Sponsors: www.cailorfleming.com/ hbkcpa.com/consultants/james-dascenzo/ Lk 6: “Stop judging and you will not be judged...Forgive and you will be forgiven...”
Fernando. Fred. Freddie. Hon.
Dad. Foh-pa. Bop. Grandpa Marinucci. Honorary big brother.
Mr. Marinucci. Marinuch.
My Father was called many different names by a myriad of folks. I simply called him Pop. I was pretty much the only one who referred to him that way; I think that’s why I loved calling him it so much?
Pop wore many hats. Most of them knit with a big fluffy tassel on the top. My favorite is the red, green and white one with the holly pin he always wore a Natale. That’s “at Christmas” to the average non-Italian bear.
Indeed my Pop was so many things. He was the hardest worker I’ve ever known, sometimes holding down three jobs at a time to provide for all of us. He was a black belt in karate, a first-aid responder, a master gardener.
He was a scuba diver, a swim instructor, and a lifeguard. He was the most patriotic American EVER. If you didn’t vote—even if the candidates were unopposed and no issues were on a primary ballot; you didn’t tell Pop because voting’s a right and privilege he took VERY seriously.
Pop was a serial teaser and a voracious reader who enjoyed a cup of Joe with his NY Times, Wall Street Journal, USA Today, and local papers every Sunday. He seemed partial to a columnist in the Life section.
But then, who doesn’t love Burt Cole?
Yes, Pop liked that. He also liked to advise and would often toss out his famous “Lemme give you a little speech” line before launching into what can only be described as a monologue of the SALIENT POINTS of a matter. Know what? He was always spot on.
Pop also really liked:
•The original “Star Trek” series; “WKRP in Cincinnati”; “The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson” and “Smokey and the Bandit.”• The Steelers and THE Ohio State Buckeyes.
• The warmth of Florida in winter…and watching the sun rise any day of the week.
• WYSU/Classical Music ... especially Italian opera, of course.
• Dark chocolate…but like bitter dark.
• Burnt stuff; i.e. chips, popcorn, basically, most foodstuffs. At restaurants, he’d have the chef “slightly burn” his entrée on the RARE occasion he ordered steak (pun intended).
• ”Take me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver.
• Baked apples and pears; oven-toasted almonds.
• Gruyere cheese. Mozzarella cheese. Ricotta cheese. Parmigiano cheese. Pecorino…Okay fine, the man liked his cheese.
• Big, seven-course, whole-family dinners with everyone crammed around the table eating, debating, laughing.
“That makes my heart smile,” he’d say.
And Pop liked reminding us: “If you’re ever in trouble, just dial M for Marinucci and I’ll be right there.”
He always was.
I’m not really sure what to dial now that he’s up there, so far out of my area code. Man, his baby girl misses him tons already.
One thing I do know as I’m navigating my new normal of a world? Pop felt fortunate.
Not one for PDA or really mushy fuss of any kind, he repeatedly told me how lucky he was to have found such a wonderful partner to walk through his journey with him; how blessed he was by his life with my Mom; how much he respected and adored her.
He loved his children dearly, too…but his grandkids? Let’s face it, those three musketeers kicked the original trio of us right to the curb, Capisce? They were literally the light of his life. Faith, family, and tradition were everything to him.
As for that little mini-me I birthed? That’s clearly Pop reincarnated. So even though we lost him last week; Pop’s still here –and that makes my heart smile.
I know I’ll see you later, Pop, but “not if you see me first” (like you always replied!). Love you, Pop...
Some days, it's all you can do to grab yourself a copy of the Good Book, re-read Matthew 6 and just hold on for dear life.
Here's a blurb to help get you through a soggy Tuesday, my friends...
Jesus said to his disciples:
“In praying, do not babble like the pagans,
who think that they will be heard because of their many words.
Do not be like them.
Your Father knows what you need before you ask him.
“This is how you are to pray:
Our Father who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name,
thy Kingdom come,
thy will be done,
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us this day our daily bread;
and forgive us our trespasses,
as we forgive those who trespass against us;
and lead us not into temptation,
but deliver us from evil.
“If you forgive men their transgressions,
your heavenly Father will forgive you.
But if you do not forgive men,
neither will your Father forgive your transgressions.”
#HoldOn #HesGotYou #YouWillMakeItThrough #HangInThere #Pray #Peace
Sponsors: www.cailorfleming.com/ hbkcpa.com/consultants/james-dascenzo/ Ps 51: Be merciful, Oh Lord, for we have sinned.
It all happened so quickly. It was over nearly before it started.
“Are we the only ones in here?” I faintly heard one gal ask another from my stall at the far/wall end of the ladies room.
“I think so,” came the somewhat muted reply as I tried to whip up a sham sneeze in attempts to be transparent whilst not looking like a double-agent of the KGB (i.e. covertly eavesdropping). Hey, do they still call Russia’s version of the FBI the KGB?
Not like I’d understand a newer moniker anyway. I don’t even know what KGB stands for… I digress.
I didn’t get out one spec of faux phlegm before I heard gal #1 continue: “What do you think of that chick with the black hair?”
At that, major mucus DID well up inside my throat --along with a fist-size lump of “holy crap” since that would --or could-- be me. I do indeed have black hair. Well, not technically.
To be clear, my main mane has long since ashen-ed over; I’m totally gray in actuality. But, thanks to the lovely ladies at L’Oréal, my hair remains as black as midnight.
Kind of like gal #1’s ticker, perhaps?
“Oh, I think she seems nice?” came gal #2, now known as my hero. Let’s call her Captain Marvel.
“Hmm. I don’t know. I think she’s kind of…eh. I’m just not sure about her…” trailed the voice of Moonstone a/k/a the arch nemesis of Captain Marvel. And perhaps pk?
Boy, I thought Joan Jett’s backup band were the Blackhearts. Sheesh!
Yet, as much as I wanted to know if: a) they were talking about me and b) Moonstone dislikes me and why --- I couldn’t help but feel equally tempered by the trepidation of how much I DIDN’T want to know. You know?
“Heck, she hasn’t even known me long or well enough to decide if I’m a stupid head?” I thought as I finished um, composing myself.
“I mean, aren’t I one of the good guys?” I asked me. We agreed that I’m pretty okay, as humans go.
But then, one of us reminded the other about looking at things from another’s perspective.
Sure, after we’ve been cutoff in traffic, short-changed at the drive-through or shunned by a selective-hearing spouse who acknowledges no words emitted from my mouth until such time as another human selects to interact with me (this from the same person who hasn't heard a word I've said since circa 1998) -- we tend to feel like the injured party.
Shoot, we sorta always feel that way, right? But the truth is, we ain’t. And everyone’s got a right to their opinion.
Moonstone probs has her reasons for not liking the mystery brunette who may or may not be me.
Maybe I accidentally stepped in front of her in the hallway or unknowingly parked in “her spot”? Maybe my hair is just that offensive in and of itself. Think Medusa without the actual hissing ends. Ugh.
The point is; not only do I really NOT want to know how that sentence ultimately ended, but it’s also just none of my beeswax.
And I’m okay with that, since I know me and I mean well toward the other earthlings. Plus, I’ll eventually win her over with my pk-ness!
If not, I’ll just finish up in the lav with all the other nice guys…last.
Kimerer’s a columnist who just wants you to like her. Really, really like her. If you do, visit www.patriciakimerer.com
Sponsors: www.cailorfleming.com/ hbkcpa.com/consultants/melissa-crowley/ Ps 51: Be merciful Oh Lord for we have sinned.
It's funny, how we all think of ourselves as the good guys, right?
Snubbed by a reckless driver cutting us off. TSK.
Dissed by a rude patron stepping in front of us in line though we have CLEARLY been waiting there longer. HMPF!
Ignored by our offspring, significant others and/or colleagues until such time as another human selects to interact with us. Then and only then is our undivided attention required: UM, HELLO, PATTY/MOM - I'M TRYING TO TALK TO YOU, COULD YOU HANG UP THE PHONE & LISTEN TO ME?
This from the same person who hasn't listened to a word I've said since circa 1998 and the progeny who has SERIOUS separation anxiety ... from his smart phone about 23.5 hours per day. I digress.
The point is, from our perspective, we're almost always the injured party, now aren't we? Poor little us. And we even pat ourselves squarely on the back when we do the right thing. Which, by the way, isn't heroic; it's what we s'posed to do, Capisce?
So, after I'd complained to the customer service folks at Amazon Prime (which I single-handedly subsidize with monthly online business, BTW) that one of my packages was missing after having been left in a non-secure spot; they immediately treated me like...the good guy.
Apologies aplenty and a gift card for the charge of the purchase/shipping. Done faster than the pit crew changes a tire at the Daytona 500, yo.
And about two hours later, my stuff appeared. GULP. So, I did the right thing.
I called and told them that, while the delivery WAS late and left in a precarious place...it actually DID arrive. "Great thanks for telling us, we'll be charging you back the amount of the gift card," said Amazon Girl.
Well drats, I thought but, knowing it was the right thing, I gulped again. "Okay. Even the shipping, huh? Well, yeah it's only fair," I said politely.
"Well, we really appreciate your honesty, let's see what we can do...please hold." And I did, my breath.
When I woke up and found myself still talking to Amazon, I thought I was dreaming when I heard: "You know what; we're gonna go ahead and waive that charge for you today, Patricia." Who knew Amazon Prime were the good guys?
The moral for Ash Wednesday? You don't have to stop eating...or sleeping...or breathing for Lent. Just stop and think about others, think about giving instead of taking; think about doing the right thing.
Then do it...like the good guy you are. #Lent #Reflect #Give #BeKind #Pray #Peace
Sponsors: www.cailorfleming.com/ hbkcpa.com/consultants/melissa-crowley/ Ps 55: Throw your cares on the Lord and He will support you.
It's funny because my girlfriend Robin and I were just talking about this last night.
"You're in my prayers," I said to her with every honest ounce in my body.
"And you're in mine," she responded equally truthfully. Ever the comedian, she quickly added, "Although maybe I shouldn't do that to you, since I'm pretty sure He's sick of hearing from me."
We both belly-laughed and I reprimanded her: "Stop it! He doesn't get tired of hearing from us, ever!" I said, still chortling.
"Oh yeah, He's over it. He told me the other day...enough already, girl..." she said chuckling.
"STOP!!" I chided yet again.
We both know better. Yet some days it DOES feel like all we're ever doing is asking for stuff...then again, that's what kids do to their parents, no? Yup.
And, as parents, we always understand and listen. Though we wouldn't mind the occasional "THANKS" or something along those lines mixed in with all those "I NEED MONEY" (fill in that blank with whatever) submissions, just to clarify.
And He might not, either, Capisce?
Still, He made sure to send a clear message to old PK and Robin about it; check out today's psalm. Coincidence?
Nah; just an "I GOT YOU" from the Big Guy. #HeIsListening #PrayersAreHeard #HaveFaith #BeGrateful #KeepPraying #Peace
Sponsors: www.cailorfleming.com/ hbkcpa.com/consultants/melissa-crowley/ Ps 103: The Lord is kind and merciful.
Swim parents. We're a breed unto ourselves, to be certain.
Take one glance and it's clear: We aren't your typical sports Moms and Dads.
Or aunts and uncles; grammas and grampas; or general fans of float. We don't cuss, fuss or tell coach how to wrangle his school of fish. We're different.
In no other sport does a single, shrill, well-timed yelp (no, not the online recommendation sort), trill tooth-whistle or high-pitched WOOP mean so much. Parents of breast-strokers get it. Actually, some tend to get carried away with the ritual; which is what the other swim 'rents wish for when it starts making our ears bleed. I digress.
Not on any other platform does the low, slow, deep utterance of a mono syllabic, two-letter word pack such a wallop. GGGGGGGGGOOOOOOOOO!
Oh, and BTW, only we can pull off the ridiculously wild, forward shaking, open-palmed, side-hand wave as a sign of fierce support and symbol of unrelenting allegiance.
Speaking of platforms, our kids use them to perform death-defying acts of aerial acrobatics...fearlessly flinging themselves head-first straight down into the bottom of the pool. Like, on purpose!
Look, in our eyes, our sons are all Michael Phelps and our daughters are all Katie Ladecky, you dig?
That's why we're only too happy to travel to obscure towns for a solid 8 hours --one way-- in the middle of the storm of the century, past 47 spin outs and the abominable snowman himself, merely to sit in a chlorine-soaked sauna on bum-bruising wooden planks, er, bleachers ALL DAY.
Did I mention we're shoved shoulder to shoulder with some grumpy Gus (who's cheering loudly for OTHER team, natch), behind Andre the Giant (because we wanted to record this race) and directly in front of that one gal who insists on taking off her shoes and resting her bare tootsies beneath our snack bag ('cause that's ENTIRELY sanitary and not at ALL inappropriate)?
Here we sweat, I mean sit, for several more hours just to glimpse our children compete for 20.02 seconds … and hopefully even briefer.
Yet, we are an evolved group of homosapiens. We cheer for any swimmer or diver performing well (though we prefer them to be on OUR team, thanks) and encourage our offspring to graciously wish luck toward then congratulate their lane mates on a race well swum. Every. Single. Time.
And they do.
Why? In my experience, swimmers/divers are an exceptional group of athletes… and persons. They just are.
They work as hard in the classroom as in the faux lagoon. Probably because they are forced to practice good time management skills.
Moreover, these humans are humane. Meaning, I am hard-pressed to think of many who do not offer respect to elders (yes sirs, thank you ma'ams, Mr. and Mrs. salutations), common courtesy to strangers (holding open doors) and a loyalty to one another that I've not always encountered on other fields of play…literal or metaphorical.
These are the sort of people who, although their hearts are broken at being robbed of a school record due to a dubious DQ in the championship's last event, will rally around each other in a show of unending loyalty that is nothing short of familial.
And that warms a Swim Mom's heart on the ride home through a blustery blizzard --as she smiles proudly for 8 solid hours, capsice?
Kimerer is the world's proudest swim Mom; float her a line: www.patriciakimerer.com
Sponsors: www.cailorfleming.com/ hbkcpa.com/consultants/melissa-crowley/ Jn 6: Your words, Lord, are Spirit and life; you have the words of everlasting life.
There's a reason people like their pets more than they like the other humans.
Um, have you met the other humans?
Surely you've met your pet. Or as we call her in our house, our canine kid: beloved Boxer Monica Arleen Kimerer.
Ain't she cute?
Don't you dare say no...I'll have her bite your bum. Except for that, she won't.
Monnie doesn't have a mean bone in her almost nine-year-old (that's nearly 60 to you and me) body. In fact, although she's a solid 87 pounds, my fur daughter thinks she's a lap dog.
Yep, she tries to climb right up on my thighs every night when I sit on the couch. Every night I tell her NO and she responds by dragging her left (always the left?) paw slowly up from the floor and gently placing it on my knee.
It's such a cute little maneuver that I always relent to permitting her to sit in Kerry's chair; a fact that he always creams us girls about...but a practice that Kyle Kimerer whole-heartedly encourages. Just one of the things he gets from his Madre. I digress.
Ah, Monnie. Sweet, snaggle-toothed, halitosis-heaving, drool-encrusted, grass and dirt eating, slobber mouthed, adorable, loyal and lovable Monnie. She's about as sweet as winters are long in NE Ohio, you dig? She's the cutest hot mess you ever did see on four legs.
She's also proof positive why, although 4 out of 5 dentists might recommend Trident, 5 out of 5 dog, cat, guinea or pot-bellied pig, rabbit, ferret, hamster (and so on and so forth) lovers recommend pets over people eight days a week. So, I love The Beatles. Sue me.
Either way, give your fur or scale or other exterior-layer laden bonus kid something very special later on because it's #NationalPetDay today. Or as we call it a Casa Kimerer, every day.
Pets are very special family members gifted from a much better place than the third rock. Remember, DOG ins't GOD spelled backward accidentally, capisce?
#HugYourPet #DogsRule #LoveYourAnimals #ProtectYourPets #Pray #Peace
Sponsors: www.cailorfleming.com/ hbkcpa.com/consultants/melissa-crowley/ Jn 14:23 Whoever loves me will keep my word, says the Lord; and my Father will love him and we will come to him
It’s actually one of my all-time favorite words.
Do we really need the “all-time” preceding favorite? I mean, aren’t we strongly implying, by showing overt preference for a thing, that it became such as a conscious decision made over, you know, time?
Anyway, it’s not really a word, to be technical.
It’s a more of a mini-phrase. An abbreviated statement. An exclamation. It’s a minstation.
The expression in question? Aack.
Or Aaaack! Or AAAAAAAAAAAAAAACCCCCCCCKKKKKKKKK!
It’s versatile and can convey a myriad of emotions. The number of As (or letters, in general) and the decision of whether or not to capitalize them, coupled with the amount of exclamation points tacked onto the end of this little gem are indicative of the situational narrative. Capisce?
I first became acutely aware of the proclamation as a young girl when reading my then-favorite (and still an “all-timer,“ BT dubs) comic strip “Cathy”. You remember her, right?
She was the modern-day single gal beginning back in the late 1970s and right up through 2010 when the comic strip ended syndication.
Think of her as the funny papers’ version of “Mary Tyler Moore,“ “Alice,“ any/all the “Sex & the City“ girls —at least in the early seasons— or any other independent, unmarried female TV character. Ooh, I’m pretty sure “Caroline in the City” was loosely based on her, also. Either way.
“Cathy“ was an insecure, self-depreciating, nervous wreck of a lovable hot mess whose life experiences and innate self-doubt would always be chock-filled with irony and humor. Hey…a lot of those descriptors sound eerily familiar to me. More digressing.
About that ack ...
Whenever “Cathy“ was elated, perturbed, afraid of, offended by, amazed with or pretty much had any feeling whatsoever about a person, place or thing, she’d always respond with a corresponding Ack! The bigger the sentiment, the more letters, etc.
But the whole ack flack brought more than just memories back. It got me to wondering: Is anything ending in ACK kind of —-you know, whack?
So, I began to ponder words spelled, sounding like or ending in those three magic little letters ACK — and I was rather taken aback!
I mean, there’s attack, plaque, smack, hack (debatable in the today’s vernacular), sad sack, cutback, bushwhack, setback, backtrack, ransack, drawback, sidetrack, wisecrack, amnesiac, megalomaniac and of course, insomniac.
Whew. Hey, did I mention writing this at 3AM? Fine, so I have a little trouble sleeping and am taking it out on the ACK. Cut me some slack.
It’s just that when I hit the sack my mind begins to unpack all the day’s heaviest crap and I’m subjected to a mental soundtrack of negative feedback. Anxiety attacks and the brain just keeps talking back.
Maybe I just need a little snack or some soothing lilac?
Perhaps then I could lie back — and take a little nap — on my gunnysack — and get on the right track.
I’m making a self-pact: I’ll try to relax and just like Stella; get my groove back.
Kimerer is a columnist, blogger and one sad sack of an insomniac. Follow her mental track — it’s filled with ack: www.patriciakimerer.com
SPONSORS: www.hbkcpa.com/consultants/melissa-crowley/ www.cailorfleming.com Ps 84: How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord, mighty God!
Sometimes even Chatty Patty struggles to find the words.
Say, for instance, when she's in the midst of changing day jobs and has to bid her work family members of the past 7.5 years farewell.
HARD, HARD GULP. Followed by awkward silence then HEAVY SIGH.
Now, there are those who might weep a bit at the thought of saying SO LONG to such dear, beloved friends.
Not because there will be a lack of effort to continue to connect with them but because --and anyone who's switched jobs after a respectable amount of time will attest to this: it's just never QUITE the same when you're not together in the office anymore. But I'm not going to cry. Awkward silence.
There are humans who might sniffle about the loss of the special bond that comes from sharing work space --one that is unable to duplicate. It is, after all, living together for all intents and purposes, no? YES.
And shared life experiences simply cannot be recreated or phoned in, no matter the type. It's a "You just had to be there" type of situation. But I'm not going to cry. Awkward silence.
Yep; it might get some blubbering, the realization of no long daily seeing the same smiling faces...or receiving the same warm camaraderie and good-natured teasing they've grown accustomed to since November 2012.
Or maybe some tear up at the thought that they won't get the same support in the hard times as was shared joy in the happy times from that inner circle of peeps consistently. But I'm not going to cry. Awkward silence.
Yup. I'm a tough guy. So, even though they just gifted me with the loveliest party, kindest, most heartfelt wishes, thoughtful words and actions and basically SHOWERED me with absolute love, I'm not going to - aw crud. I'm bawling like a baby, a'ight?
Don't judge. This is a really wicked cool group of homosapiens; it's not easy walking away from them ...I'm just saying. MASSIVE, HEAVING UGLY CRYING.
Let's not cry because a door is closing; shoot we can peer back through the windows of memory in that house whenever we wish and we'll SMILE because we lived there together for a bit. And it was good.
Besides, moving to a new place will hopefully mean making some terrific new flat-mates? I mean I doubted it when arrived at THIS doorstep and that turned out pretty well?
And I promise I will revisit the old neighborhood often; I know where y'all live, capisce?
#THANKSFOREVERYTHINGWORKFAM #IMNOTCRYINGYOURECRYING #LOVEYOUHBKPEEPS #HAPPYBIRTHDAYJODI #PRAY #PEACE