Category Archives: We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

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.

Hot Mess

It may sound a bit strange, but I have a slight obsession with snowmen. The indoor décor variety, more specifically, designed to be displayed throughout the house—several of which were handcrafted by my daughters in grade school. That makes them even more special, I think. I realize that spring is just around the corner and that most people have probably stowed that sort of thing away already. But not me. I can’t bear to banish them to the attic with the rest of our holiday decorations. Call me crazy.

When our kids were little and even a little biggish, we spent countless hours building snowmen, snow forts and snow furniture together in the yard—sometimes with neighbors, sometimes with grandparents and sometimes after dark. I’ll never forget the night we built two gigantic snowmen at the edge of our property facing the street so that our bus driver, Helen, could see them when she arrived in the morning. I think she was pleased. Without question, those times spent in the snow represent some of my favorite memories harvested from parenting. Maybe that’s partly the reason I keep the snowmen around—a little reminder of the good days that were had.

Or maybe my shrine to snowmen (and cutout snowflakes for that matter) has more to do with the fact that my love for winter has grown exponentially since the advent of menopause. I used to be a “summer person.” Not so much anymore. Hot flashes are no picnic. Neither is weight gain, brain fog or night sweats. I’ve had them for ELEVEN YEARS and counting. That’s longer than we’ve endured Trump—which is really saying something.

Not surprisingly, I’ve purchased special (very expensive) “menopause pajamas,” read tons of books and articles on the subject, talked with numerous doctors about my sufferings, tried various medications, both over-the-counter and prescription, and have come to the conclusion that I’m doomed. Or maybe it’s just that God hates me. Probably both.

Thankfully, I was gifted two personal fans to help with my miserable situation, in the event that the batteries wear out and I need a replacement. One of them is ideal in that it’s small, lightweight and designed to be hand-held. Plus, its fan blades are really soft and flexible so that when they hit my face, I don’t take an eye out. The other one is super quiet, has three speeds and is actually wearable—for my insufferably hot neck area, of course. When I switch one on, my husband instinctually moves away from me, because obviously, the last thing I need is his body heat adding to my inferno.

I’m sure that man just shakes his head when he finds me lying on the tile floor like a dog. In my defense, I knew our dogs were on to something. Cold air sinks and central air-conditioning can only do so much in the stifling heat of summer.

What’s more, I set the bedroom temperature at a cool 67 degrees and sleep with a ceiling fan on even in the dead of winter. Yes, my husband hates it. But he loves me (I think) and takes one for the team every night. While he’s burrowed beneath the blankets, I’m flipping my flipping pillow over to the cool side umpteen times a night, ripping the sheets off and hanging one leg off the bed so that, for at least a moment, I can catch a breeze from the aforementioned ceiling fan that’s just trying its best. Sad to say that a lot of nights, spooning is out of the question. In lieu of that, he sometimes retrieves a spare fan out of his nightstand and holds it over my face in the dark. Not to worry; the blades on that one are soft and pliable, too.

What’s weird is that I can be minding my own business, completely comfortable with the air temperature around me and then out of nowhere I feel a wave of heat so intense I’m sure it came from the depths of hell. It then rises from the base of my skull, eventually enveloping my entire head and body. As an added bonus, my glasses fog up and I sprout a tiny sweat mustache. Talk about a hot mess. That’s an understatement.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably building a snowman in the lawn). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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

Tagged as hot flashes, humor, menopause, parenting, snowmen, winter, women

January 10, 2026 · 4:45 pm

Drive-Thru. No Thanks.

There are great multitudes of things my husband refuses to do based on what I assume are a warped set of principles. To name a few: He won’t put up a Christmas tree on or before Thanksgiving, he won’t arrange the bills in his wallet in any semblance of order and he won’t pull up to a drive-thru window to save himself. I can identify somewhat with the first refusal, since it doesn’t make much sense to celebrate more than one holiday at a time. Although, judging by the profusion of Yuletide merchandise jammed on store shelves shortly after Labor Day, it would seem as though a good portion of society thinks that’s perfectly fine. Not me, however. I just can’t bring myself to haul a wreath or anything Christmas-y out of the attic before I’ve even boxed up the Halloween bats.

As for my husband’s second refusal by contrast, I cannot condone such egregious behavior. Money should be organized according to denomination—and in a perfect world, right side up and all facing the same direction. There are times while we stand together in a checkout line and I roll my eyes as I watch him sift through crumpled wads of cash, dropping some on the floor in the process. Naturally, I have to ask myself who he is and why he acts that way. I can’t even begin to understand what sort of logic goes into decision-making like that. Just knowing that his pockets are filled with completely disordered clumps of money makes my head hurt.

With respect to my husband’s third refusal, I find the man to be a freak of nature—a spectacle that one might be inclined to look upon with both awe and fascination. It doesn’t seem to matter if it’s a fast food restaurant, convenience store or bank. His reaction is always the same—a flat rejection of my suggestion that he humor me by using the drive-thru window.

“It’s more convenient,” I offer. “You don’t even have to get out of the car. It’s RAINING for God sakes.”

“I’m not going through any gd drive-thru. I haven’t completely lost my mind,” he’s inclined to reply.

I just don’t get it. So after years of witnessing this anomaly, I demanded to know why it happens. It’s not as if he thinks the aforementioned windows are inferior or demonic by any stretch of the imagination. He simply hates the hassle of yelling into a black box that may or may not result in a screw up of the order/transaction and subsequently pulling ahead to pay for said order where there is always the potential for dropping money beneath the car seat or onto the ground before it gets into the right hands. He has a point, I suppose, however I’m inclined to believe none of that will happen.

I honestly don’t know why it bothers him so. It would seem that he could just reach into his pocket and hand the attendant a fistful of bills. Protocol be damned. (See paragraph two related to his monetary habits). Apparently, he prefers to go inside the establishment and engage with people face to face, which isn’t a bad thing per se. I just don’t understand why he is so adamant about it. Nor can I relate to the anxiety he ostensibly feels whenever he must produce the appropriate amount of cash within a short window of time. All of the attendants I’ve ever encountered have been ridiculously patient and eager to help—even if the money in question is embarrassingly disordered.

So imagine my surprise when, in perhaps a weak moment, my husband obliged my hackneyed request to use the drive-thru at Starbucks. Naturally, I was beyond shocked and felt compelled to whip out my iPhone to capture the momentous event on camera.

“Why are you taking a picture?! That’s absurd,” he chided.

“I want to preserve the moment for posterity.”

I’m no dummy. I knew my kids wouldn’t believe me and that I would need proof.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, probably in the drive-thru lane at Starbucks. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Normal is Relative, Ode to Embarrassment, The Chicken Man, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as drive-thru, humor, husbands, marriage, marriage humor, quirks, starbucks

December 26, 2025 · 1:09 pm

Floored

Against all logic and understanding, I tolerated the most hideous-looking carpet known to man for what seemed like an eternity. It stretched an expanse measuring more than 600 square feet from living room to dining room—a wall-to-wall nightmare that everyone knew was pink. Not salmon. Coupled with the abundance of brass and ugly-as-sin wallpaper we found throughout the house on move-in day 1997, it was as if the eighties had lifted the roof and vomited every bit of horrible décor that had ever been imagined.

And because the universe hates me, it took more than two decades to convince my husband that it was high time for a change. Never mind my incessant reminders that our kids and pets (and Lord knows how many previous owners’ kids and pets) had stained said carpet and that it would never again return to its pristine state.

Who am I kidding? Even its pristine state looked positively awful. Need I remind you it was pink? At any rate, for 21 years my husband wouldn’t budge on the issue. In his mind, it was impossible for a house to have too much carpeting—even terrible carpeting. He was even known to have loved the carpet that used to exist in our kitchen and master bathroom. Yes, KITCHEN and MASTER BATHROOM. I wish I were kidding. Not surprisingly, with regard to accidents, it brought new meaning to the word repulsive. Need I even mention the stench that lingered, even after dousing it with an arsenal of cleaning solutions?

“For the love of God,” I thought, “who puts carpeting in a kitchen or a bathroom?! It’s wrong on so many levels I can’t even begin to understand what went into such flawed design decisions.” Thankfully, I only had to endure that tragic reality for about 16 years, having replaced it with some beautiful pseudo-tile flooring. It’s a joy to walk on with bare feet and as an added bonus, I no longer freak out when I spill orange juice or drop an egg at my feet. Okay, maybe I freak out a little, but it’s a far cry from what used to happen.

As for our new living room/dining room reality, it is defined by warmth and wonderfulness in the form of seven-inch, oak-like planks that resist both stains and water. And to say that the dark walnut color is gorgeous is an understatement. It perfectly ties our kitchen cabinetry and stone island together with the Brookline Beige paint in our living/dining rooms and I’ve watched enough HGTV to say that it adds to the overall flow of the household. Yes, I used the word “flow” when I attempted to persuade my husband that we needed hardwood flooring, because I’m fancy like that.

Needless to say, I eventually succeeded in convincing him to ditch the aforementioned carpeting (at least on the first floor), but I’m sure it pains him greatly to admit that he actually likes the new hardwood floors. Of course, he refuses to use the word “flow,” but that’s okay.

“So what do you think about the new flooring?” I asked after the job was complete.

“It’s not so bad and I like how the color ties into the wood furniture. Even the area rugs are nice,” he conceded one day not so long ago.

I knew he’d see it my way. He just needed a chance to appreciate my vision. Alright, it’s possible I had no vision. Perhaps I just loathed that carpet with every ounce of my being and sought to replace it with just about anything that was remotely viable.

Even cobblestone had potential in my mind. At least it wouldn’t have been pink.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, enjoying my new hardwood flooring thanks to Ed Gair, the master craftsman who tolerated my neurotic little dog as well as an embarrassment of clutter. Visit me at www.Facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom for before, during and after pictures.

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Filed under Captain Quirk, Home Improvement, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Ode to Embarrassment, Project Schmoject, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as hardwood flooring, home, Home Improvement, marriage humor, remodeling

November 28, 2025 · 2:21 pm

The Color of Bizarre

Of all places, it began in an obscure corner of a local pharmacy, with child in tow. My incapacitating infatuation with a certain hue of green paint, that is. Who does that? What sort of deranged mother follows a late night visit to an urgent care facility (due to excruciating ear pain of the youth variety) with a spontaneous and completely self-serving foray into the realm of household décor? This sort of deranged mother, apparently. One who was less concerned with the prospect of obtaining a curative pharmaceutical for her dear daughter than with the intoxicating possibility of acquiring said paint for a certain someone’s writing lair.

For the record, I didn’t intend to become smitten with the aforementioned hue whose algae-inspired essence was splashed over the entirety of the prescription drug enclave, beckoning to me unremittingly (like only pond scum pigmentation can). It just sort of happened and I could do nothing to resist. Indeed, the paint spoke to me.

Oddly enough, it spoke to my 11-year-old, too, whose blinding pain somehow evaporated as she stood before the wall of green, mesmerized by what appeared to be the world’s largest harvest of guacamole. Or seaweed. Possibly both.

“Mom, isn’t that the most awesome color you’ve ever seen?! It looks like frog spit and it would be PERFECT for your office! Plus it would cover up that lilac you’re so sick of, wouldn’t it?”

And at that, I was silenced. For this was the child who had refused to embrace the notion of change for as long as I can remember. The child who, on occasion, had launched visceral tirades in response to the mere suggestion of rearranging our living room furniture, never mind reordering her sock drawer or straightening the cushions upon our cussed couch.

God forbid we PAINT.

This could possibly explain my addled state and why I then became a disturbing source of fascination a terrible annoyance to the pharmacist, likely creeping her out with my shameless curiosity involving, of all things, latex paint.

“Can you tell me, ma’am, what shade of green that is?” I asked, pointing at the celebrated wall. “I know this sounds crazy, but I have to know. I’ve been wrestling with everything from gecko green to almost avocado, and now that I’ve gotten the go-ahead from our self-appointed Rule Captain,” I said, gesturing to my daughter who was clearly convinced that we should drop everything and paint, “I’d be stupid not to.” Translation: If I don’t jump on this project in the next ten minutes, my child, who is frighteningly obsessed with sameness, will forget she ever expressed an interest in said endeavor, dooming me to the horrors of a purple workspace for all eternity.

For a time, the woman stared blankly at the wall and then at me, probably wondering how I had eluded security at the mental hospital from whence I undoubtedly had come. She then shook her head (possibly making me appear less deranged and more pathetic), picked up the phone and dialed someone who might be inclined to house peculiar data involving the whereabouts of little known paint swatches. Naturally, I was taken aback, yet mildly intrigued by her willingness to help.

Then things got weirder. She began firing a barrage of questions in rapid-fire succession. What sort of room did I intend to paint…how many windows were contained therein…what sort of ambient light existed…had I ever considered using a complimentary color? Of course, this rendered me patently delirious. Here was a woman who recognized the desperation in my voice—a woman who could sense the dysfunction in my home—a woman who, at least on some level, understood what it was like to live with a tiny tyrant who stifled my every whim. Whims related to change, that is.

So when she actually tore a small chunk of paint off the wall, I was aghast—but in a good way. “Here, take this to the paint store. Maybe they can match it,” she offered, defining for me in so many glorious ways, the color of bizarre.

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