By susan fishman orlins 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 small it has no bathroom. The other day, I had to pee, so I walked up the block and stopped at the first restaurant, a dark Villagey place called Low Country, another brownish space, where I was greeted by–as you can see from his picture–a fit, attractive bald man with smooth, mahogany-colored skin, wearing a dark t-shirt and black blazer.
With a dip of my right eyebrow, a sort of pity look, I asked “Would it be okay if I used the bathroom?” in the way that, when I was in my twenties, got me anything I wanted.
The man responded with a broad white-toothed smile, “Of course.”
In the bathroom, which was papered with pages from a Faulkner paperback, I began thinking about all the kind restaurant hosts who have welcomed me into their bathrooms.
And one who didn’t. It was a few years ago in D.C., up the block from the White House, a mediocre wannabe kind of place with white linen on the tables, where the maitre d’ rejected me. Admittedly, I was mid-bike ride in shorts and sneakers and with sweaty helmet hair.
I then crossed the street to the Bombay Club, an upscale restaurant with fine Indian food, a favorite of the Clintons and some of Washington’s elite journalists.
The maitre d’ welcomed me warmly and led me to the rest rooms. When I returned to thank him, he walked me into the bar and told the bartender to give me a drink.
I must have look pretty pathetic. When I left, I over-thanked him and mentioned, to show I wasn’t just a bathroom moocher, that I had eaten there and that I would be back. The afterglow of his kindness lasts to this day.
Back to Low Country. On the way upstairs from the Faulkner bathroom, I decided to tell the host how much I appreciated his hospitality.
He again graced me with his sparkly smile and introduced himself. We began talking and I told him I was a writer and that I blog, and he said he had recently started blogging. We exchanged cards.
The following day he emailed me:
| Susan,
It’s your new friend Chad from Low Country. Your blog looks really funny! I can’t wait to read some, especially religion.
It was nice meeting and chatting. Let’s meet for lunch sometime and share life. I love meeting new interesting people.
Cheers and make today an amazing day!
Chad
P.S.
Here’s the link to my first blog post! http://www.africa.com/blog/blog,hip_hop_saves_lives_an_introduction,418.html |
He wasn’t hitting on me; he is somewhere around half my age of 65.
Chad and I are different. He’s writing to help people in Chad and Sudan, and my blog is a platform for my white girl worries, which I mentioned when I gave him my card. As for religion, he’s a believer and I get nightmares about the 23rd Psalm.
But back at Jack’s I was sitting on the bench outside when Chad came along to unlock his bicycle, which was parked right next to mine (technically my ex-husband’s that I borrow when I’m in New York).
I’m a schmoozer and a reacher-outer and I love the way Chad wrote “I love meeting new [ahem] interesting people,” expressing his wish to get together. I am going to use that next time I email a maitre d’ or someone else I’m eager to know better.
How do you reach out?
What are your experiences with using restrooms in restaurants where you are not a patron?
If you or someone you know likes cupcakes, don’t miss my article TLC’s Georgetown Cupcake Sisters Share a Chocolate Cupcake Recipe & Their Recipe for Success!
By susan fishman orlins I’m a high-functioning agnostic in that I do ask God for things. But in the same way that, as a kid, I was creeped out every time we had to sing “My Country ‘tis of Thee, ” the line that goes Land where our fathers died, the Twenty-third Psalm gave me the willies. Respectfully, I continue to find it unsettling.
The problem is, as with most things, I take the psalm literally. With a lazy reluctance to explore its historical significance, I prefer to spend the time worrying and whining how the words arouse in me dark and gloomy feelings.
Though I don’t know why I’ll need a Shepherd, I can live with the Lord being my Shepherd. It conjures up the sheep farm of rolling green hills where I once stayed overnight in New Zealand. But the Valley of the Shadow of Death? That’s one scary place I never want to be.
As for Thy rod and Thy staff providing comfort . . . I’ve never been able to work out exactly how that would go.
To make matters worse, there’s the table in the presence of mine enemies. I have trouble shaking the image of me and Mrs. O’Brien–my piercingly blue-eyed tenth-grade English teacher–digging into the same casserole of heavenly mashed potatoes.
I’m not sure what the implications are of having someone anointeth my head with oil, but for years I pictured a hole drilled in my skull and a Shepherd brandishing one of those long-nozzled cans they use to lubricate cars.
When I think of dwelling in the House of the Lord, I envision the dark mansion from “Beauty and the Beast” but without Mrs. Potts, the singing teapot and Chip, her son the chipped-cup. And forever? Even dwelling at the New Zealand sheep farm forever would be overkill, so to speak.
The good thing about reciting a prayer in Hebrew, the sacred language of my forefathers, is that I don’t know what it is I’m praying for. On the whole, on my way out, I’d rather recite the words to the song “Mockin’ Bird Hill.”
Tra-la-la, twiddly-dee-dee
It gives me a thrill 
To wake up in the morning to the mockingbird’s trill
Tra-la-la, twiddly-dee-dee
There’s peace and goodwill
You’re welcome as the flowers on Mockin’ Bird Hill
When the sun in the morning
Peeps over the hill,
And kisses the roses ’round my windowsill
Then my heart fills with gladness
When I hear the trill
Of the birds in the treetops on Mockin’ Bird Hill
Yea though I walk through the Valley of Mockin’ Bird Hill . . .
Anyone out there have similar feelings?
Unrelated Announcement: See my latest post on Home Goes Strong, Readers Speak Openly: The Case for Separate Bedrooms.
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
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 Unrelated: Check out “The Best Food to Come out of Philly Since the Cheesesteak,” my post on Home Goes Strong.
Valentine’s Day, 1991, New York City. My then-(China hand)-husband and I knew a young Chinese couple; the sweet wife Mei Ling, who was exquisite to look at with her porcelain complexion and appleseed eyes, sometimes babysat for our daughters.
On this particular February 14th, she had plans to go out with her (cranky) husband, but with my gentle coaxing, she agreed to help out and accompany one of my girls to a late afternoon dentist appointment.
At around 5:15 the phone rang. “Mrs. Orlins, I have your daughter and she is fine, but her babysitter was hit by a car. The ambulance is on the way. She’s bleeding quite a bit.”
A flurry of my questions garnered no more information, except that Mei Ling was babbling in Chinese. After calling my husband to let him know what happened and that they needed him to translate, I paced the dark rooms of my happy, homey apartment, which now seemed empty and hollow.
Please God don’t let her die, please God don’t let her die . . . I know I’m a fair-weather believer, but please, please make Mei Ling be okay. I could do nothing else but pace in the darkness and repeat my monoversation with God, while grim thoughts bombarded my mind, not the least of which was guilt for my role in urging her to help out on Valentine’s Afternoon.
 Mei Ling remained in the hospital for a week or more and emerged with a vertical scar from her cheekbone to her jaw.
Her husband was looking forward to collecting a bundle from the insurance company for the injuries he claimed where incapacitating, though his windfall was diminished by the fact that Mei Ling became pregnant with a baby that was conceived shortly after the accident.
I thought about this incident recently after having dinner with a couple of atheist friends. I wished I had asked them what they would do in a situation where you are helpless to do anything except pray.
Would they root for a speedy recovery, the way as a kid I rooted for the Philadelphia Phillies to win the penant? Or, would they pray, just to cover their bases in case there really is a God?
Then it occurred to me that next time I’m desperately in need of answered prayers, maybe I need to cover my own bases.
Even though I’m a Jewish person who is between agnostic and atheist leaning a bit more toward the latter, the same way I like my steak cooked between rare and medium rare but more toward the rare side, respectfully I could try other Lords.
Like:
Hi Jesus. Susan here. I bet You’ll understand that it only just occurred to me to check in with You and I’m really worried. If You’re The One, it would be so great if You would help.
Maybe You can give me a sign that we connected—like reviving the plants in my window box or even creating a minor hardship, like making my porch umbrella blow over on a non-windy day–and I’ll give every consideration to continuing our relationship.
And then I could try the same with Mohammed, Buddah and Jehovah, first apologizing for making them third, fourth and fifth.
All this makes me think about what a college student in China said to me after I sat in on her Jewish Studies class at Nanjing University for an article I was writing. She pointed out that most Chinese people have an absence of spirituality, which I knew, but after that I’ve always tried to get my mind around what they do in a pinch; I’m not sure Confucius accepts prayers.
Imagining a lack of spirituality is like trying to imagine how it would be not to have eyes. It wouldn’t be darkness, just an absence of sight. I can’t picture that (so to speak).
Well, I’m off to Google whom else to put on my back up prayer list.
I’d love to hear from any atheists out there about what you do in situations that would have others praying.
By susan fishman orlins Unrelated announcement: How I Organized my Home, De-Cluttered my Life & Learned 21 New Tips
Some call the holiday season Chrismukkah, others say HanuKwanzMas. Then there’s Festivus with its unadorned aluminum pole, miracles and airing of grievances.
I say Hanukkah simply on its own can cause confusion, starting with: which of the 16 permutations do you use to spell it: H or Ch, n or nn, k or kk, a or ah?
Moreover, who knew that in their wisdom the rabbis of old gave us candle-lighting choices? According to Wikipedia, the Talmud says:
- The law requires only one light each night per household,
- A better practice is to light one light each night for each member of the household
- The most preferred practice is to vary the number of lights each night.
Waddaya know, turns out I’ve been following a “better practice” all along, each of us lighting our own menorah, creating our own Festival of Lights and puddles of dripped wax on old baking sheets.
Along with so many other December anxieties, comes the worry about wobbly Hanukkah candles in the wax-caked menorahs reducing our home to ashes. My rule is, when leaving the room, blow out the candles. Should I feel guilty about that?
There’s always this chatter about Chanukka being a minor holiday and, regardless, ought not be thought of as the “Jewish Christmas.” I agree. Plus, Hannukkah provides a smorgasbord of it’s own distinct joys.
I think of Christmas as a razzle-dazzle of lights and sparkle. My oldest friend summed up my lifelong enchantment with colored lights on evergreen trees as, “Well, you’re shallow and attracted to tinsel.”
I struggle to understand what offends some Jewish friends about an agnostic member of the tribe like me partaking of Christmas’s rainbow colors, cinnamon-y smells, tinkly carols, peppermint-y tastes and scratchy pine needles . . . in my home.
Sharing my family room with a colorfully lit tree (a custom that’s only a handful of centuries old) by the blazing hearth makes me feel warm, cozy and cheery on cold winter nights. To me it’s nothing more than a splendid tree.
On the other hand, if someone were to ask me to display the most exquisite creche imaginable, even one made of evergreen sprigs and dotted with lights, I’d say no. To me a creche is indeed a religious symbol, though I wouldn’t judge another Jewish person for displaying one. (See my friend Sue’s article “Some Jews Love a Christmas Tree, But a Creche? Oy” on her intriguing blog “On Being Both.”)
On a similar note, should Christians and those of other religions disallow dreidl in their homes? Simply because a lighted tree in my home makes me smile, does it affect the integrity of my or anyone else’s religiosity?
How about carols—are they any different? Where do you draw the line? Is it okay to bring Frosty the Snowman into the home? I like listening to O Holy Night.
Suppose my kids and I hang stockings and exchange trinkets. Would it be more palatable to the naysayers if we were to hang goody-filled pillow cases . . . and did so on, like, March 3rd?
Is it okay to celebrate Chinese New Year in my home? All the times I’ve done that, I never turned into a Chinese person nor felt treasonous (though I acknowledge this to be a weak and not religious example).
If I were not Jewish, no doubt I’d ache with envy of those having 8 dinners outdoors in a sukkah during the autumn harvest and, as the season changed, I’d be drawn to menorahs, lit with twisted candles in a garden of colors. And, oy, those crisp, potato pancakes! I would yearn to dance the hora and exchange gifts every night for 8 nights!
When I was a kid, I begged for a tree. My mom, who–like my daughter–was born Christmas day (an aside: my mom’s parents’ were Joseph and Mary) just told me that the one time she allowed me to have a tree on the third floor, she never told my dad. After that, she always said, “When you get married, you can have a Christmas tree.”
Then, at age 19, I got married and my husband would not allow a tree on the grounds we were Jewish. So I hung tinsel on the clothes tree and colored balls on kitchen cabinet knobs and from my ears. That January, after 6 months together off and on, we separated.
Posting this post-hannukkah seems in keeping with our family tradition of doing things not according to the calendar; rather, we celebrate events when we can all be together. One year we had a Passover seder in July so we could enjoy it with my parents.
I wish I believed in a higher authority who would answer all my prayers, because then I’d no longer need to worry. If I ever attain my quest for greater belief in religion, maybe I’ll want to give up my tree. Till then, Hapry, Merpy Hanumas.
I’d love your thoughts about someone Jewish
With tree lights of red, green and bluish.
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 Today, my first article appears on the NBC Website Home Goes Strong, where I’ll be posting new pieces 2 or 3 times a week.
As you may know, I am capable of worrying about anything. The feng shui fracas began when a friend pointed out that my newly renovated space–where I could see clear from the kitchen at one end of the house to the far side of the living room at the other end of the house–allowed evil spirits to float too easily from one room to the next. Read all about it: “Should I Buy Into Feng Shui?”
By susan fishman orlins A worrywart can benefit from a connection to God. If I believed prayers were answered, I wouldn’t need to worry anymore.
Even though I’m an agnostic, I consider my relationship with God a pretty good one. Like those halfway-decent, parallel-play marriages between two independent sorts, God and I go into our individual orbits, then come together now and then for some support (for me). I like to think He understands our lopsided arrangement.
He can bet on hearing from me when any of my kids or I are about to be airborne. Then, after I know a plane one of us is on has landed, I repeat in quick succession “Thank you, God” four times. Four times, that’s the way it always comes out.
I do a lot more thanking than asking and not only because happiness gurus are always promoting gratitude as a path to well-being. It just seems as though He would appreciate that. For instance, if a poppy seed is stuck between my teeth and I begin rooting around in my purse for a toothpick and one stabs my finger right away, a silent “Thank you, God” for not wasting my time comes out automatically.
On the other hand, I impose considerable restrictions on asking for things. This is an effort to amass credit for future health and safety needs. So I never request anything like a good parking space or that the roof will stop leaking, even when it’s gushing in the middle of the night.
Although I wish I didn’t worry so much, this system with God and me is working out so far. Thank God.
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