Category Archives: Home for Wayward Toys

July 28, 2026 · 12:39 pm

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.

Fitness for Dummies

It has been said that dogs are the best brand of exercise equipment on the market. Given my penchant for failure as it relates to fitness, I guess I’m glad I own a dog. However, this leads me to question the wisdom behind a lot of my past purchases. Lately I’ve been wrestling with the notion of parting with my beloved treadmill—the one that has lived in my home for an eternity. And before that, in a shoebox-of-an-apartment I shared with my brother. And before that, in a house I shared with my first husband. Needless to say, the treadmill in question was far more impressive than the aforementioned apartment could’ve ever hoped to be. It also outlasted the abovementioned marriage and, in fact, wooed me enough to demand that it become part of my divorce settlement—so great was its ability to convince me that I couldn’t possibly function without it.

More often than not, said nugget of wonderfulness was situated near a window. A practical move based upon my perfectly undocumented belief that a view of the great outdoors would somehow inspire me to exercise with more fervor and regularity. Never mind that I can’t readily recall when I last used it. Or that my brood masterfully adorned it with a makeshift tightrope, time and again—designating it as a staging area for death defying Barbie trapeze acts, as well as for storing an embarrassment of toys. Maybe that’s why I find it so completely endearing even now. It holds a wealth of memories—albeit ones that remind me of my inundated-with-Legos way of life. Or maybe it’s because I became enamored with the idea that the embodiment of fitness, both attainable and discreet, could be neatly tucked into a corner of my home—affording me at least some semblance of control over my vastly disordered environment and scheduled-to-the-hilt sort of existence.

Proving that I had learned next to nothing about myself as it related to ambition (or the lack thereof), years later I whined for yet another piece of fitness equipment—a recumbent bicycle. My current husband, dutiful and sweet that he is, ordered me one. A fancy-schmancy, mondo-programmable, ergonomically designed, totally unaffordable slice of Schwinn heaven. A bike that promised I would look like a Greek goddess in six minutes or less—all in the comfort and convenience of my home. Or maybe it was six weeks of grueling workouts I’d have to endure in order to achieve such a feat. I can’t be sure.

Shortly before it arrived, however, I remember relishing the thought that it would soon be MINE—to pore over and ogle to the point of delirium, to pedal and program with unbridled enthusiasm, to become hopelessly fixated with its profusion of bells and whistles which, of course, included an adjustable fan, a nifty little pair of transport wheels and comfort-fit handlebars. What’s more, there was a reading rack gizmo and an ideally positioned nook for stowing one’s remote control and/or wine goblet—so thoughtful and intuitive were the makers of my latest and greatest obsession.

As one might expect, we plunked said glorious piece of machinery near a window and angled it to face the television—lest I become bored while peering at the tired lawn and less-than-inspiring shrubbery outside. Sadly, tedium rained down like a scourge and the bike has since joined the ranks of every other hunk of fitness-related hype with which I allowed myself to become shamelessly infatuated (i.e. the legions of dumbbells now gathering dust beneath my couch, the gym membership I failed to use—EVER, the perfectly coiled yoga mats currently housed in a closet, unceremoniously sandwiched between someone’s snow boots and a forgotten bowling ball, the Tae Bo tapes).

Despite all logic and understanding, however, part of me holds out hope that one day I’ll redeem myself by becoming consumed with the notion that the abovementioned items can, indeed, be resurrected. Even by someone who fails spectacularly to will herself to do much of anything—aside from walk the cussed dog.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (probably walking the dog). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom. The content of this article, as it appears here, was previously published in the Khaleej Times.

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Filed under Doggie Diamonds, Home for Wayward Toys, In the Trenches of Parentville, Me Time, motherhood, Ode to Embarrassment, Unplugged

Tagged as dogs, exercise, fitness, humor, marriage, parenting

November 10, 2025 · 5:51 pm

Dumpster Diving

My husband has never heard of Marie Kondo. Nor does he subscribe to her renowned KonMari Method of keeping only the possessions in one’s life that “spark joy.” It’s a wonder I convinced him to park a ginormous dumpster in our driveway for the better part of a month, hoping against hope that we’d somehow find the will to purge our home of the crap we’ve accumulated as a family for over 22 years.

I, for one, found it to be a cathartic experience—especially the part where I got to fling stuff into the air with wild abandon. It’s possible I may have even shouted something in triumph each time I tossed one of my husband’s college textbooks or a tangled mass of badminton netting into the giant metal bin. The only thing more liberating would have been to light it on fire.

But there were times I got a bit misty-eyed when faced with the matter of keeping or chucking an embarrassment of cap guns. They were a hallmark of my childhood after all. Never mind that several were jammed or in another way deemed nonfunctional. Not surprisingly, I had great difficulty parting with my kids’ toy machine guns, too, and felt compelled to squeeze the broken triggers multiple times before hurling them into oblivion.

I’m like a kindergartener, only less disciplined.

Needless to say, my excitement grew as the days passed and the dumpster became filled with more and more junk. There was a glut of the ugly-as-sin carpeting we just tore out of the living room. There were also boxes upon boxes of heavy books and lesson plans, circa 1974, that I hauled down from the attic, risking life and limb on a 17-foot ladder. There was an abundance of college notebooks that were spared from the trash for nearly five decades. For the love of God, who does that? A hoarder, that’s who. There was a gas grill, an office chair, three sets of antiquated golf clubs and a bug collecting kit of undetermined origin. Of course, there were still bugs inside it—dead as ever. Even my dust-covered treadmill found its way there, despite the challenge of dragging it all the way through the house and garage. At least we got some exercise in the process.

Even our neighbors got in on the fun when I gave them the go-ahead to deposit their gargantuan television set inside. I only wish I had witnessed its arrival. Instead I had to hear about several family members pushing and/or “riding” their 72” TV down the street and up our driveway. I can only imagine what it must have been like to then lift the stupid thing into the dumpster. Hopefully, no one got a hernia.

As one might expect, my hoard-happy husband and I had several heated debates while we attempted to clean out our garage—most of which involved dumpster diving (his) and emphatic arguments (mine) over the issue of whether or not something “brought joy” to one’s life.

“What do you mean ‘Does this bring me joy?’” he demanded to know as he held a bucket with no bottom in his hands. “I happen to like this bucket.”

“It has no bottom,” I reminded him.

“I don’t care,” he defended.

In hindsight, maybe I should have requested that a marriage counselor be included with the dumpster rental. Judging by our impassioned exchanges, I’m guessing a lot of couples would be interested in such a convenient arrangement. Better still, a copy of Marie Kondo’s Spark Joy could be presented to help the utterly hopeless.

Although we still have a lot of stuff to purge after filling an entire dumpster to the brim and it took two people with master’s degrees to open it, on the bright side, we found a buyer for my husband’s vintage (old-as-dirt) Schwinn bicycle and classic toy trucks. What’s more, we unearthed some marbles while sorting through a hodgepodge of items.

It’s good to know we still have some.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, anxiously awaiting the arrival of another dumpster for Round II of The Purge. Visit me there at www.Facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.