One day, after hours of sliding my cursor from Twitter to Facebook to Stats for my blogs and back to Twitter, when I should have been writing, I emailed Dr. M, a cognitive therapist. Dr. M had previously helped me understand that worry is an addiction; it hits the same pleasure …
At heart, I’m as much a salesperson as a writer. In 1978, I was recognized by Merrill Lynch for ranking second in opening new accounts among their first-year stockbrokers. During my next career, back in the days of print, selling my essays was harder. Some of my articles received a dozen …
I needed an antidote to worry this weekend, when my bike got a flat tire and then my car wouldn’t start. So here is the latest in my Antidote to Worry Series of food photos and such. Here’s how I compose this satisfying crunchy salad: A base of arugula Trader Joe’s …
Note to those of my peeps to whom Twitterspeak is as foreign as Uz-beki-beki-beki-stan-stan-ese: You may not want to slog through this one. If you do, RT means retweet. I spend a lot of time on Twitter sharing links to articles I write. I have cultivated a variety of followers. …
Is it a worrywart trait to seek pleasure on the highest plane? To always be wondering whether–no matter how good something is–it could be better? That’s how it is with me and eating. It’s a similar quest with family time. When I hear about a family who acts out Shakespeare …
If our family were contestants on a TV know-your-family game show, and the emcee were to ask, “Who is least likely to be a pest?” we would all shout “Emy!” The rest of us can be annoying, not least of all yours truly, but never Emy. When my three daughters were …
While shops experience brisker business on weekends, blog traffic slows, at least mine does. So I’m posting this shortie today, hoping for weekend visitors. What I’m about to write is one of those things I wouldn’t give a second thought to, were I not examining myself all the time for …
1955 After a swallow of dinner, I dirty my face with burnt cork and, on my shoulder, rest a broomstick with a bundle of rags tied to its end. I then prepare for the battle with my mom over not wearing a coat. I step into the hallowed night, wondering …
I’m a saver. Every time my inbox mounts to the limit of 4,000 emails, I move a few thousand to random folders I doubt I’ll ever find again; and then I’m set for another few weeks of not deleting messages, mainly from the likes of Sock Hop Sundays, Hot Tub …
For my recent article on Home Goes Strong about Happiness at Home, I interviewed my blog crush Gretchen Rubin, whose book The Happiness Project–the same name as her blog–was a #1 New York Times best seller. Gretchen keeps a one-sentence journal, which she admits sometimes expands to 4 sentences. Says Gretchen, …
OccupyDC provides photo ops. Here are a few and, at the end, a link to my salade nicoise recipes. There’s a tie-in, sort of. Check out my quick, easy, delicious, low-cal Salade Nicoise Recipe with Countless Variations. What has struck you about the protests sites, either if you have seen them …
The other day, I bike downtown to the Newseum to hear a panel discussion by New York Times columnists. I leave home early enough to swing through McPherson Square, D.C.’s Occupy Wall Street venue. My immediate sense is a blast from the past, a hippie and flower child commune ambience. …
When I’m in New York, I like to hang out and write at Jack’s, a coffee place in the West Village with a patina that suggests long afternoons of sipping lattes and tapping on laptops. The overall look is shades of brown, like paper bags and coffee. Jack’s is so …
Up until I first got my period, I was Susie. In high school, I was Sue. After reinventing myself in college, I became Susan. My mom and, hence, other relatives continued to call me Susie. My dad called me Sooze, (pronounced Sooz, not Soozie) starting when I was 20 and began …
“Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up!” I’ve been thinking I should get a medical alarm button to wear like the one advertised in the campy Life Alert “Help! I’ve fallen!” commercial. My mom wore one until she died at age 92. Otherwise, how would I contact someone if I were …
Popcorn is one of my favorite comfort foods. It fills me up, is healthful, tastes delicious and I pretend that eating this overflowing pot of it, sprinkled with sea salt, won’t make me feel squeezed in the waist by my elastic waist pants. When my oldest daughter Eliza was a toddler, I …
Beware of asking me to rant. I am liable to start today, five days after autumn began (also National Good Neighbor Day and National Pancake Day), and never stop until Flag Day. If you really want to hear loud and wild talk, ask me about the leaf blowers whose noise …
You can tell a lot about a person’s life from the files they have open on their browser. Eugene, my computer guy, says I shouldn’t keep so many files open. But like with my desk, if I put things away, I’ll forget about them. So I leave them out and …
My very first Mr. Wrong told me, “Susie, what you need is a purpose.” That was in ninth grade. George, now a retired psychiatrist, was right. The benefits of having a purpose were never more obvious than after I launched my blog. The irony of blogging about being a worrywart, …
There’s something serene, along with a sprinkling of smug, about people who practice yoga. They laud the benefits—“Doing yoga has saved my back.” “I’m no longer stressed.” If I had the patience to do yoga, I’d also have the attention span to meditate, read the New Yorker and maybe even drive …
Season 8 of “The Family Vacation” has ended. Back from The Hamptons to their everyday lives are “Family Vacation” stars: the exes—since 1998—Steve and Susan (yours truly) and their three twenty-something daughters, Eliza, Sabrina and Emily. Let’s take a look back at Season 1, Summer of 2004. “The whole family’s …
At first it all seemed like a big adventure: stepping into Hurricane Isabel at one am with two pajama-clad teenage daughters and one dog in tow, basking in mini-celebrity the following morning when neighbors gathered in small clusters to gasp at the damage, and moving in with my ex, which surely …
Getting ready to go with my daughter to the cobbler on our bikes on this lovely summer day. Passing under a doorway, I start shaking while the house is quaking. Dare I run to get the dog who is barking at the front door or stay here where it’s safer? …
Yesterday one of my daughters told me, “Dad sounds unhappy with me.” When I asked why, she said because he had left a message on her phone three days earlier and he hadn’t heard back from her. Then she told me, “If you want to reach me, text.” She added, …
China Baby Last week the daughter of friends in Beijing wrote to me about her baby: My baby is more than four months now. She is very healthy and very happy. Recently, I made haircut for her. In China we cut all the hair from birth, in order to grow better. Generally …
With President Obama on the verge of crossing the half-century line, age-wise, I recall my own (embarrassinglynarcissistic) 50th birthday party on Home Goes Strong. I thought I’d share with you the invitation I’d sent. Author’s note: I no longer pee a droplet whenever I sneeze. YOU’RE INVITED (TO MY FIFTIETH) I’m changing …
A year ago, I woke up and peered into my backyard and saw a mother deer and what appeared to be her two newborns clustered behind my azalea bushes. The young ones were trying to stand but then they would collapse, their spindly legs unable to support them. By afternoon, …
Why put a cold, hard fork between me and my dinner, when the visceral experience of eating, the intimacy between me and my green beans is so enhanced by pinching the bean between thumb and forefinger and depositing it into my mouth? Yes, I’ve had boyfriends who find this offputting and …
Rather than calling them conversations with my dog, I might more accurately label them monoversations or nonversations. Sometimes they include laying out my plans for the upcoming hour as in “Come to the office, Boo Boo; Mommy’s gonna work.” Upon hearing me say, Boo Boo or any of my names …
Grief: keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret. At the cemetery, my sister and brother stand teary over our mother’s coffin with their arms around each other’s backs. Dry-eyed, I step up next to them, completing our sibling trio. Yet we are two plus one, a double and a single, a duet and a solo. After …