Category Archives: Home is Where the Weirdness Lives

August 11, 2026 · 1:48 pm

Green Thumb–Not So Much

I absolutely love my houseplants. I do. But sometimes love isn’t enough. You need actual talent to care for plants and help them thrive. My friend, Glenn has a green thumb. Me, not so much. At a bare minimum, you need a certain level of competence just to keep them alive. Apparently, I don’t possess the necessary skills to do even that at times, as evidenced by the numerous plants in my household that didn’t make it—to include a cactus.

Amazingly enough, I do own quite a few plants of varying types that have survived, perhaps in spite of me. Or perhaps because I somehow refrained from drowning them or ignoring them so long that they would shrivel up and die. I don’t know what comes over me, but sometimes when it’s time to water, I think more is better. One of my poor plants is recovering from soil so saturated it could qualify as a wetland. My daughter keeps reminding me NOT to water it anymore, and I’ve listened, for the most part. Each week, I poke my finger into the dirt to learn how moist it is and contemplate how just a little water might help it, which, admittedly, is how I got into this swampy mess in the first place. Who are we kidding—that plant currently lives in a bog.

At the other end of the spectrum, occasionally I’ll forget to water my plants for weeks at a time. I know; I am a terrible plant mother. By the time I notice, many of the leaves in question are withering away right before my eyes. I really wish they could whine or set off a siren to get my attention. That’s the kind of plant I need—one that acts like a toddler, demanding to be fed.

That is not to say I totally neglect the plants in my care. I’ve been known to pluck their yellowing leaves and turn the pots to get balanced sunlight. I even talk to them on occasion and I’ve given some of them names. Pedestrian names, but names nonetheless. Steve is a snake plant and lives upstairs with a fair amount of bright morning light on sunny days. Dave, a jade plant, is situated right next to him and is doing quite well (again, in spite of me).

I also have a bunch of succulents, and a little fern, that all sit on my kitchen windowsill, thanks to one of my daughters who couldn’t find room in her car when she moved to Colorado. She, of course, remarked that “Everything will be fine, Mom. You probably won’t kill them.” That is not to say that our cat hasn’t tried. He knocked one of the pots into the sink not long ago, tearing one of its leaves off and dumping most of its dirt in the process. So, I carefully replaced the roots, stem and dirt in the pot, all the while assuring my little plant that he would be okay, as one does.

It’s true—I talk to my plants as if they were children or pets. I tell them how wonderful they look (when they do) or how miserable they look (when, in fact, they don’t look so great). Naturally, I offer my profuse and heartfelt apologies, expressing how incredibly sorry I am because I screwed up, yet again. I think they understand me, to an extent anyway, and hopefully find it in their hearts to forgive me. Much of the time, I smile at them and use a high-pitched, squeaky voice to address them, because, of course, I do. Doesn’t everyone? I think they enjoy the music I play in the house, too, which is a relief because not everyone likes my playlist.

Interestingly, one of my daughters conducted a science experiment in grade school, hypothesizing that houseplants are positively affected by certain sounds. She read aloud to one of them, played her French horn for another, and exposed yet another to music on the radio. There was also a control subject that had no special sounds played near it. Amazingly enough, the plant that “listened” to the radio grew the most. At any rate, it was a fun experiment and one that might have inspired our whole household to recognize plants as sentient beings.

In light of that, maybe there’s hope that one day I’ll sprout a green thumb. A girl can dream, can’t she?

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (with scores of houseplants that have miraculously survived, in spite of me). 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, A Tree is Nice, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Me Myself and I, Ode to Embarrassment

Tagged as Green Thumb, hobbies, home, home life, houseplants, humor, love, plants

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.