My older sister’s job was rinsing them and mine was loading them schmutz-fee into the dishwasher. My brother’s job was being the only son.
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For me, hand-washing a glass sparks certainty that the next morning my cold brew will taste like Lemon Joy; I depend on the dishwasher for dishes to be fully rinsed. My middle daughter believes the reverse. She thinks dishwashers leave soap residue and will make her coffee taste like Cascade.
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?
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.”
“Come here; I just want to talk to you,” she sings in a tone that belies daggers. Two flight attendants are poised by the cabin door, ready, I am certain, to slam it behind me.
Sometimes the writers go home and work on their stories. Well, they don’t exactly go home, because many in the group are homeless.
It’s a Beijing conundrum because I don’t want to support the stolen bike industry by buying a new, used, probably stolen bike.
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.
Regret is one of my least favorite feelings. In a few minutes I would be switching trains, and the opportunity to help this stranger on a train would soon expire . . .
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.
A truck driver once told me that his instructions were: if you think you are going to hit a car with, say, a family in it, then try to kill all the occupants, because the financial settlement would be lower than if they lived.
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.
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?
Antidote to Worry: Frozen Banana and Melted Chocolate
How do I measure my dog’s quality of life? A dog whisperer on TV whispered a guideline for when to euthanize your dog: when bad days outnumber good days.
With bathing suit season approaching, everyone seems to be more calorie conscious. Lettuce wraps are one of my favorite snacks.
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.
All this fed into my recurring imaginings of how to celebrate my death, and whether to do so after or before it occurs . . .
A Washington Story: What if he’s a terrorist? He’ll know where I live. Better to remain inconspicuous.
“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.”
For a worrywart, it is challenging to come up with just one resolution when there are so many choices. So I have selected several from my 2012 grab bag to inspire you to worry less and indulge more in 2013.
But why isn’t anyone talking about campaign finance reform?
I didn’t see why that was so funny, until they caught their breath and told me . . .
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.
“Mom! That’s exactly why I’m terrified of sponges!” my daughter cried.