Tag Archives: humor

August 25, 2026 · 1:15 pm

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.

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.

Jet Lag

Confession: My husband and I haven’t flown in over 16 years—and it shows. I don’t know how that happened, it just did. Life got in the way of our travel plans, I guess. At any rate, we looked like fools at the airport, not realizing that people check in with an electronic kiosk now instead of interacting with an actual human. Thankfully, we were traveling with our daughter and her partner so together they were able to walk us through the process of tagging our enormous suitcase and printing our boarding passes—which would’ve been a nightmare for tech-challenged people like us.

Of course, packing that enormous suitcase (that came unreasonably close to exceeding the 50-pound weight limit) was an exercise in futility. We scrutinized the ridiculous list of approved substances for our carry-on bags, the recommended baggie sizes and permitted volumes of liquids along with all the restricted items until we were ready to scream. And because the gods hate me, my 3-oz. bottle of shampoo leaked anyway. On both flights.

As one might expect, our TSA experience was tolerable in both airports, but still inconvenient and time-consuming because of the incredibly long lines—and because I had to remove my belt and almost lost my pants shuffling to the scanner. Everyone else was in the same boat which made it entertaining. Sort of. Thankfully, only one of us had to be subjected to a pat-down and the thorough inspection of a backpack—all because of sweat and the fact that the stupid machine couldn’t “see” through a hardcover book. As a result, we almost missed our return flight. But on a positive note, we encountered some adorable cats that were also waiting in those long lines and at least one of us got to pet them. On a side note, I’m fairly certain the cats were more personable than the TSA could ever aspire to be.

I know I’ve used a travelator/moving sidewalk in the past, but I don’t remember it being such a challenge to keep pace with while hauling an embarrassment of bags and constantly looking over my shoulder to see how my husband was managing with his embarrassment of bags. As an added bonus, he had to maneuver around an oblivious toddler who was planted near the exit path like a tree. The good news was that neither of them wiped out and we made it to our gate in time for preboarding.

I also don’t remember navigating an airport so large it should be criminal via a people mover, which is a glorified subway where it’s common practice to hang on for dear life. But it got us to where we were going—in a hurry.

The actual flights were good in that we took off without incident, stayed in the air and landed safely, all the while tracking our path across the country on a nifty little screen situated on the back of the seat in front of us. Being the nerd that I am, I truly enjoyed such a device and felt compelled to inform my husband every time we flew over a city, lake or other noteworthy landmark. I figured he’d thank me later. The only downside was that our kids were seated next to an oddball who never spoke—not even to the flight attendant or to them when they needed to scoot past him to use the restroom. It takes all kinds, I guess.

Interestingly enough, I later learned that Newark and Denver made the list of 11 most stressful airports in the United States. Naturally, we hit both of them in one day. But because of the expertise of our wonderful AAA travel agent, Felicia, all went according to plan. She made arrangements for both hotels, two-way flights for the four of us and a spacious rental van for the amazing week we spent in Colorado with another daughter and her fiancé.

Needless to say, we all had a terrific time bonding for the first time as a family since January—unless you count FaceTime. We visited with some friends who live nearby, shopped ad nauseam and had a blast at Topgolf together. Never mind the delicious meals. And the trip to the summit of Pikes Peak was especially exhilarating via the Cog Railway. Only three of us needed canned oxygen and/or an inhaler, so I’d call that a win.

And because every adventure is educational, I learned that it’s not a vacation until someone gets a tattoo. For the record, four of us did. I also learned that jet lag is, indeed, real.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (poring over gorgeous photos of snow-capped mountains). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.