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ONE GRATEFUL GIRL
#OneGratefulGirl |
 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. 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
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A Loopy Little Oddball is Weirded out Every time Everyone goes berserk one cold October Night Ah, yes, it's that time of year yet again, friends. Time for me to whine about how much I detest Halloween. With apologies to my sweet pal Ashlea and all other lovers of this "holiday"—I am not a fan of Halloween. Well, it’s a little more than that. I’m really, really not into the whole, evil-infused, dress up like a serial killer, dowse yourself in fake-blood and draw huge scars on your face, jack-o-lanterns smashed all over my driveway, or terrorizing a black cat hoopla of it all, ‘kay? Look, man, Halloween just ain’t my jam. Not even if it’s pumpkin, ginger, clove or chai-flavored jam. In fact, especially then. Blech! What is the DEAL with everyone liking chai, dude? Ick. Either way. I wouldn’t like this day if someone bought me a lifetime supply of: hazelnut sugar free creamer, salted-caramel covered sticky buns, pumpkin pies and maple donuts, gallons of apple cider or even bushel upon bushel of bags of cranberries. I do love me all of the above, in the spirit of full disclosure. Especially the cranberries, yo. Candy corn, too, by the by. #SugarSugarAndMoreSugar But that’s all really more fall favor, friends. It’s not Halloween specific, see? And yes, yes, your Honor, I will finally just admit it under oath, I HATE HALLOWEEN!!! In fact, the only saving graces of last year’s lock down were: a) quality time with my kiddo, b) a chance to binge-watch Netflix, and oh yes, c) Halloween got canceled for the most part, yo. DO NOT GET ME STARTED ON THE 850 GAZILLION REASONS OCTOBER 31 IS NOT A HOLIDAY. Okay, fine, I'm already started, in drive and halfway down the block. Allow me to submit my evidence on behalf of the argument that Halloween is, indeed, NOT a holiday. Are banks, schools, and stores closed? No. Did any U.S. President ever in the history of, um, the invention of Mallow Cups sign the day into law as a legal freebie furlough? Nope. In fact, if you DO happen to take the 31st day of the 10th month off, does your employer go: "Oh, I totally get it! You need to make the food, clean and decorate the house, pick up family from the airport, plan out the menu ... heck, you just go ahead and take it with pay, buddy!" Uh, no, no he/she does not, a'ight? Ya gotta burn a vacation day, Capisce? I mean, even the whole origin of the celebration is legit creepy. Yeah, I know, that’s the whole point of Halloween. But easily frightened freaks like moi do not necessarily appreciate its tale which, according to the research done by those smart peeps over at the History Channel, states: “This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31, they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth.” Oh HEX to the no, y’all. In fact, to quote the terrified new homeowner in the Geico commercial who unearths melted mannequins, a macabre music box dancer, and a general scene of morbid moroseness up in the attic of his recently-purchased casa, my vibe for all things scary Halloween is: “Nope. No. No thank you.” Kimerer is a columnist who will be shuddering beneath the dining room table until daylight hits on November 1st. Visit her non-scary blog 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." Years ago, comedian Jerry Seinfeld did a skit about his childhood pet parakeet.
He was confused about its life choices. One of which was to fly directly into a mirror and aim straight for its own reflection. Now obviously, parakeets have severely limited ability to reason; or even see very clearly for that matter. I mean, have you SEEN how tiny their heads and eyes are? Still, Seinfeld was always perplexed by their pattern of pegging other parakeets for pursuit. “I mean, even if they’re going to aim for a target, why not at least try to avoid the other bird?” he mused. He ain’t wrong. Birds, in general, do stuff I just don’t get. Like, what is up with the family reunions on phone lines? I mean, are they talking to each other? Trying to tap into our conversations from the outside in? Spying on the aunts and uncles who ditched the invite? Then there are the ever-dim-witted types which dive-bomb in front of moving cars, set up house in car engines, or stay north in winter while their more clever cousins commute to the Carolinas. Dude, if I had the option to fly for free to Florida and frolic in fun forgoing all frost? Um, fuhgett about it. Instinct alone should tell them to follow their friends to freedom from freezing, no? Animal instinct. You hear about it all the time. I especially appreciate how, in the animal kingdom, the pack leader always takes particular care to shielding the oldest, sickest, and weakest in the pack. And the runts, too, BT Dubs. All animals are supposed to have super senses. Even Donkey in Shrek had instincts. Okay, he’s not real and his were sketchy but he DID know Shrek was crushing on Princess Fiona. Hmpf. Back in the real world, what is up with deer? No instincts in those exquisite creatures? Listen, deer are some of the most graceful, gorgeous, and grand beings galivanting the globe. The boys are fierce with those wicked cool horns and intimidating resting buck face and what not. The doe are nearly ballerina beautiful when bounding. And the fawns? Um, stinking adorableness. In fact, I’m pretty sure they got the name because of how much goobers like myself will just fawn all over them. But here’s the thing: deer are denser than dodos. Er, are they NOT able to see and hear oncoming traffic? I’m talkin’ hundreds or thousands of 18-wheelers, SUVs, etc. racing down a major highway at 95mph. The doe that didn’t look both ways before crossing Interstate 86 last weekend had some seriously questionable instinct, my friends. It happened as we headed home from NY last Saturday when at 7:30PM or so, a/k/a, zero EXTREMELY dark thirty, there she was. Straight outta nowhere, just casually making her way to the other side of the road, like the proverbial chicken. And just like the chicken, no one can really be sure why. But I CAN tell you that the slamming of the brakes and swerving of the car that ensued saved her life –and ours, too, BT Dubs. Oh, did I mention my husband is a hero? He saved both the perpetrator and his own litter’s runt: moi. It’s fine, it only took ‘til today for me to stop feeling like a crumpled Kleenex. Dodge those deer, darlins!!! Kimerer is a columnist currently in traction. Contact her gently at www.patriciakimerer.com Please see sponsors below. Jn 17:17b, 17a Your word, O Lord, is truth; consecrate us in the truth. Everyone who knows me knows that I’m a “laugh and the world laughs at, er, I mean with you” sorta gal.
Hee. It’s true, however, that chuckling and giggling and being silly and snort-soaked chortling are some of my deepest loved pastimes. Indeed, reality in 2021 is not always heaps of cackles so I’ll take a laugh wherever I can get one. Giving one? Even better. So, it’s not a secret that I’m all about really funny movies. That being said, I do love me a good old fashioned romance ala Turner Classic Movies (TCM). In fact, I love all types of old movies…especially black and white films. I just do. It’s a fun fact the two blokes with whom I cohabitate cannot quite comprehend. They think me a bit of a square and vocalize it every time our color television loses its hues. To be fair, their opinion on this is likely not based solely on my love of the early “talkies.” Fine. There does appear to be ample footage supporting their notion of my uncool status. Editor’s Note: With my twisted mop mess of Brillo Pad-esque straw hair, poo-painted brown eyes, and a lumpy honker the general size and shape of Rhode Island, I can see where most might find me a tad more Potsy than Fonzie. It’s okay, really. I accepted my geekiness ages ago though I still can’t hmpf just a little when my boys diss me for being a dork. Sorry, I digressed. Okay, wait; actually, one more quick preview before the main attraction. What’s with the whole “Editor’s Note” reference all the time? I mean, sometimes, lotsa times, and dare I declare, even most times, it’s honestly the author’s note. No offense to editors, natch. But come on, we lowly writers can and do edit – particularly, we often pre-edit, As in, self-edit. Which we probs should not be doing. Because, at least from my perspective, we are not only dangerously unqualified but also we are WAY harsher on ourselves than our editors. Then again, what do I know? I’m just a humble scribe, not an eagle-eyed editor. Well, not yet, at least. JK, editorial team! Either way, getting back to my list of geek qualifications, it really does run longer than the combined credits of a double-feature of “Gone with the Wind” and “Once Upon a Time in America.” My fellow movie junkies get it: The collective running time for this particular double-bill is nearly the equivalent of an average work day. For reel, er, real. Basically, these are two of the longest movies in the history of, you know, motion pictures. Speaking of “The History of Motion Pictures,” did you know the first movie ever made was a 16 seconds-long film made in 1878 called “The Horse in Motion”? Or that 1888’s “Roundhay Garden Scene” is considered by many to be the first real movie ever released? Or that the first full-length feature film with dialogue was 1927’s “The Jazz Singer”? Fine, I AM a nerd, whatever. I admit it. I love curling up under a blanket with a warm cup of coffee to catch a special airing of “The Kid”, “It Happened One Night” or “12 Angry Men”. What’s that? You want to know who the kid is or what happened that night or why those dudes are so angry? Well, well, well, looks like it’s dillweed PK to the synopsis rescue! Kimerer is an old movie buff and basically a dork extraordinaire. Send classic film inquiries to her via www.patriciakimerer.com  Everybody loves “Finding Nemo” – am I right?
You do remember “Finding Nemo,” don’t you? Sure, you do. Who could forget the 2003 animated trawling tale about little mischievous Nemo and his worry wort Pop, Marlin? Poor Marlin: possibly the most humorless clown fish in history, by the by—real or reel, But surely everyone remembers “Finding Nemo”—the 2003 animated film about the tiny little lost fishy with one flap-impaired fin and one neurotically nervous Daddy. For those of you who might have been sleeping or distracted or otherwise cinematically challenged in 2003, here’s recap of the Oscar-winning cartoon classic: Marlin loses his beloved bride Coral and their, like eight gagillion fish egg babies in a barracuda attack. When the bubbles clear, Coral and the kids are kaput (damned Disney movies and their history of offing Moms in their opening sequences!). As a result, Marlin is left distraught…and with a single, tiny little dented egg…which becomes his only child, Nemo. Editor’s Note: poor little Nemo survived but has that one fudged fin because of that whole sad sitch. See? I knew you’d remember “Finding Nemo” – everyone does. Well, I mean, unless you’re Dory. She doesn’t remember anything. At all. Ever. Dory is the royal blue tang fish Marlin happens upon in his search for a missing Nemo---who defies his father’s warnings to be cautious and wanders out too far into the sea alone. This, of course, leads to him being scooped up by dentist fishing for rare- looking specimens for his office aquarium. Ding dang if he doesn’t effectively steal Nemo. The remainder of the film is Marlin searching, Nemo plotting to get home and Marlin’s friend Dory keeping everyone positive with her reminder to “Just keep swimming” when life hands you, you know, a concrete necklace. Oh, and don’t forget that her reminder is about the only thing Dory retains, since she, herself, while golden-hearted, has the memory of a gnat. Sadly, the older I get, the more Dory I become; you’ll see young’ns. Speaking of the wee ones… Here’s the thing: no matter how old your children get, they are still, like, forever 15ish in your mind and heart. It’s not intentional, offspring, so spring off with the attitude. Look, it isn’t that we feel you’re not capable or independent or possess the skill and intelligence to handle the world on your own. We do; mostly. But we cannot help trying to, you know, help. All the time. With everything. In every way. It’s not an affront on you …it’s just the way it is. There's just a little bit of Marlin in every Mom. Yes, I know my son is 21. I am fully aware of his age … I was there when he came into the world and all. So, sure, I know how grown up he really is. I understand he can easily shop for groceries … or iron dress shirts ,,, or pick sinus medication … or even land his own credit card (with a better interest rate than mine--huh???) – all without my assistance. Okay, fine, interjection. Er, interference. Oh whatever, my outright meddlesome butt-in-ski-ness. And, according to his Dad, my butt kissing-ness. Yeah, yeah, as you know from reading this space, I tend to – well, tend to my kiddo. It’s what Mums do, a’ight? I don’t know why we always have to defend our defensiveness. Which brings me back to “Finding Nemo,” yo. Our kids are kids, whether they’re 12 or 87. We’re always gonna smother, er, mother them. And even when they protest, I honestly believe they’re secretly happy we’re there with a safety net…just in case. Don’t worry, kiddo, mine pretty much spans the entire ocean floor, Capisce? Please see sponsors below. Ps 95:8 If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts. I am a first generation Italian-American on my Father’s side.
It’s a lineage comprised to fiercely-devout Catholics. I am the youngest child of a cradle Catholic on my Mother’s side. To be distinct, my Mom is woman so dedicated to her faith that her entire scholastic career consisted of attending Catholic institutions. She’s even a loyal-to-the-death Notre Dame Fighting Irish football fan. Again, it is a lineage comprised of fiercely-devout Catholics. Personally-speaking, I try my best to live Catholic. This means always trying to consider WWJD when conflicted. It means following church teachings, practices, traditions, and you know, commandments. It means taking my cues from the Pope and his posse, Capsice? Did I mention one of my closest friends is a Catholic priest? Father John Keehner; trust me when I tell you they don’t come any finer, my Peeps. Love ya, Padre! I digress. To say that Catholics are innately familiar with the concept of experiencing guilt would be like saying Tom kinda, half-heartedly, in a very casual way wouldn’t mind catching Jerry, you dig? We realize when we coulda, woulda, shoulda done something different…and we gulp HARD when we know we’ve opted for the choice in the wrong column, a’ight? But there ARE times when I know I’m going against popular opinion – and ding dang it, I’m just tired of feeling guilty about it, okay? Among these error-wrought choices are the following: 1. Rooting for Chef Bobby Flay. I know, I know, the name of the show is “Beat Bobby Flay” and even his best friends fight hard to help his competing cooks roast him. But I can’t help it, I find myself always hoping he pulls it out in the end. Especially when the challenger is cocky. Really dude? It’s Bobby Flipping Flay, simmer down. 2. Recycling without removing the tabby thingy first. To be fair, I rarely do this and most often when it happens, it’s a result of me simply forgetting. But on that rare occasion when I do toss a can without having first popped off the little built-in opener, I always have that twinge of you-know-what. In fact, the night before the recycling bins go out, I usually run to the curb and rip off the few I’ve left behind. Seriously. 3. Not liking every single tweet by Pope Francis. I rarely see a post by him that I don’t immediately stamp with a heart emoji but every once in a great while, I’m just quick-scrolling and miss a post. I don’t THINK this is a sin but I’m gonna have to verify this with my Padre. 4. Turning the A/C or heat on for exactly four minutes to cool down or warm up the house in the morning. I know this is ridiculous and probably spikes some meter somewhere or throws the planets out of alignment but I hate waking up either soaked in sweat or hypothermic. Sue me, man. 5. Not watching the news anymore. I know, I know, it’s foolish and short-sighted and ignorant (literally) and ill-advised. But I simply cannot stomach it any longer. Everyone speaking has so many hidden personal agendas, you’d think it was Easter morning and we’re all ransacking the house in search of eggs or something. Over it. There may be a few bonus guilt-gotchas like crying every time Kyle leaves to head back to campus or bawling like a baby as I watched my nephew/second son ascend the aisle to await his future bride at his recent wedding. Sniff. Either way, I’m glad to get all that off my chest. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look up the times for Confession this week. Super hard Gulp --- and a half, yo. Kimerer is a columnist who tries hard to be good but sometimes leans in to the voice over the wrong shoulder. Give her only good-for-others advice via www.patriciakimerer.com See Sponsors Below. Jn 13:34: I give you a new commandment: love one another as I have loved you. Anyone who knows me knows that Kyle Kimerer is the light of my life.
He's my heart and soul; my baby boy. He's the best parts of both Kerry and yours truly. Only way better on all counts. He's charismatic and handsome and funny and brilliant and kind and incredibly wise. Objectively speaking, natch. He is faith-filled and loyal and honest to a fault. He's my Pop reincarnated. He's my rock. He's my kiddo and, hands-down, my #1 top pick human. Also, he's gonna kill me when he reads this. In fact, I can feel his eyes hard-rolling at me in Buffalo from here. All my proud mom rambling irritates this kid. Meh, it's a risk I'm just gonna go ahead and take, a'ight? Bottom line: My son is, quite literally, everything to me. He's my favorite 20-something male, hands down and no question. Period. End of story. Well, mostly. Maybe 3/4 of the story. Because, and again, anyone who knows me also knows that --with PK, there's usually at least a little bit more to the end of the story, yo. Call me Paula Harvey. Hee. See, there IS this one other 20-something male whom I absolutely ADORE. In fact, he stole a huge part of my heart on the very day we met...his birthday: April 4, 1998. Exactly 30 years and one week after his favorite Aunt Patty (moi) was born. Note to all of Scott's other aunts: I said that, he didn't. Because that's not something my nephew Scott would say. In fact, he would NEVER intentionally hurt the feelings of another earth-dweller. Or those of any of the other planets, either. My nephew/second son Scott is simply one of the kindest-hearted people on the third rock. Which is why, when he married Annie, the absolute love of his life this weekend, I was proud and happy and elated and excited and overwhelmed and thrilled and excited and OVER THE MOON. See, if I could've hand-picked a new family member and someone fabulous enough to be marrying my second son; I could never have found anyone more perfect than our sweet Annie. To say that I'm happy for these kids and LOVE LOVE LOVE that Annie is our newest family member would be an understatement of the most severe sort. All I can really say is, welcome to the fold, my sweet new niece. I pray that God blesses my beloved Scott and Annie with a lifetime of health, happiness, and AMORE. No one deserves it a-more. Congratulations, my loves! Kimerer is one proud aunt who clearly can boast on her babies with the best of 'em. Contact her for more mushy feels via www.patriciakimerer.com Please see sponsors below. Mk 10:45 The Son of Man came to serve and to give his life as a ransom for many. You know how, after you've had a sleepless night, the next day is like...um. a living version of Salvador Dahli's "The Persistence of Memory"?
You'll recall his (arguably) most famous painting in which there are a bunch of melting stopwatches. And they're on the beach. Oh, and one is sort of dangling from a barren tree. And it's not a palm tree, It's like a crabapple tree or something ... even though it's seaside. Or maybe lakeside? Either way, it's a leafless tree that doesn't seem to belong where it stands and it's leafless despite the fact that the rest of the scene is very summery. The tree is growing out of big brown block of, I'm not sure what, and there are two other melting stopwatches hanging around and there's like, a ping-pong table on the other side of the tree. I dunno. Dahli never told anyone what it meant. All he ever said about the piece was that, he woke up in the middle of the night one night and saw cheese melting on his bedside stand. Gross, man, how long was that cheese sitting there? Anyway, after seeing the seeping swiss, he got up and started painting his surreal masterpiece. According to Wikipedia, "The Persistence of Memory alludes to the influence of scientific advances during Dali's lifetime. The stark yet dreamlike scenery reflects a Freudian emphasis on the dream landscape while the melted watches may refer to Einstein's Theory of Relativity, in which the scientist references the distortion of space and time." Hmm. Any who. After you spend an entire evening watching every hour wrap up on your own non-melting clock, the next day is as distorted as a dramatic Dahli drawing, duh. Oh wait -- some of you actually DON'T know about this? Then you've never had insomnia. Yawn-infused sigh. You lucky little loungers, you. There are many, many potential causes of insomnia. They might include but clearly aren't limited to: • Stress. • Worry over work or school or finances --- or, fill-in literally ANY blank. • Health issues. • A hectic travel or work schedule. • Poor sleep habits. • Eating too much late in the evening. Whatever the cause, whatever the duration, the worst thing about insomnia (at least for me) is: it never REALLY goes away, yo. Listen, I don't eat late into the night. I've been working remotely since March of last year. I drink chamomile tea, take lavender baths, and do my best to shut out the everyday worries humans have...which are stressful, at the very least. And I still can't sleep more than two hours at a stretch. Now, I don't require a ton of sleep; I've been that way since I was a little girl. But my insomnia has gotten out of hand. In fact, I was so tired during the middle of the day one day last week that I feel asleep at my desk. Sitting straight up. At 3PM. For like, 11 full minutes. I might still be there if my head hadn't lean itself backward far enough for me to thunk my head into the wall. More yawning and sighing... Look, I don't like the idea of taking pills to make me sleep. Frankly, I don't like taking pills for much of anything. But I do believe I may be reaching that point. Because if I go one more sleepless night, I may just leave my keys in the fridge and a skinless chicken breast in the lock, Capisce? Then again, maybe I'll create a masterpiece and become a famous artist and be so financially set that I can Rip Van Winkle my way through the space-time continuum ... at least for a night or two? Kimerer is a tired columnist wishing y'all sweet dreams. Check out her loopy ramblings at www.patriciakimerer.com Please see sponsors below. Mt 5:16 Let your light shine before others, that they may see your good deeds and glorify your heavenly Father. There's a debate that's been going on for many, many years. Perhaps decades. Shoot, I don't know, maybe even centuries? It has to do with pain tolerance and who does it better...boys or girls. Hmm. If I've heard this quote once, I've heard it a thousand times --- and I am, for once, NOT exaggerating for a laugh. Not that I'm above that sorta thing. Making y'all smile and chuckle, kinda my jam. I digress. The long-standing claim in question is this: If men had to go through childbirth, humanity would become extinct. Sigh. Women make this bold statement all the time. And men scoff at it, all the time. But the reality is, there's not ever going to be a definitive way to know who the true pain masters are, now is there? For the love of Pete, I'm begging y'all to NOT wax scientific about future possibilities of boys bearing babies. I just don't think I've got enough non-aspirin, coffee, and/or dark chocolate on hand to dive into that whole kooky concept just now, 'kay? #PleaseDontGoThere But the point is this: How does anyone ever really, truly understand how much something physically hurts another human being? Sure, there are parameters, measurements, guidelines and what not. Heck, there's even that goofy smiley face chart thingy that goes from grinning to downright Mr. Yucking you right out of the doctor's office. I hate that chart. I find it inane. Not insane. But yes, inane. You know, silly. Insipid. Pointless. In fact, I find it sort of ridiculous when someone asks me to measure my pain, period. "On a scale of 1 to 10, Patty, how much pain are you in?" Um, I don't know...6.725? What the heck kind of question is that? Even if I tell you I'm at a 10 -- that could totally be a 4 for you. Or a 76. I mean, some things just aren't that easy to gage...and I think pain tolerance/level is right up there on the list. It's so personal and subjective. Not to mention the cornucopia of factors at play. Where is the pain? Is it aching or throbbing? Is it stabbing or pulsating? Does it start then stop then start again like your old Chevette in the 1980s? UGH. It reminds me of those ridiculous word problems you had to figure out on the timed tests when you were a kid that not only never made sense to me but also I almost always missed. "If a train traveling at 65MPH leaves New York at 7PM and arrives in Pittsburgh at 10:15PM, what was the color of the carpeting in the dining car?" Wait...what? Um, gray? I was always inclined to go with answer "C" on the multiple choice when I filled in the bubble with my #2 pencil. And how come it had to be #2? You got something against the lead in a #3? Sheesh. Any who, I just think things like assessing how much something physically hurts one homosapien versus another is like asking if Leonardo da Vinci was a better painter than Pablo Picasso. #TooCloseToCall Suffice it to say, only YOU can prevent forest fires...and/or know how much something hurts YOU. But, if another human's in pain the least we can do is try to lessen it for 'em, Capisce? Kimerer's a features reporter/columnist with fairly high pain tolerance. #KidneyStoneSlayer Try to convince her that da Vinci isn't the GOAT at www.patriciakimerer.com See Sponsors Below. Jn 3:16 God so loved the world that he gave his only-begotten Son so that everyone who believes in him might have eternal life. I was chatting with my bella cousin Mary Ann recently. Oh, that’s beautiful for y’all non-Italians, BT Dubs.
Anyway, my cugina (come on now, you can figure that one out on your own, no?) and I were waxing nostalgic, philosophical, political, and flipping hysterical as we laughed and talked and sipped our coffee. And it was while we both enjoyed what my Pop always called “una tazza de café” we realized that we have some kooky coffee customs in common. Quirky cousins. Correction, semi-pazzo (a/k/a crazy) Italian cousins – we are an odd lot. In other words, we have some shared traits, habits, idiosyncratic (that one you can look up), and otherwise eccentric traditions that only other Italian Americans would understand. Allow me to illustrate with an example. We both doctor up our daily coffee with creamers or sweeteners or other preferred add-ins; hers include coconut, which never occurred to me but now I’m definitely gonna try. Yum. Her concoctions are more elaborate typically include a press, mine are usually hand-selected K-Cups ordered online and delivered far too often. You’re welcome, Amazon. Anywho, whilst we both dislike black coffee from the usual suspects: Starbucks, Panera, Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonald’s, Wendy’s or even some of the lovely local/regional java shops -- we somehow both love, love, love espresso. You know, the stuff made in the teeny tiny percolator than only Italians and Italian-Americans own ---typically it s stored on either the counter or stovetop. That little silver-colored contraption that can fit in a handbag but pack the punch of an eight-piece set of American luggage, a’ight? It kinda looks like the love-child of a Keurig and a teapot. I digress. Yes, we both love that distinctive coffee with the same consistency and hue as tar, basically. The stuff so flipping strong that you slurp it carefully through miniature cups that look like they belong in a little girl’s tea party set. It’s just one of the many things you have to be Italian or of Italian descent to fully appreciate. For instance, you call it apple-picking season. We know better. When the leaves start to abandon their greenness and leap to their crumpled demise, it’s time to start canning tomatoes, yo. Also, turkey’s for Tetrazzini. As I’ve mentioned a million times before, I didn’t know turkey was the traditional Thanksgiving dinner until I was about 37. In my house, we always had homemade pasta for Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And Easter. And New Year’s Eve. And New Year’s Day. Okay, you get it. Either way, all I know is, if Italians were at the first Thanksgiving, we’d given the Native Americans a nice Bolognese instead of beads. Seriously. There are tons of fabulous foibles that only those reared in Italian households completely comprehend. They include but are absolutely not contained to the following principles: -Cleaning the house before you leave is imperative. -Food is love. -Beating your siblings routinely is okay. Someone else doing it is akin to signing their own death certificate. -ITALIAN MOTHERS SMOTHER OUR SONS. Sorry. Actually, we’re really not. Deal with it. -Visible dust on any piece of furniture, light fixture, or other household item is a mortal sin punishable by familial exile. -Everyone has a relative named one of the following: MEN:
WOMEN:
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