Category Archives: Captain Quirk

September 29, 2026 · 12:21 pm

Food Fight

There are lots of areas in which my husband and I have a difference of opinion. I think we should be able to park our cars in our garage. He doesn’t particularly care if the cars are in there or not. He is of the opinion that every cardboard box we own should be squirreled away for another day. I think keeping just a few is plenty. I say “let,” while he says “leave.”

But when it comes to food, the differences are off the charts. Naturally, I think I represent the majority of opinion in every instance. So does he. Therein lies the rub.

For starters, I love tuna salad when it’s made with mayonnaise, regardless of the brand. He prefers mixing the tuna with Miracle Whip, which I can’t begin to tolerate. It’s far too sweet for my taste and doesn’t even smack of real food. When it comes to tuna, it’s all about a savory flavor in my mind. Throw in some celery and maybe a bit of diced hardboiled eggs or onion and you have something worth eating. I’ve even been known to add sliced Spanish olives for a nice briny tang. By contrast, he adds sweet pickle relish. I can’t even. So, to resolve this issue in our marriage, we make both kinds of tuna salad as a rule.

Speaking of tuna, my husband became ill after eating some tuna noodle casserole ONE time and has refused to eat it ever since then. Mind you, this happened over 50 YEARS AGO. You’d think after that much time had passed, you might be inclined to try the dish again, especially since you love all the ingredients. Nope. Turns out, he had a horrible bout of the flu that night and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the tuna casserole. But there’s no convincing him of that, even still.

What’s more, I like chili made with kidney or black beans (or both) while he prefers it without beans. Who does that? He loves pickled beets. I can’t stand them, although I do enjoy pickled red beet eggs. Go figure. I absolutely love ripe (black) and Spanish (green) olives while he positively abhors them. I’m sure it bothers him to no end when he sees me enjoying either the black or green variety by the fistful, so I try to get out of his sight when I do. In addition, we’ve gone round and round over the matter of apple dumplings. He thinks they’re a stand-alone meal. I think they qualify as a dessert.

Further, I won’t eat scrapple, nor do I trust anyone who does. In fact, the horrendous smell that wafts through the entire house when it’s cooking repulses me. By the same token, he refuses to eat broccoli or cauliflower and can’t stand the smell when they’re steaming hot. Nor does he trust anyone who would eat such a thing. I don’t even want to know where scrapple comes from. It’s like some sort of mystery meat that I don’t care to sample even though my husband lovingly offers me some each time he makes it. It’s only fair that I offer him broccoli or cauliflower.

Another area of dissimilarity involves the manner in which we consume spaghetti or linguini. I, of course, twirl a few noodles with my fork against a spoon or my plate, like a normal person—just like my friend, Theresa. He, on the other hand, CUTS THE PASTA like a madman. It’s almost criminal and it literally hurts my soul to witness this in person and hear his knife scraping against the plate.

In addition, the man eats Lebanon bologna slathered with peanut butter. In all honesty, I just don’t see those two flavors pairing in the same mouthful. I love them both, but would never put them together under any circumstance. That’s just insane.

When all is said and done, in our household at least, what I’ve described brings new meaning to the phrase, “food fight.”

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably arguing about food). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

I’ll Fix Your Wagon

Just when you think you’re cruising along in life and nearly everything seems to be going swimmingly, the universe begs to differ. In its infinite wisdom it whispers, “I’ll fix your wagon,” because we all know that things can’t go as planned forever. The universe always has the final say. And it doesn’t seem to matter how optimistic or spiritual or hopeful one is. Eventually, the tide turns—for the worse. At least for me that’s how it usually goes.

Case in point: The dehumidifier in our basement needed to be emptied. So, I emptied it. Like a normal person. On a Sunday afternoon. But my lower back never got the message that this was part of my regular routine. Something I considered to be ridiculously simple. Something that I have accomplished without incident seemingly forever. But this time was different. Somehow, I was asking too much of my back to complete the task without any drama.

Reader, there was plenty of drama.

At first, I felt a slight twinge. Then the reality set in that I had done something horrible to my back. Correction: Something horribly stupid. Apparently, I was lifting the brunt of the weight with my back—and not with my legs. I then replaced the reservoir in the dehumidifier and scooped the litter box, all the while trying (and failing) to bend over like someone who wasn’t in excruciating pain. I then hobbled to the stairs—the ones that looked impossible to scale in my current condition. God bless railings.

For the next five days (and counting), I planted myself on the couch in agony with a heating pad and/or ice wedged behind me while I watched entirely too much tennis and baseball, envious of the way the athletes on the screen could move. By contrast, I shuffled around the house like an old man—much like Tim Conway did in his hilarious skits—every step a new adventure, the epitome of the term “slow.”

It’s easy to take a body that works the way it’s supposed to for granted. You don’t really think about doing something as basic as bending over to pick a piece of lint off the floor—until you can’t. By then, it qualifies as pure, unadulterated frustration. Honestly, this past week I’ve been staring at the pieces of lint on the floor as if they were mocking me, obsessed with their existence and completely disgusted with myself because I can’t pick the cussed things up. And I keep dropping stuff while the mere thought of retrieving said stuff makes me wince. Never mind the notion of sneezing. That pain is off the charts.

As a result, I have had to rely on my husband to do practically EVERYTHING for me. He picks up the remote when I drop it. He brings me celery lovingly stuffed with tuna. He stands behind me as I attempt to navigate the stairs. For the love of God, HE PUTS MY SOCKS ON. Of course, he does it wrong because the words on the socks aren’t perfectly aligned with my toes, so I make him fix them by suggesting that he pretends for a moment to suffer from OCD (related to symmetry) like me. So far, I have been successful.

In a nutshell, I have been virtually incapacitated, and popping Tylenol around the clock. If nothing else, this experience has given me a new appreciation for what people who are debilitated for whatever reason go through on a daily basis. My husband, for instance, has been dealing with pain and discomfort for more than a decade—mostly associated with neuropathy and arthritis, not to mention his hip and back surgeries and all that that has entailed. I try not to lose my patience as quickly with his slower pace and attempt to understand that perhaps the universe fixed his wagon, too.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (recuperating). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Keeper of Things

When it comes to saving things, I understand—especially if there’s an element of practicality or sentiment behind the decision. I’ve kept plenty of things from my past that are functional or have meant something to me, as I’ve expressed here in these pages. But I draw the line when the items in question are kept without any apparent reason other than, “It still works. Sort of.” Also, “I might need that someday.”

It’s no surprise those are my husband’s words. I hear them each time I attempt to convince him to throw something out already. Something past its prime. Something no longer useful or aesthetically pleasing. Something older than dirt. Of course, I use logic and common sense to argue my point. I appeal to the sense of joy he’ll undeniably feel once he recognizes his world will be less cluttered after he scraps the bit of whateverness he’s hanging onto—the stuff that clogs our closets, basement and garage.

Over the years I’ve tried, and failed miserably, to get him to embrace the teachings of Marie Kondo, author of The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up and Spark Joy. Naturally, I’ve asked him the obvious question: Does a particular item he’s considering to keep or trash “…spark joy” within him? And despite the fact that he doesn’t completely understand the concept that Kondo so perfectly states in her books, he’ll respond emphatically that “Yes, this 50-year-old toaster still sparks joy for me.” And at that, I am at my wits’ end, reluctantly acknowledging that I live with a hoarder.

It’s not just the toaster he refused to part with after we recently purchased a new one. There are tiny whisks (that feature a bit of rust), coats and jackets that no longer fit anyone, hordes of ragged, old towels in a heap in our garage, a 7-foot Christmas tree that we can no longer haul downstairs from the attic, worn out sneakers and shoes that went out of style decades ago and TWO faded 9-foot pool umbrellas. God forbid, that something would happen to one of those backups and we needed the second spare. There are also scores of plastic bags, newspapers, bits of cloth and a metric ton of empty cardboard boxes. Oh, my hell, the boxes! We certainly can’t part with perfectly good boxes.

What’s more, my husband won’t even entertain the thought of donating his impressive collection of 21 wooden baseball bats and slew of gloves and catcher’s mitts—a veritable shrine to the sport if ever there was one. Our home also still houses his highchair that has seen better days and his toy trucks—which are metal so you know they’re ancient. Weirder still, four of his baby teeth are currently stowed inside a small box on his dresser, along with two stainless steel screws from a foot surgery that occurred over 26 years ago. That’s just plain creepy if you ask me—on par with keeping one’s gallbladder or appendix.

Need I even mention the deluge of twist ties in our kitchen—in case we suddenly need to secure 487 loaves of bread? I think I do need to mention it, because it highlights the dysfunction that lives here. I’ve heard of being prepared for the unexpected, but that’s ridiculous.

I must confess that some of the items he has so meticulously saved from the trash bin have proven to be useful on occasion and it pains me greatly to admit that. Scraps of wood and metal along with snippets of wire and rogue screws have come in handy more than once. Further, he has resurrected various electrical appliances from the dead by replacing their cords, as I looked on in astonishment. One time he tried (and failed) to teach me how to strip a wire so that he could make an extension cord out of a piece that he was physically incapable of throwing away. I wish I were kidding. HE COULD NOT THROW IT AWAY.

There is hope on the horizon, though. He recently informed me that he MIGHT discard the broken basket from our pool filter that we replaced with a new one.

He has to give it some serious thought first, however.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (with a premier keeper of things). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under "S" is for Shame, Captain Quirk, Daily Chaos, Home for Wayward Toys, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Ode to Embarrassment, Rantings & Ravings, The Chicken Man, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as disorganization, hoarder, hoarding, home, Home Improvement, humor, humor marriage, Marie Kondo, organization, Spark Joy

June 2, 2026 · 12:25 pm

Out to Pasture

Just when I thought my household décor was in vogue and on par with the latest design trends, the universe had the audacity to inform me otherwise. I know this because I watch entirely too much HGTV. Apparently, my kitchen cabinetry is dated, even though its appearance and functionality are ideal in my mind. I love the soft close feature that each cupboard boasts and the ridiculously spacious Super Susans nestled in the corners. Even the key cabinet, where we now house all sorts of things aside from keys, is beyond convenient. Never mind the enormous drawers hidden beneath our 34-square foot island that can each hold 100 pounds or more. And because I own way too many pots and rogue Rubbermaid containers, those drawers are perfectly suited to manage it all.

I can’t even begin to express how thrilled I was, and continue to be, with the spaciousness of almost every aspect of our kitchen that we renovated over 13 years ago. Even the junk drawer has room for all our junk—which is really saying something.

And the sturdy exterior of the cabinetry, a beautiful Brazilian stained quarter sawn oak that makes my heart smile every time I enter the kitchen, extends all the way to the ceiling so that I no longer have to wonder what to do with the worthless space (i.e. dust trap) atop the cupboards. Plus, I can now store even more—I just have to haul a stepladder in to make it happen. And yes, the countertops, island, floor and paint all hail from a decidedly warm and earthy color palette—egregiously far from what is considered trendy by today’s standards. Everything, it seems, is either pristine white or muted gray nowadays. Where’s the fun in that—let alone the whimsy?

What’s more, popular kitchen/bathroom hardware, fixtures and lighting are mostly brushed brass of late, something I tried so hard to eradicate from my home since it smacked of the ‘80s. Are we going backwards here? Are bell-bottoms next? That said, wallpaper has been resurrected from the dead, evidently. I cringe every time I see the hosts of the Property Brothers or Love It or List It decide to add it to various rooms as some sort of magical feature because I distinctly remember becoming enraged while attempting to remove every stitch of it from my home. At one point, we had to hire someone to save us from ourselves by doing the job for us. Thank you, Ed Gair.

It’s no surprise that the entire topic of home improvement has always been a point of contention between my husband and me. We rarely agree on the specifics of how to renovate, so when the stars and planets align so that we are, in fact, on the same page, we immediately put the changes into effect. That’s how we ended up with gorgeous dark walnut-hued vinyl plank flooring (that looks exactly like hardwood) in our living room and dining room. Amazingly, it resists scratches, stains and water. Good thing—because we had a little dog that whizzed on the floor indiscriminately for years. Unfortunately, though, we can’t seem to agree on whether to replace our hideous pink carpet in the bedrooms that my husband swears is salmon with more carpet or perhaps more vinyl. He is of the opinion that we should install more carpet (potentially terrible carpet) while I think vinyl plank flooring makes more sense because it would contribute to the overall flow in our home. Of course, I learned that term by watching HGTV.

Either way, we’re doing it wrong according to the home décor experts. Invariably, the folks on many of the episodes prefer lighter-colored flooring. And they almost never opt for carpeting, much to my husband’s disappointment.

Further, I’m sure if they had their way regarding our home, they’d advise us to knock down walls, move the stove and reorient our stairwell in order to create a more open concept and better feng shui. Yes, I learned those terms on the network, too.

No doubt, that very same network would likely be prepared to put my precious design ideas out to pasture, long before it’s time. Who knows; maybe the universe is right.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably watching HGTV). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Home Improvement, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as cabinetry, family, HGTV, home decor, Home Improvement, humor, marriage humor

May 12, 2026 · 11:00 am

By the Book

I have what some would consider a small library in my home—which sounds more impressive than it actually is. It’s a tiny collection of books written by some of my favorite authors, situated on a shelf just above my desk. On occasion, I pull one down and reread it, recalling why I placed it among my beloved titles in the first place. Oddly enough, I sometimes get more out of a book on the second time around, enjoying it to an even greater extent, observing finer detail with each passage and page. If, for whatever reason, I decide not to reread a book, I give it to someone or donate it randomly by placing it inside the Little Free Library in our neighborhood that my friend, Christine, installed several years ago. It’s no secret that I appreciate it as much or more than the neighborhood kids do.

I also have a to-be-read pile (TBR) in my home, stacked in the order I intend to consume each literary gem. One of the tenets I hold dear is that my TBR pile can never be depleted to zero. I have to know there is always another book waiting for me. Otherwise, I get anxious when I’m about to finish one if another isn’t lined up, at the ready. Quirky, I know.

But I doubt I’m as quirky as my husband by comparison. That man has the books he intends to read scattered all over the house, a few stashed in almost every room—in case sudden inspiration strikes, I guess. What’s more, he reads more than one book at a time. He calls it multitasking, of course. I call it madness. I have no idea how he keeps the narratives straight in his head. Heaven forbid he misplaces his bookmarks.

And despite the loads of encouragement I give him, he rarely agrees to read a book I suggest—even if I know in my heart of hearts that he’ll love it. Further, it’s almost impossible for me to convince him that he’d enjoy a novel. He usually goes for nonfiction like biographies or autobiographies on the topics of history, war, music and politics. Truth be told, I probably prefer nonfiction, too, although I have a few favorite novelists whose styles I can’t resist. At any rate, I’m seldom able to sway him to read just one of those writers.

On a related note, again and again he reminds me NOT to buy him another book—for Christmas, for his birthday, for Father’s Day, etc. And I fail to listen. The fact that I purchase yet another title for him is a manifestation of a terrible compulsion I feel each time I enter a bookstore—much like buying for myself. Oh well, I could have worse habits.

Thankfully, the greater Williamsport area is home to six wonderful libraries, the James V. Brown Library in Williamsport, the Konkle Memorial Library in Montoursville, the Jersey Shore Public Library, the Montgomery Area Public Library, the Muncy Public Library and the Hughesville Area Public Library. That said, we can always rely on them to provide wonderful book-related services for people of all ages and stages of life.

When all is said and done, there’s at least one thing my husband and I share when it comes to books—we not only love them, but we have enough sense to bring a good one along when we know we’ll be holed up at jury duty or at a garage getting our cars inspected, et al. Without fail, we’ll be there for hours on end and scrolling on a phone or watching TV will only suffice for so long.

Speaking of books, don’t miss the Second Annual Storytellers Book Fair hosted by Lycoming Arts in the Pennington Lounge at Lycoming College on Friday, May 15th from 4-7pm! There will be basket raffles, local author and artist meet-and-greets, book sales, mystery wine pull, community book swap, a discussion about PJ Piccirillo’s featured book (The Indigo Scarf) and a session regarding the publishing industry and book promotion (by Otto Bookstore General Manager, John Shableski). All proceeds from guest passes and activities will support Lycoming Arts and its work to connect our community through the arts. I’ll be there with bells on, signing my books. Hope to see you there!

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably reading a good book). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.