Blog Posts by Susan Orlins

Sometimes I play a game in which I name an object and then try to associate a worry with it, just to see if I can stump myself.

"Venetian blinds," I say.

"Peeping Tom!" I answer without having inhaled.

"Tomatoes," I try. "Salmonella poisoning!"

Another way to play is to see how many worries I can associate with each object. For example, I could add choking on a sandwich to the tomato category. Even Saturday morning cartoons trigger angst about radiation from the TV. I simply cannot draw a blank in the association game; there is no end to all that could go wrong. So you can imagine the degree to which setting out to write a worry blog arouses in me a sense of danger. Among other things, dwelling on all that can go wrong could end up making me worry more.

Yet, I am not without my optimistic stripe. I can envision a scenario in which spilling my anxieties onto the page results in a transfusion for my mind, ridding me of the very fears I write about, thus allowing

There's something serene, along with a sprinkling of smug, about people who practice yoga. They laud the benefits-"Doing yoga has saved my back." "I'm no longer stressed."

Self Portrait With Bike

Self Portrait With Bike

If I had the patience to do yoga, I'd also have the attention span to meditate, read the New Yorker and maybe even drive more.

On the other hand, I'm like the yoga folks when it comes to bicycling. I too often wax smugly about the thrill of breezes in my face and never having to deal with rush hour traffic or the search for a parking space. I stay fit and it takes barely more time to get anywhere by bike compared to auto, sometimes less.

Admittedly, biking requires a degree of flexibility about arriving at your destination with wet circles on the underarms of your shirt.

In the winter, when the temperature is in single digits, many bikers hang up their handlebars and I find myself among a reduced population of peddalers.

"I don't get it," I say. "You would ski in

My New Year's resolution is to learn how to play Angry Birds.

But an essay in the New York Times suggests that daydreaming increases creativity. Daydreaming requires time, time I dump into playing Words With Friends.

Words With Friends, though, is more than just words. It's confirmation that my sister, my nieces, my colleague, my daughters and the guy whose name I got from the hardware store to hang my daughter's curtains are out there, connected to me. I also play Words With Friends with a friend.

Playing WWF helps make me patient in checkout lines and waiting rooms. Deep in the night before going to sleep, I go into such hyper-focus that I wouldn't notice if a squirrel were in the house, especially if I were struggling-as I am now-to find a 7-letter word with the letters R-T-S-A-Blank-S-D-P that does not end in S.

This is not conducive to sleep.

My fellow Life Goes Strong blogger Irene Levine (Don't you love names that rhyme? I had a history

My starter husband Saul and I began dating the week before I entered college; we married after my sophomore year and divorced during my junior year. I emerged from the husband, the garden apartment and the Impala sedan squinting from the sudden brightness of university life. At age twenty, for the first time ever, I was untethered; even my parents were not near enough to track my moves.

I met Dizzy in the fall of my senior year. Most evenings I found him at the pinball machine in the deli across from my apartment. If I dallied beside him, looking on, every so often he would reward me with a turn at the flippers.

One night, at around eleven, he asked if I wanted to join him and his roommates for their nightly card game. After several days he stopped asking; he assumed I would follow him to his apartment for the game, which included getting high and gorging on the standard fare: potato chips, Oreos, subs dripping with mayo, and pints of Haagen-Dazs out of the carton. Most of

My beagle Casey is healthy, spunky and-at 13 1/2-still learning new tricks, like wagging his tail. Yet, today for no apparent reason, I woke up vocalizing a name for my next dog.

A boy named Scarlet?

A boy named Scarlet?

Maybe it started a few days ago when I phoned the bike store to see if they could fix my flat tire, which occurred right before my car wouldn't start.

A voice answered, "Hudson Trail, Scarlet speaking."

Scarlet! I love that name. But a boy named Scarlet?

When we got Casey, I knew I wanted a boy dog. I had gotten divorced some months earlier and the only testosterone in my life, aside from a couple of friends, were my computer guy and my dentist.

So I searched for a boy dog and a male psychotherapist. Casey came to us when he was seven months old, along with his name. My three daughters and I dawdled so long, trying to agree on what to call him, that he remained Casey.

I don't recall anyone ever asking how he got his name, but I believe that everyone who meets