Tag Archives: marriage

September 29, 2026 · 12:21 pm

Food Fight

There are lots of areas in which my husband and I have a difference of opinion. I think we should be able to park our cars in our garage. He doesn’t particularly care if the cars are in there or not. He is of the opinion that every cardboard box we own should be squirreled away for another day. I think keeping just a few is plenty. I say “let,” while he says “leave.”

But when it comes to food, the differences are off the charts. Naturally, I think I represent the majority of opinion in every instance. So does he. Therein lies the rub.

For starters, I love tuna salad when it’s made with mayonnaise, regardless of the brand. He prefers mixing the tuna with Miracle Whip, which I can’t begin to tolerate. It’s far too sweet for my taste and doesn’t even smack of real food. When it comes to tuna, it’s all about a savory flavor in my mind. Throw in some celery and maybe a bit of diced hardboiled eggs or onion and you have something worth eating. I’ve even been known to add sliced Spanish olives for a nice briny tang. By contrast, he adds sweet pickle relish. I can’t even. So, to resolve this issue in our marriage, we make both kinds of tuna salad as a rule.

Speaking of tuna, my husband became ill after eating some tuna noodle casserole ONE time and has refused to eat it ever since then. Mind you, this happened over 50 YEARS AGO. You’d think after that much time had passed, you might be inclined to try the dish again, especially since you love all the ingredients. Nope. Turns out, he had a horrible bout of the flu that night and it had nothing whatsoever to do with the tuna casserole. But there’s no convincing him of that, even still.

What’s more, I like chili made with kidney or black beans (or both) while he prefers it without beans. Who does that? He loves pickled beets. I can’t stand them, although I do enjoy pickled red beet eggs. Go figure. I absolutely love ripe (black) and Spanish (green) olives while he positively abhors them. I’m sure it bothers him to no end when he sees me enjoying either the black or green variety by the fistful, so I try to get out of his sight when I do. In addition, we’ve gone round and round over the matter of apple dumplings. He thinks they’re a stand-alone meal. I think they qualify as a dessert.

Further, I won’t eat scrapple, nor do I trust anyone who does. In fact, the horrendous smell that wafts through the entire house when it’s cooking repulses me. By the same token, he refuses to eat broccoli or cauliflower and can’t stand the smell when they’re steaming hot. Nor does he trust anyone who would eat such a thing. I don’t even want to know where scrapple comes from. It’s like some sort of mystery meat that I don’t care to sample even though my husband lovingly offers me some each time he makes it. It’s only fair that I offer him broccoli or cauliflower.

Another area of dissimilarity involves the manner in which we consume spaghetti or linguini. I, of course, twirl a few noodles with my fork against a spoon or my plate, like a normal person—just like my friend, Theresa. He, on the other hand, CUTS THE PASTA like a madman. It’s almost criminal and it literally hurts my soul to witness this in person and hear his knife scraping against the plate.

In addition, the man eats Lebanon bologna slathered with peanut butter. In all honesty, I just don’t see those two flavors pairing in the same mouthful. I love them both, but would never put them together under any circumstance. That’s just insane.

When all is said and done, in our household at least, what I’ve described brings new meaning to the phrase, “food fight.”

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

Grave Matters

It’s inevitable—we’ll all die. Sometime. We just hope that it’s not too soon, or at least I hope that. As Jim Morrison of the Doors once famously remarked, “No one here gets out alive,” and I don’t think any truer words could’ve ever been spoken.

Regardless of how logical this statement appears to be and how it would seemingly inspire preparedness, few of us actually act upon it by choosing to prearrange our own funerals/memorials. It makes perfect sense to do so, though, because it lessens the toll that a death takes on our families—both financial and emotional. The burden placed upon loved ones is undeniable in that deep in the midst of grief, dozens upon dozens of snap decisions must be made following such an unfortunate event. I didn’t even know if my parents wanted to be cremated and had to rely on guessing—because we never talked about it face to face. It wasn’t spelled out in their wills so I had little to go on. My mother-in-law, by contrast, had every minute detail planned down to which specific hymns were included in her service. She wore a pink dress as I recall—one that our twins, who were only six at the time, placed tissues inside its sleeves, because Grandma would never be without tissues. At any rate, I give her a lot of credit for taking so much off our plates by planning ahead.

So, after a great deal of discussion, debate and pure angst, I finally convinced my husband to take the necessary steps to prearrange our ceremonies. To say that it was a tall order is an understatement. I practically had to drag him to the funeral home. Truth be told, it was hard for both of us. No one likes to think about dying and what will happen in the aftermath. It’s certainly not a popular topic, at least not in the conversations I’ve been known to hold. It forced us to think about and answer questions neither one of us had ever before considered. Like what type of box did we want our ashes to be displayed in? I had no idea. Neither did he. Also, which particular flower would we prefer to adorn said box? Again, I was clueless. My husband loves snapdragons because he has a habit of making them “sing” at funerals. Macabre, I know. I love tiger lilies, but would it remind me of the sad fact that the deer in our neighborhood habitually devour the tiger lilies in my lawn, thereby making everyone even sadder? In the end, I decided that it really didn’t matter. Because I’d be dead.

Then there was the whole obituary undertaking—an insufferable writing task that made us both beyond uncomfortable. I mean who wants to do that? It’s nearly impossible to jot down what was notable and decidedly significant in the span of a life—an accounting of one’s entire existence in just a handful of words. It’s a humbling experience to say the least. I discovered that it’s difficult to choose what to include and what not to include. I tried to think of what might be meaningful for people to read—what might those I knew like to learn about me.

What’s more, since the obituaries have been written for the most part, our kids won’t have to deal with that or decisions about gravesites or tombstones since my husband and I have decided to have our ashes placed in our church columbarium—alongside some people we truly adored. So, there won’t be any trudging to the cemetery in all sorts of weather, or feeling obliged to place flowers there on holidays or any other time. Nor will our kids struggle with choosing our burial clothing. We came into this world naked—and we’ll go out naked.

Thankfully, this whole process was made simpler by our Preneed Counselor, Stephanie, at Maneval Allen Redmond Funeral Home. She walked us through some really difficult topics and advised us how to proceed in the preplanning of our ceremonies with both competence and compassion. Fortunately, there are a host of wonderful funeral homes in the Williamsport area that specialize in preplanning. Maneval is one of many.

Now that that is handled, we can get on with life and place our grave matters behind us.

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

2 Comments

Filed under Love and Loss, The Chicken Man

Tagged as death, family, funeral, grief, life, marriage, marriage humor, memorial, passing away, preplanning, writing

May 27, 2026 · 12:39 pm

Pool Fools

My husband and I put in a pool about seven years ago, when our youngest kids went off to college. It was a not-so-veiled scheme to lure them back home to visit each summer; and it worked for the most part. It didn’t hurt that we kept adding fun floaties every season so they could loll around in the water while listening to a favorite playlist and sipping something cool and refreshing. That said, our pool truly is an oasis—our little backyard refuge where we have fun just bobbing up and down on our oversized noodles, not a care in the world, balmy water lapping at our chins.

Despite how decidedly wonderful this pool is, I’m quite sure our kids have no idea what horrible caretakers we are. To date, our ineptitude knows no bounds. The folks at Fagnano’s Pools know the score. Without a doubt, no two stupider people have set foot in their establishment seeking guidance and/or a small team of marriage counselors. We never remember anything they’ve taught us so they have to walk us through the opening every year. Thankfully, they are more than accommodating and incredibly patient, even though it’s plain to see by every metric we are fools and we have no business owning anything that requires regular maintenance. Every spring we turn to the gurus at Fagnano’s for specific instruction on opening our pool. Of course, they remove the winter cover, install the ladders and get the filter running, et al. But when it comes to adding chemicals and salt, we’re utterly clueless. Fortunately, they provide us with a detailed list of what to add and when—and also when it’s safe to begin heating the water. No one wants algae running amok.

That is not to say, our pool experience has been uneventful. Perish the thought. There was the time we somehow sucked the mesh “skimmer sock” through the pipes, under the pool, all the way to the filter on the other side. And because the gods were smiling upon us, the sock didn’t get wedged in the pipes UNDER THE POOL. And thankfully the pieces of my husband’s dissolving swimsuit didn’t get sucked into the skimmer. What’s more, within the first couple of seasons we tore the solar cover and just stopped using it. Besides, there are big, hairy spiders in the cavity that houses the cover and I am not a fan of reaching in there.

Another spring, our water was the color of a pond (actually, less inviting than a pond) because great hordes of spongy moth caterpillars were perched in a huge oak tree above the water, pooing indiscriminately. What we didn’t know was that the disgusting particles were so fine, they couldn’t be removed the way we normally cleaned the pool. This necessitated vacuuming by hand so as not to stir up the poo that had settled to the bottom, and because we’re so dependent on the robotic vacuum that does the job automatically, our neighbor, Jay, had to show us how to do it because he’s forgotten more than we know. To say that this task was laborious is an understatement. That’s code for WE DIDN’T SWIM UNTIL MID-JULY. Although we hated to do it, we removed the oak tree and haven’t experienced that sort of fresh hell since then.

Aside from the spongy moth fiasco, last summer we noticed that the pool wasn’t holding its heat for about two or three weeks even though it was ungodly hot outside and the nights weren’t all that cool. Naturally, we called Fagnano’s to save us from ourselves. They took one look at our equipment and informed us that THE HEATER WAS OFF, apparently. My husband and I were dumbfounded as to how that happened. Like I said, no two stupider people own a pool.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably floating on a purple noodle). Visit me there at

www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom.

Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Comments Off on Pool Fools

Filed under Endless Summer, Ode to Embarrassment, Vacation Schmacation, Vat of Complete Irreverence, We Put the Fun in Dysfunction

Tagged as humor, marriage, marriage humor, pools, summer, summer activities, swimming, swimming pools, village idiot

May 12, 2026 · 11:00 am

By the Book

I have what some would consider a small library in my home—which sounds more impressive than it actually is. It’s a tiny collection of books written by some of my favorite authors, situated on a shelf just above my desk. On occasion, I pull one down and reread it, recalling why I placed it among my beloved titles in the first place. Oddly enough, I sometimes get more out of a book on the second time around, enjoying it to an even greater extent, observing finer detail with each passage and page. If, for whatever reason, I decide not to reread a book, I give it to someone or donate it randomly by placing it inside the Little Free Library in our neighborhood that my friend, Christine, installed several years ago. It’s no secret that I appreciate it as much or more than the neighborhood kids do.

I also have a to-be-read pile (TBR) in my home, stacked in the order I intend to consume each literary gem. One of the tenets I hold dear is that my TBR pile can never be depleted to zero. I have to know there is always another book waiting for me. Otherwise, I get anxious when I’m about to finish one if another isn’t lined up, at the ready. Quirky, I know.

But I doubt I’m as quirky as my husband by comparison. That man has the books he intends to read scattered all over the house, a few stashed in almost every room—in case sudden inspiration strikes, I guess. What’s more, he reads more than one book at a time. He calls it multitasking, of course. I call it madness. I have no idea how he keeps the narratives straight in his head. Heaven forbid he misplaces his bookmarks.

And despite the loads of encouragement I give him, he rarely agrees to read a book I suggest—even if I know in my heart of hearts that he’ll love it. Further, it’s almost impossible for me to convince him that he’d enjoy a novel. He usually goes for nonfiction like biographies or autobiographies on the topics of history, war, music and politics. Truth be told, I probably prefer nonfiction, too, although I have a few favorite novelists whose styles I can’t resist. At any rate, I’m seldom able to sway him to read just one of those writers.

On a related note, again and again he reminds me NOT to buy him another book—for Christmas, for his birthday, for Father’s Day, etc. And I fail to listen. The fact that I purchase yet another title for him is a manifestation of a terrible compulsion I feel each time I enter a bookstore—much like buying for myself. Oh well, I could have worse habits.

Thankfully, the greater Williamsport area is home to six wonderful libraries, the James V. Brown Library in Williamsport, the Konkle Memorial Library in Montoursville, the Jersey Shore Public Library, the Montgomery Area Public Library, the Muncy Public Library and the Hughesville Area Public Library. That said, we can always rely on them to provide wonderful book-related services for people of all ages and stages of life.

When all is said and done, there’s at least one thing my husband and I share when it comes to books—we not only love them, but we have enough sense to bring a good one along when we know we’ll be holed up at jury duty or at a garage getting our cars inspected, et al. Without fail, we’ll be there for hours on end and scrolling on a phone or watching TV will only suffice for so long.

Speaking of books, don’t miss the Second Annual Storytellers Book Fair hosted by Lycoming Arts in the Pennington Lounge at Lycoming College on Friday, May 15th from 4-7pm! There will be basket raffles, local author and artist meet-and-greets, book sales, mystery wine pull, community book swap, a discussion about PJ Piccirillo’s featured book (The Indigo Scarf) and a session regarding the publishing industry and book promotion (by Otto Bookstore General Manager, John Shableski). All proceeds from guest passes and activities will support Lycoming Arts and its work to connect our community through the arts. I’ll be there with bells on, signing my books. Hope to see you there!

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

2 Comments

Filed under Bookish Stuff, Captain Quirk, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Me Time, Normal is Relative, Unplugged

Tagged as books, hobbies, humor, library, marriage, marriage humor, reading

March 31, 2026 · 1:27 pm

All That Jazz

I have a confession to make: I love caffeine. Just like a lot of people, I depend on it to get stuff done. Stuff I don’t necessarily want to do. Like taxes, cleaning up cat puke and spending a ridiculous amount of time in the kitchen or laundry room. Truth be told, I need my caffeine fix to overcome a default setting of abject lethargy. It’s embarrassing, I know.

What’s ironic is that I don’t especially like coffee. I tried acquiring a taste for it in college while I pulled all-nighters, to no avail. I resolved that issue eventually by mixing it in my dark chocolate hot cocoa so that I can barely taste its bitterness. Problem solved.

Oddly enough, it only takes about a teaspoonful to get me revved, or as my husband likes to say, “jazzed.” As in, “Oh no, you’re all jazzed now and I’ll have to deal with THIS version of you!” But this version of me feels invincible—like vacuuming the entire house, cleaning the gutters or going on a 10-mile hike (not that I actually will). Needless to say, “caffeinated me” irritates him to no end because, of course, I talk incessantly and remind him of things he needs to do. I also interrupt his precious scrolling time. I figure I’m just helping him help himself to not be so addicted to his phone.

I think what aggravates him most about this situation is that he prefers being energized early in the day while I prefer later in the afternoon and into the evening. What’s more, he could consume five cups of java and not feel a thing, whereas the mere thought of ingesting a few sips of the brewed wonder makes my leg bounce in anticipation. It’s par for the course, though—take two people who are opposite in almost every way imaginable, and invariably they marry each other. That’s us.

In the end, I guess we’ve learned to tolerate each other’s differences—even the ones that involve caffeine, which delights me because I can’t imagine having to sacrifice either my dear husband or my dear coffee/cocoa fix. That said, caffeine makes me happy. It’s like sprinkling joy all over my day—especially on the days I have to will myself to do anything remotely cognitive, like balancing a checkbook, paying bills or (you guessed it) writing this column.

That said, my brain just works better on caffeine. It bounces from one task to the next with remarkable hyper-focus which helps me accomplish a host of gotta-dos in record time, all thanks to a liquid form of motivation. It inspires greatness within me regarding physical tasks, too, causing me to achieve the impossible—like making our mattress pad fit on the bed without committing hari kari.

Out of sheer curiosity, I Googled images of caffeine and apparently the crystals look wild under a microscope—like clusters of jagged little particles, poised to wreak havoc wherever they might land. It’s no wonder it does what it does to the body and brain. I encourage you to Google it, too. You won’t be disappointed.

Not surprisingly, frappés are my decadent treat, especially if they contain pumps of Frappuccino roast and dark chocolate java chips. My doctor will be pleased to know that I don’t make a habit of ordering them that often because it’s basically diabetes in a cup. That said, I look forward to meeting up with my dear friend, Barb, at Starbucks in the very near future. I’m sure we’ll catch up on all the latest happenings in our lives and enjoy something delicious (and caffeinated) in the process.

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