Category Archives: Me Myself and I

September 22, 2026 · 1:56 pm

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.

Let Them Eat Cake–Sometimes

Once in a great while, I stumble across a book that’s so good, I reread it. Glucose Revolution by Jessie Inchauspé (Glucose Goddess on Instagram) is just such a book. It might not be of interest to everyone per se, but since I have type 2 diabetes, I am wholly invested in its subject matter. Plus, I thought my doctor might be impressed to learn that I read it—twice. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to convince my husband to read it yet. He argues, “When they cure death, I’ll read it.”

At any rate, it’s written in a conversational tone, it’s incredibly easy to understand and there are cute little graphics throughout that appear to be hand drawn. And since I can relate to the topics the author discusses, I got a lot out of her book and actually applied her findings to my own life.

In a nutshell, she shares her research on what she calls “hacks” that help readers more efficiently manage their glucose spikes—or “flatten their glucose curves,” as Inchauspé refers to it. Now I’m not a medical professional, so please don’t take any of this information as if I were. You should always consult your doctor before implementing any medical advice. But so far, the hacks depicted in said book appear to be helping me control my blood sugar.

The irony here is that so many of her so-called hacks (there are 10 in all) seem almost counterintuitive—at least to me. For starters, apparently the order in which food is consumed matters. Who knew? I’ve lived on this planet since the Kennedy administration and never knew this mindboggling fact. According to Inchauspé, fiber in the form of veggies should start every meal, followed by protein and healthy fats, then carbohydrates and finally sweets, if at all. To put this into practice I ate an Italian sausage sandwich at a Crosscutters game recently by deconstructing it—plucking the delicious sautéed peppers and onions off first, then devouring the sausage and finally the roll—like a complete nutjob. Hopefully, no one was watching.

Another habit the author swears by is to walk after meals, so that the corresponding glucose feeds muscles instead of staying in the bloodstream. So much for morphing into a couch potato after I eat. Instead, I try to go for a short walk, but I get to pet dogs so it’s all good.

Yet another hack is to consume a bit of vinegar before meals—like olive oil and vinegar dressing on a green salad. I personally add vinegar by having a dill pickle—or three. And like Ray Romano once famously remarked, “Man, I love a pickle.” “It’s like a food and a drink.” I agree wholeheartedly.

Likewise, another practice mentioned in the book is to eat dessert immediately after a meal instead of snacking all day. I remember life as an exhausted parent of toddlers—becoming just as dependent upon the little baggies of Cheerios as my kids were. Apparently, though, having dessert spikes glucose less than snacking incessantly. So, if I’m going to eat something sweet, I eat it right after the meal and then go for a walk, ideally. As the ill-famed line goes: Let them eat cake—sometimes.

What’s more, I’ve added quite a bit of protein to my diet—like Greek yogurt. And I don’t even like Greek yogurt. But if you add enough blueberries, it’s at least palatable. Then again, I’m playing Russian roulette with fresh produce (i.e. Cyclospora). But I digress.

One of the most bizarre hacks the author touts in her book is to ditch cereal and juice for breakfast and instead eat something savory. My husband, of course, thinks it’s beyond peculiar when I choose baked haddock, green beans and rice (a prepackaged meal from Tony’s Deli) FOR BREAKFAST. Or leftover chili. Or cheese ravioli. Or any kind of eggs. Or avocado and cottage cheese. Strange, I know.

I guess it’s all in the name of trying to be healthier, as weird as some of the Glucose Goddess’s suggestions might sound. Time will tell if her hacks have a big impact.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably having a pickle). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Hand in My Pocket–Or Lack Thereof

I can’t begin to express how frustrated I’ve been forever over something that is a nonissue for at least half the population. To say that it rankles me to discover, yet again, that an item of clothing I am on the verge of buying HAS NO POCKETS is an understatement. I’m sure people near me in various dressing rooms have heard me grouse audibly as I paw at the garment in question, desperately searching for its cussed pockets—to no avail.

I don’t know why clothing manufacturers, in large part, assume that pockets aren’t of importance to women, or girls for that matter. It boggles my mind. I need places to put stuff, aside from a purse or a tote bag (that I positively hate carrying). Stuff that I encounter throughout my day. Stuff that I feel compelled to stow away. Maybe it’s a cool rock I stumbled across that spoke to me and I simply had to bring it home. Perhaps it’s a feather that appeared on my path and I just couldn’t resist its allure. Or more practically, I might need a pen or a scrap of paper. It’s so ridiculously simple to retrieve it from one’s pocket. Ask any man.

Case in point, I have a habit of keeping a stash of Band-Aids and my handy Chapstick in a pocket. You never know when you might need such necessities. Naturally, I also like to keep my cell phone in my back pocket, within easy reach. It’s such a hassle to fetch it from the depths of my purse and it usually takes so long that the person calling me often gives up. More times than I’d care to admit, I’ve asked my husband to fill his pockets with my stuff, having to explain the obvious—my dress, my jeans, my sweatpants, my shorts HAVE NO POCKETS, which I find fairly exasperating. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to mind and usually obliges.

Further, what is a pocketless person supposed to do at a social event teeming with people—especially if said person is shy or introverted like me? I tend to shove my hands in my pockets when I feel the least bit awkward, since I don’t always know what to do with them. Pockets solve that problem—unless I don’t have any. On a side note, if I’m at a picnic, I usually put my napkin and plastic silverware in a pocket so all I have to do is balance my plate while carrying it to a table. It’s hard enough trying to keep the corn on the cob from rolling off without losing utensils, too.

Additionally, what I find completely ludicrous is the concept of a FAKE POCKET—the sewn shut variety that is basically just a slit in the material with no corresponding pouch. Why bother making it appear as though there’s a pocket if there’s no actual pocket? That’s just stupid. Give me the pockets. All the pockets. In my opinion, the “fake pocket brigade” ought to be held accountable for giving women and girls false hope—for tricking those consumers into believing a product is something that it isn’t. That’s absolutely unhinged behavior in my mind and practically criminal.

On the bright side, I am patently euphoric whenever I’m shopping and find an article of clothing that boasts a pair of pockets—or more. I fall more deeply in love and look forward to wearing the item, and to stuffing my beloved pockets with all the things I deem worthy.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (endlessly searching for pockets). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Play Ball!

(I’m pictured above as M. Edgerton, second from left, bottom row)

As this publication hits mailboxes throughout Lycoming County, youth baseball teams from all over the world, regional marching bands, colorful floats and special guests will soon participate in the Little League Grand Slam Parade, headed down West Fourth Street in Williamsport to the delight of onlookers packing the sidewalks. I can attest to the fact that this is a terrific parade each and every year, only to be superseded by the talent displayed on the ballfields in the weeks to follow.

It surely takes a special kind of athlete to advance to the level exhibited at the Little League World Series (LLWS) held in South Williamsport each August. I can’t imagine the determined effort and commitment from players, coaches and parents alike in order to wind up here in the waning days of summer. It takes an extraordinary kind of village, indeed.

I’m not sure if I ever rose to such heights as a shortstop, but I did, in fact, play Little League baseball as a 12-year-old on a boys’ team. I was one of only two girls in my hometown to meet the qualifications back in 1974 (to my knowledge)—the first year that girls were allowed to play nationwide. It was the perfect pastime for a tomboy like me. What’s odd is that I was apparently so wrapped up in playing the infield and stealing second base that I never knew the LLWS existed, in spite of the fact that the games were played only about an hour’s drive from my hometown. The important thing, I suppose, was that I truly loved the game and wanted nothing more than to play.

So, imagine my surprise when I discovered that only one of our three children wanted to play baseball. The highlight that I remember most vividly from our oldest daughter’s experience was when she fielded a ball, threw it to first base and then completed a perfect cartwheel there in the infield. Granted, it was only Tee-ball, but her feat was certainly something to remember.

Thing One and Thing Two, by contrast, wanted nothing to do with baseball, or softball for that matter. I think they humored us, in large part, by participating in youth soccer, basketball and swimming for a number of years. Eventually, they expressed that they just weren’t cut out for sports and much preferred throwing themselves into their true passion—music.

And so, it began—purchasing expensive instruments followed by private music lessons, camps and hours upon hours of practice. In the end, I guess it wasn’t all that different from investing time, money and effort into a sport. Although my husband and I raised our youngest children without much influence from athletics (not for a lack of trying) and they followed their hearts along a musical path instead, both ended up performing in stadiums for thousands of people anyway.

One of them was a Penn State Blue Band member, performing in football stadiums all over the country throughout her college years. The other sang the National Anthem at Lamade Stadium before a packed crowd at a LLWS game. The irony here isn’t lost on me. They had come full circle and found a way to entertain people on an athletic field—just not the way I had imagined. The funny part was that the daughter singing for a crowd of 20,000+ had to ask where the pitcher’s mound was. I, of course, was in disbelief—but proud nonetheless, just as scores of parents from all over the world who are about to witness the Series will swell with pride for their kids on the field.

Play ball!

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (looking forward to watching lots of LLWS games). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under "N" is for Nostalgia, Endless Summer, Gratitude, Me Myself and I, music, sports

Tagged as athletics, baseball, childhood memories, humor, Little League, Little League World Series, LLWS, parenting, parenting humor, sports, Williamsport

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.