​Look, my good people, I know I’m no Roade’s scholar but I like to think of myself as (at the very least) marginally intelligent.

Yet there are so many things that will continue to baffle my brain and perplex my person for perpetuity. First and foremost? Our fine feathery friends. 

I admit it: I’m not a humongous bird fan-- mostly because they scare me; what with their collectively dour demeanor and those beastly little beaks -- not to mention all that hideous head-cocking! 

Seriously, what is their story?

Sure, I get the whole nesting situation. I do it myself, as a matter of fact. 

My family calls it annoying and over-the top, especially when I do it on my way out the door. Then again, what does my kin know from keeping a killer, cool casa?

I mean, yes, heaven forbid someone should break into the house – couldn’t it at least look nice for them until they ransack it? 

Hmpf. 

Fine, fine. Perhaps I take to picking up parts, pieces and pretty much any old paraphernalia like it’s my proven purpose.

Oops, just like Britney Spears, I did it again. 

Meh.

I like things neat; is that such a crime? Come to consider it, wouldn’t it be funny if it was? 
I can see it now: “No spray-waxing for you, two years!” Just joshin’ but resuming the notion, the backdrop would be a humongous living room ---or is it the family room?---and by the by, aren’t they the same gosh-danged thing? 

Raspberry. No not the fruit kind, the exasperated sort. I’m trying to give “hmpf” and “sigh” a little breather. They do work so hard for me every week.

Words girl’s really tripping over ‘em left and right today, huh? I hate it when I present proof of my provocation. 

Apologies. That was simply just one too many p-words, I suppose. I should have offered over an old “occupy occlusives” instead, oughtn’t I?

Pfft – speaking of “P” words, hee hee!

Any who (let me keep something PKish, sheesh!) -- we’re moving right along. 

Ditching the digression as I am down for doing, it might make me a neatness nut but I guess it’s not entirely inaccurate to point out that the phrase “straightening up a bit” could literally be my middle name. 

And that’d put my whole PK-ness in peril, probably. Wink, wink.

Drowning in a sea of verbosity today so what the heck? I might as well toss a handy dandy “Ugh” in there, too.

Frankly, now that I consider it. I’ll change my vote to argue that the it’s kitchen which is probably the king of the castle, capisce?

Yes, I’m Italian so feeding others is in my DNA but I do think I can make an ethnic-free argument for another hot spot as a home’s hub.

Because if there is yet another place within those all-important four walls that’s could claim the castle’s crown it’d be what I’m submitting as Exhibit B: the restroom.

Clearly, its key feature (a/k/a toilet paper) is its most vital vehicle.

Do you doubt it? Consider when the “Seinfeld” character Elaine found herself in a public stall -- sans some of the soft, plushy stuff.

You may recall she beseeched the gal in the very next compartment to submit some but the second she said: “Sorry, I don’t have a square to spare.” 

Silly, selfish stranger. She can stuff her “sorries” in a sack, see?

Sheesh I’m really stretching satire this (hopefully) sunny day, no? 

Ah, well: wishing a worry-free and happy day to you all!

Kimerer is a columnist with quite a conscience for cleanliness. Please wash your hands before reaching out to shake hers via pkimerer@zoominternet.net
​

When I was a little girl, I was always DYING to go to my friends’ houses for dinner.
​
Like, every day.

The chances were slim unless Pop was working. He always wanted his family around the table together at suppertime…a notion that evoked many an eye-roll from me in my youth. 

As an adult, however, I totally get it, having blinked when Kyle was four then blinked again and BAM! He’s 22 years old. 

Which is patently absurd when I, myself, haven’t aged a day. Mwah ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Anyway, I guess it just proves that old saying: Life is like a roll of toilet paper. The closer you get to the end, the faster it goes!

Ahem.

But back to childhood family dinners, I am not exaggerating when I say that there were times when  we literally dreaded the 5-6PM hour; that was usually the time we were told, rather forced, to “Sit down and eat damn it!” by Pop.

That was just his affectionate way of ringing the dinner bell, I suppose, hee!

Either way, when he called (and God forbid you were outside playing in the summertime and didn’t hear him on the first go round and he had to resort to whistling for you!), we ran home as fast as we could and put our bottoms in the chairs at the kitchen table.

This we did, knowing full well that we’d be eating some disgusting, horrendous concoction Pop forced Mom to make. 
Make no mistake, my Mother was, is and always will be an excellent cook! It’s just that Dad dictated the menu, Capisce?

And that’s why we ate things that I thought were ungodly gross…only to have grown up to appreciate that what we were eating was some gourmet grub.

You know, horrid options such as eggplant parmesan, chicken caprese, breaded veal cutlets, risotto, and of course, the deeply dreaded homemade frittata.

Peppers and breadcrumbs, seafood stew, white pizza, muffuletta, oh sorry, I guess that’s enough with the examples. I got carried away…and a little hungry!

Hmm.

Indeed, there are many art forms lost on children, peeps. It’s sort of the whole casting pearls before swine situation.

Ugh.

How was I to know that what I considered offensive to the palate as a youngster was actually some super-fab sustenance?

In fact, I distinctly remember on one occasion when we were invited to this big, fat Italian wedding. 
Mountains of cookies, tons of meal options (all Italian, of course), and just tons of edible things as far as the eye could see. 

Shortly after my sister Gina and I got in the food line, she did something I thought was entirely insane: she globbed a heap of eggplant parmesan onto her plate.

Quickly eyeing my parents and brother, who were already headed to the table, I grabbed her by the arm.

“What are you doing? You don’t HAVE to eat that; we’re at a wedding!” I said to her, my eyes saucer-wide.

“Um, yes I know. I actually LIKE eggplant parmesan, Pats,” was her reply.


EWWWWWW.

Oh well, one person’s poison is another’s perfect plate.

Naturally as I’ve matured, so has my sense of taste. There are very few foods I don’t enjoy and/or won’t try today.

So, mangia mangia, everyone and don’t’ be afraid to leave your comfort food zone…

Unless someone tries to force eggplant on you. Ick.

Kimerer is a columnist who loves to cook for her fam and friends…but still hates eggplant. Contact her via pkimrer@zoominternet.net.

​When I was in the fourth grade, I think it was, at Saint Matthias Catholic School in Youngstown, I was over-the-moon excited to be chosen as one of my class representatives in the school’s annual speech contest.


Every year, a certain number of students were selected to write an essay / speech that forced us to reflect on the importance of the fundamentals of grammar. You know, er, idioms and uh, discourse, um, dialogues and important stuff like that. A’ight?

Yes, I did earn a Master’s Certificate in Professional Writing and Editing, what’s your point? Hmpf.

Every year, there were a great many of us who took the speech contest quite seriously.

As for me, I always relied on my go-to gal for help in creating and perfecting my annual little monologue: Mom.

One year in particular, Mom picked a real winner for me to focus on: “When God Created Mothers,” by Erma Bombeck. Oh, how I LOVE Erma Bombeck — probs because me Mum does.

Then again, who wouldn’t love a woman who came up with such clever quips as, “Never go to a doctor whose office plants have died.”

I digress.

The gist of the “When God Created Mothers” piece is that God is in the process of making the model for moms and this pesky angel keeps bombarding Him with questions. The little cherub keeps hovering around and hounding Him by pointing out all her “defects.”

The Almighty explains that a mother must have “180 moveable parts, all replaceable. She must be able to run on black coffee and leftovers; have a lap that disappears when she stands up; a kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair; and six pair of hands.”

Anyway, my ma went over and over this speech with me for weeks, no lie.

She showed me which hand gestures to make, which facial expressions to display, and even what tone each segment should reveal to achieve the most emphasis to really pack a wallop!

It was brilliant, just like my mother.

So, there I stood, more nervous than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. You know, I never really understood that phrase — are rocking chairs and felines natural enemies?

I was as jumpy as could be when they pulled back that red velvet curtain and I had to begin my monologue. Especially when so many of my classmates (Colleen and David, especially) seemed to be doing so much better than old PK … back then, PM.

But when I looked out into the audience and saw Mom smiling and waving, I just knew I’d get through it intact.

If I remember correctly, I might’ve even placed in my age category? If I’m not remembering correctly apologies to the gal who did.

Either way, today and everyday you’re da bomb dot com, Mama. I love you more than chocolate itself! (Inside joke between Ma and moi.)

Happy Mother’s Day, all!

Kimerer is also the very proud mom of one absolutely perfect son, Kyle Donald. Love you, kiddo! You can echo her mushiness for her Mom and kid back to her at pkimerer@zooominternet.net.

At the risk of putting it all out there, well, today, I’m putting it all out there.
Ahem. OK, here it goes: Ladies and gentlemen, it is once again Easter.
Man, do I love Easter! The colors, the grandeur, the absolute regality of it all. The scents, the celebration of life, the concept of forgiveness and redemption. All good stuff. Because, contrary to popular opinion, here’s what Easter is NOT about:

・ An oversized walking (upright on his hind legs, mind you), talking (in perfect English, by the by) rabbit who leaves mountains of hidden candy and colorful eggs for all the world’s children — which he, of course, left for them the prior night;

・ Slow-roasted honey-baked ham, turkey, brisket or roast beast — and freshly made rolls, natch;

・ Homemade lasagna (or stuffed shells), wedding soup (complete with homemade croutons) and smashed garlic (or sometime cheesy) potato casserole;

・ Ricotta cheesecake, ciambella cookies (think of them as Easter bread in the shape of a doughnut and without icing), and 18,547 other types of dessert (most of them Easter and / or spring themed);

・ Spoiling your kids, grandkids, nieces, nephews and even parents with way too much chocolate-based food sources as well as the perennial holiday faves jellybeans (I’m partial to Brach’s jelly birds), caramel, peanut butter and / or creme-filled eggs — this includes bunnies, chickies, crosses and, of course, about a billion different types of chocolate eggs.

And while I may be guilty of indulging in some of those “not about” activities (OK, fine, ALL of them), that’s still not the true meaning of Easter, just as Christmas is not about a chubby old guy in some odd red suit with too much white facial hair who guides some supersonic sleigh powered by a baker’s dozen of deer dropping gifts down chimneys for those same kiddos mentioned above. And for all of ’em. Even the naughties, you dig?

Oh, and yes, just like his bunny buddy, he accomplishes this all in a single evening. Um, huh?

Frankly, it’s not about flowers blooming, trees sprouting leaves or those stupid crocuses popping up everywhere but my bathroom sink, either. Sheesh, those purple buggers are all over. I digress.

Nope, none of the above is the reason for this day.

Truthfully, I love seeing flowers (even the dumb kinds) bloom. And while I’m being transparent and all, I suppose I did get tons of candy for my kid (yes, I realize he’s 22) and, of course, I made homemade sauce, meatballs, stuffed shells and garlic-smashed potato casserole.

OK, fine, so I love indulging the fam — but still, none of that is directly correlative to Easter, a’ight?

Today is about the resurrection of Jesus Christ. Period.

It’s about a God so forgiving that he sent his Son to right all our MANY, MANY wrongs.

Let’s face it, we humans can be big boneheads sometimes. And still the Lord laid down his life for us; just as his Father asked Him to.

I know I’d lay down my life for my Kyle, and his dad, and all my family members and friends. As least, I hope I would, push come to shove … or crucifixion. But would I do it for a bunch of random strangers, some of whom aren’t exactly pillars of society? Or even support beams, capisce?

I want to believe I would. All I know is, I’m a huge JC fan, as well as his Father and that wonderful, beautiful dove who always calms me down when I’m totally freaking out — you know, the Holy Spirit.

And celebrating the resurrection of Christ and thanking Him to pay the tab for all our messiness — well, we should be doing that every day. OK, maybe with a little less chocolate.

Happy Easter, y’all!

We all know at least one of them personally --– and frankly, that’s probably a gross underestimate. 

Because, more than likely, you come into contact with one, some, or even several of them fairly often.

Let’s face it, they’re everywhere.

Don’t even tell me that you haven’t seen them waltzing through the super market, striding about in the plaza, or zipping up and down the escalator at the mall. 

You will recognize them by their wrinkled noses, furrowed brows, and/or disapproving scowls. 

They are, in essence, surveying the lay of the land; basically, scrutinizing each minute detail of every single product with which they come into contact. 

Dollars to donuts, you can safely bet that they’re also pretty much judging the slacker set (of which I am a proud member) who dare to dip into the bargain bin. 

That’s right, I said it.

I am speaking, of course about the ever-persnickety purchaser. 

I find it utterly ridiculous that so many would rather spend a ton more moola on shampoo, peanut butter, toothbrushes, or even soda than to opt for a more cost-effective, no-name variety.  

But, then again, for fiercely frugal, coupon conscious low-lifes like myself, buying a common version ---or horror of horrors, the store brand itself!– this is not torture. 

And, at the risk of ruffling the feathers of some of my nearest and dearest, I simply must call out the hordes of those who can be labelled as nothing other than --- well label lovers.

Okay fine, let’s call them what they truly are: brand snobs. 

Heck, some of us may or may not be related to such a brand bully. Without naming names, there’s a close member of my family in whose home you will NEVER EVER find a single generic item. Ever!

Me on the other hand? I am not afraid of a bottle of ketchup that doesn’t read Heinz across the front.

And sure, I mean, have I occasionally regretted snagging the more economical, lesser-known version of a product? Natch.

There were those super-cool-looking (on the outside) houndstooth boots with the frilly black flower tops that I got for a steal—only to find out that would’ve been overpaying for them. 

And it’s not that they didn’t look great, it’s just that the soles sorta looked like they foam. Okay, they were, in fact, made out of foam. Whatever. This was not my finest hour…or my happiest either. Cold, wet toes will do that to a gal.

Hmpf.

But I’m not going to flip out if my husband happens to come home with the Turkey Hill brand of ice cream instead of Haagen Daaz. 

On second thought, I probably would flip out. Because both of those are a little pricey and I know the Giant Eagle, Target, Publix, Costco, etc. all have varieties of those same foodstuffs that taste pretty darned good.

But, to be fair, even misers like PK have limits. 

So, in the interest of transparency, some of trademarks I tend to gobble like a Thanksgiving turkey include:

-Eggland’s Best Eggs. Oh, come on now, it’s right there in the title!

-Filippo Berio Olive Oil. If Pop ever knew I used some knock-off, he’d be the one knocking off….my head!

-Miracle Whip Light. Yup. I’m not gonna lie; I refuse to look at anything other…even Kraft mayo.

-Although, clearly, I have my go-to Kraft products. Let’s see there’s Philadelphia Cream Cheese, Planters nuts, Oscar Meyer hot dogs (though Hebrew National rocks, too).

-Alright, I’ll fess up to both Nestle and Cadbury. Oh, and Hershey’s, of course.

-Campbells Soup or Progresso Soup. Period, end of story.

-Cereal, and please do not fight me on this. You cannot look me in the eye, kiss your mother with that mouth, or even hold your crossed fingers behind your back by claiming no-name cereal tastes like its brand-inspired cereal. I’m sorry but there’s no comparison between Cheerios and Toasty Oasty or whatever it’s called.

-Coke vs. Pepsi is a no brainer. I’m sorry because I grew up in a Pepsi house but Coke Zero is my JAM. 

And speaking of jam, I’d better get myself out of rambling on too long about all of this by signing off.


Kimrerer is a brand snob who didn’t realize she was a brand snob until she starting talking about brand snobs. She’s very sorry, you can give her a piece of your mind at  pkimerer@zoominternet.net.

Since I was a child, I’ve always had a very poor sense of direction.

As in, the worst.

In fact, my hunches about the best route to follow, which exit to utilize, or even something as simple as whether to make a left or a right at a stop light/sign are somewhat renowned.

In terms of how epically horrendous they are, that is. 

In fact, I may very well have the worst sense of direction of any human being who ever lived.

Anywhere. At any time. Ever. 

Seriously. 

You’d probably be better off with a Neanderthal offering you wayfinding than yours truly. 

#SadButTrue

Once, I even got lost going to the corner store. 

It was literally up the road a block and at the end of the intersection – you know, on the corner of the street.

While many of our neighbors shopped there for all of their groceries, the Marinucci famiglia only bought candy there. In our casa, you shopped at the A&P for the staples and, of course. LaRiccia’s for all our Italian standards.

So, okay, one time, I may have walked up too far and had to make a big circle to get back to the store to score my Sixlets, Lemon Heads, Sugar Babies, Swedish Fish, and Reese’s Pieces. 

In my defense. I was very young and I do believe I only overshot the store once – but suffice it to say that I have not lived it down to this day.

I guess it’s understandable that I’m still ribbed about nearly five decades later. After all, it WAS practically within spitting distance of our house.

If I’m not mistaken, we could see its roof from our kitchen window. 

Either way.

My mad lack of skills when it comes to navigation is not just a running gag in my family, it’s basically the stuff of legends.

I clearly remember on a family vacation many moons ago, my father jokingly asking me how close I thought we were to our destination of Disney World in Orlando, Florida.

In my directionally-diminished child’s scope, it seemed like we’d already been on the road for DAYS. 

“Like, 10 minutes, Daddy?” 

I think the hills in Raleigh, North Carolina, are still echoing from my sister’s mockery of me.

“Duh! We still have like, eight more hours to go!”

“I know that! I was just joking!” lied my little lips.

Hmpf.

The real irony is, it seems having my awful direction deficit are the very folks planning pathways for airlines.

I mean, why else would you have a layover in like, Zimbabwe when traveling from the Pittsburgh Airport to Salem, Oregon?

Okay, maybe that’s a stretch. But the airlines WILL try to get you to entice you with lower fares if you agree to stop in Tampa, Florida for seven hours and 22 minutes on your way from NYC to Sacramento, California.

Um, huh?

Even someone with my perplexing pathway planning can tell that’s not a straight shot, si?

But I swear they try to entice you to go well out of your way to save 48 cents. Proving my point that I missed my calling as an Air Traffic Controller.

What? It could happen … if they decided to follow California’s example of lowering the bar standards to become a lawyer? 

Kimerer is a columnist who could get lost on the way to her half-bath unless she was really focused. Contact her at pkimerer@zoominternet.net 

Here’s a little piece I’d like to call: 
​
“Why I’m So Excited for the 2022 Winter Olympics in Bejing, China and You Should Be, Too. “If You Aren’t, Get Excited. Soon. Seriously. It’s Starting Friday, February 4th. That’s This Week, People. Also, Root for the U.S. Every Day, Every Sport. Every Event. Yes, Even Curling.”

But my editors won’t let me submit a title that long.

Hmpf.

Okay, fine. Maybe it’s a LITTLE cumbersome.

I hope they won’t mind my second pick: “The XXIV Olympic Winter Games – Woo Hoo!” #NotLikelyEither  
Hmm. Oh well.

The Winter Games of the 24th Olympiad (sorry, but I think it’s so totally way cool when they refer to them that way!) officially begin with the grandeur of the opening ceremonies on: 4 February 2022, Time: 8PM, China Standard Time.

They run through February 20th.

Er, at least, that’s what I read via the official website:  https://olympics.com/en/beijing-2022/

I mean, who doesn’t love the Olympic opening ceremonies? The pomp, the circumstance, the colors, the athletes, the music. The sheer awesomeness of it all.

Um, TEAM USA waving Old Glory and marching proudly in together…HELLO? Woo Hoo!

Plus, if you’re lucky, you can catch two warring teammates glaring at each other. As the mother of a superstar swimmer, clearly, I’m more partial to the Summer Olympics…as a rule.

But as a proud American, I bleed red, white, and blue in every and all Olympic seasons.

Period.

Ever since I was a little girl and saw Dorothy Hammill win gold (I’ve forgiven her for the haircut), I’ve always imagined myself spinning around in the “Hammill Camel” (that twisty, turny rotation thingy where the skaters go round and round so fast, they look like they’re made out of rubber).

Still not convinced? Here are some compelling arguments for tuning in:

-It only comes around every four years. Sure, it’s not like missing Halley’s Comet, but still. That’s an entire college career. Yeah, that’s right; I did it in four; don’t act so surprised!

-It’s literally one of the most exciting, diverse, and unpredictable events, sporting or otherwise, anywhere. I mean, if an American can’t come in first, then I definitely wanna see some 14-year-old from like, some tiny little island country that isn’t even visible on you globe pencil sharpener bust out the upset, you dig?

-Speedskating and Bobsledding. I can’t accurately explain why I love them since both totally stress me out – they ARE traveling at 8, 435 miles per hour, after all!

-Sean White. Enough said. Oh, and if you don’t know who Sean White is, I’m not sure we can be pals anymore.

On the flip side, here are some sports that I hope NEVER to see in the Olympics; Elephant Polo, Crab Racing, Shin Kicking, Canyoning, Underwater Hockey, Bog Snorkeling, Pea Shooting.

I swear, I did not make up any of them.

Any who, just watch already…and you BETTER be rooting for the American, capisce?

Kimerer is a columnist and TEAM USA superfan.

Consider this my formal invitation.

You are, of course, entitled, encouraged and empowered to accept or decline said appeal solely of your own volition. That is to say, the authority to grant or deny permission is entirely yours. Feel free to “yay” or “nay” me as you wish.

Ah, the infamous “Friend Request.” Hmm.

Welcome to method of beginning, reinstating or furthering friendships in 2022, my friends.

Oooh, that last bit might’ve been a bit presumptuous on my end? Eh, what the heck. I figure if you’ve stuck with me this far into the piece, we’re at least acquaintances, no?

​Of course, this is the terminology used for reaching out to other humans via the ever-popular website “Facebook.” The process is old hat to its um, shoot I dunno, something like, 87 gazillion or so users around the globe. Yeah, it’s become a pretty popular place for virtual hosting, posting, chatting, gathering, sharing, etc.

Did I mention how it duplicates as a spot for complaining, whining and generally oversharing annoying commentary, too?

Oops, sorry Mark Zuckerberg. OK, that’s not true. I’m not really sorry. And we’ll get back to him momentarily. Ahem.

Clearly, most humans know all about the worldwide phenomenon, aka, Facebook website. For those of you who are either 1) oblivious to or 2) consciously avoiding the whole conundrum, you can perused an overview, courtesy of Wikipedia.

You do know all about Wikipedia, yes? All right, for you two anti-webbers with the cheap seats in the back who actually DON’T know, “Wikipedia” is basically an online encyclopedia. Think of it as the web’s version of the Encyclopedia Britannica your pop had in the bookcase when you were growing up. Surely you had one; how else did you do research for term papers?

Wait, what? Y’all didn’t grow up with bookcase in the living room? Yes, the living room. The only one in the house. Also called the front room back in the day. #IAmOld

We called it our FAMILY room. It was small and cozy — and where everyone sat and, you know, just talked … to each other. Face-to-face time, one might say.

I massively digress.

Our house had a several-tiered, sliding-glass-door-encased bookcase housing that big, old honking encyclopedia set and the Bible among other book series sets.

But today that info is quickly, easily found on, you guessed it, Wikipedia. Pretty sure that’s the nod in the name, natch.

Regarding “Facebook,” it’s pretty widely accepted that Mark Zuckerberg founded it in 2004 with Harvard classmates Cameron and Tyler Winklevoss — who promptly accused him of stealing their idea. Hmm.

Perhaps predicting some potential pitfalls of the new-age pal pathway: It literally torpedoed this brotherhood of brainiacs.

Although they ultimately reached some monetary settlement that made them all uber-rich Face-zillionaires. The trio ain’t pals no mo, yo.

Ah, irony.

Look it up on Wikipedia, capisce?

Kimerer is a columnist who thinks you should forget Facebook and check out her blog at www.patriciakimerer.com. P.S. She also wants you to know that handsome young man pictured with her is her kiddo/BFF...

‘Tis the season to be snarky ,,, ha ha ha ha ha, ha ha, ha HA!

Hmm. 

I think it’s time for me to sum up 2021, no?

Because, if I’m being honest, this year’s been a bit of a stinker.

Sorry, but it has. 

Stupid 2021.

Which is why I try to use this space to make way for a little smile or two.

Now THAT is my jam. And jelly. And chocolate sauce, I s’pose.

Although, I’d rather talk real sauce, my friends. The kind with tomatoes. With tons of garlic. And basil. And homemade meatballs, too. 

I’m Italian, capisce? We eat lasagna on Jesus’ birthday. It’s what we do.

Speaking of, here’s my abbreviated, annual rip off of the annual classic, ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas.

‘Twas one week before Christmas 
When PK looked yonder
And realized that this year,
She had lots to ponder.

Pandemics and vaccines 
And boosters – oh boy!
Remember when our biggest problem 
Was picking a toy?

How I long for the days
From old yesteryear
When I struggled between
Spiderman or a new teddy bear.

Should I get Kyle a puzzle?
Or maybe some toys.
Because certainly nothing was 
Too much for my boy.

When what to my wandering
Eyes should appear?
But a full-grown up man
Old enough to drink beer.

I cannot be sure 
How this time has sped by.
Or what it could be
That is making me cry.

For certain one reason
Is my heart busting open.
Full of pride and much love
Not to mention devotion.

Because here towering o’er me
Like a mini-Greek god
Is my wee baby boy
In a man’s full-grown bod.

He’s strapping and handsome
If I might please say so?
And if you don’t believe me
Just follow the flow…

Of all the young ladies
Who can’t seem to help
Chasing after my son
Right in front of myself.

It’s all I can do
To rebuke every one
Because clearly there are none
Great enough for my son.

Then again, that’s not true.
For my true heart’s desire
Is for him to find the one
Who sets his heart afire.

Perhaps my real wish
Has got nothing to do
With my son getting married
Or settling down too soon.

No, what I’m really hoping for
This beautiful season
Is for everyone to pause
And remember it’s reason.

I’m not scared to say
That my Savior was born
On the day we acknowledge
As next Saturday morn.

What the actual date
On which he arrived
Has been highly debated
And even denied.

But take heart, my dear friends
And don’t ever forget
That the good Lord sent Jesus
To pay off our debt.

Merry Christmas, my pals!
And for all of the humans on earth
I hope you take a moment
To celebrate His great birth.


Kimerer is a columnist who wishes everyone a very MERRY CHRISTMAS. Contact her for more “and to all a good night” kinda mush at www.patriciakimerer.com

I’m sure you’ve heard of it by now.

I mean, it’s quickly become phenom in its own right, a’ight?

The show title alone sounds all-at-once powerful, intriguing and evocative: Yellowstone.

No, not the national park. The Paramount program that is my new obsession.

Please do not tell me you have zero familiarity with this series or I’ll have to call in the Calvary.

Look, don’t take my word for it. Tune in yourself Sunday nights to find out why:

1) Kevin Costner is just as va-va-va-voom today at age 66 playing cattle ranching magnate/family matriarch John Dutton as he was portraying crazy-cute catcher Crash Davis in “Bull Durham” (then aged 33) in 1988. In fact, maybe even a tad more hubba hubba hottie with that gravely growl and those perpetually perfect blue peepers. Oh my.

2) Luke Grimes is the new Kevin Costner. Oh my my. MY.
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3) Yellowstone is the single greatest ranch since South Fork on “Dallas” – actually, it makes the Ewing Ranch look like a one-bedroom flat in Flatbush, folks. Yellowstone is yowza, yo.

4) The Rip/Beth love story is EVERYTHING. It’s “Romeo and Juliet,” “When Harry Met Sally,” “Bonnie and Clyde,” “!0 Things I Hate About You,” and “Casablanca” all rolled into one. Only better. Oh, and speaking of Beth..

5) Kelly Reilly? The British beauty whom I first loved as Mary Watson in “Sherlock Holmes” is literally baddest boss babe on the boob tube. Or anywhere else. Like, ever. Don’t challenge me on this one…or her, if you know what’s good for you.

It’s the most popular television show since, um, I don’t know, let’s say “The Walking Dead.”

You’ve never seen that, either? Hmm. Okay.

Well, then, I suppose I’d call it the hottest program since “Breaking Bad.”

WHAT? You don’t know from huggable/hateable, heinous and heroic Heisenberg?

I’m guessing if you don’t watch “Yellowstone” and didn’t see TWD, BB or then you surely didn’t catch “Stranger Things” either.

Sheesh. Stay home once in a while, will ya?

Well, well, well. I guess y’all just aren’t as hip as old PK?

Okay fine, I’m not necessarily all that hip…except for that my left one is really starting to bother me when it rains. Seriously.

I guess I’m not particularly trendy. Or clever. Or stylish. Or relevant.

That is to say, I don’t sit at the cool girl lunch table.

In fact, I wouldn’t have even heard of a single one of them if someone hadn’t suggested them to me.

Someone who IS, in fact, pretty popular. Someone with whom everyone, and I mean everyone from old farts like me to wee ones and clearly including every female between the ages of say 17 and 58 (and ewwwww to the latter group, BT Dubs) is instantly enamored.

Someone everyone not only immediately likes, but is also smitten with straightaway --- and frankly, crushes over.

Someone I gave birth to exactly 22 years ago today, because 12/6/99 was the date on which I DID debut my single greatest premiere– my son Kyle.

To say he has the leading role in my world would be the biggest understatement in the history of…er, history. #ItalianMoms

Yeah, I know everyone thinks they’re kid is the best kid. But in my case, it happens to be an actual fact.

Disagree and I’m gonna go all Beth Dutton on y’all, Capisce? Happy birthday, kiddo … you’re the perfect production. Period.

Kimerer is a columnist who makes gushes over her offspring an artform. Contact her for boisterous babbling about her boy at www.patriciakimerer.com