The boy has not yet gotten his driver’s license.

Last weekend, a local boy died in a car accident. Reports say alcohol was involved.

I said to my son, paraphrasing lines I loved from Light on Snow: There is a rule you must never break; never get behind a wheel if you’ve been drinking and never get in a car driven by someone who’s been drinking.

He said, “I know, Mom.”

Fine, I said. Just call me, just promise you’ll call me.

“What if I’m in another state? What if I’m 30?”

I can call you a cab from anywhere and yes, even if you’re 30.

I went from 8:30am until 2:30pm without speaking to another human being. I don’t even think I talked to the dog. I left a couple of voicemails, but that doesn’t really count, does it? If it weren’t for the early morning oil change at Jiffy Lube, and escorting my daughter down the street and back again I would have had zero human interaction until 3pm when my c0-worker called. I was overly enthusiastic to hear from her. I probably freaked her out.

Working at home is great, really. Sometimes though, slipping behind the wheel of the car I realize I haven’t driven in three days. Three days! If I haven’t driven, then more than likely, except to walk the dog, I haven’t left the house. When I worked from home, the only times I can recall not having left the house for three consectutive days were post-childbirth and during epic snowfalls. Do I like this?

Enough about me. Randomly googling, I found a friend’s short story. Bob is also one of my former writing teachers (one of my favorites, in fact.)

Tomorrow we will leave this town for the day and go wild at King’s Dominion. I’m not a HUGE theme park fan (depending, of course on the caliber) but we wanted to do something nice with the kids and get outta dodge. This is a good opportunity for me to see some faces that aren’t related to me.

For those of you who like to read (I read sometimes far too much), you might enjoy Aaron Belz’s site. I was thinking of him since I just enjoyed an article he has in this month’s St. Louis Magazine — I’d link to the article but it’s not online just yet.

We’re experiencing an absolute downpour at the moment. It’s glorious and I’m glad I’m inside.

The boy misses, to hear him talk, St. Louis food most of all. We’re planning our family trip to St. Louis this summer and all he wants is to eat at Jack ‘n the Box and stock up on provel.

“I am not transporting cheese across the country in a cooler,” I said.

“Why not?”

“Ugh.” The idea of that gooey white gunk in a hot August car makes my stomach turn.

I told him he can cheese out while he’s in Missouri, put provel on everything; eat Jack ‘n the Box daily; I don’t care. He’s actually lost about 8 lbs. in the last month (no explanation) so a little cheese isn’t going to hurt him. Betcha he burns out and never wants to see the stuff again.

I’m not foolish enough to think that this will be of any interest to anyone but family and my very closest friends, but . . . hear the boy’s high school wind ensemble spring concert (just a few snippets) here. You won’t be sorry.

The girl awakes one morning, a superhero in gaucho pants, packing her bag to visit, again, the third grade. She knows not her power.

My mom, dad and sister came to visit. So naturally, we went to Monticello.

I AM: eating chocolate chips.
I WANT: a garbage disposal.
I WISH: life decisions were a little easier to make.
I HATE: fear.
I MISS: my friends who do not live here.
I HEAR: the roofers attaching my new Colonial Slate architectural shingles.
I WONDER: if I’ll get everything I need to done.
I REGRET: that I didn’t wear sunscreen when I was in my twenties. In fact, I regret most of my twenties.
I AM NOT: athletic.
I DANCE: when I have to.
I SING: not often; more likely to whistle the entire score of a musical.
I CRY: too often for an otherwise somewhat normal person.
I AM NOT ALWAYS: the most levelheaded person.
I MAKE WITH MY HANDS: my lunch.
I WRITE: as much as I can and it’s my favorite occupation.
I CONFUSE: satisfaction with happiness
I NEED: freedom.
I SHOULD: Get out and meet some people.
I START: Writing books, and never get very far.
I FINISH: Books (reading them, not writing them).
I TAG: Danielle, Angela, Robin and you.

As I’ve become accustomed, I called Carmela from Dulles. She had important news to share. This time of year I’ve always written about sunscreens, sunblocks and the importance of slathering on the SPF. Mel, always the careful sunscreen wearer, will enter her nineties with nary a wrinkle. Alarmed at the sight of two new freckles, she visited her dermatologist where she learned that SPF is not enough.

It appears that sunscreens must have titanium dioxide to block UVA and UVB light, saving us from premature age spots and freckles (not to mention skin cancer). The recommended product is from Neutrogena. Save your skin and buy some!

“Tell everyone you know!” said Carmela, 1,600 miles away and still looking out for me, and for the rest of us.

I traveled “my trip” last week; CHO to STL, STL to CHO. For those non-fliers, that’s Charlottesville, Virginia to St. Louis, Missouri and back again. I picture myself, a giant standing astride a map with one shoe planted firmly in the Midwest, the other, digging a heel just east of the Blue Ridge in Central Virginia, my home.

I take this trip for work, and while in the Lou, work as if I have no home, no family, no responsibility to anyone but my clients and my firm. Thus the exhaustion and “recovery” I face each time I arrive back in C’ville.

While in St. Louis, I came face to face with several readers of this blog. Brian said, “It’s how we roll.” Kristin wanted to know how Clover was doing (no more smelly nights, thanks). It’s a little weird, but a good reminder that, no, I’m not just sending this blather out into cyberspace. Bob wanted to know when I was going to post, as he was tired of the smelly dog story. Someone else (I can’t remember who) said they’ll never wear white pants in Charlottesville, now that I’m here. In fact, several people mentioned the open letter to the woman at Harris Teeter, my most popular post to date.

Here’s a “hey” to y’all. Thanks for reading and keep it up.

I threw up on the plane.

Truly, turbulence is not my bag. Naturally, it was the most dainty, discreet hurl in the history of hurls. I would make a stellar bulimic. I’m fairly certain the passenger immediately to my right was never the wiser.

In my defense, it was one of those awful flights, swaying and bouncing the entire 40 minutes from Dulles to Charlottesville. I was sweating, practicing Lamaze breathing and concentrating on NOT throwing up when, seconds before I did, I located the designated receptacle in the pocket on the back of the seat in front of me.

My thoughts ran like this: I hate this. I’m going to die. I hate this. Please let this end. I really should not watch Lost. I hate this. I can make it. Just a few more minutes. I hate this. And then, we landed with a bump that made the lady behind me audibly gasp.

Thankfully, after I deposited my grande nonfat mocha (no whip) and my light ‘n fit yogurt into the approprate bag, I felt a bit better. I carefully folded the bag closed and held it the rest of the rolling, swaying flight.

I deplaned, still clutching the bag and thought, if anyone asked, “What’s in the bag?” I could truthfully say, “My lunch.”