Tag Archives: humor

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.

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Filed under "S" is for Shame, Captain Quirk, Daily Chaos, Home for Wayward Toys, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Ode to Embarrassment, Rantings & Ravings, The Chicken Man, Welcome to My Disordered World

Tagged as disorganization, hoarder, hoarding, home, Home Improvement, humor, humor marriage, Marie Kondo, organization, Spark Joy

July 14, 2026 · 11:30 am

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.

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Filed under Family Affair, Gratitude, Life is a Highway, Ode to Embarrassment, Rantings & Ravings, Road Trip, Vacation Schmacation, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as airports, Colorado, family, family vacations, humor, humor marriage, parenting, stress, travel, vacations

June 23, 2026 · 12:00 pm

Not All Those Who Wander Are Lost

The title of this column, which is a renowned line from J.R.R. Tolkien’s novel, The Fellowship of the Ring, certainly rings true for me—although I have been known to become somewhat disoriented while wandering, especially in the woods.

At any rate, one of my favorite activities is to try to get my steps in—usually walking around my neighborhood, but I’ll walk practically anywhere if it’s not too hilly. Typically, the weather dictates specifically where I’ll go and since I acknowledge that I can no longer stand the heat, I refrain from walking outdoors when the temperature is akin to the surface of the sun. That goes for the dead of winter, too, when it’s windy or icy or unbearably cold. Instead, my husband and I opt for doing laps around the indoor track at Lycoming College—a wonderful facility that we are so fortunate to be able to use. As an added bonus, we get to interact with delightful college students and faculty as we cruise around the oval together, overlooking an enormous gymnasium below. They even pipe in music that permeates the entire space, although we usually bring our own tunes.

Naturally, the college kids lap me (usually running like the wind) which I take in stride because I have them by several decades, never mind their superior flexibility and lung capacity. But they never lord it over me, which I appreciate greatly. They smile and sometimes even offer words of encouragement or a friendly “hello.”

But sometimes it’s even too hot to walk there, as the outdoor heat tends to seep inside, especially on sunny days. And let us not forget my wretched hot flashes. I know I haven’t. I suppose I could join a gym, where it’s likely air-conditioned, and use a treadmill to my heart’s content. But I know myself. I signed up for a gym membership years ago, fully intending to frequent said facility and never once did so. I don’t know why exactly; I only know that. So, for me, that would be a total waste of money.

Instead, I do what I never once imagined I would do—I hike the vast acreage (i.e. the innumerable aisles) contained within in our local grocery stores. Needless to say, the temperatures are cool and comfortable, and the terrain is flat. There’s music, too. Not surprisingly, I’ll occasionally encounter a bottleneck of people and carts on my path, but that’s easy enough to navigate. What’s more, sometimes I’ll stumble upon someone I know and enjoy catching up with them, or I’ll notice a ridiculous sale on Milano cookies and feel compelled to gather an armload, which I’ll reluctantly haul around the rest of the store. Aside from that, it’s a perfect place to trek on pretty much any day of the week.

That said, I’ve become a glorified “mall walker,” the very group of people I used to silently judge because I couldn’t understand why they weren’t in a park or a neighborhood or slogging away on a treadmill somewhere. Now I get it. Only it’s grocery stores—not the mall.

Truth be told, I mostly prefer taking my daily jaunts through our neighborhood, in the fresh air and sunshine. As an added benefit, I run across friends, their kids and sometimes I even get to pet their dogs. If it’s after dusk, I enjoy seeing people’s windows aglow with warm, yellow light as I pass—especially in the winter. And because I’m a complete weirdo, I like to kick stones and step on dry leaves along my path, hearing a satisfying crunch beneath my feet. We always seem to have an abundance of leaves in our street so that’s a win for me. Thankfully, thick groves of old-growth trees envelop our neighborhood almost entirely, lush shrubbery and thickets lapping at the edges of the pavement. And there’s nothing that I love more than to be surrounded by woods in any season.

It’s true; not all those who wander are lost. Some are just trying to get their steps in, and along the way discover that the path they’ve chosen feels much like home.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably walking). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under A Tree is Nice, Gratitude, Me Myself and I, Me Time, Unplugged

Tagged as exercise, fitness, hobbies, humor, outdoors, walking

June 2, 2026 · 12:25 pm

Out to Pasture

Just when I thought my household décor was in vogue and on par with the latest design trends, the universe had the audacity to inform me otherwise. I know this because I watch entirely too much HGTV. Apparently, my kitchen cabinetry is dated, even though its appearance and functionality are ideal in my mind. I love the soft close feature that each cupboard boasts and the ridiculously spacious Super Susans nestled in the corners. Even the key cabinet, where we now house all sorts of things aside from keys, is beyond convenient. Never mind the enormous drawers hidden beneath our 34-square foot island that can each hold 100 pounds or more. And because I own way too many pots and rogue Rubbermaid containers, those drawers are perfectly suited to manage it all.

I can’t even begin to express how thrilled I was, and continue to be, with the spaciousness of almost every aspect of our kitchen that we renovated over 13 years ago. Even the junk drawer has room for all our junk—which is really saying something.

And the sturdy exterior of the cabinetry, a beautiful Brazilian stained quarter sawn oak that makes my heart smile every time I enter the kitchen, extends all the way to the ceiling so that I no longer have to wonder what to do with the worthless space (i.e. dust trap) atop the cupboards. Plus, I can now store even more—I just have to haul a stepladder in to make it happen. And yes, the countertops, island, floor and paint all hail from a decidedly warm and earthy color palette—egregiously far from what is considered trendy by today’s standards. Everything, it seems, is either pristine white or muted gray nowadays. Where’s the fun in that—let alone the whimsy?

What’s more, popular kitchen/bathroom hardware, fixtures and lighting are mostly brushed brass of late, something I tried so hard to eradicate from my home since it smacked of the ‘80s. Are we going backwards here? Are bell-bottoms next? That said, wallpaper has been resurrected from the dead, evidently. I cringe every time I see the hosts of the Property Brothers or Love It or List It decide to add it to various rooms as some sort of magical feature because I distinctly remember becoming enraged while attempting to remove every stitch of it from my home. At one point, we had to hire someone to save us from ourselves by doing the job for us. Thank you, Ed Gair.

It’s no surprise that the entire topic of home improvement has always been a point of contention between my husband and me. We rarely agree on the specifics of how to renovate, so when the stars and planets align so that we are, in fact, on the same page, we immediately put the changes into effect. That’s how we ended up with gorgeous dark walnut-hued vinyl plank flooring (that looks exactly like hardwood) in our living room and dining room. Amazingly, it resists scratches, stains and water. Good thing—because we had a little dog that whizzed on the floor indiscriminately for years. Unfortunately, though, we can’t seem to agree on whether to replace our hideous pink carpet in the bedrooms that my husband swears is salmon with more carpet or perhaps more vinyl. He is of the opinion that we should install more carpet (potentially terrible carpet) while I think vinyl plank flooring makes more sense because it would contribute to the overall flow in our home. Of course, I learned that term by watching HGTV.

Either way, we’re doing it wrong according to the home décor experts. Invariably, the folks on many of the episodes prefer lighter-colored flooring. And they almost never opt for carpeting, much to my husband’s disappointment.

Further, I’m sure if they had their way regarding our home, they’d advise us to knock down walls, move the stove and reorient our stairwell in order to create a more open concept and better feng shui. Yes, I learned those terms on the network, too.

No doubt, that very same network would likely be prepared to put my precious design ideas out to pasture, long before it’s time. Who knows; maybe the universe is right.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably watching HGTV). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.