Sometimes life gives you lemons. Sometimes it gives you limes. Or Lyme Disease. 

Snarky Patty alert: you've been warned.
​
This past week did not go well for me, my friends.

In fact, it’s been one that not only has been the absolute Stink-A-Palooza 2021 … but also has been one I would not wish on anyone.

Except maybe the mean troll who was responsible for it. Word on the street is that mean guys finish last? 

Hmm. Either way. It was one that I would love to repeat NEVER.

Not by a long shot. Or a short one, either.

Or a putter shot. Or a vaccine shot. Or rim shot -- or any other shot sort, see?

Frankly, last week literally drove me to the brink of a real shot. You know, the alcohol variety.

Now, I don’t know nothin’ about doin’ no shots, yo.

I honestly don’t drink. Not because I’m opposed to it in moderation, natch. I’m not some stuffy prude, ya know, no matter what you may have heard from my hubby or kid. 

It’s just that, other than the occasional “whoop-it-up” fest in my early 20s, I’ve just never been a real alcohol aficionado. 

I don’t like being sluggish or floopy the next day. I don’t like anything that makes my head hurt or my tummy bloat. And, if I’m choosing calories between drinking alcohol or chompin’ dark chocolate, um hello? #ChocolateIsEverything

Heck, I haven’t even had anything other than a sip of wine at Mass during communion (pre-Covid) since well before Kyle was born.

He’s 21 and gestation for humans is nine months so, you do the abstinence arithmetic, a’ight?

Ergo, even though tempted by the worst day I’ve had since Corona was only popular as like, the cool-people cerveza, I didn’t even know where to begin lookin’ at liquor?

Tequila or vodka, maybe? Perhaps some type of the 87 gazillion types of whiskey out there. I really couldn’t tell you because my beverages of choice are coffee and diet cola.

What? There’s water in both of them? 

Hmpf.

But last Wednesday, my wonderful pals, was a complete stroll down “somebody please just SHOOT me, already” avenue, you dig?

And it shot all the air right out of me. Speaking of which after much aggression, er, I mean digression, maybe I need to put on a big girl dress and just toss back the baddest shot in the whole darn town: whiskey.

BLECH, BT Dubs. 

Um, is it me or is there a new brand unveiled every 14 seconds or so? 

Old timers like me, who still watch commercials, can’t help but notice that, besides insurance, new drugs, mobile phones/wireless services, credit card, home health/elderly alert, and obviously restaurant and/or food delivery service companies -- well, alcohol ads air almost always. 

Seriously. 

If you aren’t watching:
1) Jake from State Farm get extra pizza, bacon, or honey right from the hive;
2) That hilarious motivational speaker from Progressive teaching old people in young bodies how to say “quinoa” or 3) Target, Wal-Mart, or Home Depot convincing you confinement is cool (and who to vote for next political season, just sayin’) …

Then you are definitely sitting through a beer or whiskey spot beckoning your next beverage … and future hangover, BT Dubs.

And the booze spots are hysterical, by the way. 

Just about funny enough to turn a teetotaler like me into a rip-roarin’ prohibitionist.

Probably not though, again, I’m not disparaging it. I mean, I’m an Italian Catholic, for heaven’s sake. 

Red wine is one of the four Italian food groups, Capisce?

Kimerer is a columnist looking to get sauced; but probably the Italian pasta dinner kind. E-mail her at pkimerer@zoominternet.net

I can still remember it as if it happened this past Christmas.
 
I know exactly where I was and what I was doing when I got the call from my niece/goddaughter/#1 girl-on-the-planet: Kelly Marie.
 
“Aunt Patty, I need to tell you something…” her voice trailed off the phone for a moment --- but not before I noticed it held a maturity I hadn’t sensed anytime prior in my 19 ½ years of chatting with my little sweet pea (seen with me at left).
 
After what seemed like an eternity but was just a nanosecond, she told me her childhood friend Caitlin Yager, and her family had been in a car accident while traveling back home from a Christmas Day celebration with kin in the Norwalk area.
 
At the time of that call, in the late afternoon of December 26, 2013, I was sitting in the office of my then workplace at a local accounting firm, where I was Corporate Communications Director.
 
“It was bad Aunt Patty, her parents and brother are really hurt ….um, Caitlin ---didn’t ---make it…” I remember her saying just before falling backward into my swivel chair, since our conversation had apparently startled me into a standing position.
 
Kelly and Caitlin, like all their 2012 high school co-graduates, were enjoying winter break of their sophomore year in college; Kelly at Walsh University and Caitlin at Marietta College.
 
They were both just shy of 20 years old.
 
In the dizzying hours that followed, our family –like everyone in our friend/church circle rocked by the tragedy-- gathered to share our fondest memories of Caitlin. Kelly had known her since their days at St. Christine Elementary School, where they were classmates, co-cheerleaders, and teammates on the girls’ basketball AND soccer teams.
 
I thought Caitlin was a total hoot and --I could be imagining this-- but I seem to remember that sometimes she snorted when she laughed, just like old Aunt Patty, which she affectionately called me.
 
She was with Kelly and her BFF Marissa often after practices and games; the girls frequented my sister’s house, as well as my parents’, often.
 
I recall her ferociously hugging my Pop on his birthday once after she joined us for dinner at the Olive Garden; one of the few Italian-eque food chain restaurants in which he’d consent to consume food. Real Italians are funny like that, Capisce?
 
Anyway, it was driving home from there on another occasion that Caitlin, infamous for her contagious silliness and laughter, deadpanned: “Yes, Raspberry Iced Tea,” after an elderly police officer had asked in anyone in the car had been drinking during a routine traffic stop. As the story was told to me, my sister Gina was taking her home after she, my Mom, Kelly and Caitlin had dinner you-know-where.
 
Tickled by her droll moxie, the officer smiled and said, “Well you ladies continue on your way --and take it easy on that raspberry iced tea.”
 
That was Caitlyn, always cracking jokes or singing childhood songs in some eccentric accent or octave. I remember she LOVED to bake and often made chocolate chip cookies for the high school Cross Country high school team on which she, Kels ran.
 
Gosh, I miss her beautiful smile and quirky sense of fun.
 
One way I, and many others, have chosen to honor her memory is to support the annual Run for Caitlin. It’s the main fundraiser for the same-named non-profit organization founded by Caitlin’s brother, Matthew and  family friends, Mike and Dr. Greg Delost in 2014. It is administered by Caitlin's parents, Rich and Carol Yager and Attorney Raymond and Dr. Maria Delost. According to the foundation website, the run has raised and distribute $80K in scholarships to high school and college students to date.
 
If you’re not busy next Saturday 7.24.21 and you indulge in such healthy habits, check out the Run for Caitlin 5K & 3K.
 
And I sure do hope there’s lots Raspberry Iced tea up in heaven for you, hon. Hug Pop for me!

How was your post 4th of July week last week?

Probably, like mine, a little wonky from the start, right?
 
Let’s face it: Whenever there’s a legal holiday that, in essence, causes Monday to become Sunday, the whole week is just off. You head back into the office feeling like it’s the day it should be, not the day it is, capisce?
 
It takes at least until Wednesday before you realize it’s, you know, actually, really, legitimately Wednesday.
 
Unless, of course, like many folks, you took off Tuesday, as well to adjust for say, jet lag from returning home from vacation. Then you’re just pretty much doomed until the next week, yo.
 
To compound the crazy my cell caused chaos.
 
Rejecting calls, randomly powering down and delaying VMs for days; it made last week the week from cell…and inspired the following poem:
 
There once was a phone from a cell store
That took messages, photos and much more.
It kept time, place and date, counted calories I ate
Tracked my steps and my sleep and my snore score.
 
It took care to give perfect directions
Offered recipes for tons of confections
Lit my way in the dark; found a great little park
Where I basked in great nature’s perfection.
 
Before long, ‘twas my constant companion
Gave support with such reckless abandon.
Stored my pics, files, and notes; found me cute little jokes
And in general was just my right hand, man.
 
Out of nowhere like bad boyfriends from past days
My old buddy went suddenly sideways
He stopped taking calls gave a sputtering stall:
All connection was gone and we parted ways.
 
SIGH.
 
Like a true foolish jerk, I just gave in.
And I gave him some more consideration.
I rebooted again as I tried to be friends
Even going back to our first spot of origin.
 
And so, there we were: back at the cell store
Undergoing the scans that were definitely hard core.
As I wonder and waited, I just mentally debated:
Is it worth it to stick with this old bore?
 
Or give into the shiny temptation
Of the cell co’s most recent creation:
For this new fabulous model’s like a babe tightly swaddled
In a cocoon of complete imagination!
 
It does everything you can think of and then some
Snaps your pics and your videos, searches sun fun.
Downloads music and films, takes your temp, pays the bills
And perhaps might just tally up your pension?
 
‘Cause today’s latest cell phone is tremendous
Every feature, cool gadget and great benefit.
It only costs a cool grand to look great in your hand…
‘Til next week-- when it’s replacement’s STUPENDOUS.
 
So I’ll stick with my old, silly version.
In its clunky old case of immersion.
Old and worn just like me! That’s okay, don’t you see?
I’m ridiculously loyal as a person.
 
Kimerer is a columnist who hates changing phones – especially for new ones that cost more than her first car. Contact on your pricey cell via www.patriciakimerer.com 

My Fellow Americans:
 
I’m not positive why I started things out that way this Independence Day? I guess it’s just that I’ve just always really, really wanted to say that, you know? Sounds so very presidential.
 
Oh, I get it, I couldn’t be further from being an even remotely electable candidate as President of these United States. I mean, I’m far more familiar of the plot of the “House of Cards” than the one with all those Representatives running about and fussing and fighting.
 
Although, come to think of it, one of our best-loved Commanders in Chief was actually a former Hollywood hunk, yo. There are those who think of him as one of the best U.S. Prez’s ever, even.
 
Yet, at one point in time, well before being sworn in as the 40th national head honcho, his second-hand man was a chimpanzee – so, there’s that.
 
But, to be fair, I truly am not very qualified since I have little to no experience in or know-how of the whole processo politico. Then again, community organization as a main qualification was the criticism of one recent President.
 
Hmm.
 
Another reason I’m not a good choice is, I’m a complete neophyte. An outsider. Someone who’s entirely disassociated with that whole convoluted DC political scene. Oh, yeah, right, we did have one of kooky non-politician/billionaire sitting in there not that long ago.
 
More hmm.
 
And now, we seem to have one of Snow White’s housemates occupying that space: Dopey---oops, I meant to say Sleepy.
 
Thud.
 
Okay, I might not be the biggest fan of many of the dudes who’ve rolled that big leather chair around that weird-shaped Oval Office…as individuals, that is. I’m still hoping Dolly Parton gets the nomination sometime soon.
 
Sigh. That’s really not the point.
 
This is: Grumpy or Sneezy or plain old Icky as have been some (or most) of the residents of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue have been (remember how Bill Clinton spent leisure time there – blech!), I’d still rather live in ‘Murica than anywhere else on this big blue globe of ours.
 
So don’t you dare try to nay say my homeland on this, her 245th birthday, after all, she gave birth to some of the greatest inventions in the history of history. Seriously.
 
Good stuff that came courtesy of the good old US of A include:
 
Planes, trains, and automobiles. Seriously, we invented cars and airplanes, not to mention starting the whole nifty little program called the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.
 
You may have heard we were the first peeps to set foot on that other big rock nearby; um, the moon? Bonus points to those who knew we also created submarines.
 
Ooh, we were also the ones who solved that whole, how do we get from the Atlantic to the Pacific easier when we built the Panama Canal, BAM!
 
How’s about a little something called transatlantic communication? Came by way of an American named Cyrus West Field, just sayin’. Think you’d have your cell phone today if not for the tinkering of an American gentleman by the name of Alexander Graham Bell?
 
Yeah, I thought so.
 
Many moons later, say voila to other amazing stuff America’s given society, i.e.: McDonald’s, Han Solo, Coca Cola, M&Ms and Disney World and Land.
 
Still unconvinced? Our team made Netflix, a’ight?
 
At our core, Americans want freedom for all and since we kinda broke up with England all those years ago, we’ve prided ourselves on being good neighbors to each other and the world; one nation, under God, and indivisible with a deep desire for justice for all.
 
And adoring Elvis, Capisce?
 
Happy Independence Day and God Bless America, y’all!

I’m not afraid of them as a species, per say.
 
I mean, some of them are quite remarkable, actually.
 
Elegant, glorious, beautiful --- majestic, even.
 
Then there are the other cretins.
 
Sinister. Dirty. Creepy. Freaking scary to the core, yo.
 
I mean, let’s be real. You can call them Aves as a class but in the history of like, history, they have long been catalogued under the scariest of all groups: reptiles.
 
Shudder.
 
I speak, of course, of the warm-blooded, winged vertebrate that can swim, dive, jump, sing, lay eggs, star as the main course in countless types of delectable appetizers, snacks, and entrees and, drumroll please --- fly.
 
At the risk of evoking startling scenes from one of Alfred Hitchcock’s biggest hits, I speak, of course, of our fluttering friends: birds.
 
Apparently, there are three main types:

• Tweety birds, which are self-explanatory. Think sparrows, finches, robins… the cutie patootie little ones that make the sweet little cheep, cheep, cheeps. I love them.

 

• Ducky birds, which float on water. Doves, swans, etc. These are cool, for the most part…except for the ones that have tried to eat me. More later.

 

• Hawk-Like Birds a/k/a Birds of Prey. These are the bad butts of the bird biosphere, baby. Hawks, eagles, condors, falcons, owls, and osprey – I’m in awe and wonder. Period.

 
Then again, buzzards and vultures? Oh hex to the no. Ditto ravens. I know they are not technically birds of prey because they’re vegetarians like me --- but they’re terrifying, even Edgar Allen Poe thought so.
 
My relationship with birds is, well, complicated. On the one hand, other than the occasional bite of turkey on Thanksgiving, I’m one with the cattle and fowl, a’ight?
 
Then again, as a former runner (and now power walker), I have had MORE than my fair share of birds divebombing me. Jonathon Livingston seagull is the worst culprit.
 
I cannot tell you how many times I’ve had to avoid being swooped up by some ginormous gull. Dude, exactly how small IS your brain? Hmm.
 
Clearly larger than the pigeon who landed in my garage recently. This guy was NOT at the top of his class at the cuckoo conservatory, yo.
 
So, he lands on the top of my garage door…only to absolutely not have any freaking clue how to fly back out the door.
 
Which is open. To the outside. With a gaping hole big enough to accommodate a small monster truck to pass beneath. It’s the garage door, for the love of Pete, you dolt.
 
Certainly not owl-worthy behavior. I digress.
 
Alas, this pudden-headed pigeon could NOT figure it out. To cajole him, I kept slowly closing and reopening the garage door just enough to get him to fly around.
 
Which he did. Straight into my face, if we had no screen door between the breezeway and this bird brain. NOT KIDDING.
 
He literally dove into my forehead, at which point I screamed and he dropped to the floor. Did I mention I had a Zoom call in four seconds?
 
I had no time to tend to the fallen fool so I went slowly out to the garage upon conclusion of my meeting an hour later…only to find, he had flown the coop!
 
Any-who, try as I might, I just can’t warm up to the thought of a feathered pet. Like, ever.
 
I think I’ll keep my bird-watching to the kind that requires extra-strength binoculars…from the inside window -- preferably the REAR one, Capisce?
 
Kimerer is a columnist who’s seen “The Birds” one too many times. Contact her about other types of potential pets via www.patriciakimerer.com 

We all know things are about Dad right about now. Yesterday, maybe even holding over a bit to today.
 
As well they should be. And while I do thank the man who helped me bring the greatest blessing of my life into being --- Father's Day is just a really tough day for me. Totally can’t get over how much I miss my Pop.
 
Heaviest of SIGHS.
 
But today –well, technically two days ago and kinda yesterday— is all about Mom, too. Not only is she the only still most impacted from missing our Dad (my sis Gina and bro Dan join in on the hurt, yo) but also, this past weekend was one big, sentimental road trip for her.

Luckily, with some high points along the road ... like the big surprise party we are at for her yesterday in honor of her 80th birthday on June 19. 
 
Sure I can prattle on and on about her forever but today, I thought I’d let others do the oohing and aahing.
 
Family weighed in first:
 
Gina said: “What can I say? Only we understand the incredibly perfect Mom we have and have we truly are the luckiest children anywhere.”
 
Dan is a man of few words and uttered these: “We lucked out; got the coolest Mom out of all of ‘em.”
 
Her grandchildren Kelly, Scott, Annie and my Kyle convened to generate a collective sentiment: “Grami is the kindest, most thoughtful, most awesome grandmother on the planet. She’s done so much for us individually and together ---and is always equally fair; giving us the most gentleness, humor, guidance, compassion, understanding, empathy, support and sheer LOVE we could have ever prayed to have. And as much ice cream (or whatever!) as we want; always.”
 
Cousin Rae gushed: She is like a sister I never had. She is a good listener and when we talk, life always becomes lighter. 
 
Other cousin Mimi smiled: “Arleen is and always has been the sweetest, kindest and most loving and compassionate person I know. I loved her when I first met her over 50 years; she’s a constant source of comfort and joy.”
 
Mom’s niece Mary Lou offered: “She has a lot of patience!”
 
My Sista-from-Anotha-Mista Kim said: “Mom Marinucci is special to me for many reasons, mostly my beautiful Sister in law! And, her special gift of love is shared so beautifully with everyone she knows!” #AdoreYouKim
 
Bonus granddaughter (Kelly’s BFF) Marissa offered: “Arleen Scott Marinucci (a/k/a Grandma) has always acted as another grandparent -- she‘s all at all my special events and IS MY FAMILY. She and Grandpa used to come watch me play college softball in Florida; that meant the absolute world to me!”
 
Some of my dearest pals offered their perspectives…
 
Oldest childhood friend Michelle, to whom I’ve been tied at the hip since age five, said simply: “She was, is and always will be my other Mom.” Ditto her Mom to me.
 
Soul sister Christine told me: “She’s one of the most bright and compassionate people I’ve ever met. When she says she will pray for you – you know she is and God is listening.  From the day I met her she opened her heart to me like family and she is a warm, loving and wonderful soul.”
 
Lovely Linda declared:  “When I first met Arleen, I felt like I knew her my entire life.  She is so open, friendly, warm, caring and welcoming.”
 
As for me? Next to my boy, this is the human who is the greatest blessing of my life. Happy 80th and here’s to 80 more, Mama. I love you a bazillion gazillion! 

P. S.  HAPPY 30TH ANNIVERSARY TO MY SISTER GINA and BROTHER-in-law KEVIN TOMORROW!!!!!!

So I was chatting with my girlfriend the other day…
 
And, for the sake of protecting the innocent (she, being my gal pal), I’ll refer to her as, um, Barbara Jean.
 
As Barbara Jean and I engaged in one of our daily breakdown sessions, she happened to mention the off-putting exchange she experienced at her physicians’ office the preceding day.
 
Whilst she underwent a regular old check-up situation, the assistant tending to the initial part of her assessment remarked on a famous physician giving his most recent national press interview.
 
He may or may not be high-ranking infectious disease physician -- who may or may be “top doc” of the pandemic press. And his last name may or may not rhyme with grouchy.
 
“I hate him,” spat the doctor’s office darling, much to Barbara Jean’s surprise, considering they’d only met minutes before.
 
Doc helper diplomat that she was, the woman doubled-down with a random though very much highly vocal ponderance of: “And another thing; why didn’t those Russian hackers to anything while Trump was in office, hmm?”
 
UGH.
 
I’m all for freedom of speech. It’s one of my absolute favorite of all the freedoms, yo. And I vehemently believe everyone has a God-given (and nationally-sanctioned) right to their independent thoughts, opinions, and beliefs.
 
Like, even if they differ from mine. Not that that would make any sense, y’all, but either way.
 
I kid.
 
Truth be told, Barbara Jean and I have many, many shared ideas … and just as many diverging ones. Yet we Totes McGotes still deeply love and respect each other, you dig?
 
Healthy dialogue? Good. Informative debate? Even better. Clumsily, recklessly, wantonly offending anyone and everyone who doesn’t specifically align with your point of view? Just --- NO.
 
Sure the masks are coming off –but it doesn’t mean the gloves have to, Capisce? Ay Ay Ay!
 
Because topping your spud with bacon, cheese, sour cream, butter, chives, jalapenos and maybe even a dollop of PB&J may acceptable in today’s open society; but loaded political statements? Well, those’ll lead you straight to the crapper, a’ight?
 
Then again, so might a loaded baked potato with PB&J. I digress.
 
Without further ado, I give you: Stuff you probably shouldn’t say to a total stranger.

• When is your baby due? Never. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever ask a woman this…unless she’s in active labor in the hospital bed next to you.

 

• Oh, you’re still single? So, why aren’t you married at your age? Fastest way to either a black eye or a sob-fest. And you’re gonna be on the receiving end of either/both, fer sure.

 

• Do you not like kids or something? Some creep-jerk ogres, um, I mean, people, simply don’t. Let it go.

 

• Nice car! How much money DO you make, anyway? Just skip this question and go right for the jugular by asking for a copy of last year’s W-2.  Hello? Nunya bizness.

 
SIGH.
 
Let’s keep the political commentary on a need-to-know basis in public, shall we?
 
Because we could all stand to be a little less offended by any and everything, And I’m probably guiltier than most. READ: Insecurity -- it’s not just what’s for dinner (and lunch and breakfast!). Don’t judge.
 
But could we also take a tip from Thumper’s mama and say nothin’ at all if we can’t say somethin’ nice?
 
Well, duh. I mean… ___________________________.
 
Kimerer is a columnist hoping everyone got that last joke. Check out her other lame puns, etc. at www.patriciakimerer.com

Well, it’s about time I came clean.  I mean, as clean as possible under the circumstances.
 
Oh, no, it’s got nothing to do with quarantine or lockdown or limited access to cleaning supplies or anything like that.  I mean to say, that’s not the dirty little secret I’m keeping.
 
What I am trying to freshen the air about is: the stained, soiled and seriously sullied spot I found myself in last weekend.
 
And when I say “spot” -- I mean “sea of swill” a/k/a my son’s home-away-from-home for the past year.
 
But, let’s be real, people, there’s only so much you clean you can muster from a century home being occupied by three 20-year-old men --- and apparently Pig Pen from “Peanuts,” and trashcan resident Oscar the Grouch from “Sesame Street” -- who also seem to reside there?
 
'Cause casa cluttered --- and possibly kinda contaminated—was clearly in need of colossal cleaning.
 
Look, it may be next to Godliness but, even on a Jesuit Catholic college campus, cleanliness ain’t “next to” so much as it is “down the road a piece” from canonization, ‘kay?
 
Suffice it to say, what I unearthed while trying to scrape off much sordid scum was nothing short of squalid. As I slashed through the sludge (and tried salvaging the security deposit!), I sought to squash down the swelling…of the chunks…in my throat.
 
HARD, HARD GULP. Several of them, actually.
 
For example, what I found when I slid the Keurig over on the counter to clean beneath it? Some sort of gyrating, gelatinous, gooey glob of grossness that gagged me nearly into the ground.
 
Only pure fear of the belly-busting bacteria bestrewn about the baseboards buoyed my buckling.

BLECH.
 
Methodically moving from blender to toaster oven to lazy Susan … I planted my flag: and declared open warfare between me and the salmonella, et al.
 
I could feel myself begin to sway from the noxious ammonia fumes…but just when they thought they had me; BACK TO THE BLEACH, BABY --  BAM!
 
After a brief breather of literal fresh air, I zeroed in on the mini-blinds. And now I know why they’re called that.
 
My eyes were swollen nearly shut after repeatedly slathering those slats in soap. I looked like Rocky after Apollo pounded the poo outta his peepers.
 
As for the bathroom, what can I say? I strapped an oxygen tank to my back, slipped a diver’s helmet over my head and entered E-coli’s headquarters.
 
It wasn’t for the faint of heart, my friends. All I can tell you is, my pre-emptive tetanus shot the week prior was a well-played move in this chess game of crapola, Capisce?
 
Then there were the hundreds of handprints on family room windows. And the bedroom windows. And the dining room windows.
 
SIGH.
 
It looked like the entire cast of extras from every single episode of the 10 seasons of “The Walking Dead” had been trying to claw their way outta that place, yo.
 
Speaking of “The Walking Dead” there was a piece of petrified pepperoni pizza (that I’m pretty sure I purged previously?) taunting me from window sill.
 
“Hey, what’s up?” I swear I heard it say, smirking as I said Sayonara to the soot and scum.
 
Doused and dirty -- and in desperate desire of delouser deluge, I dashed for the door.
 
It might have just been the fumes but I think it shouted …”See ya in September, sucker!”
 
SHUDDER.
 
Kimerer is a columnist sleeping with one puffy eye open…at least for another week or so. View her other ramblings at www.patriciakimerer.com

To Mask to Not to Mask….THAT is the question.
 
To be clear, it’s the question I’m sick of hearing, asking, wondering, contemplating, debating, and basically just philosophizing over incessantly.
 
Please understand, I continue to take this icky old pandemic thing seriously. Probs more than your average Joe or Josephine sitting around that old round.
 
You know, the circular room in the Capitol building where they hold all those VIP meetings deciding really imperative stuff.
 
Vital, prominent, essential and critical things including, but not necessarily limited to making laws or negotiating treaties or, perhaps even ushering in or scooting out Commanders-in-Chief.
 
Impeachment seems to be a favorite thing for them to deliberate. And discuss. And deliberate. And discuss some more. And then, forget about and sorta just mosey on over to some other matter of national disinterest, er, interest.
 
Sure, they have no problem regulating what our collective budget should be or determining what healthcare services we should receive or what we can or cannot watch or on TV. Or, my favorite and yours, deciding how to spend our money.
 
Let’s face it, they’ve got no real trouble making up all the rules we gotta follow. But whether or not we should don the masks? Hey now, don’t be crazy; they can’t give a straight answer on that kinda weighty thing.
 
Meh. Just chalk it up to the 17 gazillion things Congress does that nobody really understands.
 
Even though they do somehow find time in their very, extremely busy schedules to toss tons of our tax dollars into their own tight fists. Grubby buggers. I digress.
 
They’re so weird up in the general vicinity of the National Mall, aren’t they?
 
Those politico poopy heads. Their main role seems to be spouting off insults, innuendos and inferences across the aisle.
 
Grrr.
 
Allegations, accusations, insinuations, oh my! No wonder we “Boy Who Cried Wolf” them so long ago.
 
Nah; I’ll never understand those tiresome trolls. I’d call them ogres but don’t want to offend my beloved Shrek and Fiona, you see. The purpose of Congress these days seems to be getting under the skin of you and me and, um, I suppose old Bobby McGee?
 
Jimmy Buffet might have been onto something years ago in the lyrics of his 1996 song “Only Time Will Tell” from the album “Banana Wind”.  He basically said we’ve had the same old same-olds running things for so long that we ought to try change things up a bit.
 
I believe his recommendation was to try nominate the creature from the black lagoon…on Jupiter. According to Buffett, scales and clocks just can’t be trusted … and apparently, neither can politicians. Amidst the song’s lyrics, the perennial partying pirate pondered:
 
Are we destined to be ruled by a bunch of old white men
Who compare the world to football and are programmed to defend?
I'd like to try a princess or a non-terrestrial
Who is neither boast nor bashful …
Is there really such a girl? Only time will tell.
 
Hmm. I’m not sure about having ET run the nation…but Cinderella would get my vote.
 
The way I see it, she escaped the clutches of a ruthless authority figure, magically maneuvered marvels like transforming rodents into stallions  --and charmed the shoes off everyone from evil witches to handsome royals to Grumpy old men.
 
The role of running Congress would be rote --- and should fit her like a glass slipper.
 
Kimerer is a columnist chairing the campaign for Cinderella 2024. Read the related platform at www.patriciakimerer.com