Category Archives: We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

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.

Comments Off on Floored

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.

Comments Off on The Color of Bizarre

Filed under Home Improvement, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, I Pretty Much Suck at Parenting, Kid-Speak, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as dysfunction, home decor, Home Improvement, humor, painting, parenting, parenting humor

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.

Comments Off on Dumpster Diving

Filed under "S" is for Shame, Captain Quirk, Family Affair, Home for Wayward Toys, Home Improvement, Normal is Relative, Ode to Embarrassment, Project Schmoject, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as cleaning, downsizing, dumpsters, family, hoarding, Home Improvement, junk, marriage, marriage humor, parenting, purging

November 2, 2025 · 12:53 pm

The Laundry Blues

It’s possible I made a horrible mistake when I decided to make my kids responsible for their own laundry. In theory, it was a wonderful idea as it relieved me of the dreaded chore and saved me from spending countless hours in what may be the smallest and most depressing room on earth. What’s more, I thought it would help prepare them for college and eventually adulthood, giving them the tools necessary to ruin their own stupid laundry. Let’s face it. It’s just a matter of time before someone combines lights with darks or shrinks a favorite pair of jeans beyond all repair. I figured they might as well get started on the path to one of life’s crippling disappointments—ahead of the curve, so to speak.

The problem with my plan is that it backfired. Ever since delegating said task, my charges have monopolized every square inch of the laundry room, compromising my ability to so much as enter without tripping over a tangled mass of bras or heaps of socks, turned inside out—naturally. Never mind their hampers that overflow and practically vomit clothing onto the floor, effectively blocking the door and keeping me from hauling my own hamper inside. Further, the detergent, stain removers and dryer sheets never get returned to the cabinets “correctly” and the drying racks are almost always filled to capacity, leaving no room for anyone else’s clothing. Forget trying to do the rest of the family’s laundry. That’s virtually impossible.

I guess I should be happy that they’re doing laundry at all. I just wish they’d REMEMBER that they’re doing laundry and actually finish the job. For days on end their clean clothing hangs on the drying racks while their dirty laundry waits patiently nearby, at times, stacked more than three feet high. Related: I’ve watched them pluck a number of items from their hampers as well as the racks so they could wear them immediately, skipping crucial steps in the laundry process. And let us not overlook the crumpled masses of sweatshirts, etc. in the dryer, all but forgotten. On occasion, I also make horrifying discoveries—wads of partially dried, yet decidedly damp clothing INSIDE the washer. Gak. The longer the abandonment, the more foul the odor.

As one might expect, I often cave by rewashing the aforementioned items, folding their clean clothes and carrying the towering piles all the way upstairs—something they promised they’d have no trouble doing. Sadly, after this happens the cycle begins again and my window of opportunity for completing any of MY laundry is gone. To say that this is frustrating is an understatement.

I suppose it goes with the territory of being a parent, however. I’m quite sure my mom was fairly exasperated when I came home from college during a semester break or an occasional weekend, hauling with me an embarrassment of dirty laundry. Giant garbage bags worked best as I recall, because I could stuff them beyond the point that a reasonable person would, deeming those particular trash bags as overachievers forevermore.

At any rate, I spent an eternity doing my laundry at home. Marathon sessions as I recall—especially after Thanksgiving and Christmas. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my mother, who probably felt a little sorry for me since I had obviously lost my way to the campus laundry facility and had almost no clean clothes left by the end of the semester. Looking back, it’s more than a little likely that I failed to return the detergent et al. to its proper place in our basement and I probably exploited the washer and dryer for a period of time that was unbearable to my mother, never once considering that she might want to use them, too.

With any luck, we’ll get the kinks worked out before my kids head off to college. Lord knows I’ve let them know what a terrible idea it would be to boycott doing laundry FOR AN ENTIRE SEMESTER. Then again, my mom probably made the very same speech.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, suffering from the laundry blues. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

Comments Off on The Laundry Blues

Filed under Family Affair, Growing Pains, I Pretty Much Suck at Parenting, In the Trenches of Parentville, Leaving the Nest, motherhood, Rantings & Ravings, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as adulting, chores, growing pains, independence, laundry, parenting, parenting humor

August 14, 2025 · 5:00 pm

The Sum of Summer

I’m fairly certain that my children hate me—mostly because of their workbooks. The ones that I insisted they complete this past summer, come hell or high water. And although there were vast stretches of time during which reprieves were granted from the toilsome task in question (because of vacations, because of friends who came to call, because I was plagued unmercifully with guilt), I still managed to clinch the Mommie Dearest nomination. That said, whenever I needed a reminder as to where I fit on the Tyrant Scale, I simply opened the aforementioned workbooks and read some of the asides my dear charges had scribbled in the margins (i.e. “I’m dying!” “This is horribly annoying and boring!” and “Once upon a time, two innocent children were forced to do big, stupid, unpleasant workbooks which were eternally evil. The end.”)

Naturally, this brand of condemnation called into question the wisdom behind my decision to sully the summer by thrusting academics upon individuals who clearly weren’t interested in the inherent beauty of word problems or in the quiet joy of crafting short stories. Looking back, I now see that it really didn’t matter—that making my brood exceedingly miserable for far too many days in June, July and August (no matter how fleeting or insignificant the time seemed to me), was of little consequence in the grand scheme of things. Evidently, my heathens would have acquired a boatload of knowledge with or without the wretched workbooks. Real world knowledge that probably has more practical merit anyway. Indeed, my entire family benefited from that which summer seemed more than eager to impart. Together, the following pearls of wisdom represent our harvest.

Despite what may seem perfectly sensible to a child, snow boots don’t function particularly well in the rain. Nor do Pokémon cards or peanut butter sandwiches. On a similar note, science experiments gone awry don’t belong on anyone’s kitchen counters, cicada carcasses have no business sitting on anyone’s sweater (Look, Mom! It’s a broach!) and favorite stuffed animals should never, ever linger in the vicinity of an unoccupied, uncovered toilet.

Considering the coefficient of friction and the gravitational pull of the Earth, sleeping bags are ideally suited for sliding down carpeted staircases. Scooters, by contrast, are not. Furthermore, objects in motion tend to stay in motion unless and until they collide with solid matter—like oak trees, unsuspecting craniums and steel-clad doors, for instance.

In related field studies, Frick and Frack discovered that hamsters do not enjoy dental examinations—nor are they especially fond of massages. They will, however, tolerate being placed within the confines of a tiny plastic car if and when it qualifies as a bona fide Kodak moment. Frogs, on the other hand, will have no part of such foolishness. Dogs, conversely, have no shame and will therefore concede to virtually anything a 10-year-old might be inclined to dream up—to include PhotoBooth cameos and fanciful excursions to exotic places like the Canine Islands.

Some other summertime observations I made: Apparently those who wear Band-aids festooned with cutesy pictures are no longer cool. Who knew? Badminton and Frisbee injuries (of the parental variety) don’t garner nearly the sympathy that they deserve. Kids are fairly obsessed with their hodgepodge of injuries and insist that parents become equally fascinated for the duration of the healing process. Gak.

Furthermore, Captain Vacation found that it’s easier to locate one’s lodgings if he actually remembers to jot down the name and address of the hotel where reservations have been made. I learned that the brackish scent of the sea, while deliciously intoxicating at the shore, isn’t nearly as pleasant when it fuses to clothing, resulting in a lovely eau de dead fish that will likely trigger fond memories of the beach coupled with an overwhelming desire to retch. Together, we ascertained that hotel shampoo smells better than it tastes, that some kids simply won’t share their shovels despite a deluge of diplomacy and that the warm sands of the shore are soothing beneath one’s feet, yet wholly unforgiving when wedged in one’s swimsuit. Moreover, seagulls are hostile creatures with a penchant for fresh pastries and fries—a point I duly noted for future reference.

Curiously, none of the abovementioned lessons of summer had anything to do with a workbook. As it should be, I suppose.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live (summing up summer). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.