By susan fishman orlins My beagle Casey is healthy, spunky and–at 13 1/2–still learning new tricks, like wagging his tail. Yet, today for no apparent reason, I woke up vocalizing a name for my next dog.
 A boy named Scarlet? Maybe it started a few days ago when I phoned the bike store to see if they could fix my flat tire, which occurred right before my car wouldn’t start.
A voice answered, “Hudson Trail, Scarlet speaking.”
Scarlet! I love that name. But a boy named Scarlet?
When we got Casey, I knew I wanted a boy dog. I had gotten divorced some months earlier and the only testosterone in my life, aside from a couple of friends, were my computer guy and my dentist.
So I searched for a boy dog and a male psychotherapist. Casey came to us when he was seven months old, along with his name. My three daughters and I dawdled so long, trying to agree on what to call him, that he remained Casey.
I don’t recall anyone ever asking how he got his name, but I believe that everyone who meets him is thinking, How unimaginative!
 Caseminster Abbey Of course, as you may know, we never call him Casey. My daughter, who was returning from England for the holidays, emailed, “I can’t wait to see Caseminster Abbey.”
I could not adore this boy more, but it is hard not to project into the future, knowing the likelihood of a day when he is no longer here to race me upstairs at night and to spoon with me after lights out.
So I try out names.
I like the name Brad Pitt for Casey. Will I have to meet the next pup to see if that suits him too? Do our names become part of who we are or do our names help define who we are?
So when I woke up, the first thing I did was turn to Casey and try out this new name on him. “Kreplach, time to get up.”
Kreplach are like Jewish raviolis, doughy and cheesy and yummy when you smother them with butter. It’s that East European kind of food that killed my grandparents.
The gutteral “ch” at the end wouldn’t work well for a dog name, but the association let me to Knish. Casey is anything but a Knish. He is neither round, nor knishy squishy. And he’s way too big. Knish is for a little fluffy pup or maybe for a mini dachshund.
 Malibu Ken Names are a funny thing; some seem universally great. I always loved the name Chloe for a girl, for example. But after my French then-mother-in-law nixed it for my third daughter, my then-husband nixed it too. It was one of the few times he said no to me.
We got along well, the ex and I. Each did exactly as we pleased. Most of our values were in concert, so there were never arguments about, say, money; he was thrifty, I hated to shop.
Sometimes I wonder if couples like us, who practically never fight (Did he just give in to everything and then feel discontent?), lack enough passion to care what each other does as they swirl around in parallel universes.
More dog names: Alan, Badger, Barky, Barkley (Tom Hanks’s dog in “You’ve Got Mail”), Boswell (the name of my 5th grade best friend’s autograph hound), Chip, Dodger, Dudley, Dilber (nickname for the nickname of my college boyfriend Dizzy, whose last name much to his chagrin was Silberhartz–get it? Dizzy + Silberhartz = Dilber), Spot (only if he has no spots, which brings to mind other ironic names like Fluffy for a beagle), Dibble, Dobie Gillis (anyone remember him?), Velveeta, Mango Chutney (my ex thought this was a good kid’s name). Qwerty, which I once used as my name on Jdate, so that might be weird.
And then there are words whose sounds I find pleasing, such as Webinar, Koala, Gumbo, Hoi polloi, Ilosone (a cough medicine my daughter used to take; I loved saying, “Ilosone time!”) Ziligengsheng (Mandarin for self-reliance), Ukulele (even though this very word knocked me out of the fourth-grade spelling bee).
I was hanging up Casey’s leash the other day and thought about the name Ken, as in Barbie’s boyfriend. Once Casey and I went to the Bark Ball, costumes required, and I dressed as Malibu Barbie and he went as Malibu Ken, wearing a lei.
And then there’s Mister Personality, which my niece once called Casey, not realizing the extent to which this was one of those ironic names.
Names will continue to pop into my head, because there is a deep track for this in my brain.
By the way, I moved on to cognitive therapy from the psychiatrist, whose name was Fred. Hm, how about Fred for Casey’s successor?
What are your favorite-sounding words? I’d love to try them out for my next dog’s name.
See some of my Home Goes Strong articles:
*Tapas and Crostini Recipes (great meal or appetizers for Superbowl and Valentine’s Day)
*Conversation Starters
*Best Banana Cake Recipe Ever! Chocolate Chips Optional
*Superbowl Party And Potluck Recipes And Ideas
*Thinking About A Valentine Dinner? How About Red, Pink & White . . . & Wine With A Heart?
By susan fishman orlins When I, always the initiator, smile at a stranger and the stranger smiles back, it puts a musical note in my step. Or in my pedal, as was the case on Christmas Eve day.
I was on a long bike ride from New Jersey to Staten Island and, when a driver stopped to allow me to cycle across the street, I smiled.
He smiled back, and when I mouthed “Merry Christmas,” his grin broadened, then he wished me the silent same.
Maybe it was due to the season to be jolly that our connected smiles filled me with an extra dollop of glee.
 The demi-smile Sometimes, upon passing a stranger on the street, I exhibit the demi-smile. If the stranger does not return the greeting, then I’ll appear to have been deep in thought or to have been pressing my lips together as part of a squint on a sunny day.
The demi-smile is also useful on social occasions, as it helps smoothe out upper lip lines, lift the jowls, and minimize Howdy Doody creases that flank the mouth.
When my youngest daughter was in high school, she wrote an essay called “Smiling Stranger,” about how she loves to go jogging and smile at everyone she passes and how it cheers her when they respond in kind.
She, typically of limited memory, recalled a joyful moment more than a decade earlier when she was in the single digits, agewise. We were in Hong Kong, and we passed a bus, and she locked eyes with a passenger on that bus, and they both smiled.
It may seem counterintuitively sunny for a worrywart like yours truly to seek every opportunity to exchange smiles with strangers. But a friendly encounter with someone unknown to me is uncomplicated and distracts me from whatever worry I’m dwelling on, if only temporarily.
I have a fantasy of being like a lady I read about, who made coffee for her burglar and convinced him to mend his ways.
(But not like the woman who turned up in a Google search: “Woman captures Burglar, Makes him a sex slave, Fed him Viagra and water for 3 days, ‘until he learned his lesson.’”)
 About to be sipped Here’s how another friendly fantasy goes: I own my own coffee place and every morning I greet my regulars with a smile. Problem is I stay up late and could never get up that early. So maybe I could just get a job in a coffee place. But I might not want to go every day. Then I always arrive at the same conclusion, that I can just go to a coffee place and sip a cappuccino.
Studies say married people and those with pets live longer. It’s the interaction with other living creatures. A writer spends a lot of solitary time, which pleases me, and I believe that a snoozing hound balled up against my hip, as well as an encounter with one friend or another every day, will extend my life.
And on the days I don’t see a friend, I’m counting on smiling strangers to help me outlive actuarial predictions and get my face on the Smucker’s jelly jar for living into triple digits.
How do you interact with strangers? Are you a smiler? A schmoozer? An avoider?
See my latest Home Goes Strong articles:
TOP 10 WAYS TO WIN AT SCRABBLE AND WORDS WITH FRIENDS
ORGANIZING YOUR AFFAIRS BEFORE YOU DIE: ADVICE FROM A 29-YEAR-OLD ORPHAN
BEST SPAGHETTI SAUCE EVER!
By susan fishman orlins In my post My Year of Blogging, I noted that writing personal essays involves catching yourself in the act of thinking and then exposing and exploring it on the page.
Here’s something I do every single day, and it was not until this morning that I caught it in my consciousness as something to write about.
I have a drawer stacked with undies of assorted stripes, dots and colors. More than once I’ve pondered how it would save time if all my clothes were black and even all the same, so I would never have to decide what to wear from the meager, tattered wardrobe of one who detests shopping.
I have more variety in my undies than I do in my closet, so each day, I have to figure out which underpants to wear. (Full disclosure: this photo is not me.)
When going out, I feel more attractive in black undergarments; other times, I’m after something more upbeat in a pantie.
On a regular day–during which my interaction with life on this planet consists of a game of catch with Casey, which will last for one throw, as he hasn’t yet got the hang of giving back–I give deeper thought to which underpants to wear.
My choice depends on my mood. If I’m afraid of feeling glum, I’ll wear one of my faves, such as the green striped ones my fashion-plate daughter once complimented.
The ones with light gray stripes would also cheer me up without making me feel clownish, the way the ones with little orange and green dots would. What ever possessed me to buy these dotted ones? They looked so cheery on the table at The Gap.
The thing about the light gray striped ones, though, is that I really, really like them, so I avoid them the way I avoid all my favorite things. I wear them mainly when I’m with my kids. They make me happy and they also seem cool; I remember my daughters wearing similar patterns when they were younger.
Then there are the gray underpants. Very sporty. Good for all occasions, except that if my calendar is blank with nothing special to look forward to, I wouldn’t want to wear gray, which could further promote a gray outlook. That said, if I awaken feeling a bit glum, I don’t want happy underwear, nor do I like a sunny day when I’m blue; in both cases, the contrast is too great. Those are the days to wear mood-neutral pale blue.
My writing mentor Phillip Lopate always told me “Think against yourself.” So here goes: What if I were to wear the goofy dotted unders on a dinner date? I’m not expecting to get seduced, but still.
Why do we wear attractive underwear if no one is going to see it?
The question of why I put on earrings during a day when my only plan is a game of catch with Casey is more easily answered. I wear earrings and a dab of makeup every day, because I still have to pass by a mirror and I prefer to not be aghast upon a glimpse of my reflection. I simply feel better if I think I look okay.
Maybe the whole notion of wearing happier underwear is akin to the idea that if you smile, even if you don’t feel smiley, it will help to make you feel more smiley. Or maybe I just cooked that up.
And maybe that’s the point. I cook up a notion and then I live by it and that seems to be a dandy plan.
What quirky things like pondering which underwear to wear do you do, or maybe this isn’t quirky at all? Let me know!
Heartfelt thanks to all who have read my posts in 2011. I wish you happiness and peace in the new year!
See some of my Home Goes Strong articles, which may trigger some New Year’s Resolutions:
By susan fishman orlins 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.
 3 a-door-bell kids When my three daughters were little, however, we commonly referred to Emy as “Emy the P.” You never heard Lizie the P or Beanie the P, even though they too were often P’s.
I had coined the term “P” because I knew from the volumes I’d read about child rearing that you weren’t supposed to label your kids, as in Emy the Pest. So, I introduced the moniker, Emy the P.
Realizing now, of course, that P was indeed a label, I feel really bad about this. The funny thing is that years later a discussion came up in which Eliza said she thought it was spelled Emy the Pea.
That got me thinking about the family glossary and the fact that I never got an explanation from my mom before she died about an expression she had used as far back as I remember: Jolly George.
It went like this: Suppose she accidentally broke a dish. She would say, “Oh, that’s just George, Jolly George”
Wikipedia has a George Jolly, a 17th century impresario, but no Jolly George. And on LinkedIn there are 24 Jolly Georges, but those Georges are not my mom’s Jolly George.
Just as we all have funny names we call our dogs, and our kids for that matter, we have family vocabularies that would make no sense to those outside the family. To help my own kids have a record of the meanings and etymology of our family’s unique language, I’ve compiled a glossary.
So, my a-door-bells, this is for you . . .
What are some expressions in your family glossary? Please comment, the way you did about all the funny names you call your pets!
Unrelated, some of my recent articles on Home Goes Strong:
I’m excited about my brand new Facebook Fan page. Please visit by clicking the button above on the right, and become a fan!
By susan fishman orlins 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 the very
 gaggle of cups on the kitchen counter purpose of writing about it.
The trick is to catch myself either in the act of something quirky or in the act of something everyone does, but no one thinks to talk about, sort of like how we don’t talk about the conversations we have with out dogs.
So here’s what I think is a quirk, but do let me know if you do this too: I save drinking water. Let me explain.
I have these under-the-sink filters that make the Potomac River potable as it comes through my kitchen faucet. I treat this water with the same respect I give my homemade chicken soup.
For one thing, ever since I went four years without realizing I was supposed to change the filters annually—not realizing they were in canisters that were clear plastic, not brown—I try not to tax those filters unnecessarily.
Plus, ever since I got kidney stoned, I drink buckets of water every day, either hot water with lemon or room temp with nothing in it.
So, if I’ve been out with my stainless steel bottle of hot lemon water and now I want to have regular water in that bottle, I pour the remains of the lemon water into a separate cup for later. This routine leads to a gaggle of cups on the kitchen counter.
 Tablescape, Cafe Matisse in Washington, D.C. It’s a similar look to my place setting at restaurants, where I request a half glass of white wine, half glass of red, tap water, fizzy water and sometimes hot water. Oh and a large glass of ice for my white wine.
That’s it for now.
Oh, by the way, do check out my meaty post, Thanksgiving: Moist Turkey, Vegetarian Recipes, Appetizers, Desserts, DIY Centerpieces, Giving Thanks, Entertainment Tips. Just as with my inability to select one color of wine, one flavor of water, I seem unable to narrow down my titles to something pithy.
Do you do hoard water or other things? I’d love to hear about that and other quirks!
By susan fishman orlins 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.
 Committee Meeting  Home Sweet Home [
 Two Medics: A Muslim and a Jew  Family Time . . . This father said he's already collected 1,000 signatures for his petition to join the coastguard and keep his dreadlocks.  "This land is my land, this land is your land . . . " Notice there's a guy with a bass, several drummers too.  A melting pot of old, young, disabled, abled, Asian, Latino, Black, White, children, pets.  I bike home to my pet, Brad Pitt  And enjoy a salade nicoise. Lucky me! (knock wood) 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 live or in the media?
By susan fishman orlins Public Service Announcement: Help my article “Dear Customer Service: Thoughts While on Hold” go viral, so companies get the message! Please tweet, comment on it, share!
 Mom as a little girl at the shvitz w/ her mom, getting beaten with fans 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 selling my cutesy pen and ink and watercolor pictures, the kind homeowners hang in their bathrooms. In order to further cuten up the faceless creations (gag/blush), I signed them Sooze.
This quadruple-split in my moniker causes angst when signing an email; frankly, I’m wiped out by the time I’ve figured out whether to write XO or what.
It would feel preposterous to sign “Susie” in an email to my cousin. She knows I’m now Susan. Yet it’s like she’s referring to someone else when she leaves a voicemail, saying, “Hi Susan, it’s your cousin . . . .”
This has been going on for years with Cuz and it’s too late, not to mention too weird, to say, “Please call me Susie.”
 Sue CHS '63 I’ve trained myself to sign Sue on emails to my Cheltenham High School peeps, with whom I correspond sporadically.
It would simplify matters if I were to sign S on all emails, but I’ve tried and just can’t bring myself to represent myself as a single letter. I’m not knocking anyone who does: lots of friends sign just an initial.
In fact, I don’t know any single-initial signers who use upper case. Are they saving time bypassing the shift button?
I, myself, am guilty of pondering whether typing one space or two after a colon or period takes more time; it requires effort to unlearn typing two spaces. Other time-wasters I seem unable to sidestep include proof-reading casual emails and correcting typos.
If I can’t sign S, there’s no way I could sign s. Do I think so highly of myself that a small s just won’t do? Or, am I so insecure that I need a great big SUSAN to prove how unimportant I am NOT?
I cannot even talk about my email exchanges with Kay, a dear, brilliant, creative woman who has helped me part-time for 15 years, cleaning, paying my bills, dogsitting, catering parties and sharing family stories.
When we first met, she called me Mrs. Orlins, and I didn’t say right away “Call me Susan.” Then it became too late to change.
If it’s impossible to sign Susie, S or s, similarly there is no prospect I could sign Mrs. Orlins when writing to K, so I don’t sign anything.
Unable to call myself anything, reminds me of 1965, when I was unable to call my first set of in laws anything. Back then it was de rigeur to marry and overnight convert the in laws from Mr. and Mrs. Fiance to Mom and Dad.
My niece sends me emails without any name. She starts right in, and I always wonder whether her salutation-less emails mean she’s not sure what to call me.
 Brad Pitt
All that said, I like the friendly sound of nicknames; I call my kids Lizie, Beanie and Emy. And I call my beagle-basset, who’s name is Casey, everything from Casemaster General to Caseminster Fuller to Cary Grant.
Speaking of names, is there a point at which you transitioned from what you called your parents as a kid? Is it infantile that, even in my sixties, when speaking with my siblings, I refer to my parents as Mommy and Daddy?
How do you sign emails? With angst, like me?
XO
Angst
AS MENTIONED ABOVE, VISIT “DEAR CUSTOMER SERVICE: THOUGHTS WHILE ON HOLD” VENT AND SHARE!
CHECK OUT SOME OF MY OTHER EMAIL PONDERANCES:
How do You End an Email Thread?
Worried What You’ll Think
TIS THE SEASON TO TRY THESE AWESOME PUMPKIN SEEDS:
PUMPKIN-CARVING TIPS AND RECIPES FOR ROASTING PUMPKIN SEEDS!
By susan fishman orlins “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 to fall, unable to move?
Every time I take a shower, along comes the imaginary falling scenario: Warm water cascading over me turns icy cold as I lay motionless on the tub’s white porcelain. Casey, my beagle-basset, hears my wails and sprints to rescue me, like the cat I once read about who dialed 911. Or maybe it was a toddler.
 This no-solution thinking scares me, so I switch my ruminations to the day my life-saving, rectangular white pendant in the mail.
I slip it over my head for the first time and, BOING, white curls spring from my scalp.
A few nights ago I had a scare. I was home alone with my pooch Casey, and I heard the front door shut. I immediately phoned my daughter, who lives only a few miles away, so she would be on the line with me when I confronted the burglar.
(Do you ever wonder, the way l do, what you would do if, when you go to check, someone wearing a ski mask is actually there?)
Probably no one had entered.
But just in case, that night I locked the door to my bedroom. I was too scared to check all the rooms in the house.
I imagine the intruder having taken up residence on the third floor, which I still have not checked. I picture him pulling peanut butter sandwiches out of his backpack and sitting cross-legged as he picnics on the bed or al fresco on the roof.
If I’d had a Life Alert, I could have pressed the button and emergency help would have arrived to scare off the burglars.
On the Life Alert Site, a video shows a woman taking a bath when an intruder enters her home.
She hears a sound, presses her Life Alert and reports a break-in to the man who answers. His deep voice then announces over a speaker, “You have been detected. Leave now!” At that, the burglars skedaddle.
In the next video sequence the deep voice wakes the woman, “Sharon,” he says, “We have received a smoke signal coming from your kitchen. Get out now.”
 I love the personal touch. Sometimes on a Sunday it’s too quiet around here. Wouldn’t it be nice to push my button and talk to the nice gray-haired man. He would call me Susan.
They also have a video of helping poor Sharon after she falls off a ladder.
Shouldn’t anyone who lives alone have a medical alert system? Maybe I can order one for each of my kids.
Friends say, “Just keep a cell phone in your pocket.”
I prefer a button to push when someone in a ski mask is pointing a gun at my nose.
Not to mention the cancer risk of carrying a cell phone centimeters away from my ovaries.
I just called Life Alert for my free brochure and already my hair is turning grayer.
Can you think of any good reason not to get the help button?
Take advantage of my research and check out the 411 on how to find Emergency Response Systems for yourself or aging parents, including red flags.
While you’re at it, check out some of my home security articles:
By susan fishman orlins 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 interrupted whatever sameness had existed in my day-to-day life.
The forecast had been known for days, so it was no surprise Friday night when the power went out and the house went dark at ten o’clock.
“We might as well go to sleep,” I said to my kids, Sabrina and Emily, whose older sister Eliza was safely away at college. “I want you girls to stay in my room tonight just in case.”
They knew what I meant, as it was not the first time I had expressed concern about the monster poplar tree outside of Emily’s bedroom. Sabrina arranged a pile of blankets on the floor at the foot of my bed and Emily climbed in next to me, where her father used to sleep before our divorce five years earlier. Casey, our beagle-basset, wedged himself between us.
We fell asleep to the crackling sounds of falling trees that had been going on all evening. At one point I woke up to a loud bang and thought, That must’ve been a big one. Casey and the girls were in sound slumber and I fell right back to sleep.
Within what must have been a minute, I awoke to the siren-like whine of our smoke detector. Too drowsy to fully digest the potential danger, I stumbled into the hallway and saw it was all smoky. Although at some level I was aware the scent of smoke was oddly absent, I  /media-credit]calmly said to the girls, “Get up. We have to leave. There’s a fire.”
Casey got up too and when he arrived at the bottom of the stairs and noticed me reaching for his leash, he did what he always did: he ran in circles around the dining room table with me chasing behind until finally I caught him.
Then, due to a lifetime of having it branded on my brain that when there is a fire, you leave everything and get out, I knew to leave my purse. So it did not occur to me to actually take my purse rather than what I did, which was to spend precious seconds rooting around in it for my cell phone.
I guess my urge to communicate trumped my instinct to save myself from what, for all I knew, was a house in flames.
The moment we ventured outside, I looked to the right and up, where that ancient tree had towered for a century, maybe two; now, only dark sky and a huge yawn of open space glared back. A strange feeling of amputation washed over me. Something that had been such a presence was simply gone.
Don’t get me wrong. I was not sorry to see it go. Two days earlier, knowing the storm was headed our way, I had spent a half hour on the phone with my mom, discussing the anxiety I’d had ever since moving in six years earlier that the tree would fall and, in particular, that it would fall and crash into Emily’s bedroom.
I concluded that, even though I would miss its shade and proud, broad, leafy branches, I would overcome my resistance to paying the price of a small car to end up with less rather than more; I would have the tree cut down the following week. I had written “tree” in my day planner.
Why hadn’t it occur to me to do something about that tree before the most destructive hurricane ever to hit D.C. arrived? Would I really have followed through if the tree had withstood the storm? Aside from the thousands it would have cost, it gave me a grumbly stomach to imagine anyone traveling up that high to take it down.
Fortunately, my friends Lorraine and Joel lived around the corner, and I knew that I could rely on Lorraine, who was always sending emails in the wee hours, to come to the door when I rang.
Given that there was no choice about being out, I did not fret at the level of which I am capable about the dangers of sagging power wires and falling trees as we trudged against the fierce winds.
Rather, there was something enchanting about the debris swirling around us, and the sense we might get lifted up and blown to the Land of Oz, like Dorothy and Toto.
ARE YOU PREPARED IF A TREE HITS YOUR HOME?, my post on Home Goes Strong.
By susan fishman orlins The fawns scamper across my backyard like teenagers off to a pep rally. Despite a few scares–days when I didn’t see the
 Mama Deer emaciated-looking mom in my yard–Mama deer has been here too.
But I’m still concerned about her.
After I wrote “Oh Dear, My Deer” about how worried I was for the little deer family, readers’ comments rivaled the debt ceiling negotiations in their diverse perspectives.
On my Facebook wall, one friend wrote “I am so DISTRESSED” and went on to say she hoped I’d been serving milk and cookies to the deer (or something like that; I spent 20 minutes searching for her exact comment.)
By contrast, my friend Jane wrote on my blog:
I can’t believe I’m trying to find ways to keep deer away from my hydrangeas (just bought coyote urine) and my brother never wears short sleeves or short pants because he worries so much about deer ticks and you are encouraging them so close to your house. Deer bring nothing good. Get rid of them! Soon!
Another comment, from my friend Lise, confused me at first: “What is the deer-equivalent of matzoh ball soup?” I thought oh, she wants me to make deer soup. Ew.
But now I realize she was suggesting I make deer-friendly matzoh ball soup to help plump up the malnourished-looking mother deer.
I did not make soup, but I did place in the yard a pan filled with water.
Even though I haven’t seen my dears today, I phoned The Second Chance Wildlife Center, believing that nearly a month is long enough for the deer to be in residence at my residence.
Happily, David Stang answered my call and I couldn’t wait to share the 411 with you!
David first tip is is no such species as deer ticks and in fact, the most common way to get ticks is from mice. I don’t like cats, but I like ticks even less. Is it time to get a kitten?
Also, if you want to keep the deer from eating your azaleas, try feeding them deer chow, which they may like better. Just buy a bag for $10 and scatter it on your lawn.
David had great news for Casey, who has been banned from even the front yard, because it has deer droppings that he likes to eat. Deer droppings, according to David won’t hurt him. “It’s like putting some hay in the blender,” he said.
Severa; deer wizards have advised me to leave the yard gate open so the deer will leave. I asked David what he thought about leaving the gate open. He replied, better to keep it closed; they can jump the fence if they want and the closed-in yard will protect them from dogs (and I’m thinking coyotes).
David noted he would be pleased if a deer family like mine were to settle in his yard.
 one of the teen twins; blurry I know--I have a tremor So I can sit back and enjoy my deer, though now I’m worried they’re off to greener pastures, as I haven’t seen them all day 
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: SEE MY FAVE HEALTHY RECIPES
By susan fishman orlins  [- Oh deer, my dear 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, they were walking.
The following day I looked for them but they were gone, which would have required them to leap over my picket fence.
Again this year I have a mom and 2 baby deer in my yard. The difference is that they have been here for more than 2 weeks. And now, I’m worried.
Each day the mother deer, though she grazes on my weeds, looks more and more bony. Her ribs are showing, the area around her hips is sumken and her face is gaunt, as though she has been starved in a concentration camp.
The spotted babies look so huggable and sometimes I talk to them in a high voice, the way I say to Casey, “Who’s such a goody-good boy?”
“Who are such goody-good deer?” I repeat a few times and, honestly, I perceive that they wag their little white Bambi tails.
 "Goody-good deer" I’m worried if I phone animal control that a big man will come and take the mom away, separating her from her babies, and that would be worse than anything.
I realize the deer ticks must be having a carnival back there, but I’m not too worried about that. Casey, who used to run in the backyard, has lost privileges because he rolls around in the deer droppings and eats things too gross to mention. Also he once got loose and chased a deer.
I’m afraid Mother deer will die in my yard. If Mama isn’t sick, why are they still here?
And I guess if she dies I’ll call animal control to cart her away. But as I write this I’m beginning to worry about disease and how I will know if she died; there is a considerable growth of weeds in which to hide and then die and decompose.
Just as I am about to publish this, my daughter (who is home for a few weeks before setting off to grad school) tells me she woke up to something that sounded like the wail of an animal dying. Is she imagining things based on my anxiety?
Will a deer carcass attract rats?
So far today, I have seen only the toddler deer.
I welcome your thoughts and suggestions.
SEE MY LATEST POST on Home Goes Strong: Easy Summer Dishes and Sides
By susan fishman orlins Rather than calling them conversations with my dog, I might more accurately label them monoversations or nonversations.
 Casey, just awakened with the prospect of a game 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 for him, his ears flap forward. The rest of him remains motionless.
He knows I will then say, “Come on, come to the office!”
And still he remains still.
Then I say, “Come for a treat!” and the only thing he’ll do is raise his eyebrows over his black marble eyes that are pasted to me at all times.
This is part of the game where I say, “No? Okay (in a tone of you’ll be sorry).” Then, a second after I turn my back, he ambles toward me and I toss him a treat.
“Good language, good language,” I tell him.
He roots around all over the place to find the treat, with his tail wagging as furiously as windshield wipers in a downpour. Then, the second he finds it his tail drops. To boost his self-esteem, I tell him. “Good game, good game!”
My praise always seems to come out in pairs, as in “Good no bark, good no bark” on those rare days he comes down to the kitchen, spinning in circles in anticipation of breakfast, without barking.
(Scatological alert coming up) So today I was walking Casey and, as I often do, I plugged in my earphones and made a phone call. My call went into the voice mail of the leasing agent I was phoning on behalf of my daughter.
After I left my message, I bent over to clean up after Casey and, as I have done twice a day for the past 12 years, I told him, “Good poop, good poop.”
For no apparent reason, I kept at it, “My Poopie is such a good pooper, yes he is” and I continued rambling on with this kind of thing you would say only in front of your dog.
Then, with my earpiece still in my ears, I looked down at my phone and noticed I hadn’t ended my voice message.
So far I haven’t heard back from the leasing agent.
What are some monversations you have with your pets?
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See my recent articles . . .
By susan fishman orlins Sometimes I walk down the street and look around to see if there is a guy I’d like to have as a livealong and I almost never see one who sings to me.
I like that my life offers freedom to do exactly as I please, whenever I please, get up when I like, go to sleep when I like.
As for a sleeping companion, I’ve previously written that ”I stopped caring whether someone with hairy legs was sharing my bed. In fact, sharing my bed with my hairy beagle, Casey, is as pleasurable in it’s own way and in other ways a lot less bother. For example, I can blow my nose loudly in the night and Casey barely raises an eyebrow.”
Of all the things I worry about, finding a mate is not one of them unless you count the worry that I will meet someone I like. Then what?
Sometimes I ruminate about a week in the life of me and my imagined live-along.
My friend Marian’s experience bolsters this notion that I am better off living as a singleton.
Marian divorced, downsized, dated Jay for 2 years, and then Jay got cancer and died.
Read about Marian’s journey “Divorce, Downsizing, Dating & Death” on Home Goes Strong.
I’d love you to visit the Site and share your thoughts and/or advice in the comments box.
By susan fishman orlins
Passover chicken with potatoes, shallots and rosemary ready for the oven
An eclectic group, this year’s seder in my daughter’s Beijing apartment included non-Jewish participants from Ireland, Argentina, England and Massachusetts as well as my Chinese-American Jewish daughter, her father (my ex, also Jewish) and me.
What at home would have cost $50 for fruits and vegetables, cost less than $5 at an outdoor market. What at home would have cost $50 for chicken, horseradish, nuts, herbs, flourless chocolate cake ingredients and more, cost over $100 at a shop in Beijing called April Gourmet.
With the matzoh meal I had brought from home, I made my best matzoh ball soup ever, maybe because I gave up trying to skim the fat. On my daugher’s 2-burner stove in a kitchen with literally no counter space, we chopped, baked and roasted all afternoon.
Over raw veggies (washed well) and hummus, we discussed seders past. I realized I’ve spent 5% of my Passovers in China. When we were ready to begin the seder, I spread the crisp white tablecloth I’d borrowed from my hotel on the wooden table that usually held my daughter’s aquarium, now in the bathtub.
My daughter, sitting on her night table in her small living quarters with limited seating, led the seder during which we passed around the one haggadah I’d brought from home. We dipped our pinkies into cabernet sauvignon ten times for the ten plagues, while my ex translated the plagues into Mandarin on his Blackberry.
On the whole perhaps not much different from the seder my friends were having at my home in DC, where they are staying with my beagle Casey, who no doubt was lurking under the dining room table in search of falling charoset crumbs.
In the spirit of the season, I have posted a slideshow of awesome Easter eggs and ideas for dying, decorating and displaying them.
What were the highlights of your seder if you attended one?
By susan fishman orlins Are the doors locked? Am I on the right train? Is there spinach in my teeth? 
There’s spinach in your teeth; but isn’t it too late, too awkward to tell you now that we’ve been talking for 20 minutes?
Have I re-read the email I wrote enough times to hit “send?” Should I send it to myself first and double check it later?
Did I remember to put water on my night table? What if I’m in captivity and can’t have water by my bed? Do I need to break the habit now? How?
And if I am captured, how will I distract and occupy my mind? Should I memorize a list of things to think about, now while I still can, to keep me from going crazy in such a case?
What if I fall getting out of the bathtub and can’t get up? Should I get one of those necklaces with a button to summon help, like my 92-year-old mom wears? With that button around my neck, is it worth feeling old in order to feel safe?
What if Casey dog needs an operation to save his life? How much would I spend? What’s the cutoff?
What if I get a boyfriend and soon after he gets a terminal illness? Would I have the patience to sit with him in doctors’ windowless waiting rooms?
What if I get a terminal illness (knock wood or whatever)? Will I have the patience to sit in windowless waiting rooms? (NO)
Will I be as afraid of something bad happening if I take my (as yet unborn) grandchildren outdoors as I was to take my daughter’s Yorkie for a walk when I was his sole caregiver for a week, so I didn’t?
Ought I never again experience the joy of a plump raw oyster in case I get a bad one?
Do you know that for each worry I write, I have a dozen more? And that I’m afraid if I write them they’ll come true?
What if I run out of worries to write about? Is that even possible?
Possible or not, it worries me.
POST-POSTING RUMINATIONS: Is this post good enough? Too long? Too boring? I’ll make some phrases bold. Do the bold phrases help? Or distract? Will faithful readers ditch me? This is my 33rd update of this post. What does that tell me?
What are your what if’s?
COMING SOON ON CONFESSIONS OF A WORRYWART: STARTER MARRIAGE, THE MINI-SERIES
Unrelated announcement, see my new articles:
PAELLA: MY ALL TIME FAVORITE ONE-DISH RECIPE WITH VEGAN OPTION
11 EASY WAYS TO REMEMBER PRACTICALLY EVERYTHING
By susan fishman orlins Each time Casey and I come home from a walk, he barks for a treat. And each time I throw a kibble in the air for him to catch. He never does. After he roots around in the wrong direction, I telll him when he’s getting warmer and finally he finds it. Then I always say, “Wow, good job, good job!!”
 Casey all ready for his walk in the rain This reminds me of the time my oldest daughter, maybe 5 years old or so, accused me of deceit because I raved about every mark she ever put to paper.
Today it occurs to me that maybe, given all the praise I shower on Casey in order to boost his self esteem, he thinks he’s supposed to miss the little brown kibble when I throw it. And then he thinks he’s supposed pretend to look around, puzzled, heightening the excitement for me, even though all the while he knows it’s under the hall table.
You can read about Casey’s nicknames, whether he’s bored, mayhem with a squirrel in the house and more.
Also check out my slide show, Elizabeth Taylor Family Photo Album, Rarely Seen Domestic Scenes.
I’d love to know other games to play with Casey (fetch is not in his vocabulary) . . . suggestions anyone?
By susan fishman orlins Unrelated announcement: How Couples Resolve the Thermostat Wars & Other Domestic Battles
Sometimes I think my memories are based solely on photographs. My kids won’t forget anything the way they record themselves every time they change clothes, then post and tag the results on Facebook. Come to think of it, I’m not in a high percentage of those photos, so how much in the way of our times together will they recall when they’re my age?
 - chillin’
That raises the whole question of making memories. Unlike my kids who would like to vacation in St. Lucia, I prefer to be home, all of us hanging out, doing jigsaw puzzles, playing Boggle, cooking and watching movies, biking, walking the dog, reading or just chillin’.
Will it all blur into one moment of time for my daughters when they tell their grandkids what times with Ma were like?
Recently I went through photographs from my trip to Europe at age 23. I remember the faces of those kids I hung out with on the Costa Brava so clearly, but not their names, nor their nationalities. I think we sat around a lot, but that’s probably because it’s what my Kodak film captured.
That was July, 1969 when the first men had landed on the moon. I do recall one undocumented moment from that summer. I awoke in my pensione room and heard voices outside my door exclaim, “There are people on the moon!” And I thought, “Wow, Americans landed on the moon and found people up there!”
Not documenting may pose a problem for me, but documenting can be a greater problem. How do I organize all my journals and snapshots I’ve generated? I still haven’t put photos in the album I bought 20 years ago for the pictures from my marriage 31 years ago to a man I divorced 12 years ago.
Though digital pictures take up less space than snapshots, every time I go to press the button on my digital camera, I hesitate, thinking here’s one more photo to go in with the organizational mess of thousands.
So to document or not to document? Either way, it’s stressful. But then again, either way there’s some relief!
How important is documenting your life to you, how do you do it and how on earth do you organize it?
Here’s are links to related posts: ORGANIZING MY LIFE PART I, THE JOURNAL and PHOTOPHOBIA.
By susan fishman orlins
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See article 7 Easy, Delicious Aphrodisiac Recipes.
A variety of search terms leads Googlers to my blog, some weirder than others. My voyeuristic pleasure from reading a daily list of these terms is infused with a measure of guilt.
Generally, we Google in the privacy of a bubble that envelops only ourselves and our computer screens. No one, except a snoopy or untrusting lover or someone sitting next to you on the Acela, is likely to see what you look up.
Even when I read a search term that is not kinky, like the recent “bungee in chicken suit,” I feel like I’m invading someone’s personal zone. Did the searcher get to the part of my post “Photophobia” that meandered to all that can go wrong when you bungee jump?
 In the history of Google, I wondered whether anyone else had ever put those four words together. A search yielded 28,100 results, including a 7-minute youtube video of a fellow named Tom, bungee jumping in, duh, a chicken suit.
Sometimes there’s a pattern. For instance, ever since I posted “The SNL Hug, What Up With That?” Sundays arrive with variations of “what’s with the weird snl hug?”
I thought I was original to come up with a post wondering how does an atheist pray. Yet searches turn up all the time, phrases like “atheist misses praying,” “can an atheist pray,” and “prayer is totally useless.”
The search “jewish dog names” proved I’m not the only one who had something to say about that. Actually it was my father who gave Casey the Jewish name, Chaim. I added Goodman for when he is good. (This week, though, he is Bad Branman after eating nearly a whole box of shredded wheat with bran.)
In one post, I referred to a picture taped beside my teen bed of Ricky Nelson in a cowboy suit with a bulge in his crotch. So I’ve gotten a lot of “bulge” hits. “Greg Kinnear bulge” was the first one; I thought it meant he’d gained weight. Other bulge-searchers have sought “cowboy bulge,” “daddy suits men crotch bulge,”and indeed “ricky nelson bulge.” Who are these people?
Confessions of a Lowbrow brought visitors looking for “lowbrow poetry” and ”monica lewinsky confession,” since I had written that I understood how a young girl would hold onto a blue dress with the President’s cum stain.
And on Valentine’s Day it was only natural to have someone search “please do not touch stroke lick or mount.”
Here are some likelier terms that linked Googlers to Confessions of a Worrywart:
What are some of your best search stories and/or search tips?
By susan fishman orlins Riddle: Every family has them, what are they?
Answer: Nicknames that are too embarrassing to expose outside the home.
 Casemaster General After coffee with friends, I return home, open my front door and call to my bassety beagle Casey, “Casemaster General, where are you?”
To say he’s non-responsive overstates his activity level.
So again I call, “Caaay! Caseman! Whatcha up to?” Suddenly realizing the open-door opportunity, he brushes by to pee in the front yard. Just then it pops into my mind, Would it be too embarrassing to explore on my blog all the names I use to address my best friend? (Just how far would I go to embarrass myself?)
My father, who called me “Poodlebug” when I was a kid, thought Casey should have a Jewish name and dubbed him “Chaim.” I embellished it and, only when he’s especially good, I call him “Chaim Goodman.” Other times, he gets nicknamed after the food group he’s broken into.
So he responds to “Pretzelman” and “Nutman” as well as the current “Teaman,” after he unloaded an open shelf of teas, scattering all over the place the leaves he didn’t feel like eating. I now have to store the salvaged tea in the dishwasher.
“Caseminster Fuller” is a derivative of Casemaster General. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Yes, I think it follows this progression: Buckminster Fuller>Caseminster Fuller>Casemaster General.
With sagging jowls, sorrowful eyes, shiny as big black marbles, and ample folds in his neck, he looks as much like a Chester or Chesterton as a Buckminster Fuller, but the Chester monikers never stuck.
“Basset Case” is one that has stuck, its origins a Hallmark card my daughter sent that features a basset hound below the words, “Without you . . .,” and inside, “I’m a basset case.”
Speaking of dog names, when I was in my twenties and getting ready to move to Vermont, I told my boyfriend (the one who was moving to NY and didn’t invite me to join him) I wanted to get a hound dog and name him Alan. Sometimes before going to sleep, I would  practice calling, “Alan, get in here for lunch!” and we’d dissolve into giggles.
For years I wanted to name my next dog Audrey Hepburn. But then I had to deep-six the idea after Charlotte on “Sex and the City” named her Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Elizabeth Taylor. Otherwise, people would think I copycatted. Hm, that would have embarrassed me.
Most often I call Casey “Caseman” or just “Son.” The other name I call him most often is “Cutie,” conincidentally the nickname my ex chose for me, except he shortened it to “Q,” a nickname for my nickname.
Back to How far would I go to embarrass myself? I was hoping the pup names would embarrass me, but they don’t.
Even though I don’t embarrass easily, I easily embarrass others. Just ask my kids. Or my friend Jackie, who was embarrassed to be seen with me the time we were both in Paris because my only footwear was New Balance running shoes.
I submit it would have been a lot more embarrassing if, trying to look French, I’d worn a beret.
Unrequited handshakes, especially with Orthodox rabbis, awkward but not embarrassing.
The friendliest girl in the ninth grade at Thomas Williams Jr. High in 1960 passes another biker on an isolated path, and squeals “Hi!!” but the biker doesn’t respond. Disappointing, but not embarrassing.
Embarrassment for others, does that count? Like watching a comedian and no one laughs; I get so embarrassed for the performer I could plotz.
At a reception, I once saw a woman who wasn’t even drunk fall onto a buffet table and topple it. Embarrassing, unless you didn’t like the person; then it’s just schadenfreude.
There was the day I biked 26 miles in China and my bell didn’t work. I bellowed “ling ling” all over Beijing, biking on the sidewalk as I do. Maybe I figured “ling ling” sounded more Chinese than “beep beep.” Indeed, the following night at dinner, my Chinese friend told me ‘’ling ling’’ means vagina. Amusing, but not embarrassing.
Oh, I just got one, proving that if you keep writing, ideas come (or if you Google “things that embarrass people” ideas come). In first grade I was too embarrassed to ask Mrs. Salkind if I could use the lavatory and I peed in my pants. Then I put my head down on my desk and cried into my folded arms.
What embarrasses you? What are your funny or embarrassing family nicknames?
Unrelated announcement/Foodie Alert: See my recent post 12 QUICK, EASY RECIPES FOR DELICIOUS, HEALTHFUL VEGETABLE DISHES.
By susan fishman orlins Unrelated announcement: See my latest article “Inside Top Designer’s Home, Cool Ideas for Comfort and Style.”
At times it’s a challenge to dream up worries to write about. For one thing, my busy blogging schedule helps keep my usual disaster scenarios at bay. For instance, I haven’t worried about bedbugs since yesterday.
Other times I get excited about three ideas at once and can’t settle into writing one so I end up with none.
Not only that. I’ve been working on a piece called “Embarrassment Shmembarrassment” about the nicknames I call my hound Casey, but I’m worried it’s neither embarrassing enough nor worrisome.
I just read a New York Times headline that says, “Blogs Wane as the Young Drift to Sites Like Twitter.” Thank goodness it gives me something to worry about. Do I put it on my list of worry topics or dive in and risk another start-stop?
 Tiger or Tadpole? (circa 2002)
In addition to the Embarrassment post, I’ve recently started and stopped “The Retirement Home” and “Am I a Tiger Mom or a Tadpole Mom?”
I get stuck, questioning whether I give the reader enough meat along with my narcissistic meanderings. I had to scratch Tiger Mom altogether after my oldest daughter told me “Everyone’s writing about being an Animal Mom, Mom.”
Self-doubt crept in. I assumed other writers would do it better; readers would think it a banal way to explore my mothering foibles.
It’s even hard to ponder a question without being disingenuous, because there’s nothing you can’t Google. Like, I could worry about how to deal with my inability to pick up a book and remember what happened where I left off.
But I just Googled that very question for an article on memory, and I learned among other things I should go back and read the first sentence of several preceding paragraphs.
I want to do my part to keep the Young from Drifting to Sites Like Twitter. But I’m either devoid of ideas, or I have trouble keeping my mind on just one idea from my worry list. Frankly, I’m worried.
What’s a blogger to do to hold your attention aside from posting 140 characters on Twitter?
By susan fishman orlins Unrelated announcement: See my latest Home Goes Strong article, LOOKING FOR A WARM COMFORT FOOD MEAL? WARM RECIPES FOR CHILLY NIGHTS.
Like me, does everyone become as frozen as Michelangelo’s David whenever they think of all their photographs fading in plastic bags, on sticky non-archival album pages, and loose in various boxes, chests and drawers? Not to mention all those out-of-control digital photographs?
Recently I wrote a series of three articles for Home Goes Strong in which I encouraged readers to Take My Organizing Challenge, taking an hour each day for 5 days organizing this and that.
I gave dozens of organizing tips and I too took the Challenge. It now takes me only half as long to find a pair of socks.
The most rewarding part came when I returned a call to my daughter.
“Where are you?” I asked.
“Home,” she answered.
“What are you doing home?” I asked. “You’re never home on a Saturday.”
“I’m taking The Organizing Challenge!” she exclaimed. Later that day she texted me a photo of her miraculously empty-ish desktop.
[  [ Lizie's desk I’m always rooting around for ideas for my Home Goes Strong column. While rooting around unsuccessfully for a picture of Casey, I decided to lauch my Photo Organizing Challenge.
My Photophobia (*dictionary meaning, I just learned, is extreme sensitivity to light) has become so intense that I hesitate each time I’m about to capture an image, knowing it will add to the digital heap. My prayer is that the Challenge will help get my photos in order; plus, I’ll end up with another series of articles. A two-fer.
Photos pose a much greater challenge than drawers and random piles of mail. I just timed myself at my expected speed of going through photos, not allowing extra minutes for reminiscing or decision-making.
Twelve photos took 30 seconds, which translates into my 3,000 pictures taking 20.83 1/3 hours, if I don’t dilly dally.
The thought of jumping from prints into my thousands of digital photos is so scary I might as well be attached to a bungee cord, jumping off Zimbabwe’s Victoria Falls Bridge.
Okay I didn’t mean to learn about all that can go wrong if you bungee jump, but I was looking on Wikipedia to find the above example and became morbidly curious about the risks:
- Harness fails.
- Elasticity is miscalculated and you suffer a fatal bump to the head.
- Cord not properly connected to the jump platform.
- Upper body intravascular pressure can lead to eyesight damage, the most common result.
- Whiplash.
- Broken neck.
- Stroke from getting tangled up in the cord.
- Increased stress (duh).
- Decreased immune function.
All these incidents involved young, healthy adults in their twenties and thirties.
Oh dear, I try not to be morbid. However, I have a number of readers in their twenties and thirties, and in my role of universal mother I aim to dissuade some or even one from ever taking the bungee plunge.
On the other hand, adrenaline junkies may be all the more inspired.
Have I ever told you how, after seeing the Imax film “Adrenaline Rush,” I realized so many of our choices are motivated by our personal level of adrenaline craving?
Oh my, I’ve strayed from Photophobia. But isn’t that what a phobic is supposed to do?
That said, I’m dying to get any and all advice on how to organize my photos, print and/or digital, including time-saving shortcuts.
By susan fishman orlins 
Semi-related announcement: Divorce, Downsizing, Dating & Death . . . One Woman’s Story If you read the article, I’d love to hear your thoughts and advice in comments there.
The quest for happiness is popping up everywhere these days: in books, college courses, blogs and on Oprah. In the same way my oldest daughter, when she was little, shared her life with invisible companions Sibby and Babby, Worry and Quest for Happiness accompany me wherever I go.
Like sibling rivals, they argue constantly, vying for my attention. Happiness tells Worry, “If you’d vamoose, I could have her all to myself.”
“With all the bad things she thinks up, she needs me,” retorts Worry. ”So I’m not about to skedaddle anytime soon.”
Okay guys, quit quarreling, you’re both right. Worry, it’s true you get in Happy’s way, yet I do feel safer knowing you’re there to dwell with me when scary thoughts sprout.
 Nonetheless, I’m realistic enough to know that Worry can’t control everything on my list: world peace, my daughters’ safety, polar bears, homelessness, the budget deficit, sneezing while driving, driving, the Supreme Court, decapitation by ceiling fan, for instance.
Even though Worry follows me wherever I go, I have experienced happiness peaks: being a stockbroker in the
 Seventies alongside guys who made every day feel like a party, living in China back when the whole place looked like a black and white movie, raising kids, campaigning for my ex’s Congressional race, for instance.
Then along came my divorce to prove I was not immune to big setbacks. I spent a year writing nothing except lengthy faxes to my lawyer. Yet I continued to enjoy happiness pockets (funny how “pockets” showed up here compared to “peaks” above), like snuggling on the couch watching “Gilmore Girls” with my girls. And having romances with a smattering of Mr. Wrongs.
Among other joys reaped after my marriage ended, I count friendships I never would have had time to cultivate had I remained married. And having time to write, despite it’s solitary nature, gives me the pleasure of engaging with strangers.
But am I happy enough? Dan Buettner, author of Thrive: Finding Happiness the Blue Zones Way, told Oprah that the happiest people get 8 hours of social interaction a day. Can I amortize all the social interaction from the first half of my life? Does watching Oprah count?
 Last week someone said to me, “If you say you’re happy people just get jealous.”
It’s true. Recently I had to stop following a well-known author on Twitter, because she was always off to do this reading or that book talk and constantly tweeting about the hilarious fun she was having with her micro pigs.
Not that I begrudge anyone else their successes or their pets, nor would I want to stand in anyone’s knock-off Uggs except my own, but still it’s more comforting to pretend nobody’s having a better time than I am.
After finding myself single again, I began searching for Susan Fishman, my free spirited twenty-something self, who did things like crash the star-studded opening of the Barbra Streisand film “Funny Lady” at the Kennedy Center. How different we are/were. She played Scrabble for fun; I make a recording of all ninety-six two-letter words as well as u-less q words and vowel dumps, like qwerty and looie, to memorize during long walks.
I’m a smidge embarrassed to admit it wasn’t until recently that I accepted the idea of what made me happy in the 60’s and 70’s is not what makes me happy now. The last thing I want to do is don a long skirt, and sneak in somewhere (or even pay) to gawk at and be ignored by glitterati.
 My ideal day now consists of putting on elastic waist pants and writing, biking, watching Oprah on Tivo while I broil a pork chop. And watching a Larry David rerun while I take a hot bath. All with Casey by my side.
In 1989, “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” won a Grammy for Song of the Year. For me, it’s not one or the other; both Worry and Happy follow me like ducklings imprinting on their Mama Duck.
But is it a sign of age when Content in Mom Jeans has become the new Happy in a Long Skirt?
How do you measure your happiness?
By susan fishman orlins PART I: HOW ANNOYING AM I TO MY DAUGHTERS?
Repeating myself
“Mom, you’ve told me that ten times!”
Asking too many questions
Just after exchanging I love you’s and mwah’s at the end of a phone convo, suddenly a string of questions spills out of my mouth like bubbles from a wand.
“What are you up to later?”
“Did you get your exam back yet?”
“By the way, is so-and-so doing better?”
You get the idea.
Focusing on unimportant details
Even though I’m a writer, my daughters often forsake my advice on something they are writing, rather than having to put up with my nit-picks.
Going off on tangents rather than adhering to linear discourse
My friend Evelyn exhibits the best example of annoyance with my tangents, “So what happened?” she’ll say. Then I’ll say, “blahblahtangentblahblah” and she’ll say, “But what happened?” This goes on for a while until finally she begs, “Can you get to the point?”
Being too much of a problem solver
The time I bought phyllo dough (wrong in the first place, hadn’t known it was different from puff pastry), I hadn’t thought to defrost it, and now my daughter needed it to make onion tarts and it would take hours to defrost. So I jumped on the internet and began trying solutions like hot water and the microwave and my own idea of wrapping it up and placing it underneath our sleeping beagle.
Posing too many options
 “What should we do now? We can bike or play Boggle. Or play Boggle then bike or bike then play Boggle.” Now, mix bike and Boggle with all the permutations of the other options, like watch a movie, do a jigsaw puzzle, walk the dog in the woods, have quiet time reading by the fire, paint by number, cook, bake, mani pedi, go to the Shanghainese café . . .
Talking too much about my writing & giving too much advice
Since I write around 4 articles a week, some that offer advice, nearly everything relates to something I’ve written. I try to hold back on my Know-It-All, but still I’m annoying.
Exhibiting neediness
Say my daughter is coming home to DC because an old friend will be also coming to town. She plans to stay overnight. I point out that it’s a weekend, never intending to pressure her, but just in case she hadn’t noticed and might want to stay longer. Exhibiting neediness and annoying.
Asking, “Am I being too annoying?”
Just recently I was in a high-end pizza place with one of my daughters. I asked the waiter where my salad was. He said I hadn’t ordered it, which was true, as I’d gotten over-involved in the details of my pizza order (tomatoes on the side, undercooked, etc.).
I happily said he could bring it any time it’s ready. Somewhere in here it seemed he was upset with me, so I tried to be uber-friendly and my daughter told me he was laughing at me not with me. And then I wanted to say something to fix it and she told me to “just stop.” Ordinarily I would ask her if I was too annoying, but it was so obvious.
Worrying
Maybe I’ve told you this before (annoying), but one daughter has asked me not to hug her every time she leaves the house like I’ll never see her again.
Absent-mindedness
When was the last time I didn’t have to make a trip from the checkout line to the car for the reusable grocery bags? Never.
Bedbug talk
Now that I’ve instilled the fear of the Lord re these dreaded insects, I’ve been banned from mentioning them. But sometimes it’s imperative to point out a new risk, such as after I read they could be hiding in the battery compartment of the TV remote control.
However . . .
In defense of my ways, whenever it’s possible to self-correct, I do. After asking my daughter if the cool guy she met at a party ever called and she said I was annoying and that she was never going to tell me about anyone again, I never asked about anyone again, except maybe once, and so she resumed telling me about this guy and that guy.
My Optimist presumes I have some good qualities to offset my annoyingness because, despite how irksome I can be, my daughters remain loving and close.
Do let me know in what ways you are annoying . . . chances are it’s something I’ve overlooked mentioning about myself.
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See my recent Home Goes Strong article: COVER ALL YOUR HOME MAINTENANCE, REPAIRS & WARRANTIES WITH 1 PHONE CALL, 1 FEE
By susan fishman orlins 
Unrelated announcement: See my daughter’s amazing appetizer recipes in my article: 7 EASY ELEGANT CROWD-PLEASING APPETIZERS.
When I was a kid, I thought if only I could wear a suit of armour, I’d be safe from predators. Then, when I learned about conductivity, I gave up the idea, realizing I’d have a disaster on my hands in the event of fire.
At night, I would fall asleep clinging to my mattress, so that a kidnapper would have to drag both me and my bed out of the house.
These days I’m looking for a metaphorical suit of armour. Maybe the right kind of canine. Research shows dogs can detect various stages of cancer on a person’s breath. And beagles can be trained to sniff out bedbugs.
I’ve heard that cows sit down when it’s about to rain. I bet dogs could be trained to forecast earthquakes and tsunamis.
I love Casey, my hound dog, dearly but I’m amazed how a beagle-y guy like him can have no sense of smell. After I began worrying about him being bored, we started playing this game in which I show him a kibble as though I’m putting it under one pillow and then I sneak it under a nearby pillow, and he never finds it without a hint, but he wags his tail and I tell him he won the game anyhow.
 The same thing happens when I drop a kibble on the wooden floor, whose color blends in with the treat. Casey will sniff an eighth of an inch away from his prize and then veer off toward California.
In his defense, he roars a terrible roar when anyone comes near the house. So, this, along with a good burglar alarm, makes me feel secure vis a vis burglars, which is not how I felt at age ten walked I walked into the front office of my father’s textile factory during an armed robbery.
For years I have been worrying about what it will be like when Casey dies. (I’m always thinking ahead; for a worrywart, the here and now is overrated.) And even before then, how will I manage when he’s no longer able to mount the stairs to the bedroom at the exact moment that my back is no longer strong enough to carry him? My plan is to put a bed for us in the family room the way I did when I had hip surgery.
I adore Casey with every vessel of my heart and cherish every second with him, but a subset of the wondering has to do with what kind of dog I’ll get next.
What if the next hound doesn’t want to go to sleep at 2:00 a.m. and awaken at 10? Or if he doesn’t smell delicious to me, just like Casey and my high school boyfriend, whose neck smelled like a freshly starched shirt, even when he was wearing, say, only a t-shirt? What if my pup nags to play fetch all day long? Casey thinks fetch means watch Mommy throw the ball and yell “Fetch!”
If my next dog can smell cancer in the early stages and detect bedbugs, I’ll overlook predicting the weather. And if he’s light enough for me to pick him up as we grow old together, that alone will be just fine.
I worry that writing about this will jinx Casey. I just heard about dogs living till they’re 20 and he’s only 12. But if I pursue this line of jinxing thinking, I’ll be left with nothing to write about on my blog.
What kind of dog would you suggest for a worrywart like me?
By susan fishman orlins Unrelated announcement: Check out my recent post on Home Goes Strong: 12 Unique & Jazzy Gifts For Everyone on Your List.
Call me a curmudgeon, but so many things about restaurants irk me.
Noise. I’m not likely to even patronize an esablishment that vibrates with double-digit decibels. Okay, the alliterative appeal forced me to exaggerate. Since 10 decibels=breathing, 15=rustling leaves, 20=whispers and mosquitoes, I could cope with up to 45 decibels, the sound level of someone whispering among buzzing mosquitoes and rustling leaves while breathing.
Food. The chef never gets just how little salt I desire in my soup and how much dressing on my salad. Additionally, I have a bias in favor of food that looks like food, rather than a stub of meat perched on a petit garden on a grand white plate with brown drizzle drops here and there.
Service. Except for tap water, when my glass is nearly empty, I prefer to do my own pouring, which I generally need to explain to one waiter and two different buspersons.
Also, I wish waiters would assume everything is fine, unless a diner waves. (Or, if you are in China, until someone shouts really loud fuwuyuan, which means serviceperson.)
During my twenties, I waited tables at a little bistro in D.C. I thought it was good service to keep asking if everything was okay. The man of one particular couple, clearly having an illicit affair, finally yelled at me to leave them alone. Nonetheless, I lack all measure of empathy for today’s overbearing waiters.
Tied with unsolicited pouring is wisking away a plate the second the last forkful goes into the eater’s mouth. Sometimes I keep my fork poised, hoping no one will interrupt my conversation to ask if I’m finished.
Germs. If I didn’t put the germ issue right out of my mind, I would go right out of my mind. What goes through your head when a restaurant’s restroom has no soap?
Me. The germ risk forces me to consider my own role in the whole unpleasant experience of dining out, because I am likely to be more annoying to the waiter than he/she is to me and we all know this can lead to someone spitting in your soup or peeing on your cucmber salad (for details see my post “6 Things I’m Less Worried About Than Other Things.)”
The hassle of being my waiter includes the huge glass of ice I require, all of which I dump into my white wine, which I’ve selected after sipping two different samples, and if I don’t like either, to my credit, I order a a third without a trial. At home I enjoy wine without all the guesswork and risk.
Furthermore, when eating seafood, I require a bushel of lemons.
I’m always impressed when, say, Mr. Wrong tells the waiter, “I’ll have a glass of pinot grigio, Caesar salad and steak medium rare,” his whole meal ordered with six fewer words than I require to explain, “I’d like my steak cooked between rare and medium rare, but a bit more on the rare side, please.”
I know what you’re thinking, How irritating and spoiled she is. I’m glad I never have to go to dinner with her . . . unless you are smiling in recognition.
Comfort and having some control drive my behavior. In my defense, I’m happy to dine with simplicity in my own kitchen: broiled chicken, Brussels sprouts, pinch of salt, half glass of Two-Buck Chuck Cabernet Sauvignon.
I go to restaurants to enjoy time with friends for whom, so far, my affability apparently outweighs how vexing I must be; after all, I was voted friendliest girl in the ninth grade.
As for the sticky issues of waiting for a table, where one is seated and what to order, I’ll leave these to your imagination.
What are your going-out-to-eat gripes?
By susan fishman orlins 
Shortly after my divorce I signed up for the Marine Corps Marathon and at first paired off to train with a divorced and widowed
man named Charlie, who told me he found divorcing his wife harder than losing his other wife to death, because he had to continue dealing with the one he’d divorced.
Charlie also told me about a woman that a friend had fixed him up with. He was 56 and she was 48. Afterwards, he told his friend the woman seemed really nice, but 48 was too young. He wanted to be with someone closer to his own age and grow older at the same pace. His friend said, “She’s not 48, she lied, she’s 54.” Due to the lie, Charlie never called her back. A more astute Newly Divorced than I would have learned her lesson from Charlie.
A few years later, a friend convinced me to sign up for Jdate. “Devoted Dad” read the following in the Ideal Match box on my profile:
Someone who is intelligent, honest, optimistic, reads The New Yorker. His dog gets along with my dog.
Before having hit the submit button, I’d shaved a few years off my age and gulped. As a compulsive truthteller–the type who leaves a note on a parked car after taking out someone’s mirror–lying made my stomach grumble.
I’ve never otherwise lied about my age, but my friend insisted, “Everyone lies about their age on these profiles. Men just assume you’re older than you say.”
 My best Jdate was with a guy I met for a walk. We walked around the block, after which he gave me a Hershey’s chocolate kiss and said, “This is our first kiss.” What made it the best was that lasted the least amount of time.
Late one afternoon in February, 2005 the streak of unpleasant Jdates showed promise of reversing. It was a week after I’d broken up with my so-called boyfriend, and it occurred to me to check my Jdate inbox, realizing I’d neglected to cancel my membership while I was dating the So-Called.
That’s when I saw the below email from Devoted Dad whose photo reminded me of a former beau. (Wow, I just noticed he’d sent this December 25! Even if someone is Jewish, which not everyone on Jdate is, Christmas day can be lonely.):
—Original Message—
From: DevotedDad
Sent: 12/25/2004 6:05:00 PM
To: qwerty2121 [That’s me]
Subject: Email
I, too, am looking to meet someone who is optimistic, intelligent, and honest. . . .Not many people out there are indeed, optimistic, intelligent, and honest. I, too, love kids and dogs (we have a lab). . . . It might be fun to meet for coffee or dinner. I look forward to hearing from you.
Regards,
Brian
Still in a daze from missing my ex-so-called boyfriend, I slouched on the couch, laptop on lap, and tapped out my standard aloof message. I wanted to show my honesty by immediately fessing up about my age:
Full disclosure: I lied about my age. I’m 59. Wanna meet for coffe or a walk? Do you ever get to DC?
He didn’t write back, so I wrote again.
Hi Brian. Thinking about why you didn’t respond to my e-mail, I’ve come up with the following: 1) You were put off that I reduced my age. 2) You were put off that I’m older than you. 3) My e-mail was curt and unfriendly. 4) You found someone else who was optimistic, intelligent, and honest (and younger). 5) All the above.
Maybe we can have coffee and try to get to the bottom of this. What do you think?
Susan
(Devoted Mom–of three daughters, ages 16, 18, and 22)
Then I received this:
Susan,
To be real honest, the reasons I did not respond were twofold:
(A) I don’t know if I would be able to forge a relationship with a woman who was a bit disingenuous. I can surmise why you exaggerated a tad, but I do not understand what you hoped to gain by it.
(B) My initial cyberspatial overture to you preceded by many weeks your response. If a woman is inclined or not inclined to meet me, I would hope that her inclination would be made known to me in a somewhat timely manner.
 I wish you the very best of luck.
Brian
Although I wasn’t recovering from, say, hip surgery, I could have been away from my email for a reason like that. I hadn’t responded sooner because, I’d had a boyfriend and had neglected to check my inbox, not that this excuses me. On the other hand, I can attest that unanswered emails are part of the online dating landscape.
Every now and then I think about Devoted Dad. He and his wife had been Foreign Service officers and his wife had been killed in a terrorist attack on a U.S. embassy, which I know because he’d written it in his Jdate profile. I’d pictured myself nurturing his three daughters, who his profile said were only a bit younger than my three girls. I’d imagined Sunday chocolate chip pancakes with all 6 girls.
Though my Jdate membership lapsed long ago, and I’m settled enough in my singleness that I’m not pining for a mate (indeed, I sometimes worry about the “space” an imagined mate would take up), a thought of Devoted Dad every so often pops into my head and I wonder how things are going for him.
It was after one such pop into my head that I started to write this. During all these years I’ve remained curious to meet Devoted Dad, yet resigned that my chances of a face-to-face encounter with him were equivalent to the likelihood I’d have an encounter with Charles Manson (though don’t think that hasn’t popped into my head).
This morning I gave Google one more go. It occurred to me to search for Devoted Dad’s daughters’ names, and lo! there it was, a tribute to his late wife that mentioned the girls. Another link led me to Facebook, which indicated one of his girls may have gone to the same middle and high school as one of my girls.
Sure enough, there they were in the student directory. His daughter was only one year behind mine. I’d probably sat within feet of him at a school play.
If I hadn’t lied about how old I was, he might never have written. Nonetheless, I promptly changed my profile to reflect my true age. Sorry I can’t offer a Meg Ryan/Tom Hanks ending. I just thought I’d share a peek into the world of Internet non-dating so those of you who haven’t tried it can see just how much fun you are not missing.
All comments welcome, and I would love to hear other Internet dating stories!
By susan fishman orlins Last week, in the writing group I facilitate for homeless people, I suggested a pre-Thanksgiving exercise that got me thinking. Instead of the grade-school-type assignment of writing what you’re thankful for I suggested we come up with some things we are not thankful for and see if we can find bright spots in those, the proverbial silver linings.
I’m not thankful that my children’s parents are divorced, but there are many things I am thankful for as a result of my divorce. Let me say at the outset that I liked being married. The greatest loss was that of our family unit, yet we still go on “family” vacations and gather on holidays when possible.
The three things I miss most about being married are:
1. Reading the Sunday New York Times with my ex. He would quote to me bits of interesting articles, which doubled my reading pleasure, literally.
2. Even though Steve traveled a lot, I never felt lonely. At times I felt disconnected from friends because it takes time to be married, time that I now use–and this is one of the silverest linings–to spend with old friends and cultivate new friendships as well as to visit my mom and talk to her every day.
3. Oops, I can’t remember the third thing. If it comes to me, I’ll let you know. Oh, now I remember, he wrote all the checks and dealt with life’s fine print.
As for a sleeping companion, I stopped caring whether someone with hairy legs was sharing my bed. In fact, at some point I began to believe that sharing my bed with my hairy beagle, Casey, was as pleasurable in it’s own way and in other ways a lot less bother. For example, I can blow my nose loudly in the night and Casey could care less. If only Casey could talk politics.
Sex begs to be addressed, even though my children, who read my blog, might gag. I’ll spare you details, but yes it’s nice to have a built-in partner. On the other hand it’s nice to have one’s own bedtime routine and to once again have had the opportunity to experience feelings of new romance with an–albeit limited–succession of boyfriends.
The morning routine is my treasure. I go to sleep when I please and wake up when I please and I turn on NPR without worrying I’m disturbing someone. And no one disturbs me. Casey simply follows along with my schedule, which often varies from day to day.
After getting dressed, if the weather is 50 degrees or above, I go out to the porch that is off my bedroom and stretch then write, which is what I’m doing now. It’s 12:48 pm and when I finish this, Casey and I will have breakfast and take a short walk. After that, I’ll write some more and then walk with a friend. (In case you missed the diet tip, my tip goes that I eat all day long, so the later I start, the less I eat.)
Often at night I go to dinner, to book club, to a swing dance. Other nights I turn on MSNBC and cook Brussels sprouts and answer mail, sitting through repeat rounds of Keith Olberman and Rachel Maddow. I find catching up on mail while listening to jabs at Sarah Palin a pleasant way to spend an evening.
Last night I went ice skating with my ex-so-called boyfriend under a velvety midnight-blue sky with a crisp half moon on the outdoor rink that sits between the Washington Monument and the Capitol. Afterwards we went for frozen yogurt and a stroll.
Don’t get me wrong, the skating was as lovely as it sounds but it’s not perfect. Mr. Ex-So-Called was cranky about my fiddling with stuff in the car, putting things in my pockets so I wouldn’t have to take my backpack to the ice and then fiddling again after we skated to put back stuff from my pockets into my backpack, all of which proves, of course, that you don’t have to be married to get on someone’s nerves.
When I was married, I loved when my ex traveled and I had the house to myself after the kids went to sleep. Plus, as I recently wrote in a Huffington Post article about helping kids deal with divorce, the kids and I could have French toast for dinner if we wanted or dinner in the bathtub or French toast for dinner in the bathtub. I can do that every day now, if I choose.
Now, it’s just Casey and me at home. The serenity is ideal for my writing. Ah, but there’s the rub. I’m not complaining, but as a free-lance writer, I have no anchor, no office culture. I regret that, as a competent loner, I’ve built more space around myself than I presently need. It helps that I’ve compiled a list of people I like, long enough to form a small village. So when the house gets too quiet, there’s always someone to bike to if I’m desperate to escape the racket of molecules banging together.
Maybe I could do more to attract the company of a suitable man. Instead, I have chosen a path of comfort in my “mom jeans.” By contrast, some women I know have undergone the cosmetic blade to look sexier and younger. Would I ever pay a surgeon to cut open my face open and staple my head and expose myself to the risk of looking like Popeye? Certainly not to attract a guy who’s too vain to use sunscreen like a man I met some years ago on a bike trip.
In sum, divorce has many silver linings and I have oodles to be thankful for. I hope you won’t allow this upbeat post to detract from my worrywart creds.
What silver linings can you find in things you’re not thankful for?
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: Check out my latest post on Home Goes Strong: COFFEE TABLE BOOKS . . . FEAST FOR THE EYES & GREAT GIFTS
By susan fishman orlins Right now I’m overwhelmed. My 12-year-old Casey has been in pain for more than a week and after 2 vet visits and 2 xrays we still don’t know what is wrong, except that the pain seems to be coming from his neck.
The rest are White Girl Worries. My mind can never rest, because I’m always ruminating about what to write on the 5 or 6 articles I post here and on Home Goes Strong each week. Also hoping to finish posts for China Law and Policy, Moment, now a new divorce section that is opening up on Huffington Post.
There’s little room for thoughts of anything else. For a long time, one of my favorite worry tips has been to keep busy. But now I’m so busy, it’s making me worry.
Unrelated announcement, check out my latest Home Goes Strong article:
FUN, EASY, HEALTHFUL ENTERTAINING . . . WHEN GUESTS ARRIVE, PREPARATION BEGINS
By susan fishman orlins In case you don’t make it to the end, where I’ll refer to this again,
 see my latest post on NBC’s new Website Home Goes Strong,
“My (91-year-old) Mom’s Do-It-Youself Decorating Tips.”
On another note, this past weekend I visited my brother’s family in Philly, where I picked up some tips from my niece, whom I hereby nominate to the Worrywart Hall of Fame. She comes up with things to stay awake about that have only percolated beneath the surface of my fretful brain. Then she zooms into action.
She asked if I wanted to go for a walk with her and her dog. Shortly thereafter, I picked up her first contribution to Tips Weekend when she hooked two leashes onto her black toy poodle’s harness in case the clasp on one of them were to fail. (TIP #1)
This made me think of the measure I use to protect Casey from assaults beyond the boundaries of my home when I’m traveling. I ask the petsitter to walk him only in the small front yard, jogging laps perhaps, as though competing to win number one beagle-basset in the Westminster dog Show, the way he and I sometimes do, while a crowd (of one: me) cheers, “Yea Casey, number one beagle-bassett in the Westminster Dog Show!” (inferior TIP #1a)
My niece and I returned from walking the dog and we washed our hands. “Did you know,” she informed me, “that the thumb of your dominant hand tends to get overlooked when you wash your hands?” In the future, you may want to pay extra attention to that dominant thumb. (TIP#2) She also advised against using foamy soap, because it makes washing quicker, hence, riskier. (Tip #2a)
As for Spread-the-Word Day, in the spirit of enormous admiration and imitation-is-the-highest-form-of-flattery, I’m borrowing from the playbook of Gretchen Rubin and her blog The Happiness Project where she anoints some days to be Spread-the-Word Days . . . the word being her blog, book, etc. For me, this would be the equivalent of asking you to spread the word to others who might enjoy my blog and my articles on NBC’s new Website Home Goes Strong.
My Spread-the-Word Day campaign in the previous paragraph pales beside Gretchen’s recent spread-the-word request. I’m supplying hers below in case you want to experience the persuasion skills of someone, unlike me, whose blog has thousands, if not tens of thousands, of followers:
My resolution for this month is “Go the extra step.” As part of that, I’m trying to take extra steps to promote my blog – even when that means doing things that make me uncomfortable. (Like attaching this note to a few posts.)
One of the challenges of a blog is just letting people know that it’s there. And so I’m asking you for a big favor.
If you have the time and the inclination, it would be a huge help if you would email anyone you know who might enjoy this blog, to give them the link and tell them a bit about it. Word of mouth is very powerful.
My happiness research predicts that if you do this good deed, you’ll feel great! That’s the Samaritan effect: “do good, feel good.”
Reminder: the above in italics was written by Gretchen, not me. But I welcome (Gretchen would probably say “encourage”) you to “go the extra step” on my behalf, and if you do, I hope you’ll feel great and I’ll be endlessly grateful, but in all honesty I feel compelled to note that I’m not sure the deed will score you a trophy from the Good Samaritan Hall of Fame.
By susan fishman orlins Casey thinks “Fetch!” means watch Mommy throw a ball and yell “Fetch!” I ponder whether he’s bored on my new Huffington Post post.
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