It’s a Beijing conundrum because I don’t want to support the stolen bike industry by buying a new, used, probably stolen bike.
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Not everyone has as much attraction to strangers as I do, but if you do, with skis and the city and a camera, you have a great excuse.
Surveys showed that one in twelve listeners believed the story was real and that Martians were invading New Jersey.
I planned to videotape the Miss America and watch it with my daughters—after they returned to me from their dad—the way we always had. (I know, I’m a lowbrow.)
Are two overnights a month better than four visits for a few hours each plus having her nearby for spontaneous additional visits?
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.
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?
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?
As easy dinners go, this is the easiest. All you need is 4 ingredients.
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:
All this fed into my recurring imaginings of how to celebrate my death, and whether to do so after or before it occurs . . .
Back to another beau, who could say words backwards and so can I, except someone once stumped me in the Say This Backwards game with “onomatopoeia.”
What makes for a successful marriage? What can be done about marital problems? My two previous posts highlighted Betsy’s story and Harry’s story; below is Victoria’s story. Victoria is 58 years old and a retired history professor living in Chicago: The biggest challenge I faced in my marriage was when my …
Yesterday we heard from Victoria about her recipe for a successful marriage and avoiding marital problems. Today, a man shares how to be happily married.
Most daunting of all, how to sign my book for close friends? A writer ought to be clever, even on short notice.
I never prayed for Steve to win the election, only to keep our sanity intact.
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.
Recently, after reading about a breakfast club, my breakfast club envy flared up.
“Mom! That’s exactly why I’m terrified of sponges!” my daughter cried.
Like a bicycle tire that has just rolled over a shard of glass, the air began seeping out of my buoyant mood.
On a Sunday evening in New York I enjoyed a lovely dinner at the Union Square Café with my friend Jessica. I was happy with my pappardelle until two thirds of the way through my meal, at the next table, a waitperson placed in front of a trim young woman …
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.
Keeping up with friends and making friends require effort. In general, there are the reacher-outers (me) and the reacher-outees (most people I know).
I regret not only some of my meddling on my children’s behalf, but also having kept a secret.
This story about saying what you mean when it comes time to paying or splitting the bill makes me sad.