Category Archives: Home is Where the Weirdness Lives

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.

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.

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Filed under Bookish Stuff, Captain Quirk, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Me Time, Normal is Relative, Unplugged

Tagged as books, hobbies, humor, library, marriage, marriage humor, reading

April 28, 2026 · 12:00 pm

Strangelings

Most would agree that cats are weird little dudes. Adorable and fuzzy, of course, but definitely weird. At least ours are. My husband and I have had a number of them over the years. Long-haired, short-haired, smoky grey, orange, jet black and tabby. But they all seemed to have one thing in common: weirdness.

We had one cat who made it a habit to walk our kids to and from the bus stop before and after school. He was like clockwork. Even the bus driver, Helen, was keenly aware of his presence and made sure he was all the way across the road before she drove off, as if he were one of the kids—just furrier. This cat also played fetch, like a dog. He would chase various items that we threw for him and dutifully brought them back.

Another cat felt compelled to bring us the carcass of whatever he happened to slaughter on his nightly adventures. He’d leave beheaded creatures at the doorstep as a “gift” for us or conveniently carry them inside where we could more closely inspect that which was obviously precious to him. Sometimes he’d remove not only the head, but the paws, too, and then he’d display them neatly in a row, which is both disturbing and impressive. I’ll never forget stepping on a dead mouse on the porch IN MY BARE FEET on one occasion, stifling a scream. I’m sure he was pleased that I took note of his hunting prowess.

Still another cat, who was feral but became quite loveable over time, used to BITE rocks; although he did bite my husband more than once, sending him to the doctor for antibiotics. At any rate, our kids collected rocks at every turn and displayed some of the smaller ones on our kitchen island next to some candles. I don’t know what went on in that furry little head of his that insisted it made perfect sense to grate his teeth across stones from time to time, but something clearly did. I think he even had a favorite rock that he gnawed upon more than the others. Of course, I kept the rocks. I just couldn’t bear to toss them out after he passed.

Currently we have two cats that get along for the most part, Peets and Mario; but what’s odd is that Peets routinely tackles Mario like a linebacker—a cat that is TWICE her size. She just walks up to him, looks him dead in the eye and pounces, wrapping her tiny arms around his enormous neck. Stranger still, he backs down after a short-lived scuffle (so that Peets can resume giving me a bath). What a weirdo. But aside from the mismatched brawling, Mario has some traits we’ve discovered that eclipse all the others. We haven’t had him all that long, but he has provided a wealth of entertainment in that time.

For starters, he crawls inside ridiculous spaces—like our Lazy Susan, our pantry, our dryer and our refrigerator for God’s sake. I know, it’s a disgusting habit. He also resurrects random items from the cellar, carries them upstairs and shoves them under the door—like a gift. Stuff like pencils, screws, bolts and chewed-upon markers (often with the caps removed). Of course, we’re immensely appreciative. For context, our cats spend the night in our basement because we simply cannot let them have the run of the house. I haven’t completely lost my mind. What’s more, he plays fetch with himself by hauling an actual tennis ball to the top of the stairs and then lets it bounce all the way down. I know because I hear it thud on each step for hours on end and it only started happening after we adopted him. I’m pretty sure he’s the one placing toy mice (and sometimes REAL mice) in his water bowl as well, soggy as ever. I’m not sure if the real mouse died because he was bludgeoned to death or he drowned. Either way, he was a goner.

I suspect Mario has a personal vendetta against my houseplants, too. More specifically, he tries to murder them on a daily basis. He pulls them out of the pots and drags them across the floor, dirt and plant bits scattering everywhere. Naturally, I shout obscenities at him—just like all the times he jumps on me (or my husband) and attaches briefly to our backsides. Occasionally, he’ll leap as high as our shoulders, which is remarkable in its own right. Clearly, he’s not getting enough attention.

I’ll have to work on that.

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

Comments Off on Strangelings

Filed under Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, The Natives are Decidedly Restless, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as cats, family, humor, pets, rescue cats

March 18, 2026 · 12:07 pm

What’s the Damage?

When I was young some would say that I was a fairly athletic person, as I participated quite competitively in various sports, both individual and team efforts. As one might expect, I suffered my share of injuries over the years and used a ton of ice and Bengay as therapy. The list mostly included sprained ankles, dislocated fingers and, of course, pulled hamstrings—a sprinter’s lament. I’m not sure how I managed it, but I never tore an ACL or broke any bones back then. Small mercies.

Fast forward to now, when I hurt myself in one way or another, I don’t bounce back as quickly—if at all. It used to be I was laid up for a few days or a week at most, and then I was right back to normal, ready to pull another hammy in the 100m dash.

Once I was pushing 40 however (and now considerably more), it seems the rules have changed—and not for the better. For starters, I can injure myself doing absolutely anything—or nothing at all. I can bend down and pick up a paperclip and wrench my back instantaneously. The twinge is familiar if nothing else and I know I’ll be hibernating on the couch with a heating pad in no time. And why is it that a stiff neck can materialize out of nothingness? I can “sleep wrong” and wind up with utterly debilitating neck pain—the kind that triggers pure anguish over the suggestion of driving a car.

It almost goes without saying that my muscles and joints have aged less than gracefully and I’m sure there’s a bit of arthritis lurking about that adds to my discomfort from time to time—which doesn’t seem fair at all. Who knew that running a full marathon and completing a triathlon in college would ostensibly wreck my knees? Not 21-year-old me. I thought I was invincible.

But what I find completely unwarranted is that the reasoning behind most of my injuries of late have been just plain stupid. Not so long ago, I was out for a walk at dusk enjoying the great outdoors in our neighborhood when I heard a tremendous crash in the woods nearby. Mind you, I clearly heard this crash OVER the music playing in my earbuds—so it had to be deafening. For context, a few weeks prior to this event a very large black bear was seen roaming around our neighborhood. He had broken down a pool fence, torn down one of our bird feeders and had gotten into someone’s trash, destroying the metal can in the process. So naturally when I heard the noise coming from the woods, I assumed it was a BEAR and started running, sprinter that I am, or was, more correctly. In mid-sprint I felt something snap in both of my Achillies tendons, but kept running lest the bear eat me. I then climbed and clawed my way up our hilly front lawn, assuredly tearing my tendons even further. Once I got to the top, I looked back. There was no bear, only an empty street, mocking me. I then hobbled back to the house—a walk of shame if ever there was one. Turns out, a tree had fallen in the woods. Go figure.

Another idiotic event involved taking our tiny dog, Jack, out to do his business in the back yard. He had a habit of wandering forever in circles, searching for the perfect spot. Because, of course, he did. While he was busy sniffing and searching, I inadvertently stepped in a rabbit hole I had forgotten was there. It wasn’t a very big hole, just enough to affirm that I was, in fact, a fool. I can’t tell you how many times we intended to fill in said hole, but didn’t. As a result, I wound up with a hyperextended knee. I Googled it, thereby confirming my suspicions.

Just the other week, I once again felt searing pain—this time in my shoulder/neck/scapula area. I hadn’t lifted a car or anything. Nope. I was just stretching. In the morning. Like a normal person. I wasn’t even out of bed yet. My feet hadn’t touched the floor. But I knew the instant I felt the stab of pain that I would be on the couch with the heating pad in no time, assessing the damage.

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

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Filed under Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Ode to Embarrassment

Tagged as aches and pains, aging, humor, injuries, sports injuries

January 5, 2026 · 1:53 pm

New Year, Same Old Resolutions

It’s January—time to make a comprehensive list of all the areas in our daily lives that desperately need improvement, or at the very least, tweaking. For many of us, that means dusting off the list we made LAST year. I for one have taken an inventory of my shortcomings these past few weeks and pledge to keep at least a handful of the New Year’s resolutions I’ve made AGAIN, despite the unlikely nature of lasting success. Here are the highlights.

For starters, I’ll be kinder. More specifically, I’ll stop harboring ill will toward the people who seem to take an eternity to put air in their tires at the gas station. No longer will I wish that a chunk of space debris would fall upon their heads, effectively ending their stint at the pump, making my wait that much shorter. Perhaps instead I’ll use the time to meditate or make a grocery list. Who am I kidding? I’ll play the bazillionth game of solitaire on my smartphone or count the appalling number of Trump for President bumper stickers I see in the vicinity.

Secondly, I’ll stop enabling my kids. Even though it pains me greatly, I’ll refrain from harvesting gobs of toothpaste from their bathroom sink each morning, followed by removing wads of hair from their shower because, quite frankly, this practice has done nothing but teach them how to be unaccountable in life, not to mention, horrible at housekeeping. Instead, I’ll ignore their domestic failings (as intolerable as that might be) and bank on the notion that eventually they’ll become SO GROSSED OUT they can’t help but be inspired to do the job themselves. Probably.

Related: I’ll try to be a better parent. Translation: I vow to stop yelling: “THE YELLING IN THIS HOUSE HAS GOT TO STOP!” Please reference my Twitter feed or the previous paragraph for insight as to why such behavior might be warranted (i.e. my teens DRIVE me to it and my parenting tools are decidedly defective). Needless to say, the irony here isn’t lost on me and I recognize fully that I won’t be nominated for Mother of the Year anytime soon. However, I’d be thrilled if I could simply spend less time yelling about the yelling I do.

In addition, I resolve to spend less time using my iPhone and more time interacting with humans. More specifically, I’ll curb my penchant for texting and sending Facebook messages to those who happen to be in the same room with me, sometimes within arm’s length. In lieu of that, I’ll engage in actual face-to-face conversations with the people I love, allowing words and phrases to fall from my lips in a cascade of spontaneity. Technology be damned.

What’s more, I’ll attempt to rid my world of unnecessary stress. No longer will I feel guilty about sleeping in or taking a mental health day on occasion, which, of course, will be defined by watching an embarrassment of HGTV while spooning with my dog on the couch. All day, if circumstances warrant. Don’t judge.

Furthermore, I promise to finish at least some of the projects I start, beginning, of course, with hauling our artificial Christmas tree and outdoor lights to the attic. With any luck, that will transpire before Groundhog Day. The most challenging project I’ll likely tackle in the coming year, however, will be indoctrinating my dear husband on the finer points of organization. Pray for me.

And because no one’s list of New Year’s resolutions would be complete without referencing the pathetic nature of a diet and exercise routine gone awry, I pledge to walk more in the new year as well as add more greens to my plate. I won’t give up my peanut M&M fix or my frappés, however.

I haven’t gone COMPLETELY mad.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (welcoming a brand new year, striving to achieve the same wretched resolutions). Join me there, at the corner of Irreverence and Over-Sharing at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.