Somewhere in Missouri
"Tse-tsooo, tse-tsooo, tse-tsooo."

I heard a funny whistle and I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I was sitting in a plastic-covered easy chair at the end of a hall. My grandmother was somewhere at the other end having her diaper changed, an indignity she would be horrified to realize if she could.

"Tse-tsooo, tse-tsooo, tse-tsooo."

Several elderly women were walked or wheeled by aides past me on their way to the jazz performance in the recreation room, the day's entertainment. As each passed I gave them the biggest smile I could, and most of the faces lit up. Some didn't.

"Tse-tsooo, tse-tsooo, tse-tsooo."

Mom joined me in the opposite chair. She heard the whistle too. It was making us both giggle. And I needed the giggle. I find the nursing home depressing and awkward. Mom got up and found what room the whistle was coming from.

"I think it's the way that man in there is breathing."
"Oh. That can't be good."

The whistle wasn't quite as funny anymore.

Finally Dad wheeled Grandma toward us.

"Happy birthday, Grandma!" I said and gave her, my only living grandparent, a kiss. I saw no recognition in her green eyes. My eyes are green too. She didn't recognize me when I saw her at Thanksgiving either, but I thought there might be a chance she'd remember me this time. She didn't, though.

We all headed outside to the courtyard. It was warm and humid outside, which was quite a change from the cool dry A/C inside. We wheeled Grandma toward the middle of the yard, an area with chairs and benches, surounded with trees and landscaping.

Grandma slouched in the wheelchair as we posed around her for pictures. She didn't have much to say, and even when she did speak, we didn't quite catch what it was. Mom read aloud a birthday card Grandma had gotten from her brother in New York. Her eyesight is almost completely gone and she couldn't read it herself.

A round black-haired, brown-skinned woman appeared at the other end of the courtyard. She wore glasses and white clothes.

"Hello!" my dad shouted and waved to her. She smiled and walked our way. "It's so good to see you for this birthday," Dad said.

"Whose birthday is it?" she said loudly, so Grandma could hear her. This must be Freddie, I thought. Mom told me about her.

We all pointed toward Grandma.

"You didn't tell me it was your birthday," she said, turning all her attention to Grandma. "How old are you?"

She couldn't answer herself, so we told her she was 92. Freddie started to sing a funny version of Happy Birthday and danced around a bit. Grandma tilted her head back and smiled. She moved her head back and forth to Freddie's song. Mom, Dad and I watched.

A few fat tears fell from my eyes. It was so great to see Gradma smile, but it was a little sad that we couldn't be the ones to bring her that smile. But I'm glad Freddie, someone she sees often, can. I think smiles are what she should be living for now.

We said goodbye to Freddie, and figured it was time to get going ourselves. We wheeled Grandma to the recreation room, where a jolly man behind a piano was playing music to an audience of blank faces, a sea of wheelchairs, almost all women. We faced Grandma toward the musician. I gave her a kiss and said goodbye.

Happy birthday, Grandma. I love you.

* Happy Memorial Day everyone

* I'll be back in NYC tomorrow! Hooray! It's been a lovely vacation in my hometown, but I'm ready to jump back into the hustle and bustle I love so much.

Somewhere in Missouri
Anne's graduation party was full of her friends and family, many of whom had come a long way to celebrate her success, myself included. I met her college friends, which was wonderful because I'd heard so much about them. And I guess they'd heard about me, too.

On the deck that overlooked a dense wood, I sat down next to someone's fiancé. He looked like a lot of men around here: fat, and wearing a golf shirt embroidered with a company logo. He was holding a cold Bud Light and looked at me from behind sunglasses.

“I went to New York once,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“For 10 hours.”
“Oh.”
“It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment thing. We flew in to see Garth Brooks in Central Park. And then we flew right back home.”
“Cool.”
“I didn't like New York.”

OK then.

Somewhere in Missouri
While on a sunny walk, I took a shortcut through a farm. The resting fields were muddy from rain the night before, but the areas between were dry enough to walk through.

I was wearing my headphones, and I realized that no one was around to hear me if I wanted to sing. So I loosened up and starting singing along with my CD.

In a weathered shed, I saw a rusty plow and rolls of wire fencing. The grasses came up to my knees and I took giant steps as I went down a hill. There were purple and white clover blossoms, and I even saw a yellow butterfly.

It was a far cry from a crowded subway or a park lined with skyscrapers. But that's just what I liked about it.

Somewhere in Missouri
Mom and I were in the garage, and raindrops were starting to fall onto the driveway. I was spending a lot of time adjusting the mirrors and the seat, while she stood outside the car and watched me. I hadn't driven a car in two years.

In May of 2002, I sold my car to my friend's sister. The car promptly died on her about two months later, which made me feel like shit, but I did tell her the car was sort of a problem. (I'd spent over $1,000 in repairs in the previous six months. And I didn't really have a spare $1,000 just lying around, ya know?)

Mom stuck her head through the passenger side window.

"Don't forget to close this window," she said. "Ow! Not yet."

"Where's the windshield wipers?"

"Right there. There's three speeds."

A few months after I sold my car, I got a notice in the mail saying my driver's license had been suspended. The last trip I'd taken the car on was upstate to my good pal's family's lake house for a lovely mini-vacation. On the way, some bored-out-of-his-mind local police officer gave me a speeding ticket. Jerky. I never paid the ticket—and now I was really paying for it.

But yesterday, I decided that I think I did eventually pay the ticket. So my license mustn't be suspended anymore. So I can borrow Mom's car to go see my friend, Anne.

I backed slowly out of the garage, and put on the wipers.

"Close the window!" Mom said, still dry in the garage.

Mmmm yes. Closed it. The passenger armrest was wet.

And I was on my way. I picked a radio station. I drove pretty slowly as I approached my first traffic light, and even slower at the second. The rain was picking up.

I drove past the mall and along the ridge. I heard lightning, but I didn't see it because I was trying to concentrate on the road. The green hills were flooding, and the roads were starting to drown.

About halfway to my destination, I thought about pulling over. All I could see was big rain. But I'd just moved into the left lane of the country highway, anticipating a left turn ahead. Moving back to the right to pull over didn't sound appealing, so I drove.

The Beatles' "Love Me Do" was interrupted. The radio was screaming. I don't even know how to spell the sound, but you know it: The Emergency Broadcast System. This was no test. It was in effect!

"Tornado warnings have been issued for the following counties," the announcer said. "Reports of funnel cloud formations are coming in from state troopers in the area."

I finally made it to Anne's parents' house. Anne just graduated from medical school—she's a real doctor now!—and is staying with her parents until she moves in a few weeks to a different midwestern state for her residency. I'm here for her graduation party on Saturday. I'm so proud of her.

The driveway was full, so I parked on the street. Anne's dad appeared with a red and white golf umbrella to escort me into the garage, where Anne and her mom were waiting.

"We called to tell you not to come, but you'd already left," Anne said.

My clothes had gotten pretty wet just from that short walk from the car to the house. Anne's mom insisted I take them off so she could throw them in the dryer. Always fun to be asked to strip upon arrival. They all gasped when I told them that this was the first time I'd driven in two years.

Anne's dad said, "Welcome back to the Midwest, kiddo," as we sat down and watched the unfolding drama on The Weather Channel.

"Ever think about moving back here?" he asked.

"No."

* The rain eventually slowed, and Anne and I visited her sister, brother-in-law, and new neice. The baby was born the day before my own birthday, and she has the name I'd want to give my daughter. Not that I want babies. I'm not sure I do. But if I did have one, that's what I'd call her. You know I'm not a baby person. I didn't even know how to hold her. But damn, she was cute.

* And we went to Steak 'n' Shake where I had a root beer float and cheese fries. Anne knows how much I miss those cheese fries.

* Damn. I just saw one of those hot white uniforms pass me on the sidewalk, and I realized that I'm going to be missing Fleet Week while I'm on my mini-vacation. Kiss a sailor for me, will ya?

Five or six teenagers, chains and safety pins over their black punk clothes, leaned against the iron church fence. They were looking at a pair of chubby boys about six feet away.

One of the boys was looking at his fists like he never knew his hands made that shape. He looked at the other boy, a bleached and bespectacled kid.

“You want me to hit you?”
“Yeah!”
“In the face?”
“Yeah!”
“Hard?”
“Yeah!”

I walked until the black fence bars angled so I could barely be seen by the band of teens. I peeked through the slats, waiting to see if the boy was going to take a swing. A few other passersby slowed down too.

The boys didn't move.

I walked away.

I bet he chickened out, or socked him softly in the shoulder. But since I didn’t see it happen, I like to imagine one kid’s glasses broken on the sidewalk, maybe some red drops in the cement, and the other boy holding out his hand to help him off the ground. And then they gave up all their flaming worldly possessions to make soap in a dilapidated house in the toxic waste part of town.

Thank you for exposing your chest and arms so many times during Colonial House. You even skinny dipped for us one last time. Thanks. It's truly meant a lot to me.

You look like a boy I smooched once or twice, years and years ago. If you're ever in New York, I'd like to smooch you too. Call me.

After brunch, Goober and I walked to the movie theater. When we realized we were at the wrong movie theater, we tried crossing to the theater on the other side of the street. (Neither of us has ever proclaimed to be terrribly smooth.)

We looked both ways before we crossed. Look left: yellow Caution tape freshly lining the street, the median, the sidewalk. Look right: police men and women blocking the oncoming traffic. An officer pointed Goober and I north one block; we could cross there.

On our way back south toward the correct theater, I asked an officer what was going on. "A suspicious package," he said as he wound yellow tape around a street sign.

I wished I hadn't asked.

The hysterical movie, Napoleon Dynamite, was enough to make us forget about that suspiciousness by the time we dropped our sunglasses onto our faces two hours later.


Bob just told me about a bill moving through Congress to reinstate the draft. I asked him why I hadn't read about this anywhere else, because, I thought, this would be more alarming than the media has made it out to be. Maybe it's not real, right? I checked Snopes. It's not fake.

I think I'm going to cry.

Write to your Congressmen and women. Seriously. (House | Senate)

* I think the worst is behind me now. My ailments are improving, I've caught up some on my work at the office, and my checking account was replenished at midnight. I still may be picked for a jury; I'll know later today. I'm exhausted.

Thank you to all of my friends who listened to me this week. You're the best.

Lunch break from jury duty finally came. I stepped into the rain, umbrella-less, and headed for the Wendy’s across the street. They have a 99¢ menu. I only had $5 in singles in my wallet to last me until Friday. I splurged and got a burger and a soda. You know I love my Coke.

This month, between paying my bills; buying a plane ticket to visit my parents; paying a visit to my pals in Boston; and having my body freak out on me necessitating several prescriptions, not all of which could be filled generically; I’ve really put myself in a pickle. I even had an embarrassing incident yesterday with the pharmacist, who—my luck—was sympathetic and helpful when my debit card and two credit cards were all rejected when I tried to pay my $19 balance.

A cheeseburger and an ice-cold Coke on my tray, I chose a seat near the window, so I could watch the rain.

I don’t even know how it happened, but before I could stop it, my near-full soda sailed away from me and emptied over the table, a chair and the carpet. My Coke.

There was one of my only $5. All over the floor.

I listened to the snickers from people around me. I stared at the mess for several seconds.

I went to find some napkins. I dabbed at the floor, and swept off the chair and table best I could. While I was kneeling on the floor, I could feel eyes on me. I knew the two black gentlemen sitting nearby had seen me spill, and were probably watching me clean up too.

Then I had a flashback. Another embarrassing cleaning-up-after-myself incident, only this other one was far worse.

About a month into my freshman year of college, I was invited to my first real party. There would be upperclassmen there, emphasize men. There would be beer there. I’d never drank beer before. At the party, I let myself be peer-pressured by my teasing roommates—all experienced drinkers at ages 17 and 18—into a drinking game that had me chugging a Rolling Rock in the middle of the living room. As fast as that beer had gone down, it came back up. The puddle I made on the floor sent everyone running away from me. That is, all except a new friend, and she was already this loyal. She stood by me as I tried to figure out what to do, still fuzzy on my first-ever beer buzz. I ran to the kitchen and got as many paper towels as I could, never making eye contact with anyone. I didn’t want to see how they were looking at me. As soon as I finished cleaning, my friend and I left the party. I was humiliated, and I’ve never lived it down. Not only was I known as the girl who puked at the party, but also as the one who cleaned up after herself.

Today, when I finished mopping up my soda with piles of yellow napkins, I sat down to finish eating the cheeseburger. The men who had seen my midday mishap were getting up to leave.

“You know,” the older man said to me, “There’s a right way to handle things, and a wrong way to handle things. What you just did there? That was the right thing.” The comment made me smile, and I started to feel fragile.

“Thank you,” I replied. “I only have a few dollars, and I just wasted one of them right there.” I almost cried.

The other man turned to me and said, “Oh, don’t worry yourself. Everything happens for a reason. I don’t drink soda anymore; it’s pure sugar. Maybe it’s better that you’re not drinking it.” That made me laugh and they wished me a good day.

Something inside me was bubbling. It had almost come out when I was talking to those men. It was in my throat. I thought to call my mother. Her voice would help me.

I stood in the rain at a payphone and dialed my mom’s toll-free office number. (I would have used my own phone, but I left the charger at a friend’s in Boston.) I told her about my uneventful morning at the borough hall and was soon recounting my clumsy move I’d performed only moments before. Then my face was wet with rain and tears as I told her about having so little money.

“I don’t know why I suck at this so badly,” I said of my money management skills. Mom is vice president of a financial planning firm. I imagine I’m a pretty big disappointment to her in this area. “You know me,” I continued, “I like to be good at the things that I do. I hate that I am so bad at this, especially because I don’t know what to do about it.”

She listened to me as I let all my stress come out in sobs. The rain was cooling my flushed cheeks, and I was thankful that the weather was keeping eavesdroppers away.

“Cookie, take some deep breaths,” Mom said, her Queens accent transmitting from the Midwest back to her home-borough. “We’ll figure it out.”

I'm a planner. Even my spontaneity is planned. (Though I decided to get my nose pierced just the night before I did, I'd actually been thinking about it for nine months.) So when things are uncertain, I get stressed.

This week, there are a lot of uncertainties: my health, jury duty, the weather, conflicting TV schedules. Oh, the stress.

What to do? Consult The Magic 8 Ball, of course.



That's the spirit! It is only Tuesday, after all. Gotta keep a positive attitude, ya know?

* This summer, in an effort to be more mindful of the world outside my tread between work and home, I will not complain about how hot it is. Instead, when I’m on the platform sweating through tanks and cropped pants or baking in the park at lunchtime, I will think about all the people half a world away—all the people—that are suffering so greatly, and in heat worse than any sticky New York day. I’m going to try; and if you catch me complaining, call me out.

* A girl—late teens or early twenties—was crouched on the sidewalk. Next to her was a cardboard sign asking for money. She didn't look particularly dirty, and I couldn't smell her. I don't remember the exact wording of of the sign, though—I was distracted by the fact that she was looking into a Clinique compact, putting on lipstick. Maybe she's what the NYT calls an "Urban Nomad" (abstract | full in pdf).

On a cool wet day in 1995, my mom was driving the family minivan, two teenagers in tow. “Don’t tell Dad,” Mom said. “I want it to be a surprise.” She and my dad had always wanted to go on a hot air balloon ride, so for their upcoming 20th wedding anniversary, she got them one!

My brother and I weren’t impressed. We said, “That’s cool.”

Over the next few weeks, before Dad would get home from work in the evenings, she’d tell us how the planning was going. She told us about where they would fly in the balloon. About how much the weather was going to affect when and where they go. She told us about the balloonist who would be taking them up.

After dinner, a week before the anniversary, my dad pulled my brother and I upstairs for a chat. “I don’t know if you guys realize this,” he told us, “but next week is Mom’s and my anniversary.”
We are aware.
“And I got a surprise for your mother.”
Oh yeah?
“Have we ever told you that we’ve always wanted to go in a hot air balloon?”


The other day, I was chatting online with my mother while we were at our respective offices a thousand miles apart.

Mom: Do you have time for a phone call?
Mom: nothing urgent. Just something funny

She got me on the phone. Their 30th wedding anniversary is next year, and she was thinking about getting Dad a cruise. Though we have traveled a bit, no one in our family has been on a cruise. She was going to tell him she wanted something else as a gift, and she’d go behind his back and get the cruise.

“So we were out at P.F. Chang’s the other night for dinner, and you’ll never believe this. He says, ‘Hey, I was thinking about our anniversary. What would you think about going on a cruise?’”

I have the cutest parents ever. It's disgusting. I’m very lucky. Happy Mother’s Day, even though my mom doesn’t read this blog.

Goober and I were chatting on the phone. I told her she had to see “Winged Migration.” We both love nature shows, and I told her it had the most beautiful nature photography I've ever seen. I thought my eyes were going to pop out of my head.

“Oh! Speaking of nature shows!” I said. “Something else you have to see. ‘The Cooler.’” It’s about a guy (William H. Macy) who is hired to slow down winners in a Las Vegas casino.

“That should be my job. I have the worst luck gambling,” Goober said. “I want to see that movie.”

But, nature shows?

“Well,” I started to retell the scene, “Paul Sorvino is in it. He plays this aging Sinatra-era Vegas lounge singer [Buddy]. After a really humiliating performance, he’s back in his dressing room with Alec Baldwin [Shelly]. He does a shot of heroin. Then he says:”


“I love nature shows!” she blurted.
“I know, I do too. Listen.”


“Lions!”
“I know. Listen.”


“Oh my God!” Goober shouted. “The Crater Lions! Ahab!”

“I know! That’s what I thought too!”

I believe Goober’s love of nature shows is life-long. Mine set in later. When we were in college. When we were roommates. I came home one day to find my dear friend on the couch, captivated by the television. Nature. The Crater Lions.

“You have to watch this!” she said. I’d bet she was wearing pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt, and her hair up in a knot. But I can’t remember that detail.

I sat down and she got me up to speed. This pride of lions lived in an African crater. Two brothers, Hook and Ahab, were the males. Nimue, the outcast female. Cubs were killed by jealous adults. A male was shunned from the rest, to wander the crater. I was fascinated.

And ever since, I have loved—loved, loved, loved—nature shows.

A few years later, I ordered a VHS copy of The Crater Lions for Goober for her birthday.

Maybe I should have gotten her “The Cooler” for her birthday last week.

You know that life must be going along pretty well if your biggest problem of the day was that when you got home from spending a lovely Saturday out — out of doors and out of the city — you realized you are now suffering from a premature maligned tan line.