Helllllo my pussywillows! Day 35 of Quarantine, if you’re counting from Friday, March 13th. That’s the day U of T cancelled classes, and Ronan and Katherine came to live with us. John went in to work for another week, and I didn’t start broadcasting from home until March 31st, but I think we can agree we are all at least a month into this strange new world, with at least another month to go before a fresh haircut, a wine list, and a hug from someone who is not your roommate. Let’s pretend that we are more than half way there, no matter what the truth is.

 

Maybe Janet will be free to celebrate her milestone birthday May 6th. Maybe Sharon will get to enjoy a well deserved spa day. In the mean time, Margaret wants to shout out to her daughter-in-law Alison, mother of 3 small children, and all the other mums who are doing it all these days. Patti, Denise and Debbie all send smiles and good vibes. Lori cautions John not to shave his head. She says her husband Perry is bald, but makes up for it with a sexy hair chest. Lori also commends her son Michael, who is working for Instacart after being laid off by Porter. Finally, Judi sent me a hilarious video of moms at home slowly losing their minds while lip-syncing to songs about solitude. Creativity can save the day.

 

Which is why I should be playing the piano, but I’m not. I haven’t gone near the black beast since the pandemic began, and I had to cancel my piano lessons. Ronan, bless him, is playing it every day, but I haven’t been able to noodle out so much as a single arpeggio. I’ve been doing other things, like walking the dogs, working out, cooking my buns off, and, well, writing this blog, but I’m annoyed at the piano, and this precedes the pandemic. There are very few things one can take up in middle age at which one might become proficient, and piano is not one of them. No matter how much I practice, I feel – and probably sound – like I’m playing with oven mitts. It’s a muscle memory issue, meaning I have less and less of it as I get older. Someone suggested that I try easier pieces, like, you know, Heart and Soul, or Chopsticks, and that thing you do with your knuckles on the black keys, and I may yet go that route. In the mean time, not practicing seems like the obvious solution.

 

It’s funny, because while I consider myself a creative person, I’m hard put to think of the last thing I’ve actually created. Yes, I cook, but other people’s recipes. I read, but other people’s books. I can’t paint or draw. I’m interested in fashion and design, but again, strictly as a consumer. I can sing and dance, but usually only on festive occasions, and it’s not anything you want to hear or watch. I don’t even have any real hobbies. Sure, I can golf and ski and sail and ride a bike, but not particularly well. I’m a Jill of all trades, and mistress of none.

 

Kudos to you if you are a true creative, because, finally, you might have the time to write that novel, or compose that sonata. Maybe now is the time to take up pottery, if that’s something you’ve wanted to do, or scrapbooking, or rug hooking, or fine carpentry. You can learn so much on YouTube, although some arts, like glass blowing, may best be left to the experts. Let me know what you’re doing, and whether I can do it too. Send me pictures: show your work. We’ll put up a little art gallery here – real postcards from the pandemic. C’mon, it’ll be fun.

 

By the way, that black key song is actually called The Knuckle Song, and I’m killing it.

 

Have a creative weekend.

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