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We were sitting on the outdoor patio deck overlooking Lake Milton while visiting some of our favorite peeps recently when it happened.
It was one of those rare, glimpse sightings, like a shooting star streaking across the cloudless night sky or a sudden waterspout churning off the shores of Key West or Kim Kardashian’s marriage to Kris Humphries. Blink and you could miss it, you dig?
It was a stealth attack; so seemingly innocuous and lasting mere seconds from start to finish that it took me a while to fully absorb the blow. It’s difficult to discern, even now, whether it was planned or more stream-of-consciousness in nature, sorta like that spontaneous combustion phenomenon you read about online from time to time.
Whatever the intent, one of the guests in the gathering blurted out upon her departure: “Remember, summer’s only 12 short weekends; use them wisely.”
Hard, hard gulp.
Now, because the Memorial Day weekend is unofficially the kickoff of summer, I’m setting my solstice clock from this weekend through the one ending with Labor Day. That’s 15 weekends NOT 12, a’ight? Who’s with me on this one?
I find it offensive when someone tries to short-sheet summer, yo.
Take my sister, for instance. I adore her. She’s my blood. We share DNA and secrets and inside jokes and exceptional life moments that bond us in a way neither of us could be connected with another human.
And yet, every summer on the Fourth of July when she morosely declares: “Well, that’s it. Summer’s over!” I kinda just wanna bounce a beach ball off her head. Like, eight thousand times.
I am not joking.
Look people, we all know in what part of the country we currently reside, okay? We know that it’s precious and infrequent and a blessing from the Big Guy above when we have a series of sustained, consecutive sunny days warmer than 67-degrees Fahrenheit. We understand that they are likely going to fall on weekdays.
We get that the one Saturday we set aside to drive the three hours up to our favor amusement park and the home of America’s Roller Coast (love me some #CedarPoint), there will be an abrupt, un-predicted cold front that washes over the entire state from our neighbors to the north.
The Canadian air will not only bring a stingingly cold rain that borders on snow (yes, I’ve busted out gloves in June) but will also deposit another several-hundred Canadian geese illegally over the border, too, making the parking lot a veritable death trap between them and the evil sea gulls, all of which have only two goals in life: eating and recycling what they just ate. Rotten buggers.
So, yes, I take severe umbrage (just like Marie on “Everybody Loves Raymond”) to those crass remarks about summer’s untimely demise every year. Why you gotta hurt me like that?
As the obnoxiously smug and condescending former Countess / current, self-proclaimed cabaret “star” (like THAT’S a real thing?) LuAnn De Lesseps of “The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills” always says:
“Don’t be all, like, un-cool.” Ah, the grace and class just drips from her.
Anyway, stop condensing favorite season or I’ll send bad birds over to your roost, Capisce? Also, please take a moment to remember those who gave all today.
Happy Summer, y’all!
Kimerer is a Tribune Chronicle columnist who will seriously smite you if you rush through summer. Okay, not seriously, but she’ll be really, really not like all warm and fuzzy and stuff! Send suggestions for extending her favorite season to www.patriciakimerer.com