Sometimes I play a game in which I name an object and then try to associate a worry with it, just to see if I can stump myself. “Venetian blinds,” I say. “Peeping Tom!” I answer without having inhaled. “Tomatoes,” I try. “Salmonella poisoning!” Another way to play is to …
How could such gut-wrenching stories have resulted in such a magical performance?
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.
We prowl Yashow’s aisles, giggling like a pair of teens, assessing shoes and scarves, chattering at the leisurely pace of the senior citizen duo we now are.
Nearly everyone had an avoidance tactic. They turned their heads away or looked straight ahead, as though I were invisible.
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?
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.
I knew a 52-year-old man with a 26-year-old girlfriend, who still slept with her teddy bear, so by the principle of transitivity he too slept with the teddy bear.
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?
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.
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 . . .
I can’t accept Tom Cruise and Scientology any more than I can accept the Ku Klux Klan. Okay, a dot or more more.
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.
Given my name dyslexia, every time I go outside, I have to rehearse all four names beforehand in case I run into any of them.
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?
In 1980, while living in China, I insisted on speaking Mandarin when planning a dinner for Alan Dershowitz and other Harvard professors. Oops.
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.”