Did I really become a complacent worrywart because of a Times reader’s tip? If so, how much effort must I devote to the New York Times’s comments sections to solve all my problems?
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To find out what I’m thinking about, I decided to track my thoughts. But it doesn’t work when your paying attention, like just now I was washing my hands, so for this exercise, I noticed myself saying to myself, “I’m washing my hands.”
Anderson lived with his father for the first time and realized, “My daddy got a little care about me.”
Nearly everyone had an avoidance tactic. They turned their heads away or looked straight ahead, as though I were invisible.
That Greta’s son had set parental controls on his mother’s computer gave me more than just a chuckle; it gave me a jolt, reminding me of the parent-child reversals I had been noticing more and more in my own life.
y very presence seemed to bring out the worrywart in my adventuresome Eliza, as though every day of our time together in Laos were Freaky Friday, as in the film of the same name in which mother and daughter find their personalities exchanged.
ADD and the Worrywart: This explains why every time I go to New York, I get more work done than when I’m home, writing on my quiet porch in Washington, D.C.
What do you eat on an ordinary day? Maybe I’ll find that mine are not quirks at all and that everyone drinks a pint of tea in a Pyrex measuring cup before bed.
This of course led me to one of my common ruminations: What would be the cutoff for retrieving a precious item from a public toilet?
Why do religious people worry? All they have to do is pray. Whenever I’m worried, I have to pay. My therapist is my Lord. The missing laptop was not . . .
What am I to do about too many advisors? I began preparing for the 2-minute pitch of my memoir 60 days in advance, an average of 1 day for every 3 seconds.
In light of the Boston tragedy, how can I publish my trifle of a post, which—on a day when we felt safer and less heart-heavy—might make some readers smile?
Is it enough just to entertain? Or do I need to make a point, share a reflection?
Now I have set myself up for failure in two ways:
Does this rah rah for winter months raise questions about my worrywart creds? Should I worry that my upbeat tendencies will discred my worrywart brand?
Most daunting of all, how to sign my book for close friends? A writer ought to be clever, even on short notice.
I can’t remember why I was only fine, rather than the usual great, but this makes an important point:
“Susan Orlins is America’s funniest neurotic since Woody Allen. Just be careful you don’t crack a rib reading her memoir, Confessions of a Worrywart.”
Suddenly a skinny, little girl—of perhaps seven years—broke free from her family and darted in front of my bicycle.
Even before 9-11 I wondered what I would do if confronted with the terrifying choice to either jump or burn. Ideas came to me this morning before I opened my eyes.
Recently, after reading about a breakfast club, my breakfast club envy flared up.
Do all my awesomes sound like I’m trying to seem young and cool—the language equivalent of someone my age wearing short, short skirts and skimpy tank tops?
When the car’s gas tank gets down to a quarter full, I begin to worry that if there is a terrorist attack, I won’t get very far in my car, so I then make haste to a gas station.
A 9th-grade philosopher—my boyfriend George—once said, “When you get a haircut, you never look better. At best, you don’t look worse.”
I’m sitting at the breakfast table in my bra and panties, sipping melted ice water through a straw, pretending it’s iced tea. Casey, sprawled beside me, looks barely alive.
Each Nora Ephron romantic comedy makes the prospect of finding fun, funny romance possible and accessible for everyone.
Confession: I was a telemarketer. In 1976—when I became a stockbroker at Merrill Lynch—I had never heard the word telemarketing; we called it cold calling.
Often, searches such as “mommy died today” land on my blog because of the post I had written on the day my mother died.
At Alcatraz, a former prisoner spoke. He said those who obsessed about getting out “didn’t make it.” Cognitive Therapy would have helped.
After the sun slides behind the ash trees in my backyard, my heart thumps with anticipation. It’s finally time for GETTING THINGS DONE.
I am not part of the walk-and-text culture. I’m barely part of the text culture. But as a writer, who lives alone, my laptop has become one of my best friends.