Tag Archives: writing

February 24, 2026 · 3:39 pm

Sunspots

My indoor cats know where it’s at—basking in the sunspots throughout the house. Those warm and welcoming havens where the sun streams in through the windows and pools on the floor and furniture below are especially inviting on these cold, wintry days. They’re no fools. They know it makes perfect sense to curl up in a place where heat is literally raining down from the sky, warming their bodies through to the bone.

I can tell just by looking at their furry faces how euphoric this makes them. The way they turn their heads toward the source and slow blink as if to say, “Don’t bother me; I’m in a zone.” What I find hilarious is watching said cats squabble over what is apparently prime real estate—a two-foot square expanse of hardwood flooring in a corner of our living room that is bathed in sunlight nearly every morning. If I could fit there (and if I got up earlier), I’d be hijacking it myself.

I’m like a house plant, only less photosynthesis is involved.

It’s not as if we set the thermostat below a reasonable temperature and we’re all freezing to death. It usually hovers right around 70 degrees. It’s just that the sun streaming in feels so ridiculously good—especially on bare feet. And if it’s a blue sky type of day, the sunspots appear on the northwestern side of the house in the afternoon too, providing even more opportunities for lounging in the warmth.

So I guess it’s not the least bit surprising that I, much like our cats, follow the sun in winter. Housebound, I find myself seeking out the shafts of light pouring in and soaking it all up before the clouds close in or night falls. If I didn’t look like a complete idiot, I’d be tempted to sprawl out on the floor just like the cats and devour every sliver of sunlight to be had—charging my batteries so to speak. It’s no wonder almost every vehicle I ever owned came equipped with a sunroof, lest I be deprived of a solitary photon.

For what it’s worth, there’s an amusing YouTube and Instagram video about northerners enjoying February sunshine on a family vlog and blog called Story of This Life. It’s created by Thad and Esther Anderson and I highly recommend you check it out (with the volume on) for a good laugh. The woman in question practically transforms into a cat as she slinks over furniture, stairs, walls and flooring to absorb every available ray of sunshine in her home. These past few months she has become my spirit animal.

What’s more, I sort of identify with the solar panels we had installed on our roof last summer. They love the sunshine, but have been more than a little frustrated by the snow and ice still covering a good portion of their surface. Let the melting begin.

I suppose I should take my husband’s advice and use my Miroco Light Therapy Lamp more often, particularly on gray days when it’s not very sunny. It’s a nifty device for people who suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder (that I, of course, diagnosed myself) that simulates natural sunlight without UV rays. It has multiple brightness settings, a timer and it swivels for convenience. For whatever reason, though, I just don’t seem to be inclined to fetch it from the bowels of our cabinet where it’s housed. Maybe because I know in my heart of hearts it’s not the same as actual sunlight. Obviously, my cats think it’s a marvelous idea to use it in lieu of competing for their precious sunspots.

Little jerks.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably lying in a sunspot, squinting like the cats). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

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Filed under Me Myself and I, Normal is Relative, Love and Other Drugs, Unplugged, Gratitude

Tagged as cats, February, humor, Seasonal Affective Disorder, sunshine, sunspots, winter, writing

November 1, 2018 · 3:45 pm

Voices in My Head

I’m a writer, which implies that I spend a sizeable chunk of my day staring off into space or glowering at my laptop, stabbing at its keys in hopes of crafting coherent sentences on occasion. For me, the process of putting words on the page, virtual or otherwise, is never easy—which, of course, fills me with dread much of the time and leads me to believe that the universe hates me. What’s more, the allure of social media shows no mercy, consuming me like the ruthless beast that it is. And despite the fact that I know it to be a ruthless beast, I find it impossible to resist its wily charms.

Out of sheer necessity, I’ve devised a handful of strategies to help me be more productive—to concentrate more and dawdle less. Further, I’ve learned to silence the rumblings of doubt, if only for one sentence at a time—which, I remind myself daily, is all it really takes to move forward.

Needless to say, the tedium of parking myself in a wooden chair for hours on end is enough to kill anyone’s muse. As a result, I find that a little fresh air and exercise help me generate new ideas and make connections that I might not otherwise make. Further, I try to limit my time on the Internet, often using it as a reward for progress. Translation: I am a kindergartener, only less disciplined, and I rely on positive reinforcement in order to accomplish anything noteworthy. Instead of receiving glittery stickers, I get to generate irreverent tweets and post pictures of my dogs on Facebook.

Also, I ensure that my environment isn’t too quiet. For whatever reason, listening to Neil Young helps me churn out more words, as does the early music of Candlebox, Collective Soul and the Black Crowes—at a barely perceptible decibel level, I might add. I’m guessing it’s because their lyrics melt seamlessly into instrumental riffs, failing to compete or interfere with the jumbled mass of words inside my head—the ones that struggle to escape in some semblance of order and clarity.

Oddly enough, I often don’t know how I feel about a topic until I actually sit down and type the words. So to invite other words inside my brain AT THE SAME TIME almost always ends poorly. Case in point: The yammering that emanates from a television set drives me fairly insane, as it’s somehow funneled to my ears no matter how many walls separate us. If it happens to be tuned to Fox News during an election year, it’s patently debilitating.

Likewise, being within earshot of my husband spells disaster for my writing, too. This, of course, is because the man has no filter and he talks incessantly—to me, to himself, to people on the phone, to our idiotic dogs and even to the houseplants, I assume. More specifically, he has an irksome habit of reading aloud Facebook posts, select emails, newspaper headlines as well as outrageous excerpts from letters to the editor. While it’s true, I am often entertained by the aforementioned, it seems reasonable to request that it could wait.

Similarly, if, in the course of his crazy-busy day, he happened to have stumbled into 17 people he knows, I can count on receiving a synopsis regarding each of the chance encounters the instant he walks in the door. If he is about to change the cat box, has trimmed his toenails recently or has walked to the street to retrieve the mail, I’ll assuredly receive a report. What’s more, if he has taxied our brood anywhere throughout the day, I’ll get a detailed accounting of the logistical nightmare involved, along with a verbal transcript of the teen-inspired diatribe to which he was undoubtedly subjected.

In all fairness, I’m quite sure he has no idea HOW BERSERK this makes me as I hunt-and-peck at the keyboard, attempting to string sentences together. Naturally, I stew in silence until I can’t stand it anymore—at which point I shout STOP PUTTING WORDS IN MY HEAD. It’s as if he has crawled inside my cranium with a megaphone in order to more effectively deliver the soundtrack of my life—which would be fine if I weren’t wrestling with my own warped commentary. It’s crowded enough in there without his ramblings.

Then again, the man endures my ramblings, so I guess it balances out in the end.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, trying (and often failing) to silence the voices in my head. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Bookish Stuff, Captain Quirk, Rantings & Ravings, The Write Stuff

Tagged as authors, books, humor, marriage, National Authors Day, writing

May 30, 2018 · 7:25 am

All the World’s a Stage

I have next to no talent when it comes to public speaking—or public anything, for that matter. Even group texts stress me out to a degree. It’s just not in my DNA—dealing with a live audience, large or small. I much prefer to express myself by sitting at my laptop and stabbing at the keys, hopeful that I will convey something meaningful to those who happen to be on the receiving end of my words.

That said, I am a ridiculously shy person who would do almost anything to avoid being in the spotlight. Crowds instill within me not a sense of excitement, but sheer panic. Call me crazy, but I’d be more inclined to endure a root canal than to set foot on stage in front of throngs of people. And for the record, I find little comfort in the old adage JUST IMAGINE THE AUDIENCE IN THEIR UNDERWEAR AND YOU’LL BE FINE AT THE PODIUM. I should know. I tried that during my high school commencement speech and it did nothing but fuel my anxiety. Plus there was the whole boxers vs. briefs issue and I didn’t know which I was supposed to envision.

By some strange twist of fate, my youngest daughters (one, a gifted actor and singer, and the other an incredibly accomplished musician) absolutely thrive in the limelight, having little or no reservations about performing in front of swarms of people and/or cameras. I have no idea how this happened. I only wish I had one iota of their courage and an ability to put one’s talents on full display—critics be damned. Even my husband has a special knack for public speaking, usually armed with a single index card on which he has scrawled roughly six words. I can’t even fathom how he generates an entire speech out of that.

By contrast, I fear I will wither and die whenever I must step out of my comfort zone and address a gathering of people—with or without an index card. I couldn’t even eulogize my own parents or say a few words when my brother passed. On a lighter note, it’s amazing I ever made it through the eighth grade since it was there that I was required to deliver a four-minute speech on how to hit a golf ball. Of course, I chose this topic because it was one of the few skills I possessed and if I had to talk about something, it might as well be something I felt relatively comfortable discussing.

Looking back, I’m quite sure I found the experience to be decidedly intolerable. I think the closest I ever came to enjoying myself on stage was when I played Chicken Little in elementary school. Granted I don’t recall having many lines, but I do remember being in love with my costume. My beak was comically oversized as were my feet, but the best part was getting hit in the head with a pine cone that someone offstage threw at me, because, of course, THE SKY WAS FALLING. Drama like that was beyond fun. Another time in grade school, I snagged the role of the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella and sang Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo in a small, but packed gymnasium/auditorium. In both instances, perhaps I was too young to care what people thought of me, or maybe I was patently obsessed with the idea of frolicking around on stage instead of sitting at a desk doing schoolwork.

At any rate, I’m still perplexed by the fact that I spent a number of years as a teacher—each day having to overcome at least some measure of performance anxiety. Thankfully the kids were terrific. Hopefully, they were none the wiser.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, gearing up for my book signing on First Friday at Otto Bookstore in Williamsport where there may be crowds, but happily, I’ll only have to speak to one person at a time. Please stop by between 6:00 and 8:00pm on June 1^stand pick up a copy of DELIVERANCE: A Survival Guide to Parenting Twins. Bear in mind that it’s not just for parents of twins. It’s a real hoot for anyone who has ever raised children. If you can’t make it, please visit me at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Bookish Stuff, In the Trenches of Parentville, Me Myself and I, The Write Stuff, Twins

Tagged as books, Deliverance, Deliverance: A Survival Guide to Parenting Twins, humor, motherhood, newborns, parenting, Planet Mom, public speaking, Twins, writing

March 8, 2016 · 4:39 pm

Voices in My Head

Then again, the man endures my ramblings, so I guess it balances out in the end.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live, trying (and often failing) to silence the voices in my head. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom.

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Filed under Bookish Stuff, Captain Quirk, The Write Stuff

Tagged as columnist, distractions, humor, husbands, marriage, writer, writing

March 22, 2012 · 12:16 pm

Worms Fail Me

There is a routine by which my children leave the house each school day. It’s a fairly logical succession of events that usually culminates with a mad dash to the bus stop, backpacks and jackets flapping as they run, their unruly manes trailing behind them. Of all the memories of motherhood I’m sure to harvest, the one that features their early morning race across the lawn, a blur of gangly legs and unbridled enthusiasm, will be a favorite. It’s likely, too, that I’ll remember the many times they paused in the street, still blackened and slick from the unending rains of spring, to rescue untold numbers of earthworms from what would appear to be certain death.

Quickly, yet gingerly, they scoop them up and place them where it is safe, pleased to have made a difference in a small yet meaningful way. And as I witness this determined albeit futile effort to “…rescue them all, Mom,” morning after morning I am moved, inspired almost, to join in their worthy deeds. Of course, it would be cruel to utter the obvious truth: “You can’t possibly save them all.” So instead I bite my tongue and agree that worms, too, have a purpose. “They aerate and enrich the soil, Mom.” Again I am reminded of the exuberance of youth and of the remarkable capacity children have for storing data sure to wow me.

At any rate, it goes without saying that worms lack the ability to communicate their needs and desires—no matter how compelling or dire they might be. Granted, they couldn’t deliver any sort of message that anyone could ever hope to interpret. Crazy as it sounds, there are times that I can relate to such hapless creatures—especially as I struggle to connect with my brood via meaningful discourse. Indeed, sometimes words fail me—when weighty subjects arise, when reflective listening falls flat, when my children’s growing allegiance to privacy rears its ugly head. But I am determined to improve the way in which we connect over the stuff that matters—as well as the stuff that doesn’t particularly.

For starters, I’ve made a solemn pledge to engage my daughters in conversation each day—to stop whatever it is I happen to be doing and tune in to their respective worlds. To find out who has a crush on whom, which item on the lunch menu is to die for these days and just how many Pokémon cards it truly takes to be complete. For my oldest, my curiosities are more akin to: which D.C. restaurant is her new fave, what, exactly, does one do with a graphic design degree anyway and when (oh when!) will the boyfriend be getting a haircut. And although I make light of it here, I understand how important it is to have these conversations. Somehow over the past decade I’ve allowed life’s harried pace to take precedence over bonding in this manner—even over the seemingly insignificant happenings of life, which is precisely what I wish to change.

So aside from vowing to carve out more one-on-one “face time” with my co-ed daughter (who is still away at college), I plan to call more, and text more and I suspect I’ll even utilize Facebook’s messaging system on a more regular basis—a concept I never once imagined myself embracing.

As for my two youngest charges, I’ve taken a big step forward on the path to opening the lines of communication by purchasing each of them Just Between Us: A No-Stress, No-Rules Journal for Girls and Their Mothers by Meredith and Sofie Jacobs (Chronicle Books). So in addition to the aforementioned “face time,” we now have this wonderfully interactive, perfectly confidential, writing prompt-infused means of communicating with one another—a tool that encourages us to “talk” about everything from boys and bands to wishes and worries, all within the confines of a tangible journal that we conveniently pass back and forth. Of course, it doesn’t replace or devalue our customary method of conversing, but instead offers another, perhaps deeper, layer of connecting. A good thing methinks.

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