grandmother told me so that I do not get upset, but still, I do feel annoyed as I think of how many years it has been since my aunt has visited us. Then, I remember that my in-laws are arriving on Friday and I think of how much fun it will be to share the weekend with them, how strongly and lovingly connected they are to my children. I feel better immediately.

A friend calls from Long Island to talk about his son, who, in addition to having become a Bar Mitzvah last weekend, plays the double bass, and is preparing to play a solo for a competition I once took part in. He wants my advice, and I enjoy sharing my opinions, memories and even current information that, strangely enough, I happen to have, on options for string students in the New York area. We reminisce about my first marriage, which this friend gives himself credit for propelling me out of, and I remember aloud how blessed in friendship I am and have been for some time. I feel very fortunate indeed.

Today, the ground is littered with tree branches that fell off in last night's ice storm and the Groundhog has predicted an early Spring. My dog is feeling better; the carpet is unsoiled. The house is still waiting to be cleaned, the laundry, to be put away. Music is waiting to be practiced; we have orchestra rehearsal tonight. A concert contract is waiting to be signed and returned, more photos are needed for its program. More fancynancypants photos need to be organized and sent. The elliptical training machine, I know, would also like some attention. A friend across town breaks months of silence to inform me by email that she has breast cancer.

It is time for me to get moving. Thanks to those of you out there, who read this blog and reach back to me, reminding me that indeed, we are all connected.