By susan fishman orlins Yesterday one of my daughters told me, “Dad sounds unhappy with me.”
When I asked why, she said because he had left a message on her phone three days earlier and he hadn’t heard back from her.
Then she told me, “If you want to reach me, text.” She added, second best is email, which she usually checks at least once a day. If you leave a voicemail, it sounds like you’ll be lucky to hear from her at all.
So I want to get better at texting, which takes too much time. I’m always worried about time.
If you are half my age or less, this may sound silly, but today’s Time-Saving Texting Tip is: In order not to have to switch to the symbols page for exclamation points, type i’s, as in “Greatiiiiii”
I hope this is helpful to some of youiiiiiiii
And, btw, do your emoticons : – ) and : – ( really need noses? : )
For more time-saving tips, see:
50 TIME-SAVING TIPS FROM SMART, BUSY WOMEN on Home Goes Strong
9 EASY WAYS TO SAVE TIME on Huffington Post where one commenter said my tips sounded like bad satire. Others totally didn’t get the benefits of boiling half the amount of water in each of 2 pots with lids to speed up the pasta-cooking process.
I don’t get that they didn’t get it. In any case, the comments are the best part.
Please share in the comments your time-saving tips!
SPEAKING OF WHICH, FOR TIME SAVING MEALS, TRY “SANDWICHES!” (don’t miss the dark chocolate and brie panini)
By susan fishman orlins China Baby
Last week the daughter of friends in Beijing wrote to me about her baby:
My baby is more than four months now. She is very healthy and very happy. Recently, I made haircut for her. In China we cut all the hair from birth, in order to grow better. Generally these hair be used as writing brush with the baby’s name and birthday for keepsake.
I wanted to share that bit of charm with you, especially because I have more to report on deer. If, like me, you are sick of deer talk, you may want to look up from your smartphone at this point and join the meal conversation that is going on around you or, if you are crossing the street, pay attention and look both ways.
Hm, that makes me so curious to know what you were in the middle of when you began reading this. Work? Other Websites? Work? Studies? Kids? Work? I’d love you to take a minute and let me know in the comments.
Think of it as a come as you are party, which reminds me of the Come as You Are party I had in the Seventies and my dear friend–who is now a big shot talking head, MacArthur Fellow, lauded by Clinton and others–loves to remind me how I’d invited him with a phone call at 7 am. So on the evening of the party, he arrived wearing only a towel around his waist and shaving cream on his face. The rest of us were dressed suitably enough to at least go grocery shopping.
I need to post more below on the deer to clarify/correct some tips on ticks.
BEFORE YOU GO, CHECK OUT MY DESSERT RECIPES, including Coconut Rice with Mango and Mango Sorbet that is fit for an Emperor. And a Cheesecake that I can’t even think about without salivating. There’s also a Fruit Salad that is a work of art.
Baby Deer: Corrections and More
I received this email after my previous post Deer Update With Deer Tips:
There is, in fact, a species known as the deer tick and, although they do pick up Lyme disease from white-footed mice, they spread it to deer and, thus, to other ticks which spread it to people and pets. Lyme disease contracted from deer ticks is very painful and treatment lengthy.
My experience with deer and other wild animals (think ducks, geese, rabbits and squirrels) is that you can put out all the commercial food you want and they will still prefer your shrubs and plants.
. . . Be advised that Chronic Wasting Syndrome among deer has been confirmed in Maryland. This is a horrible illness that causes deer to waste away no matter how much they eat. There is no cure or treatment. It has been around for many years but has only recently been confirmed in this state. Judging from the size of the fawn pictured, it has not needed to be nursed for some time. Perhaps the mother is recovering from the ordeal of raising twins.
I have been rehabilitating wildlife for over 24 years and have attended numerous classes and conference and done much reading regarding wildlife and the problems facing them. Through networking with other rehabbers in Maryland and across the country, the rehabbers at Second Chance keep abreast of new developments and treatments. We are in the process of using a specific drug to combat West Nile Virus in crows and hawks which has had good results in trials.
 Mama deer keeping cool under my deck
Christine Montuori, Founder/Director Second Chance Wildlife Center
And below is from David Stang, also at SCWC:
I may have misspoken about deer ticks when I said “no such species as deer ticks and in fact, the most common way to get ticks is from mice.” What I should have said is this:
Black-legged ticks can carry Lyme disease and some other diseases that can affect both humans and animals. This tick is sometimes found on deer, but adult black-legged ticks also feed on white-footed mice, chipmunks, shrews, raccoons, skunks, opossums, and other mammals. When deer are scarce, ticks don’t necessarily become scarce, because they have alternative hosts. Lyme disease can be found where there are no deer, and there are areas in this country that have deer but no Lyme disease. Deer can travel farther than a mouse, so can transport a tick farther… but we have many more mice than deer, and mice are the likely vector for most of the ticks we come upon.
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 With President Obama on the verge of crossing the half-century line, age-wise, I recall my own (embarrassinglynarcissistic) 50th birthday party on Home Goes Strong. I thought I’d share with you the invitation I’d sent.
Author’s note: I no longer pee a droplet whenever I sneeze.
YOU’RE INVITED (TO MY FIFTIETH)
I’m changing colors like autumn trees.
I pee a droplet whenever I sneeze.
My schnozz has grown, I’ve lost a tooth,
Even my earlobes have started to droop.
Errant whiskers sprout overnight;
They’re hard to spy with failing eyesight.
All my hormones are nearly gone
While my daughter’s rage like a summer storm.
I moisturize with religiosity.
I’m awaiting hot flashes with morbid curiosity.
Octogenarian sex no longer sounds odd.
I’m turning fifty! Oh my God!
“You still have your looks,” my mother stated.
Ma, you like how my upper lip’s corrugated?
I guess I actually do look young
When I’m at her Florida condominium.
Although for decades I have seen
That I’m older than models in Seventeen,
Still, I had always been confident
That I’d never be older than the President.
But, listen, it’s not my aging anatomy I dread,
It’s having more time behind than ahead
Worried about my imminent burial,
I consulted tables actuarial
To find out how many waking hours remain
For me to write a book, ride the train, complain. . .
The average American of fifty years
Has thirty-three point one more before she disappears.
From my pre-school age lop off half,
Add six point nine for renouncing decaf,
Compare waking hours since ’45,
With total anticipated till 2035.
(Don’t forget to include the excess–
As you get older you sleep much less)
That’s how I solved the riddle
Of how fifty is only the middle.
Though I turn forty-nine and five-twelfths in May,
I’m having a fete for my fiftieth birthday.
(At this point what’s seven months, more or less, anyway?)
Friday, May 19 join Steve and me to celebrate.
Or if you prefer, we’ll commiserate.
Since my memory’s practically shot,
Can you recount incidents I’ve forgot?
Some trouble I’ve caused–if you’re inspired
(Although I won’t object to hearing what you’ve, ahem, admired).
Enclosed are all the details you could possibly desire.
YOU CAN READ ALL ABOUT MY 50TH BASH ON HOME GOES STRONG
UNRELATED: ALSO READ ABOUT EVERYTHING TOMATO: RECIPES, STORING, FREEZING, PEELING, HARVESTING AND MORE.
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  Why put a cold, hard fork between me and my dinner, when the visceral experience of eating, the intimacy between me and my green beans is so enhanced by pinching the bean between thumb and forefinger and depositing it into my mouth?
Yes, I’ve had boyfriends who find this offputting and I understand that it looks out of the ordinary when I pick up a piece of lettuce between my fingers and lay it on my tongue.
I guess on a first date I should try to use a fork.
Using a fork instead of my hands feels so removed, like hearing about sex second-hand rather than having it myself, though I realize that’s an overstatement since, unlike with hearsay sex, I do get to finally make contact with the food when using a fork.
As for soup, I have neither the patience nor dexterity to balance a microliter of liquid in the bowl of a spoon and get it to my mouth without any drips. I prefer to drink soup out of a mug; in restaurants I order something like finger-friendly shrimp cocktail instead.
After a recent foursome dinner, I emailed one of my co-diners to acknowledge my fork was clean at the end of the meal.
She wrote back:
This used to be an issue for me. I love and do the same thing. There were men (dates) who were really turned off (we’re talking 70s, 60s, not sure still true) when I ate with my hands. I always did and always will. I am totally with you on this. And everyone else either does it - or (more likely) is WRONG. I am not tolerant of intolerance on this issue.
Jewish girl thing?
In a follow-up email she wrote:
we’re sensual women and free spirits . . and everyone else is uptight.
Y’know, then I got thinking, wondering how I’d react if I were out with someone who picked up a lamb chop with his hands (which I don’t do until it gets to the bone) and getting all greasy in the face. Ick, that would be bad. I think if someone were picking delicately at a salad it wouldn’t bother me.
Come to think of it, whereas it’s commonplace to eat watermelon without utensils, I like to cut watermelon. As with lamb chops it’s less messy with a fork and knife.
A good middle ground for me is chopsticks; I like picking at my peanuts with wooden sticks.
I’d love to know your take on the finger-food universe. How can I enjoy eating without utensils without being offputting?
Do you ever eat with your hands either when you are out or home alone? What other eating habits are you willing to share (drinking milk out of the carton? licking your ice cream bowl? Etc.?)?
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT:
See my Easy Chicken Dinner With Green Beans Amandine and Corn.
TECH APOLOGIES: Two odd things occurred this week. I accidentally hit publish for this instead of draft a few days ago, before it was finished. I unpublished it right away, but the link went to subscribers, but it led to an error page.
Also to my subscribers, an old post (A Week in the Life of Me and My Imagined Live-Along) may have shown up today in your RSS feed or email, and I have no idea why. Sorry
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  Mom always looked great without a lot of fuss Grief: keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.
At the cemetery, my sister and brother stand teary over our mother’s coffin with their arms around each other’s backs. Dry-eyed, I step up next to them, completing our sibling trio. Yet we are two plus one, a double and a single, a duet and a solo.
After standing there for a moment, unconnected–not part of their mood, not feeling their pain–I step back to allow them their moment.
We all adored my mom and felt a closeness to her that any mother (or offspring, for that matter) would envy.
So what’s with me and this numb reaction to her death?
Like my mom, I’m not a crier, except when I get divorced and have to agree to living 9 consecutive days a month without my kids. But that was years ago, and Mom was right when she told me I would eventually come to make the most of those 9 days on my own.
Though I can get weepy if I accidentally turn on the evening news, I strive to avoid sadness and pain. A mother’s death is one of the Big Boppers of loss and maybe I’ve put up a wall to block that. Or is this just a psychobabble idea from spending too much time talking to shrinks?
On a similar note, maybe I am in the denial phase; though after my father died, I also wondered why I never crumbled with grief.
 Mom and Dad aboard the Queen Mary Mom often said she wished she had been able to cry when Daddy died. Nonetheless, her loss was palpable after 66 years of marriage in which each considered the other before themselves.
Though it feels counterintuitive to prance around with my life the same as I did before Mom died, the fact that she and I shared the dry-eyes trait pleases me.
Her life ran its course over 92 years and she had no regrets. I celebrate that, and despite my jolly demeanor, I am aware that Mom’s death leaves me with a permanent empty space, an amputation.
Mom was the only person in the world (except me) who thought I ought to be on Oprah; Oprah, who–by ending her show–also left a hole in my life.
Mom timed her death nicely to coincide with the Oprah loss. Now, I won’t have to watch an Oprah show about, say, octogenarian sex, and then ache to phone and discuss it with Mom.
The truth is I lost my mom 2 months ago, a few days after we moved her up North in a medical van to be in a long-term care facility (she hated the term nursing home) near my brother’s family.
It was the most awesome road trip ever during which my mother said it felt surreal, as though she were traveling to Heaven, even though she didn’t believe in Heaven.
Then reality struck. Her new room–where we hung her favorite paintings and piled up personal things like the book of drawings and tales of her life I made for her 90th birthday and the quilt with family photos my sister had lovingly sewed for her–embodied all the railroad clichés: the final stop, the terminus, the end of the line.
She didn’t want to live after that and I was her cheerleader. She reminded me how I always said I’d help her pull the plug. Of course when it came down to it, I couldn’t do any such thing without the approval of my siblings, the ones who know how to cry.
A few weeks after my mother became downhearted, her body began to shut down. Her meds increased and, though she was still coherent, she became non-reactive, the opposite of the mother I always knew, who thrilled to everything from reports of my high school friend appearing as a frequent guest on MSNBC to the article I wrote about Choosing my Parents.
Another upcoming loss is likely to be my beagle Casey, given that he is 13 years old. Like Mom he has lived a long life with no regrets, except he probably wishes I’d have taught him to fetch. What if he dies and I can’t stop crying?
After all these years, my heart still goes pitty pat when I look at that boy. And even though he doesn’t have much to say about the debt ceiling, he is great company day and night. If I weep for him, not having wept for my mom, what kind of griever am I?
 Last picture of Mom and me together I’m told people grieve differently, and I’ve seen friends react similarly to me when their elderly parents died, so I’ll try to stop worrying that my heart isn’t swollen with grief right now, right after my beloved mom died.
What unexpected reactions have you had to loss?
RELATED ANNOUNCEMENT:
See my article Last Week my Mother Died; This Week I Celebrated Her Life.
SEMI-RELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: For more on death, see my series about Beth, who was diagnosed with breast cancer the same week she had to tell her husband that he had an inoperable tumor and that he would die.
After my Husband Died, Dealing With his Possessions
Caring for my Dying Husband at Home
My Husband’s Final Days and Funeral
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT:
Keep cool, read my article 12 Ways to Refresh With the Miracle of Lemons
By susan fishman orlins Saturday, July 2, 2011
Mother died today. I am not trying to channel Camus, just trying to make sense of how it feels to suddenly become a 65-year-old orphan in New York while my mom’s cold body lay in Philadelphia.
I’m sitting in Union Square, one of my favorite places to work when I visit New York. The usual bustle is going on around me: a pair of Boston terriers rollicking in the dog run and the farmer’s market actively trading consumables, like the quart of organic skim milk in a glass bottle I bought to go with the chocolate chip banana cake I brought here in my bike basket.
A church group on a neighboring bench is painting their faces red white and blue for their annual pamphlet giveaway to promote patriotism and Christ. We take a picture together, my first thought being I can’t wait to show Mom, even as I know from my brother’s phone call an hour ago that, with her hand in his, my mom had just taken her last breath.
I so wanted to be there with her, but one never knows when the end will happen. I knew she was in the homestretch and, though I saw her last week, I figured she would hold tight until my visit tomorrow.
It’s comforting that I spent so much quality time with Mom, yet would a better daughter, knowing she was rapidly failing, have rushed to her side? Would it have mattered to her in her remote state or would that have been only for me?
A few weeks ago when I kissed her good-bye before heading home to D.C., I said “See you next week,” and she asked “Why?”
Although mid-week her eyes began to be closed more than open, I had planned to read to her the picture book of her life stories, which I made 2 years ago for her 90th birthday. It was my fantasy that she would then slip into death while I was there, with her hand in my carbon-copy, arthritic hand.
So, now who will enthrall to what I do every day and to the photographs I take?
Proceeding with today as planned seems odd. At the same time, it’s as though in a way my mom died after we moved her from Florida to Philadelphia, when it dawned on me she would never again be talking on the phone with me from her club chair, the one my dad had sat in for so many years until he died in 2006 and she inherited the throne.
I can just see her now, the books, magazines, newspapers piled on the table beside her, the remote control in her hand, watching the TV in her mirror-backed wall unit with the Lladro figures and other pretty things she had collected reflecting sunbeams while Chris Matthews ranted about the Republicans.
She wielded that remote with the facility of a man half her age.
I meet my friend Anita at Joe for a cup of joe. When I say, “My mother died this morning,” her expression of shock is far greater than mine was when earlier I had seen my brother’s name pop up on my phone and answered it with, “Mommy died.”
After coffee, Anita and I proceed as planned, pedaling into Brooklyn for a look at the local culture and lunch.
Mom would have loved hearing about the Chasidic family I passed on the Willaimsburg Bridge, the gaggle of kids and the man in a long black coat that flapped as he walked, white tights and a big fur hat (she would know the Yiddish term for this).
 salade niçoise We stop for lunch at Fada, reported to be the only authentically French bistro in the area. Happily there is nothing pretentious about this place that feels as though it’s been here since the invention of French fries.
We sit by a counter on high stools in the front that, being on a corner, is open to the street on two sides. My appetite has not faded with the loss of my mom. Rather, as I dig into my salade niçoise, I feel a numbness that friends have reported feeling after their parents have died.
My mom’s was a life well-lived and filled with love that ran its course with no regrets. How many people can say that? This doesn’t minimize how much I will miss our leisurely nightly calls and monthly weekends together. Her laugh, her insights, her contentedness that set the bar high, yet provide a great role model, for when I reach my walker years, if I do.
Pedaling back toward the Manhattan Bridge, I pass an African Arts Festival and shops shuttered for the Sabbath with names like Schenkel’s Fish Market, just the kind of travelogue Mom would have loved.
[Cheesy alert!] On the bridge, high over the river, I feel a bit closer to the clouds, closer to Mom.
My Worrywart feels self-serving linking to/promoting my other articles as I write this about losing my mom, yet she would be all for it! She loved hearing about my writing, both the substance and the successes and even the flops. And, we had so much fun writing a number of my Home Goes Strong articles together:
MY MOM’S DO-IT-YOURSELF DECORATING TIPS
DELIGHT YOUR GUESTS WITH MY MOM’S PARTY GAMES
YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE JEWISH TO MAKE GREAT CHICKEN SOUP
EASY, ELEGANT ENTERTAINING: MY MOM’S PARTY FOOD
By susan fishman orlins Only eight weeks ago, I was on a half-hour bike ride home, all uphill, when I called Mom for our daily shmooze. We caught up on
 Mom looking at photos as we sped North on Rte. 95 political scandals, Sarah Palin, literature, Oprah and Mom’s latest Bingo game. While we talked, mounting the hill was effortless.
Shortly after that, her doctor determined she could no longer live alone, so my daughter and I flew to Florida, where she was living, to accompany her to a nursing home in Philadephia near my brother’s family.
In a hospital bed, Mom sat propped up like a queen looking at photos on my laptop as our medical coach, a converted 42-foot RV, sped north on Route 95. After an hour of eating pretzels and giving commentary, I needed a break. A bit later Mom fell asleep and soon my daughter Emily and I began laughing as we read email responses from the rest of the family to my “Rte. 95 Travelogue.”
Mom opened her eyes and asked “What am I missing?”
So Emily and I climbed into her bed and we all read and laughed together. After the emails, Mom said she wondered how well off her family had been when she was growing up. She concluded they were pretty comfortable, given that her mother was always able to give away coal and still have enough for the family.
My mom has always loved conversation. But now her 92-year-old body is shutting down. Sometimes she is fuzzy from the morphine being administered for discomfort related to her heart condition; and some of the time her mind is good.
One of many frustrations is that she can’t seem to vocalize. We can tell she wants to express something but nothing comes out.
My sister tried giving her pencil and paper but Mom didn’t want that. Plus her hands are very shaky.
As her voice began to fade, so did her expression. There was no inflection in the little she was able to say.
When I go to see her this weekend, I thought I would try some yes and no questions, beginning by asking if she even wants to try to communicate, say, by lifting her hand for yes or wagging a finger for no.
Yet, that may be a total flop. I’m hoping some of you, my readers, can help. Any suggestions for how to assist my mom in expressing herself?
Maybe you know someone who has been through this. I’d love to hear from you and if I do get a variety of responses, I’ll write an article for Huffington Post or Home Goes Strong, so I can share what I learn with a broader audience.
Thanks for any help!
X
O
By susan fishman orlins Losing a Kindle or an iPad, it could happen to you (White Girl Worry alert) . . .
I flew home from Boston on Friday night of Memorial weekend. At 2 a.m. before getting into bed to read, I emptied all my bags and clearly I’d left my Kindle on the plane.
I figured finding it was hopeless, but I phoned the airline, who told me I had to contact National Airport’s lost and found.
I called National Airport’s lost and found and a voice message told me I had to contact the airline. To make matters worse, the airport office would be closed for the three-day holiday.
I also called American Express, who told me I had passed the 3-month limit on their insurance protection but encouraged me to submit a claim anyway, which required documentation of the loss report, receipt, etc.
I notified Amazon and they “blacklisted” my Kindle so no one else could use it.
Luckily I could read myself to sleep (now 3 a.m.) using the Kindle app on my iPhone. For a reader as slow as I am, less on a page is more, so much so that I questioned whether the iPhone was actually an improvement over the Kindle.
Nonetheless, I ordered a new Kindle with money I would have used to replace my aging camera.
Mostly I was sad about losing the pleather cover I had bought in China for $4. It was slim and lightweight and even at a big price there was nothing like it here.
Then on Tuesday I received a call from Christianne at the airport, who said, “We have dozens of Kindles and iPads in the safe. What flight were you on?”
I gave her the information and she checked the safe. “We found two Kindles on that flight and yes, we have yours. When would you like to pick it up?”
I was so delighted and amazed that I wanted you to know not to give up hope if you leave your Kindle or iPad on a plane.
The worst part of the whole experience was at the customer service desk. The USAir employees were pleasant, but each person in the line had a heartbreaking story of travel gone wrong.
Take, for example, the man who flew here solely for his son’s birthday party. His flight was due in at 6 pm but had been delayed, and it was now 8 pm. His ride had left and the party was underway, close to an hour away and prohibitively expensive by taxi.
I can’t imagine how someone could work there 40 hours a week and on top of that remain smiley and not need to take Zoloft.
And why does the birthday dad’s story linger and make me feel so sad?
What lost and/or found stories do you have, airplane or otherwise?
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: Check out my article CARING FOR HER DYING HUSBAND AT HOME AND THEN PLANNING HER OWN DEATH: ONE WOMAN’S STORY.
On a more upbeat note, check out some my Refreshing Summer Drinks for July 4th or anytime.
By susan fishman orlins
Hobogies-add oil, vinegar, soy sauce, wrap in foil and grill
Welcome to my periodic series: Antidote to Worry (oh dear, is that now a commitment?), in which I highlight food I ate over the weekend.
Consider it a “Worry Break,” as in one of my Tip Day tips.
Plus, much to my pleasure and surprise, I turn out to be a food writer, among other things on the NBC Website Home Goes Strong, my specialty being recipes that are generally quick, easy and healthful–often but not always vegan or vegetarian–with not a lot of ingredients and no lemongrass or other stuff you wouldn’t find at the average A & P.
Also, whenever possible, I subscribe to creative measuring.
This weekend my daughter and I made hobogies, whose ingredients you can see in this photo. You can read how to make them on Home Goes Strong. The fun of preparing hobogies, especially with friends, as well as eating them is today’s Antidote to Worry!
Pair your hobogies with drinks from my new post Refreshing Summer Drinks for July 4th Parties or Anytime.
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See my recent post CARING FOR MY DYING HUSBAND AT HOME: BETH’S STORY (AS TOLD TO ME)
By susan fishman orlins There’s a gadget for everything these days, I’m pretty sure.
I’m not worried about this gizmo, ‘cept I have no memory of how it got in my kitchen drawer.
And I’m really curious what it’s for.
It seems to be a scooper of some sort.
gizmo For mashed potatoes? Or something that had froze? Or unfroze? Or doughs?
But then what’s the hole on each side of the silver hemisphere about?
It’s not a lemon juicer. I have one of those. And that’s not how the juice comes out.
Thingamajig How do you Google what something is when you don’t know it’s name?
Trying to figure this out is like a lateral thinking game.
I could try to describe it in a search.
But it’s more fun if you help me out of this lurch, So I can ditch the gizmo woe and instead get gizmo mojo!
Whatchamacallit
If I had already fulfilled my fantasy of ordering Worrywart t-shirts,
I would make this a contest to attract some kitchen-gadget experts.
And, for my blog, new converts.
I’ve heard Web surfers love contests and t-shirts.
How embarrassed should I be if no one gets back to me
with either a clever guess or the solution to my quest?
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: Check out my recent articles
After my Husband Died, Dealing With his Possessions: One Woman’s Story
Romantic Design Ideas From an Exquisite European Boutique Hotel
Treadmill Work Stations Can Burn Calories, But They Have Other Important Benefits Too
By susan fishman orlins The going-into-treatment excuse didn’t work as well for Anthony Weiner as it had for me.
Though now I’m a compulsive truth-teller, in tenth grade I considered myself an adept liar.
Early one week, I had accepted a Friday night date with Joe. Then Artie called that very Friday to ask me out for the same night. I could never refuse Artie of the sky-blue eyes, so I said yes.
When Joe phoned during dinner to say he would pick me up at 7:30, my father heard me lie to Joe that I was being punished for fighting with my brother and couldn’t go out.
After I hung up, my dad said breaking dates was not permitted–if I did not go out with Joe, then I could not go out at all.
“Okay, Dad,” I said, “I’ll call Joe back and tell him I can go.”
Instead, I ran to my room, locked the door and phoned Artie. Since my parents knew Artie, I asked him to have his friend, whom I would introduce to my parents as Joe, come to the door to pick me up. The scheme worked, or so I thought.
When I came home from my date with Artie, my father was waiting. “Where were you?” he boomed.
It turned out that after I’d left, Joe dropped by to see how I was doing, at which point my father left the house and spent the rest of the evening cruising between The Hot Shoppes and Carol Yaffe’s house, the two hangouts he knew about, trying to track me down.
I had no choice but to acknowledge the deception.
“I think I need to go to a psychiatrist,” I said.
It was the only way I could think of to weasel out of my predicament; otherwise, I was afraid my father would confine me to my room until graduation.
In the case of Anthony Weiner, the going-into-treatment excuse didn’t work and he was forced to step down. But the going-into-treatment excuse worked well for me.
It also worked for my parents in that I made an effort to stay out of trouble, because I felt guilty about all the money they were spending to send me to therapy.
Do you agree that the going into treatment is, at least partially, a convenient excuse for these infamous texters and sexters and twexters and Tiger Woodses?
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: Share my post with the sandwich generation and others, Driving Safety for Teens, College Students and the Elderly (and just about anyone else)
By susan fishman orlins 
It’s hard for me to look at guys like Anthony Weiner without feeling more embarrassed for them than I ever feel for myself.
I doubt there are many men who don’t have porn stashed away under the bed or in a closet somewhere. A woman I know discovered her husband’s “Playboy” and other magazines in locked briefcases after he had died.
Some men are more open and keep paperbacks, like Hot Babysitter in Chains, out on their night tables.
On the continuum of sexual diversions for married men, the act of sexting lies somewhere between Hustler and Rielle Hunter. It’s up to each couple to figure out where to draw the line.
For public figures, the collateral damage of getting caught at sexting and other dalliances is augmented exponentially.
Popular wisdom suggests it’s power that leads to the arrogance that leads the Weiners, the Clintons, the Edwardses–such intelligent men–to delude themselves into believing they can get away with acts so potentially humiliating to themselves and their families.
 Some men do get away with it. Remember Joey Buttafuoco? He was not a public figure until his girlfriend Amy Fisher shot his wife Mary Jo in the head. Mary Jo stood by her man for more than a decade afterwards. Joey and Mary Jo are my personal favorites of the genre.
The way pols are dropping like flies these days, it makes you wonder whether everyone is sexting, though we know only about the ones who get found out.
It’s hard to believe Clinton deluded himself into risking his country’s well-being, playing the cigar game with Monica Lewinsky. But for me, it’s almost harder to believe anyone would risk exposing his family so publicly and perhaps losing his family in the process. Yet so it goes with all these politicians.
It doesn’t excuse them, but I do think it’s delusion that allows them to take chances. Otherwise, what could someone like Weiner possibly have been thinking? It’s unimaginable he’d have sexted his crotch bulge if he’d actually gone through the scenario in his mind of getting discovered.
Or did Anthony Weiner say to himself, Hm, what’s the worst that could happen? After all I’m just tweeting a photo of my waxed chest and the swell swell in my Jockeys to at least 6 women, who are strangers and who are probably old enough to drink alcopops. I’ll be cautious. No one will ever know.
Weiner says there were at least 6 women involved. At least? Does he not know or is it that hard to keep track? Maybe he worried word would get out if he’d sexted 7. The next step, of course, is the going-into-treatment excuse.
What do you figure these guys were thinking?
ON ANOTHER NOTE: Enjoy some of my healthy recipes . . .
By susan fishman orlins
 Bathtub buffet
Bathtub snack: Ham, aged gouda, fresh multi-grain bread, spinach, arugula, mushrooms and strawberries.
And to wash away any lingering woes, red wine from Chile.
Before your bath, why not work out at your treadmill desk? Burning calories aren’t the only benefits!
For more great ideas for bathtub buffets, try some of my delicious healthy recipes with fat-burning foods.
By susan fishman orlins
 I don’t claim to be chill, but I become even less chill when someone tells me to chillax.
When I’m really excited about something and someone says, “Chillax,” it’s even worse; it’s what my friend calls “squishing the little bird inside of you.”
Take, for example, the time I was telling an ex-Mr. Wrong about something or other, chattering fast and with passion.
Ex-Mr. W interrupted me with up and down hand motions, as though he were patting the heads of a pair of dobermans simultaneously, and said, “Calm down. Speak slowly. I can’t follow you when you talk that fast.”
Yeah, right, Mr. Law Professor who can’t follow a really easy story about biking or an encounter with an old friend or that kind of thing.
Well, that’s water over the bridge (or is it under the dam? or over the dam? or under the bridge?).
I bring up all this because the other day I experienced total chill when I should have been tense.
I was helping my daughter the whole day (which admittedly included trips to buy Pinkberry yogurt with fruit) as she packed up her dorm room and sent home 6 boxes, each the weight of a wrestler, for the amount it cost for my first car.
We needed to make a 7 pm flight and planned to leave at 5 to get to the airport.
Time was running out with no help to get the huge awkward boxes to the sketchy van that had a handwritten “UPS” sign taped to its side on a nearby street.
I could hardly watch her small-boned frame hunched over as she lifted each carton with her arms barely able to hug the boxes enough to haul them down two flights of stairs.
 TRAVEL TIP: Tie everything you own to your wheelie bag so you don't have to check luggage. To distract myself I checked our flight status: a half hour late. Yay, except the one time I relied on the computer about a late flight, it turned out not to be late and I missed the plane.
Nonetheless, even though I’m unable to chill when running on time, we were running 45 minutes behind and I was chill!
This may not seem like a big deal to you, but I become anxious about getting somewhere, even when it doesn’t matter what time I arrive, which is not to say I’m punctual–I’m not–I’m simply anxious. Anxious and always running behind.
In this case, as always, I had been careful not to reserve the last flight of the evening, in the event the flight was cancelled for weather or whatever. A worrywart performs advance damage control.
Unless you have ever been that chill yourself about something like making a plane, you can’t imagine what a
thrill it is to take a chill pill. Or, maybe you are always chill, in which case you also could never know how, well, chill it feels to go from being a heart-pounding worrier to a chillaxer.
How do you get yourself to chillax when you are late for a flight?
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: CHECK OUT MY SLIDESHOW AND RECIPES: Family-Friendly Healthy Summer Snack Recipes
By susan fishman orlins 
I’m drowning in junk, buried in boxes, suffocating with stuff. It doesn’t surprise me that all these metaphors point to an untimely end.
There would be great irony in getting snuffed out by my stuff, since one of my biggest worries happens to be that I’ll drop dead and my children will have the burden of sorting through everything.
I know what I’m talking about, because even though my 92-year-old mom has downsized several times and has already given some of her things to her children and grandchildren, my sister and I recently had to dismantle her apartment. I spent $300 to mail my share of her chotchkes from Florida to D.C.
Of course you could hire someone to hold a tag sale or find a charity to just haul everything away. But how could you resist going through everything, hunting for treasures that reveal in some cases more than you might want to know about your parents.
After our father died, my sister and I sat on the floor pulling things out of his night table drawer. Crossword puzzles, two pairs of glasses, an old watch and . . . What’s this long thing wrapped in a paper towel?
We looked at each other with clenched teeth fearing the most ghastly kind of sex toy as I gingerly unwound the paper towel.
Until . . . what revealed itself was . . . a toothbrush!
Whew! But that got me thinking what might reveal itself in my night table drawer if I were suddenly to get decapitated by a ceiling fan.
My night table drawer is where I always stored my valentines. Out of sheer laziness, I have never moved them to my “letters received” file, though it is nice to glimpse a red envelope occasionally when I reach for a PostIt and remember that men used to send me valentines.
It occurs to me my kids might think I still hold a torch for the previous Mr. Wrong. Yo kids, uh-uh, he’s just a friend.
Condoms? My kids are cool enough to be cool with that, except no one wants to picture their parents having sex. In this case my girls can actually imagine me not having sex, since the condoms expired in 2009.
I’ve strayed from exploring suffucation by stuff, so look for more of that in a future post.
Unrelated announcement: See my article Easy, Elegant Entertaining: My Mom’s Party Food.
By susan fishman orlins The other day my youngest daughter sent an email to her sisters, her dad (my ex) and me to say she would be receiving a prize for her senior thesis on the day before graduation. She asked who of us would be there in time for the awards event.
I wrote my response to the “family,” hitting “reply all” as we often do. As I was about to hit send, I began to worry about my enthusiasm and whether I should temper it, given the contrast with her dad’s email, which he had already sent to the rest of us.
It’s not that he is not equally pleased and proud, he just has a different way of showing it.
From her dad:
Em,
My plane lands at 4pm so I will try to make it.
Love,
Dad
From me:
Oh my goodness!!!! How fabulous!
My train gets in at 3:40, so I should be there 
Congratulations!!!!
XXOO!!!!
I began to delete some exclamation points, but then decided to leave them and ask what you think I should have done.
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See these unique mosaics, including urns for your pets’ ashes, personalized with photos imbedded under glass.
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 What if I meet a guy I like?
Monday: He gets up. I want to stay in bed but now I can’t fall back to sleep. Or, I get up and he wants to sleep, so I can’t turn on NPR.
 Ah, breakfast! I make myself French toast and a cappuccino and just as I’m about to sit down and enjoy reading the Times, he trots in and says, “Mm, that smells good.”
So I offer him some of my breakfast because otherwise I’d feel guily, but now I just feel hungry and my peaceful breakfast with newspaper indulgence is spoiled.
I walk the dog then return and set up outdoors to work on my laptop.
He asks if I want to bike along the river with him. I’m conflicted because a bike ride sounds great but so does my routine of working outdoors. Either way I’m screwed; I’ll regret that I may have made the wrong choice.
The day rumbles along like this with either interruptions or too many choices. Lord knows there were enough choices before he came along. On the other hand, some of the choices I used to enjoy, like walking with friends, have been reduced because of the time I spend biking and being with him.
Nighttime draws nigh and there’s the usual discussion of what, when and where to eat. He feels like going out. I always feel like eating home. He’s hungry now and wants real food; I’m not and I don’t; I just ate a chunk of dark chocolate, a handful of almonds and a large glass of milk, which you may recognize as my favorite diet tip.
I long for the Monday nights before he came along when the second I got hungry I could stand by the kitchen TV watching “The Bachelor,” while whumping down a salade nicoise.
After dinner, he wants to settle in with cops and robbers or the local news on TV, but I don’t like scary TV. Casey, who used to rest his head on my lap, jumps onto his lap.
A while later, one of us is ready to go to bed; the other isn’t. One of us wants to have sex; the other doesn’t.
He raises the thermostat. After his breathing shifts into slumber, I lower the thermostat.
Tuesday to Friday: It’s the same. (He is retired.) Except Wednesday nights I watch “Survivor” and he sulks.
Weekends aren’t all that different, but after a lifetime of conditioning, they feel different. On Saturday night, he wants to go to dinner and/or a movie. I hate noisy eating and crowded theaters. It’s a perfect night to be cozy at home.
There must be reasons people pair off into living spaces, but I can’t remember what those reasons are.
I suspect I’m missing something here. Do weigh in!
SEE MY NEW POST, ESPECIALLY THE PHOTOS: WHAT FALLEN 9-11 HEROES WOULD HAVE WANTED YOU TO KNOW
By susan fishman orlins  About to become dinner My Chinese friend Tammy took a few of us to the courtyard of Ritan Park’s Xi He Ya Ju for Easter dinner (and my last night in Beijing), which included golden, crispy Peking Duck. Afterwards, we enjoyed duck soup, made with the duck’s body parts and soft tofu.
 The Duck: first you get a plate of the crispy skin with a thin layer of fat. And then a plate with the juicy meat. Mm
All the Fixins
In addition to the onion-skin thin pancakes in the center, fixins included cumber, carrot, sugar, plum sauce, scallion, raspberry sauce. I couldn’t resist including below the Bugs Bunnies I visited earlier in the day at Zhongshan Park, where I went to see the weekly bustle of parents of single sons and daughters negotiating matches for their children.
See my latest Home Goes Strong posts and join the convo:
By susan fishman orlins
Parents seeking matches for their grown children A crowd of gray-haired parents of single adults negotiates with one another along a stretch of Beijing’s Zhongshan Park. These confabs occur on a strip of pavement lined on one side with rainbows of tulips and, on the other side, with the moat of the Forbidden City.
A woman, whose son was born in 1982, asks whether I have a daughter. Yes, I tell her, one that is the same age as her son. But then she decides she cannot consider a match, because her son isn’t good enough for my family.
My Chinese friend tells me it’s because I am Caucasian.
Another woman sidles up and asks, “Are you looking to meet a man?” She figures I must be looking, since I am not holding a resume of my offspring.
A man asks how tall my daughter is. He waves a wrinkled hand to indicate he doesn’t want to talk anymore, because the difference between my daughter’s height and his son’s height is too great.
Though I didn’t exactly say I was looking for matches for my daughters, I didn’t exactly say I wasn’t.
Ever since first hearing about the matchmaking scene in Beijing’s Zhongshan Park, I’ve been dying to check it out. Parents come here on Thursday and Sunday afternoons to pre-screen potential mates for their grown children.
With the intensity of a Tiger Mom, mothers and fathers line up to find suitable matches for their children. At their feet, hand-written resumes–some quite worn–include year of birth, height and education. One, for example, touts a daughter with a Master’s degree in architecture from Yale.
Yes, Internet dating exists here, but most of these parents would find such encounters sketchy. Yet, one woman asked me how Americans meet mates and when I mentioned Internet dating, she wanted the name of such a Website. So I wrote “Match.com” on the back of her son’s resume.
A lady asks what passport I hold. She has a nephew whose English isn’t too good, but she thinks language would not be a problem if he were to marry my daughter.
 SCM Seeking SCW A large, framed photograph of a confidant-looking man, whose father says his son is 40 years old, attracts my eye. The father, aggressively working the crowd, produces a worn red plastic photo album. Flipping through the pages, I wonder whether one snapshot of his son is taken in a borrowed sports car.
The father tells me his son is supportive of this search for a mate. “He drives me here every week,” says the dad. Yet they are picky, given that the son speaks English and earns an excellent salary, around $5,000 a month, working for Oracle.
This father, so proud of his son’s achievements, pulls out a small hand-written resume and adds his home phone for me to contact him if one of my daughters should become interested.
Most of those here are parents of sons. The one-child policy plus the ease of finding out the gender of an in utero child, along with the ease of securing abortion, has led to a preponderance of marriage-aged men in this society, which placed a premium on sons at the time those featured in the resumes here were born.
On its way to setting, the sun shoots sparks from ripples created by couples in pedal boats as they float by under weeping branches of willow trees. Parents pack up their resumes and low folding stools then head home to report the day’s yield to their children.
 Resumes with stones to keep them from blowing away
Working the crowd more actively by wearing the offspring’s resume
 Tulips witness the matchmaking  Lucky couples who've found their matches enjoy a sunny day on the moat of The Forbidden City
By susan fishman orlins 
Unrelated Announcement, my new article: CAN SEPARATE BEDROOMS SAVE A MARRIAGE? Weigh In!
It wasn’t like I had a choice when, at the breakfast table, my then-21-year-old daughter Eliza presented me with documents to sign. The whole family had to swear to confidentiality or the plan was off for her to be a contestant on “Survivor.”
If I refused to sign, the plan was off for her to continue being my daughter. So I signed.
Her father, my ex-husband, reassured me “CBS makes too much money from the show to let anything happen to her.”
But I had seen the episode where a contestant fainted and fell forward while huffing to augment a campfire. Cameras rolled as he lifted his face from burning logs with the skin hanging off his hands.
I tried to be excited for her. After all, I would have applied for the likes of “Survivor” when I was her age. But I kept thinking up things like What will happen to Eliza’s teeth if she goes six weeks without flossing?
The closest I ever got to TV fame occurred when I was 22, during a micro affair with Chuck Barris, creator of “The Dating Game.” He offered me a gig to go to Colorado Springs as a “Dating Game” chaperone. My training consisted of one instruction: Make sure the girl doesn’t get pregnant.
Worry is relative. My daughter’s 26-hour trip on three flights to get to her “Survivor” destination, including one on Air Vanuatu, would have been enough to make me go on a hunger strike. But the idea of her starving on an island, one I’d never heard of, trumped the aviation rumination.
Thankfully it was pre-tsunami.
I got through it, perhaps calling on the same resources that help me worry less now that my daughters no longer live at home. Although they go out in cars and subways till all hours among drunks (themselves at times driving sleepy, which is the same as driving drunk), I can at least pretend they are snug in their beds when I turn off my bedside lamp at night.
How do you cope with worrying about your loved ones?
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 Call me Ms Memory, with 2 recent articles:
21 WAYS TO REMEMBER PRACTICALLY EVERYTHING!
11 EASY WAYS TO REMEMBER PRACTICALLY EVERYTHING
But last week I go upstairs before my dentist appointment to change into something cooler. I take off my sweats, pee, and then head downstairs to get going on my bike. Halfway down the stairs, I realize I forgot to put on my pants.
Should I be worried about my memory?
SEE MY LATEST HOME GOES STRONG ARTICLE: 27 Awesome Ways to Dye, Decorate and Display Easter Eggs
By susan fishman orlins UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT: See my article Interfaith Seders & a Heavenly Flourless Chocolate Cake. Join the convo at the site with comments!
Here’s what triggers a mighty sadness for me: Juxtapostition of happy-sad. If on a normal day in March I hear about a young boy’s bike getting stolen, I’m sad but probably won’t need to watch a Seinfeld rerun to cheer myself up.
If, however, it’s Christmas and a brand new bike that the boy has been dreaming of gets stolen, well, it’s so hard to take that I need to distract myself with a bike ride of my own.
So imagine how I felt years ago on a visit to my kids when they were at their dad’s house. My daughter dashed upstairs all excited to show me her new Spice Girls poster. As she ran downstairs with the large paper poster billowing, it tore.
Her face crumpled, my heart shattered and all these years later I feel a rock in my chest when I think about that moment, which I do more often than I eat ice cream.
Needless to say this is completely inconsequential compared to other happy-sads, one obvious example being the plane crash in which John F. Kennedy, Jr. and 2 others died just as his cousin was about to get married.
Vacations offer myriad risks for happy-sad, which is one reason I often choose instead to hang out at home with the dog. (One friend calls family vacations an oxymoron.)
I agree with a friend who said, “You can’t be happier than your least happy child.”
I wish I could have protected my daughter from the torn Spice Girls poster and every other hardship life has to offer. All I can do though is tell myself these experiences build character and hopefully prepare them to deal with real problems.
Any other suggestions for coping with these kinds of white girl worries?
By susan fishman orlins Unrelated announcement: My new post “Divorce, Downsizing, Dating & Death.” Share your thoughts.
In a previous post 10 Days in New York: Lessons Learned, Worries Amassed, I mentioned seeing a flier that said simply “Sarah Needs a Job .com.” I was so intrigued by this that I went
 sarah needs a job to Sarah’s Website. Sarah Feldman is around the age of my daughters, and I thought I could help, so I wrote her the below email.
On Sun, Mar 27, 2011 at 5:03 PM, Susan Orlins wrote:
Hi Sarah. I saw your flier and loved it. Went back to photograph it for my blog www.confessionsofaworrywart.com. But someone had taken down the ones I’d seen on W. 14th St. I was intrigued, because I thought your fliers showed great initiative and imagination.
I also like your Website, though as a mother of 3 girls in their 20′s, I wanted to make a couple of motherly suggestions.
 sarah needs a job sit here I apologize in advance for being presumptuous.
One, I would clean up anything you can, because I think it won’t appeal to employers. I would remove the f-word, even from comments and I would rename the page of NEWYORKSHITTY.
I love how your enthusiasm comes through and I would be inspired to interview you, but also I would be a bit put off by the angry tone that shows up…naturally you feel that way. Maybe there’s a humorous or other way to express it.
Anyway, all that said, I’d like to mention you on my blog and maybe at some point do a separate post about you.
Oh, one more thing. I couldn’t tell what you do? I think from a comment that you are an artist and went to Pratt. It would be nice to know that. I adore the graphic on the Site that’s under construction and your earrings too!!
 sarah needs a job fruit market Good luck and I hope to hear from you and I hope you take my suggestions as from a well-meaning (overbearing Jewish) mother.
On Mar 27, 2011, at 6:35 PM, labohemianartist wrote:
newyorkshitty.com isn’t my website…
On Mar 27, 2011, at 8:34 PM, Susan Orlins wrote:
Now that you point it out, I looked more carefully and I see that.
The following day . . . Unable to leave it at that, I posted on her blog where she mentions a job interview:
Good luck with your interview! See my shout out to sarahneedsajob.com on my blog http://tinyurl.com/tyspf.
I’m mulling over whether I’ll show her this post that you are now reading.
 sarah needs a job and glam poster Please tell me you too have a story of being an unwelcome buttinsky!
Should I let Sarah know about this post? Please vote!
UNRELATED ANNOUNCEMENT:
See my article Interfaith Passover Seders & a Heavenly Flourless Chocolate Cake and join the convo on that Site–I love comments!
And see my article Extreme Couponing: How Discount Coupons Can Save You up to 99% at the Supermarket.
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
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