I tease my dad when he calls and asks how everything is in Charlottesville. I say that it only rains after sundown, the fog, by 8am disappears. Winter is forbidden until December — yep, we live in Camelot, and we like it a lot.

Read my article in the Expatriates section of The Commonspace, the St. Louis grassroots civics and culture pub that holds a special place in my heart.

I have a couple of upcoming holiday events.

I need a little “black” dress. I don’t do so well in black, so I’m exploring other color options.

There’s brown:

Or there’s red:

The brown is from Newport News; the red, from Target. Betcha wouldn’t have guessed either one. Both are $39.99. Decisions . . .

What do you think?

I’m not a gardener. In fact, I look outside at all that stuff growing, all that stuff I’m allergic to and then I look at my husband. He’s not allergic to trees and grasses. This is a guy who could freebase mold spores and still be perfectly fine. So I look at him and think, you do it, in all outdoor matters.

This is the division of labor that has worked for us for over 17 years. I take care of the inside; he takes care of the outside. He’s also responsible for anything on the inside that abruptly stops working.

So when I ran into A. last night at the store I was taken aback. A. is the woman who lived in our house before we did. She loves to garden and she and her husband did a great job landscaping the yard that is now ours. Let me just reiterate here; we bought the house, yard included, and it’s ours. If we want to let it dilapidate and weeds run wild that’s our prerogative (thank you Bobby Brown.)

At the store, A. asked if I’d been gardening. Well, no, was all I got out before she launched into talking about some kind of flower I’ve never heard of that she’d planted in our yard, back when it was her yard. She wants to come over and dig some up to plant in her yard. Fine, fine, whatever, I said. Call me this weekend, I said. She said, “Sure, I’ll come over and help you clean up the yard.”

What?

Um. My yard is fine, thanks. The boy, who was witness to this whole exchange, said, just say you’re busy all weekend. He does more in the yard than any of us; mowing, weeding, sweeping, raking and weed-whacking.

I guess this whole scenario wouldn’t bother me so much if it weren’t for this: a couple of months ago, the doorbell rang during my work day. I was on a conference call at the time, so could not answer the door. I work at home and from 8-5 everyday, while I’m here, I’m just not available. Don’t stop by, don’t call, just pretend I’m not even here. Except, remember that I AM actually here.

Moments later, while still on the phone, I spotted A. wandering around the backyard. She was investigating the plants, checking on the trees and generally nosing around. When I finally got off the phone I came out front to find her taking some clippings of the mint in the front yard. I was livid, but didn’t want to be impolite, so I guess I was kind of curt, explained I was working, and she went on her way.

Is this OK? I can’t even imagine doing such a thing, but then, I can be polite to a fault, I know. It just bothers me that anyone would have the gall to first, march uninvited into someone’s yard and second, volunteer to weed your garden. Would you say, oh, your kitchen’s such a mess — I’ll come over and help you clean it this weekend? I would only take that well from the closest of friends. And even then would feel insulted.

So I’ll either be self consciously analyzing my yard, all jacked up on antihistimines this weekend, or staying inside, cleaning and ignoring the phone and doorbell.

Dear Charlottesville,

Today marks the one year anniversary of our first trip to visit you. We flew into Dulles and drove on down, marveling at the trees and wondering if this is where we could make our home. Within 48 hours we had made our decision and began to make plans to relocate the 800 miles from St. Louis. It was a long haul.

Since it’s our anniversary, we don’t expect a big gift. Dinner out would be nice, or maybe flowers. Don’t worry — we’re not mad. We didn’t expect you to remember our first anniversary; in fact, it’s like celebrating a first date anniversary, which, we admit is pathetic and so high school. We’ll wait for the big one — the anniversary of the date we moved in, to really celebrate.

Incidentally, a year later, we’re still very pleased with our decision. While we know we’re four (or five, if you count the dog) of thousands who relocated to Charlottesville in 2005, we’re determined to not just be exports but to contribute to the community in a meaningful way. We’ll spend our dollars here, get involved and engage — even more than we did back in that place we used to refer to as “home.”

Thanks, Charlottesville. You’re living up to your reputation.

STL Working Mom

My father’s brother has died; today, Dad is in New York for Will’s funeral. When I was born, my father had 10 siblings: Hank, Theresa, Jeanne, John, Ed, Doris, Claire, Bernard, Will and Beth.

Now there are three; Beth, Bernard and Dad.

When you’re the penultimate kid in a family with 11, I guess this is how it works. What must be the hardest part to handle for my dad is that Will is the third sibling to die within the space of a year.

10 of the 11 lived with diabetes suffering one or more effects: renal (kidney) failure, blindness, amputations and heart disease. Diabetes has been killing off members of my family for as long as I can remember. This is a disease that makes me feel angry, sad and helpless. It’s painful to know with a degree of certainty that diabetes will in some way, be the cause of death of both of my parents. My mother has had Type 1, or juvenile diabetes, for over 40 years. My father lives with Type II, as had most of his family.

My uncle Will had been declining in health for some time; we knew the end was near. 10 years older than my father, I know him as the brother who would take my dad to ball games. For my dad, with his lifelong love of baseball and the St. Louis Cardinals in particular, this is significant. Today I’m thinking of the two of them at a baseball game, at ages 11 and 21, maybe, or seven and 17. I’m also thinking of the reunion in heaven, which is certainly where those who suffer as they have go; I imagine them sitting down to a Thanksgiving meal together, eight of them, reunited with their parents, for once enjoying a meal without thinking of insulin, blood sugars, medication and long-term effects of a disease beyond a cure in their lifetimes.

For a long time I have been a supporter of the American Diabetes Association. Its mission is to prevent and cure diabetes and to improve the lives of all people affected by diabetes. If you or someone you know is living with the disease I encourage you to learn more about it, and support the ADA. My dream is that no one else in my family will be taken away or suffer as a result of this disease. Enough is enough.

Dear Kroger,

We’re leaving. After several months of trying to make it work, we’re going back up the street to our first love. Oh sure, it seemed like we were saving money, driving a few extra miles to go to you. We got comfortable with your layout once we figured out where everything was, and even moved our prescriptions to your pharmacy. You never learned our names, though; never asked how we were when we were sick. The other guys did. Every time.

Before we go, we have a few questions. What is the deal with your produce? It’s absolutely terrible. Food Lion has a more appealing display. Frankly, the only reason we’re not going to Food Lion is the lack of a pharmacy and the lack of selection. Your store is only a small step above. Whomever is in charge of keeping your produce rotated and fresh is seriously falling down on the job. We recommend replacing them before you lose more customers.

Secondly, we cannot understand why shelves are being restocked during the store’s busiest periods. Every Saturday morning, navigating your aisles is extremely difficult with pallets and employees crowding the entire store. We have never experienced this in any other grocery store.

We appreciate the “efforts” you’ve made. But please know that a fantastic wine selection and a Starbucks does not make up for a filthy restroom and unfriendly staff members. Today, the overwhelming scent of the store was more “dirty diaper” than “bakery fresh.”

Finally, we want you to know that your bakery and deli crew are great, and the selection and help there has been exemplary. We’ll miss that, where we’re going, but have a hunch that overall, we’re about to have a much better shopping experience.

You can probably guess where we’re off to — the high-end grocery up the street, the one with a serious focus on customer service and gourmet offerings. We appreciate the gourmet offerings, the online shopping with curbside pickup, but probably won’t take advantage of these. We’ll be shopping the sales and working the customer loyalty program, enjoying the atmosphere and the caring associates. We’ll smile when the cart guy tells us unfailingly to “have a blessed day,” and when the pharmacist calls and asks first, “are you feeling any better?” before telling me when my prescription will be ready.

We’re taking our $200 per week grocery bill plus the roughly $50 a month in prescriptions up the road. It’s the best way to get our message across.

We’re pretty sure with careful shopping, it’s not going to cost us any more. We’ll be buying more fresh food and produce at the other store, which might raise the cost a bit, but we’ll be eating healthier and the food will certainly taste better. We’re shopping closer to home and will pay attention to what’s on sale; planning our meals around the specials.

Goodbye, Kroger. We do hope that you’re able to clean up your act.

Sincerely,

STLWorking Mom and Family

When it rains in Charlottesville, it really rains. In St. Louis we always say, if you don’t like the weather, wait five minutes/an hour/a day; (there are variations) it’ll change.

Not so, Virginia. When it rains here, it pours for awhile, then it drizzles, followed by more pouring, more drizzling, and so on. For. Days. Did we accidentally move to Seattle? Do I just notice this more because I have more windows and we no longer have a garage?

Anyway, today, due to the rain, the boy is being cheated out of a marching competition, cancelled, due to the weather. The second competition, this evening, may move to the gym, which may or may not work. Joy.

I am also sick for the 13th day and getting ready to take another trip to St. Louis. More joy, as I’m sure my fellow airplane passengers will enjoy my frightful hacking for the entire flight. What is it with this cold? I can’t seem to kick it. I spent the second Saturday in a row sweating and wheezing my way through the checkout line at the grocery store, people looking at me as if I am a carrier of the plague when I coughed. No, I probably shouldn’t be out, exposing people to my germs, but seriously, can I just stop doing everything when I’m sick? No, of course not.

And now, some humor . . .

Conversation from dinner:
The girl: Thanks for signing the permission slip so I can see those movies at school.
Me: You’re welcome.
Dad: What movies?
Me: Uh. Shiloh something and Winn Dixie.
Dad: Why were there permission slips?
Me: They have a couple of words in them the kids aren’t supposed to hear.
The girl: Damn.
Me: (laughing, ’cause that’s the kind of parent I am)
Dad: I hope that’s one of them
Me: Yep.
The girl: War is hell.
Me: I guess you read the permission slip, eh?
The girl: Yep.

Yeah. It wasn’t as awe-inspiring as I had hoped. In fact, it was kind of lame. I mean, I think the idea behind having a judge hand down driver’s licenses to teenagers is good, but the weak humor-filled speech with warnings they’ve heard a hundred times (wear your seatbelt, your car is a lethal weapon) along with the reminder that we, the parents can take their licenses away anytime we want (it’s a priviledge, not a right) sounded like afterthoughts, felt like a hassle, more than anything.

What a bummer. I was hoping for Judge Judy with a huge chip on her shoulder, or James Earl Jones in a black robe, yelling about the grisly deaths of teen drivers; maybe even with pictures. No such luck.

The boy’s just official now. Let’s all hope he stays safe.

Most of the time, I’m annoyed by the Flickr photos that appear on cvilleblogs.

This morning, however, the photos from the German guys touring Kroger are hilarious. Even if you don’t know a lick of German you can decipher the captions. You’ll laugh at “Martin mit blauem Haar” and friends as they laugh at our cheese in a can and our goofy mascot, the Cavalier.

I spent the afternoon in jail.

Tomorrow, we go to court.

Relax, it’s not all that. Today it was for a civic program I’m in; tomorrow morning, the boy will at last, get his official driver’s license. Unlike some people, I’m actually looking forward to going to court. You see, in Virginia, when you pass the test they issue a 90 day temporary license. You don’t get the real one until you go before a judge and get THE SPEECH.

I’ll report all about it afterwards. Provided we don’t end up back in jail.