Sponsors below. Jn14: I am the way, the truth, and the life, says the Lord; Philip, whoever has seen me has seen the Father.
You see it every day.
Modernization. Innovation. Conceptualization.
You know, new crap. Happens each new dawn in America. And Canada. And the Motherland.
And…well, you get the idea; the earth dwellers are a pretty smart bunch of cookies.
That’s why nothing unveiled, released, launched, or reimagined today stays new very long on the third rock. In fact, if you announced it at 7AM, your competitors will have splash-shouted their superior sort by sundown. Sigh.
Tough keeping up with some of these hyperactive humans.
Probably the most successful Peeps in this game? I’m gonna say the cell phone folks.
Let’s face it; they have people more addicted to upgrades and awaiting new versions of their product than, pfft, I dunno, Starbucks tantalizing tired teenagers?
I mean, what the heck IS matcha, anyway? It looks like something Linda Blair shotgun-spattered out of her spinning head in 1973.
Blech. I don’t care for pea soup ---or Linda Blair, particularly- to this day. Catholic to my core, Capisce?
Seriously, though, stop it, Starbucks.. Your stupid swill is slurping up my savings account.
Note to Kyle: Sip slower, sweetie. Sorry, sidetracked. As I was saying:
How many times have you seen some wickedly clever gizmo or awesomely overhauled new version of an old gadget … and the hundred gazillion dollars it’s inventor rakes in … and thought “Now, why didn’t I come up with that?”
Or, worse, maybe it’s a concept that should have occurred to you…or did… and it was swimming around your noggin for years but you just never acted on it.
Son of a snapper, I HATE it when that happens! I’m such a said slacker. Take for instance, the self-parking car.
How, in the name of all that is holy, did I not think of this YEARS ago? Heck, with this puppy around, the dreaded maneuverability portion will finally, mercifully get bounced from that dang driving test!
I may or may not have killed a few cones in my day. Ahem.
Or perhaps, the air fryer? That was a great one and it’s honestly ridiculous that my calorie counting cranium didn’t conceive of it.
Sheesh; with the way I eat? Very little oil, butter, fat, um, taste, really. Either way, I TOTALLY should have thought of this!
Not to mention, but of course I will, the Snugli.
Hello? I was like, the original hawk new Mom (ask anyone!) and I DIDN’T think to kickstart the kangaroo contraption craze keeping Kyle -and all kids-- literally attached at the hip?
That’s just kooky.
Oh, and what about Air B&Bs?
Haven’t we all been doing this with out of town relatives for like, centuries? And it took until NOW for people to start cashing in on forcing others to sleep on an air mattress?
Along those lines, here are a few things I would like to invent, so don’t go stealing them, a’ight?
-Self-Cleaning Caps. Oh, I don’t mean, spill-free. I mean, something pops out of the squeezy bottle, wipes up all the gunk in the stopper and disinfects it before it goes grimily back in the fridge door. #KerryKimerer
-Climate Control Clothing. They make sheets and mattress that adjust to your body temp to keep it hot or cold; why can’t my stretchy pants follow suit?
-Scented Masks. Sure, they’ve got them in breathable, waterproof, never-lose-it form; but what about one that saves you from yourself after a beefy burrito supreme? Brilliant, right?
I got a million of ‘em, friends!
Kimerer is a columnist with lots of thoughts. And maybe not enough sleep. Reach out with inventive suggestions www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Jn 10:14 I am the good shepherd, says the Lord; I know my sheep, and mine know me.
So … it happened in the waning hours of the evening of April 20th.
One by one, they glacially gathered –silently, secretly and under the dark sheath of night as their cover and shield.
They’re sneaky like that… cold-hearted critters
They kept calling out to their little frigid pals to come on down join their steely soiree – a frosty little funfest that would leave so many of us waking up chilled to the bone the next day.
Which was, ironically, Earth Day Eve.
You’ll recall that Earth Day is celebrated on April 22nd to recall the day in 1970, when U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson helped kick-off the concept formally.
This, after years of trying to raise the national, collective consciousness on eco-hazards such as oil spills, polluting factories/power plants, toxic dumps, and the loss of wilderness/extinction of wildlife --to name a few. It eventually led to the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency, BT dubs.
Yup. Snow. On April 20, 2021.
A full month into the spring season…one month to the day after its onset, actually.
Mmm hmm. Snow.
Snow on April 20.
Two months in advance of the onset of the summer solstice on June 20, 2021.
The SUMMER solstice. Summer.
Snow…so dangerously close to summer. As if we need yet another sign of impending doom these days. Sheesh!
Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, am I sending out irritated vibes?
Ah, well, that’s probably only because I am flat-out, COMPLETELY, ENTIRELY, and PASSIONATELY chapped, Capisce?
SNOW AFTER THE MIDPOINT OF APRIL? No.
Not cool. I don’t mean to rag on Mother Nature and all but, GURLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL, what in the actual what?
Since when is it okay that anyone has to endure snow at this point in the year (even a passing, wet flake!) who lives anywhere in one of the contiguous U.S. states other than ones immediately pressed up against Canada?
Fine, we’re just a hair below the border. And Chardon (in Geauga County), Ohio IS listed as No. 22 of Wikipedia’s “snowiest U.S. cities.” Whatever.
Stupid Lake Erie.
How great of a lake can it possibly be if it doesn’t even shelter us away from arctic weather conditions toward the end of April?
I had such high hopes for 2021 after such a BLEEP 2020.
Okay, maybe medium hopes.
Alright, perhaps slight hopes.
FINE, I was literally afraid to breathe I was so scared this year might actually be WORSE than last…but I had a slight sliver, a’ight?
But I gotta say, 2021? I swear, you reek almost as bad as your predecessor.
You are literally in the narrowest of leads…by a proverbial nose (and like, a literal hair).
Here’s some other stuff honkin’ me off this year so far:
***How whoever I root for one “Chopped” on the Food Network NEVER WINS.
Not once. Legit. Nary a one.
Appetizer, entrée, and dessert round. Every.Single.Time. #PKIsALoser
***Snow in March.
***How, while I’m super stoked to still be working from home, I find that I AM chewing 87 packs of gum per week.
Other than the lockjaw, it wouldn’t be that bad … except for biting the inside of my mouth.
In the same spot. 9,261 times. A day. Everyday.
***Snow in February.
***How all my shoes have disappeared.
Sure, it’s been a minute since I have worn …. well, any of them. But, I swear to you, I cannot find a single matching pair…other than my boots and snow shoes.
Which clearly, may work until 2022.
Happy Spring, peeps!
Kimerer is a columnist who hates snow in springtime. And summer. And fall. And most of winter. Send rays of sunshine to www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Mt 4:4b One does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.
It’s amazing, really, what triggers memories in the humans. Frankly, even the faintest of feels can spark total recall in the average earth-dweller.
At least, that’s what I’ve noticed in my 53 years of observing, I dunno, about a gazillion or so of them? I mean, give or take a zillion, natch.
Seeing a hilarious television commercial, the bobbing white caps on the lake, or a customized antique car.
Hearing a favorite song, the honk of a gaggle of geese flying overhead, or the roar of a crowd at a ball game.
Feeling a tropical breeze wash over your beach chair, the strength of your grown son’s arm on your shoulder to steady your gait, or the soft fur on your precious puppy.
Smelling the lilacs in springtime, the smoky mesquite from the grill, or the wafting wonder which is morning coffee brewing. Ahh.
Tasting a new flavor of ice cream, your most beloved home-cooked meal, or the sour slurp of an iced tea you believed to be sweet…erroneously. Either way.
The homosapiens can hurriedly hearken the old recollection connection at the mere drop of a hat…or the glimpse of a cat…or the sting of a gnat.
Okay fine, ya busted me. I DO like “Green Eggs and Ham.”
The Dr. Seuss classic, not the actual chow combo.
Why on earth would anyone willingly eat eggs the same hue as Mr. Yuck?
I tell ya, I won’t do it. Not even for the good doctor himself…and not matter how clever and cutesy his quatrains, Capisce?
I will not eat them in a house,
I will not eat them with a mouse,
I will not eat them in a box,
I will not eat them with a fox,
I will not eat them here of there,
I will not eat them anywhere!
Green eggs? BLECH. No thank you.
Unlike the susceptible schoolboy in the book, I ain’t changin’ my mind, yo.
Sam I Am ,,, NOT. But much like that caving kiddo, I, too, am fiery about food. Uh, hello? I’m Italian.
So…is it fair to say that my memory mojo is most motivated at mealtime?
The other day, my first-ever roommate (and bunk-mate … and couple’s skate … and double date) and I were chatting about how some of our happiest memories center around, you guessed it, the magic of MANGIA!
My sister and I waxed wistful about some of our all-time favorite fooderies in and about our hometown when we were "Sam I Am’s" age. Among our top picks for menu items we loved best:
-The mouth-watering thick-cut fries and consistently crispy onion rings at the Brown Derby.
-The half-sandwich, half-pie, humongously portioned, and scrumptious pizza burger at Alberini’s.
-The super sloppy and sensational Slim Jim at Bob’s Big Boy. (Remember how he held that burger up on that tray 356, 24/7 on the rooftop?)
-The handmade cream sticks at Poulakos Bakery.
-The tantalizing, topsy-turvy flawlessness that was the individual pineapple upside-down cake at Mr. Paul’s Bakery.
-The positively perfect pizza per any of the following: The Oven, Petrillo’s Pizza, Margie’s Pizza.
-Literally any Italian dish at Palazzo’s or Scarsella’s.
-The fantastically fried clams at the restaurant in Howard Johnson’s.
I’ll let you guess who preferred what and where. Okay fine, the clams were mine and Pop’s top pick and Gigi loves the cream sticks.
The most delicious dish of them all? The happy childhood memories they all served up, ya feel me?
Oh alright .. and the pineapple upside-down thingy.
Kimerer is a columnist who just made herself hungry. Check out her juicy ramblings at www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Ps 118: Give thanks to the Lord for he is good, his love is everlasting.
You know how they say: "What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger."?
I think that’s true.
You know how they say: "Adversity is the foundation of virtue."?
I think that’s also pretty accurate.
I mean, after all, it’s like they ALSO say: "Into every life, a little rain must fall."
Then again, some rainfalls are a little more squall-ish than others. Hmpf.
Ahem; but that’s the beauty of adversity, I suppose. You know, because after the torrential downpour comes the rainbows and gorgeous flowers….
And wicked pollen. And sticky mud piles. And grimy windows and spattered siding.
And flooded basements. And attic leaks. And muck-filled spouting. Grr.
Yup. Rain and adversity. Absolute fabulosity.
But, um, I mean, of course, it’s all good because, you know, “Adversity comes with instruction in his hand.”
Too bad his directions are “Suck it up, Buttercup!”
I mean, that might not be EXACTLY what the Welsh intended by that proverb -- but adversity isn’t exactly the most compassionate of instructors, yo.
He’s kind of like that really mean professor in college who’s trying to ruin your perfect GPA because he “never, I REPEAT NEVER, gives out As.”
Wait, what was I saying now? Oh yeah, sayings --- about adversity. There’s like a ton of ‘em. Er, maybe 62.
I recently came across most of ‘em when I landed on proverbials.com. And I thought I’d share some of them, since adversity recently dumped a minor bucket on my head.
Oh, for the record, I’m still sorta reeling from some slight yet lingering COVID issues -- namely lethargy so extreme I have to lie down after exhausting, workout types of activities like…clipping my nails or texting my kid or you know, like, turning on the remote.
Oooh and then there’s the gloopy and oozing eye infection so full of slimy sludge I look like Popeye with sinusitis….after Brutus popped him a good one…and Olive Oyl dumped him and made him cry … and Wimpy stole his last can of spinach.
Um, I’m sorry, lost my train of thought (COVID fog), where was I? Ah! Adversity lessons:
In times of prosperity friends will be plenty, in times of adversity not one in twenty. ~ English Proverbs. Wow, thanks, Mother Land. I feel WAY comforted.
I ask not for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders. ~ Jewish Proverb. Yeah, um, no offense, y’all but I’m voting for the former.
Bad is never good until worse happens. ~ Danish Proverbs. Awesome; thanks for that!
Adversity and loss make a man wise. ~ Welsh Proverbs. And also, might make you look like Marty Feldman, post COVID, just sayin’.
Adversity flatters no man. ~ English Proverb. See Marty Feldman above.
If you want a place in the sun, you’ve got to expect a few blisters. ~ Abigail van Buren. Dear old Abby never did pull any punches.
The difficulties of life are intended to make us better, not bitter. ~ Author Unknown. Speak for yourself author unknown.
If you’re in a bad situation, don’t worry it’ll change. If you’re in a good situation, don’t worry it’ll change. ~ John A. Simone, Sr. Clearly head cheerleader at his high school, no? Sheesh!
The darkest hour has only sixty minutes. ~ Morris Mandel. Now we’re talkin’. Thanks, Morris!
A bad grade is only one letter in the Essay of life. ~ Lee Drake. How do you like THAT one, Professor Poopy Head?
Take it from me, Marty Feldman, we’re gonna make it, y’all. Now go get the vaccine, Capisce?
Stare into Kimerer’s Marty Feldman eyes at www.patricia kimerer.com.
Please see sponsors below. Ps 118: This is the day the LORD has made; let us be glad and rejoice in it.
I like chocolate.
I like it … a lot.
We’ve been seeing each other for a very long time now.
As long as I can remember, actually. And, I’m not going to lie; it’s gotten pretty serious.
Our relationship has truly been one of the greatest sources of warmth and joy, consistently, over my past 53 years and eight days, quite frankly.
Ooh, speaking of birthdays, quick shoutout to my nephew/second son Scott. Love you, kiddo.
I digress, back to my honey. You know, chocolate.
I don’t think it’s overkill to say that we are in love.
I always have and always will adore this beau. It’s the real thing.
Truth be told, I’m not entirely certain I trust anyone who doesn’t share my confection affection.
That’s right, I went there. I know it’s controversial; I’m putting myself out there by saying it. But honestly, I really feel it’s un-American to dislike chocolate, at least in some fashion or form.
Because, let’s face it, the arguably best thing about chocolate is its sheer versatility.
There are so many different kinds that you have to be able to find at least one type that appeals to you. Literally.
Come on. It’s so resourceful and adaptable you know, agreeable, in a sense.
I mean, who else is there for you so unconditionally in so many ways, at so many times, in so many iterations, without question, judgement, or fail… am I right? Think about it.
There he is: helping make better all of your happiest occasions. At every holiday, birthday, celebration, commemoration.
Getting you through all your saddest situations. At every mercy meal, funeral function, breakup session.
Oh come on, Don’t pretend you didn’t comfort yourself with a half-gallon of chocolate chunk Hagen Daaz after Mr. Quarterback dumped you at the Homecoming in high school. It happens.
Also, he may or may not have gotten me through Freshman year Astronomy. 8AM in the college planetarium does NOT induce alertness at its most efficient form, a’ight?
And to this day, he’s pretty much there for you everywhere you turn, you know.
He’s in your cake. Your coffee. Your muffins, pancakes, breads, spreads, and creamers.
He’s in your cereal, your snack mix, your pesto. Okay fine, I just slipped that last one in and it MAY or MAY NOT be legit.
But the fact is, I love all cocoa of all kinds. Seriously. Milk. Melted. Malted.
In a shell. AS a shell.
The kind mixed with fruit. Or bacon. Or oats.
Or fruit-bacon-oat bits. There’s a reason even ants and corn dogs and scorpions slather themselves in the stuff and finally become consumed, okay?
Every kind of chocolate is good. Except the kind that has like zero color or flavor. Or any form that’s mixed with coconut. That’s just gross. #SorryMa
I love a big old hunk of milk chocolate smashed between two thick pieces of Italian bread.
Pop used to let us eat that every Easter … a chocolate sandwich. #NotSorryPop
I think it might be one of the most unifying forces on the third rock, actually.
It’s something of a global panacea, methinks. If only we could somehow get the Covid-19 vaccine converted into a chocolate bar; all would be right with the world again, no?
In fact, if chocolate was a person, it’d be, like, Mother Theresa.
Or, you know, The Pope. Somebody everybody likes.
Um, like Betty White. Or, Tony Bennett.
I like dark chocolate the most.
But today, let’s all agree to enjoy some in the shape of bunny ears, multi-colored Easter eggs, steepled crosses, Passover crackle cakes.
Fine, eat a white chocolate tulip, even, if that’s what your little holiday heart desires. Blech.
Buona Pasqua, everyone!
Kimerer is a columnist with a thing for chocolate. Send her sweet nothings at www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Ps 27 The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom should I fear?
So, yesterday I finished my 52nd rotation of the sun. Started the old 53rd.
It’s funny how, the older you get, the less you care about outwardly observing the day you made your big debut to the other humans, no?
Well, that’s how it is for THIS human, anyway.
I’d much rather celebrate the birthdays of my favorite earthlings than think about the day I interrupted my Mother’s lunch in a such an intrusive, unpleasant way just before Noon on March 27, 1968.
Sorry about that, Ma.
Not that she’s ever complained. Or ever would.
Nor would I…or any Mum, yo. That’s just the way it is, you see. Because: not matter how much it hurts; no matter which daypart it obliterates; no matter how much ickiness, mushified yucky, and/or blechy-blech it happens to generate … a mother will ALWAYS embrace the absolute miracle that is the birth of her child.
Anytime, anywhere, anyhow. Period, No matter how gross it is. Know what I’m sayin’?
That’s just how we Moms roll, yo. Either way.
This year, just for something wildly off the beaten path, I decided to spend my special day in quarantine. With COVID-19.
It was tons o’ fun.
When it’s your birthday and you have the modern-day plague, you get to be the Pariah, er, I mean Queen for the day.
Or, like 10 of ‘em or so. I digress.
On your Leper, um, I mean COVID-19 big day, you get lots and lots of opportunities to self-focus.
And I’m talking, tons.
Remember how the Tom Hanks character in “Castaway” got to solo vacation on that deserted island for a spell? Yeah, it’s that kind of quality, “me” time.
In fact, COVID-19 birthdays are akin to that whole mid-stretch of the movie. Oh, you don’t remember it? That’s because you probably nodded off.
In between the scenes when Fed Ex exec Chuck gets called away from his fiancée and family Christmas dinner to transport important packages (that apparently absolutely positively had to be there overnight?), his plane crashes and yadda yadda yadda, they’re reunited (sorta) --- there’s a whole bunch of…um, time.
As in, the movie’s whole main arc is a SLOW moving depiction of him struggling to make clothes, find food, take shelter, crack open coconuts, start to lose touch with reality by befriending a volley ball --- and oh, yeah, attempting to get rescued.
It's a fascinating man vs. nature battle. And by fascinating I mean as boring as a four-hour study hall under the watchful eye of your school principal.
Who is a Catholic nun. Insisting on silence.
Yeah, COVID-19 birthdays are a lot like that. Full of – let’s refer to it as, solitude?
Feels more like solitary confinement.
There’s lots of advantages, though. Tons. Loads. Like…
I’m thinking, I’m thinking.
Oh right. So, firstly, you get the whole couch all to yourself. And the recliner. And the ottoman. And the rocking chair.
In fact, the family room is pretty much yours for the taking. Or sitting, sleeping, eating, working, and basically existing, ya feel me?
You don’t have to fight for the remote because nobody wants to touch it after you. Same with the serving spoon. And the fridge handle. And the hallway closet doorknob.
Also, you can eat anything you want without fear that someone will want to split, share, or swipe it.
Cooties Patty birthday was…certainly ONE way to go.
In truth, I’m just grateful to be on the other side of IT and COVID-19.
And I’m thankful to the Big Guy for both, Capsice? Thanks, Big Guy.
Kimerer is a columnist in search of friendly volley ball face. Contact her via www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Ps 23 Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side.
She had a decidedly off-center smile; partly due to that one jagged incisor which jutted out unceremoniously.
I called it her snaggle tooth.
But that was sort of the least of her worries, given that her oversized tongue NEVER FIT INTO HER MOUTH. Literally.
The result? Her pie-hole rarely closed completely and her toothy smile sloped slightly southward.
My sweet, not-so-little pup, Monnie.
Her official name was Monica Arleen Kimerer. And if I’m being technical, she really wasn’t mine – we got her for Kyle when he was 11 years old.
We’d lost his last puppy to a rare form lymphoma a few years prior. Pure agony.
So we surprised him with some fib about trekking out to a new country restaurant …er, sumthin’. I don’t remember the fib precisely…just its yield.
Which was one elated little boy. “You mean … she’s mine?” he asked mushy Mom as she nodded and sobbed.
She was immediately a free spirit. Okay fine, a rabblerouser; but only in the most playful, loving ways on the planet.
Monnie was part of our family for approximately four minutes before she tried wandering out into the world on her own…and right off the stoop into the bushes.
And there wasn’t a dull moment from then to the end.
Monica Arleen (named after my Gram and Mom) hated a couple of things: humidity, the hose, smoke alarms, being crated. She also despised pretzels a/k/a the only foodstuff created for any species that she patently rejected with full malice and zero contrition.
More than anything, she one bazillion to the infinite power hated fireworks.
But, at her core, she was just a big, brown buncha brindled Boxer benevolence. Monnie loved so very many things, like:
Monnie adored Kyle with every fiber of her being.
Other than me, she was always the most heartbroken whenever he headed back to college.
Who will mope with me now? Who’ll be here to slobber my walls, nose-print my windows, and poo-bomb my front walkway?
I don’t have another girl in the house – or someone to share my: birthday week, WFH workdays, baked potatoes, and middle name.
What can I say? There’s a gaping hole here at Casa Kimerer…and an even bigger one in its collective heart.
I’m so glad that, after that last burst of independence (running away), we finally got her home to cross the Rainbow Bridge peacefully.
A million thanks to all who helped us search those agonizing 17 hours. And to the scuzz-bag who tried scamming us; there’s a special version of Cujo awaiting you where dog haters go, Capisce?
Meanwhile, all dogs go to heaven, where there’s copious sunshine with a 0% chance of humidity.
Sleep well, Monamoosh. We'll miss you so...
Kimerer is a columnist with a broken heart. Tell her canine tails at www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Jn 8:12 I am the light of the world, says the Lord; whoever follows me will have the light of life.
Well, it’s upon us once again … that ridiculous date on which we are all forced, kicking and screaming, into “springing ahead.”
Yep, it’s here already, people; crummy old Daylight Saving Time (DST) day.
A/K/A the date on which we annually lose 86,400 seconds.
I’m not sure what irks me more; the fact that we have no say in the matter or that the reminders are so stinking chipper and happy.
Do I SEEM happy about losing 86,400 seconds of my life I’ll never get back?
Hey, that’s A LOT of seconds, okay? And, no, I am NOT being overdramatic, thank you very much.
Oh, alright, fine; it’s just an hours’ worth of sleep and we get it back in November. But, still; any way you slice it, that’s like, a jazillion seconds I’ve lost in the past (almost) 53 years, yo.
Man, I hate this day. Maybe hate’s a little too strong a word.
But I’m telling’ you, straight up, that I dread this day.
Every. Single. Year.
Not because I don’t LOVE having “more” daylight. I mean, DUH. What am I? A vampire?
Every human craves sunshine, warmth, and brightness. We aren’t reptiles, for heaven’s sake.
And, if I’m not mistaken, even snakes sun themselves, no? Of courssssssssse they do.
I totally dessssssspise snakes. The nerve of those scary, slithering sin solicitors -- soaking up my sweet, sweet sunshine.
DISSSSSSSSSSSSSGUSTING. I digresssssssssssss.
It’s just that, if I live through another (almost) 53 DST days … I’ll never understand why we can’t just stay on either Standard Time or DST 24/7, 365.
Pick a lane already!
Because the changing of the time in spring and winter is a MAJOR nightmare for those of us who are, um, let’s call it, sleep challenged.
Kerry likes to say that, much like a newborn trying to navigate nocturnal-ness, I’ve got my days and nights mixed up.
Hmpf. What does he know?
Just because I tend to sleep only about four hours per night. And never at the same stretch. Just depends on when I finally plop down on what my Gram used to call “the davenport.”
Quick sidebar for you young’uns who won’t know but Davenport was the name of a series of sofas made by the Massachusetts furniture manufacturer A. H. Davenport and Company circa 1900.
Although he and it are no more, the popularity of that couch brand was a precursor to what I like to call “the Kleenex effect.”
You know, that phenomenon in which a product and brand become so synonymous that they are often used interchangeably in conversation and/or reference.
Former Ohio First Lady Janet Voinovich told me that herself, BT Dubs. Yeah, in a former life, Kerry and I worked on a local television show called “At The Butler,” which highlighted Buckeye-born artists and pieces.
One episode centered on art at the Governor’s mansion and, I’m not trying to brag or anything, but she invited me to sit on her Davenport.
“Oh, so then this is a DAVENPORT davenport!” I said, in true dolt fashion.
Ever gracious, she patted my hand as smiled, “Yes, dear, it’s a DAVENPORT davenport.”
It might have been the only time I didn’t fall asleep therein, Capisce?
Either way, I’m sure I’ll be up when we officially lose an hour o’ snooze.
Hmpf. I’m over the whole falling back/springing ahead; isn’t all the rotating and revolving enough for one sleepy species? Sheesh!
Kimerer is a crabby columnist who thinks life’s too short to skimp on daylight, period. Contact her via www.patriciakimerer.com at any hour; she’s awake.
Please See Sponsors Below Ps 130 I hope in the LORD, I trust in his word; with him there is kindness and plenteous redemption.
Remember that old adage, “Cat got your tongue?”
You know, it’s that little quip we shoot out at someone when they’re uncharacteristically quiet. Or more specifically, when they’re completely ignoring us, yo.
It’s pretty much a low-key dig, yet the phrase is an oldie but a … well, mediocre-ie; at least in my humble opinion.
It’s never been a favorite expression of mine. I find it odd, offensive and just not terribly cutesy, creative or clever.
Frankly, it has always kind of weirded me out. I mean, what’s a cat doing that close to my mangia machine in the first place?
Who on the blue planet ever thought up this creepy catchphrase, anyway? Curious as a you-know-what, I started searching its origins and root cause.
What I found confirmed and considerably cranked up the ick factor.
The not-so fairy tale starts this way: Once upon a time, clandestine kitties DID actually eat people tongue.
Wonder if they thought it tasted like chicken? I digress.
Apparently, ancient Egyptians/cat worshippers, fed the tongues of suspected liars to their cats. Like, for real.
By the time the Middle Ages medieval-ed their way into being, there was a widespread irrational fear that black cats (at the bidding of their mistress witches) tore the very tongues out of witch work “witnesses.”
Then again, I suppose it’s a pretty effective way to hush over broom flying, cauldron concocting, spell casting and the like.
WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HEX?
Man, the Middle Ages were clearly one dark period … exclamation point.
In more recent days (circa the super-hip 18th century), the English Royal Navy evidently scourged sailors into submission.
It seems a common practice among the maritime masters of the Hundred Years War was to torture its own, matey.
That’s right. The lowly Able Rates (equivalent to our Privates) as well as various other swabbies and sea soldiers who stepped out of line were swiftly silenced.
Bad boat boys were often beaten into bloody unconsciousness with a nine-knotted, leather-strapped whip. Not that anyone complained about the “cat ‘o nine tails” treatment.
Mostly because they were cataleptic … er, comatose.
Holy ferocious frigates, Cat, er, Bat Man!
And you wonder why I’m a-scaredy of cats?
I don’t want them near my tootsies, tooshie, tongue --- or pretty much any other PK part.
Sorry, Morris --purr all you want. I’m a diehard doggie digger, a’ight?
Either way, I can’t help but feel that, in today’s topsy-turvy, quarantine cursed, antisocial society -- we should summarily scrap the slogan in lieu of a more timely version.
I’m thinking: “Mask got your tongue?”
Anyone else noticing how our countenance covers killed common courtesy quicker than Kim curb-kicked Kanye after quitting “Keeping Up with the Kardashians”?
People, people, it’s supposed to be that we can’t stand within six feet of each other …
Not that we CAN’T STAND EACH OTHER?!
Um, hello? As in, why won’t anyone say hello to strangers anymore?
Look, I know it’s kooky times. I know we have to steer a bit clear of the other earth dwellers.
And I know masks make things … murky.
But I also know that license plate number of every human who’s snubbed my hidden hellos in the past 10 months.
Better whistle while you catnap, Capisce?
Kimerer is a columnist who’s all talk but truly IS terrified of cats. Send her canine vibes via www.patriciakimerer.com
Please See Sponsors Below Ps 116:9 I will walk before the Lord, in the land of the living.
Well, it’s here. The day I’ve been dreading for exactly one year.
It is the anniversary of the day my Pop died.
Anniversary doesn’t seem like the right word to use, does it? That generally connotates happy feels, no?
That ain’t any part of today, yo.
It’s been, all at once, an eternity and blink. Frankly, it’s surreal, to this very moment.
One year in and I’m still trying to navigate this prickly, panicky, politically-pukey, pandemic planet without my Pop.
It’s…well let’s just call it the pits, though I’m sure Fernando would have a much more lively description of the sitch if he was here to tell it, Capisce?
Man, I miss his colorful cussin’.
Everyone warns you. “Anniversaries are hard. Firsts are tough. It’s the most difficult in the first year.”
Pfft. As Pop would say, “Stunads.”
No offense, but no one anywhere on the third rock can know exactly how another human feels, heals, or deals, you dig?
Even if you’ve gone through something similar, nobody truly understands your own individual experiences…and your reactions to them. Nobody.
As for me, I’ve found that it’s kinda odd, the things you do in the moments after losing the man who’s been your rock for the past five decades.
My first impulse, other than to comfort my absolutely distraught, adored Ma, was to warm him up.
“Ma, is it okay if I put some socks on him?” I asked as if I was seven again.
Truth be told, in that moment, that’s about how old I felt.
She smiled and hugged me, through her own unimaginable pain, and said, “Of course, honey.”
Listen, my Pop was rugged, tough, manly and a freaking force until he got very sick at the end of his life. Up to that point, however, the man didn’t have cold feet about anything, ever – especially the lifetime he told me he was blessed to have shared with my Mom.
But, as he struggled with Pancreatic Cancer, he became frail and was often cold. IT KILLED ME to see him this way. #IHATEYOUCANCER
So, in a truly ridiculous, futile and senseless effort, I put a pair of heavy socks on his feet.
I mean, I am always flipping freezing and I just couldn’t stand the thought of Pop’s tootsies being chilly.
Absurd, I know.
Heaviest sigh in the universe.
Anyway, in a concerted effort to get the horrendous images of that last day out of my mind’s eye, I’ve tried to think of the proverbial good times.
Last Sunday, as I sipped una tazza di caffè (that’s a cup o' joe) I decided to watch the sun rise in Pop’s honor.
He loved doing that, especially when there was little else he could do. It was a glorious sight.
For some reason, I then flipped on the Weather Channel for the first time in about a year (duh, I have the app) …
Only to catch tons of random sunrise photos, accompanied by one of my Pop’s favorite songs: “Country Road” by John Denver.
I heard the words of my oldest, dearest childhood pal. “He’s sending you signs, “in my head.
Clearly, he already had.
There was the dream where I found him in my childhood home, on crutches but fine. I hugged him endlessly and he laughed and kept saying, “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.”
And he was.
Then there was the one where I was flipping through a photo album and a picture of him came to life.
“Pop?” I yelled. He smiled and said, “It’s alright. Everything’s good; it’s good.”
I know he's in the best place now ... so, I'm sure it is.
As I reflected all this and felt my Dad near, I plunked down on the couch to start binging the series “Ratched.”
Upon hearing the show’s opening theme song “The Dance of the Macabre,” I dropped the remote.
It was a song Pop used to play for me as a little girl; a private joke -- something just between us.
Kind of nice to think maybe he misses me, too?
Kimerer is a columnist and grieving daughter who loves and misses her Pop. Share your parental memories with her at www.patriciakimerer.com