Hi. I’m Patty.

This is the point at which, in a support group, other attendants would respond, “Hi Patty!” and welcome me aboard.

I’ll assume the courtesy and offer a "Back atcha, my Peeps."

Any who, at the risk of revealing yet another aspect comprising my wealth of shortcomings, I must admit that I have succumbed to a new addiction as of late.

Now, before anyone feels the need to intervene with a plethora of therapeutic treatment suggestions, allow me to reveal the source of my current compulsion: crazy culinary consumptions.

You know, competitive eating challenges. I find myself borderline obsessed with watching them via various social media channels.

And while such voyeurism is not necessarily an advantageous or marketable trait, thankfully, I don’t seem to be alone in this quagmire of mine.

Somehow, this practice has become an international phenomenon. Literally.

Millions of people the world over are subscribing to platforms which highlight the sport (yes, even ESPN recognizes it as such) of wolfing down insanely massive amounts of food, often within a comparatively tiny time window.

Case in point, the sports channel giant annually covers the Coney Island, NY-based “Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Challenge” each Independence Day. Participants are allotted 10 minutes within which to shovel down as many frankfurters as they are physically able.

Yikes.

Either way, according to the online news source entitled “The Sports Reviewer” competitive eating is a legitimate category therein.

The outlet maintains that the pastime is “a unique sport where participants challenge each other to consume large quantities of food in a short time, testing speed and capacity.”

Gulp…literally.

It is interesting to note that competitive eating as a form of entertainment/competition is a lavish, time-honored tradition dating back to ancient times.

“The Sports Reviewer” maintains that the practice of consuming large quantities of food in a competitive manner was common among primeval civilizations and cultures around the world. Who knew?

One of the earliest recorded examples of such competitive eating occurred in ancient Greece.

The Greek people, known for their love of feasting and festivities, began organizing food competitions eons ago as part of social gatherings. These events often took place during religious or seasonal festivals and encouraged participants to consume copious amounts of food in a competitive setting.

As a Catholic trying to observe sacrificial fasting and abstention during the current Lenten season, I do find that a bit counterintuitive presently.

Then again, perhaps I’m living vicariously through these nom nom monsters? Hmm.

Regardless, while they aren’t currently ranked among the world’s elite in terms of professionally ferocious feeders, I am hooked on the videos created and shared by Nashville residents Katina DeJarnett and her fiancé Randy Santel.

I don’t know what it is about these two that makes them so lovably adorable to watch as they scarf down dozens of burgers, hundreds of chicken wings, piles of pan-sized pancakes, tons of tacos, oceans’ worth of seafood and – well, you get the idea.

We are talking tons ‘o grub, a’ight?

DeJarnett’s stage name (for lack of a better term) is “Katina Eats Kilos” while her hubby-to-be Santel has dubbed himself “Atlas.” Unless they are flying-under-the-radar actors, they both seem to be genuinely kind, polite, and giving people who often pay it forward by partaking in challenges benefitting charitable organizations and other worthy causes such as veteran homelessness.

I can’t help myself. They’re my faves and I love them. I watch the duo like clockwork and even find myself getting anxious as their time deadlines approach and they aren’t near completion.

It’s almost as stressful as watching my beloved Buffalo Bills in a nail-biter that comes down to the last few plays at the end of the fourth quarter in a tight gridiron matchup, Capsice?

Okay, I might be a little more invested in Josh Allen and company. So, sue me. Wink.

All I know is, while I continue to pray for harmony and goodwill toward all in a world full of chaos and turmoil, sometimes it’s kind of nice to escape from reality for a bit of fantastical foodie fun.

Just my two cents, y'all --- while pennies are still in circulation, anyway. Hee!
​
Happy Wednesday, everyone and as Katina always says at the end of her videos, “Okay, peace out. Bye!”

I am a cradle Catholic, meaning I was baptized into this denomination of Christianity as an infant. 

It is an honor and privilege I take quite seriously and one for which I am deeply grateful to my parents.

In any event, I try diligently to observe the established, revered practices of my faith. 

To that end, I am making a concerted effort to honor and commemorate the holy season of Lent.

For those who may be unfamiliar, Lent is a season of preparation for Easter. It mirrors Jesus’ forty days of temptation in the desert and also anticipates His passion, death, and triumphant resurrection.

Like millions of Catholics (and the many other denominations of Christians the world over), I am focusing on introspection, sacrifice, abstinence, fasting and generally just trying to be pleasing in the sight of the good Lord, Capisce?

Anyway, as stated, I am trying. I don’t always succeed. 

Sigh. 

But the Big Guy knows our hearts, so I’m hoping and praying (literally) that He forgives my slip-ups and grants my wishes for a “re-do” after each failure.

Fingers crossed – and hands folded.

I digress.

As a child attending St. Matthias Catholic Church (on the south side of Youngstown, Ohio) from grades one through eight, I was taught that Lent is an ideal time to sort of “dig deep” in terms of being Christ-like.

We were all encouraged to make individual sacrifices such as forgoing sweets, skipping indulgences (fave TV shows, etc.) or praying more often and fervently than “normal.” This one’s never a bad idea, by the by.

Naturally, we unequivocally abstained from meat on Ash Wednesday (the first official day of Lent) as well as on each Friday falling within the 40-day parameter. As a non-meat eater (technically a pescatarian, I suppose), the latter restriction was never really an issue for me. 

Just as an aside, there is also a contingent out there adhering to the school of thought that Sundays and St. Patrick’s Day are exempt from said guidelines. 

Hmm. No judgment here. Sort of an individual call, no? 

Either way, even as an old chick (60 will be here in a few short years, ugh!), I’ve never forgotten how the nuns urged us “give up” a favorite food or pastime for the duration of Lent. 

Back in the day, I always chose chocolate as both a preferred snack AND a bad habit to kick – if only temporarily. We won’t discuss the gluttony that ensued on Easter Sunday. 

Ahem.

Regardless, now that I’m older and allegedly more mature, I realize that, indeed, adding a corresponding positive deed might be a worthy effort, too, so I’m giving it the old college try.

So, this year, in addition to refraining from cussing (not proud of that one), and swigging booze (just teasing, I’m a teetotaler!), I am attempting to embrace every opportunity to do a little something good.

You know, as in “What Would Jesus Do?” Because, let’s face it, that’s what I should be doing all day, every day. Period.

Ergo, I am now in the midst of full court press against, well, myself.

Each time I’m tempted to utter negativity or spout something that doesn’t offer value, optimism or any other constructive engagement I stop, drop and roll.

As in, with the punches. 

I close my eyes tightly and do my best to squelch my own negative Nancy nuttiness.

With any luck and lots of mindful invocation, I’ll glide through Lent with nary a curmudgeonly comment.

But, to quote Dionne Warwick, if you want to “say a little prayer” for me, I’ll take it. During Lent and forevermore, my Peeps! 

​And I’m happy to offer in kind – literally.

Well, I was all gung-ho to dedicate this week’s column to Lent.

No, not as in the past tense version of floating someone a loan but rather, a narrative on the contemplative and preparatory span of time we Catholics observe during the 40-day period commemorating the suffering, death and resurrection of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

We will ABSOLUTELY discuss that in next week’s offering.

However, literally within the moments it took me to fire up my laptop to begin writing my article about the solemn season, I received a text message from a dear friend reminding me that March 4, 2025, commemorates “National Son's Day.”

Hmm. 

An opportunity to gush on and on about my favorite human on the third rock from the sun? I took it as a sign that the good Lord would forgive a bit of unabashed prattling about the man I love most on earth -- just for today.

But first, a little about the origins of this quasi-holiday.

According to www.nationaldaycalendar.com it is “dedicated to honoring sons and their significance in families. ‘National Son's Day’ is a unique day that celebrates and honors sons. It is a day when parents can show their love, pride, and appreciation for their sons and recognize their contributions to the family and society. It's a day for parents to shower their sons with love, support and direction, encouraging them to become responsible and empathetic individuals.”

The story goes on to explain that many people celebrate the day by spending time together, sharing life lessons, or posting love messages on social media, stating “It's a valuable reminder to cultivate and empower the next generation of young men.”

Um, am I a kook for wanting to do this all day, every day? I digress.

Evidently, “National Son's Day” began as a bit of a revolution, of sorts.

Seems as though it originally started with the sole purpose of counteracting the celebrations of daughters because (and I didn’t realize this either!) apparently, “National Daughter's Day” had existed for many years prior, so it prompted a woman named Jill Nico to take to Facebook to low-key demand that a special day had to be earmarked to honor and celebrate sons as well.

Well, I should hope so! 

Well done, Jill Nico. 

More digression.

“National Son's Day” is widely celebrated in many countries across the globe, most notably in the United States of America and India.

It pains me to think we need reminded of the importance of raising boys with love, care, and good values. Or that parents should spend quality time with all of their children to mentor them towards success and teach them good morals. 

But I’m all for prompts of positivity so I’m here for it.

In case you can’t make it to your nearest Hallmark store today, here are some of the suggested moving messages offered on the site:

• My sweet son, you are my biggest blessing, and I am so proud of the man you are growing up to be. Happy National Son's Day!
• A son is a joy and a source of pride. Wishing you a great National Son's Day filled with love and happiness!
• To my wonderful son, you make every moment special. Keep shining and making us proud!
• Having a son like you is a dream come true. Happy National Son's Day!
• No matter how old you get, you will always be my little boy. Love you always!
• A son is a mother's pride and a father's best friend.
• Every father should remember that one day his son will follow his example instead of his advice. 
• A son may outgrow a mother's lap, but he will never outgrow her heart.
• Sons are the anchors of a mother's life.
• A son's first hero is his father, and his first love is his mother.

By the by, the article listed National Son's Day as the perfect one to acknowledge the particular and special love/relationship between mothers and sons.  Just sayin'.

Hmm. Did I mention that my kiddo is the center of my universe? I warned y’all about the gushing.

It’s interesting to note that “National Sons Day” is also observed Sept. 28.

Why two days?

It's unclear. Some blame social media for the double quasi-holiday, as the two dates came about in the “age of the influencers,” (I’m guessing this refers to the social media savvy elites?) with some choosing March 4 to celebrate the concept while others chose September 28.

Either way, I’m sending my son Kyle a/k/a my heartbeat, all the love in my heart and indeed in the world today and on September 28 -- and every moment of every other day, too. BT dubs. 

Special shout out to my bonus “son,” my nephew Scott, as well. 

​Happy National Son’s Day and MWAH to my boys!

On February 28, 2020, right before Covid gripped the nation, my family suffered the loss of our patriarch, Fernando Marinucci – my Pop.

And while I’ll never truly get over his passing, I wanted to honor his memory and legacy by republishing my eulogy of my beloved Dad.

Here is a gander at my feeble attempt to pay tribute to the first man who ever loved me.

Fernando. Fred. Freddie. Hon.
Dad. Foh-pa. Bop.
Grandpa Marinucci. Honorary big brother.
Mr. Marinucci. Marinuch.

My father was called many different names by a myriad of folks. As for me? I called him Pop.

I was pretty much the only one who referred to him that way. I think that’s why I loved calling him it so much.

Pop wore many hats. Most of them knit and some with big fluffy tassels on top. My favorite is the red, green and white one with the holly pin he always wore “a Natale.” That’s “at Christmas” to the average non-Italian bear.

Indeed, my Pop was a lot of other things, too. He was the hardest worker I’ve ever known, sometimes holding down three jobs at a time to provide for all of us. He was a black belt in karate, a first aid responder, a master gardener (long before this became a coined phrase, by the by).

He was a scuba diver, a swim instructor and a lifeguard.

He was the most patriotic American EVER. If you didn’t vote — even if the candidates were unopposed and there were no issues on a primary ballot — you didn’t tell him because voting’s a right and privilege he took VERY seriously.

Pop was a serial teaser and a voracious reader who enjoyed a cup of joe with his NY Times, Wall Street Journal, USA Today and local papers every Sunday. He seemed partial to a particular columnist who pens a little blurb in the Sunday Life sections of the Tribune Chronicle and Vindicator.

But then, who doesn’t love Burt Cole?

I tease. Pop liked to do that. 

He also liked to advise and would often toss out his famous “Lemme give you a little speech” line before launching into what can only be described as a monologue of the SALIENT POINTS of a matter. Know what? He was always spot on.

Pop also really liked:
• The original “Star Trek” series, “WKRP in Cincinnati,” “The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson” and “Smokey and the Bandit”;
• The Steelers and THE Ohio State Buckeyes;
• The warmth of Florida in winter… and watching the sun rise any day of the week;
• Classical music on WYSU-FM — especially Italian opera, of course.
• Dark chocolate. But, like, bitter dark.
• Burnt stuff, i.e. chips, popcorn… basically most foodstuffs. At restaurants, he’d have the chef “slightly burn” his entree on the RARE occasion he ordered steak (pun intended);
• “Take me Home, Country Roads” by John Denver;
• Baked apples and pears, and oven-toasted almonds;
• Gruyere cheese. Mozzarella cheese. Ricotta cheese. Parmigiano cheese. Pecorino cheese. Romano… OK, fine, the man liked cheese;
• Big, seven-course, whole-family dinners with everyone crammed around the table eating, debating, laughing. “That makes my heart smile,” he’d say.

And Pop liked reminding us: “If you’re ever in trouble, just dial M for Marinucci and I’ll be right there.”

He always was.

I’m not really sure what to dial now that he’s up there, so far out of my area code. Man, his baby girl misses him very much already.

One thing I do know as I’m navigating the new normal of a world — Pop felt fortunate.

Not one for PDA, he repeatedly told me, especially recently, how lucky he was to have found such a wonderful partner to walk through his journey with him, how blessed he was by his life with my mom, how much he respected and adored her.

He loved his children dearly, too. But those grandkids — let’s face it, those three musketeers kicked the original trio of us right to the curb, capisce?

As for that little mini-me I birthed? That’s clearly Pop reincarnated.

So even though we lost him last week, Pop’s still here — and that makes my heart smile.

I know I’ll see you later, Pop, but not if you see me first (that was one of his favorite quips). 

Ti amo, Pop.

Fernando “Fred” Marinucci passed away Feb. 28, 2020 at his Canfield home, surrounded by his entire family. He was 84. 

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I love all God’s creatures great and small.

Okay, maybe not insects … or spiders … or rats … or bats. I mean, ick.

But right hand to the Big Guy, I truly am a Grade A animal aficionado. 

Mostly.

In fact, I’m one of the gazillions of people who think domesticated animals complete, improve, and overall, just better a household.

With all due respect to fish, turtles, lizards, and crabs et al, a majority of us top-of-the-food-chain folks opt for one (or several!) of the old stand-by pals: cats and dogs. 

If you agree that pets rock (not to be confused with pet rocks) and you don’t currently have a four-legged loved one in your family, you could be among the multitude of humans contemplating the addition of a non-human family member.

Apparently, in the opinion of a majority, dogs are considered preferable over cats. Did I mention I’m a majority member?

Call me kooky but I’m partial to canines. Consider me a doggy devotee

Bear in mind, if you’d be so kind that I am deeply allergic to cat hair.

I digress.

I can’t help but notice that kitties can be sort of sneaky. I mean, just the way they look at you as if boring through your soul creeps me out a little. And then there’s the manner in which they’ll be purr-ily permitting you to cuddle them one minute, only to suddenly pounce off into thin air sans warning the next? I find it a little “sus.”

I love cats, mind you! We even took in a stray we found when I was a kid. “Kit Kat” we called him. But he was that rare feline, as in, he acted like a dog. He’d come when you called him, sit on command, jump up for treats, that sort of behavior.

Again, “Kit Kat” was the exception, not the rule.

At the risk of further fueling the ire of feline fans everywhere, I’d like to offer a case as to why I am firmly Team Dog.
According to statistics offered by the web-based publication “Spruce Pets,” there’s ample evidence to support the puppydom. So, you need not just take my dog-gone word for it.

By the by, “Spruce Pets” offers practical tips and training advice via in-depth monthly articles on various pet care and related topics and strengthened a team of writers that boasts specialized trainers, Registered Vet Technicians (RVTs) and Doctors of Veterinary Medicine (DVMs). So there.

Here is some of the rationale “Spruce Pets” offers as proof that dogs trump cats. 

1) No Litter Boxes
It's probably fair to say that even cat lovers don't love litter boxes. No matter how well you keep up with them, there always seems to be a lingering odor. Plus, litter often tracks all over the house. It's practically impossible to find a good place to put the litter box in a small house. Overall, scooping cat waste is stinky and dusty. 

PK addendum: Litter boxes? Blech. Dogs don't need no stinking litter boxes since their collective litter box is literally the entirety of the outside world. Hee!

2) Dogs engage in play more readily.
Let’s face it; there's only so much play you can do with your cat. Many cats love to play with string toys, and they'll bat their little cat ball toys around, but it's like they're humoring you. Plus, they can play on their own, not just with people.
You can play fetch with a dog via ball or a disc, you can enjoy an exciting game of tug-of-war, or you can play chase in the yard. If your dog gets along well with other dogs, you can even set up a doggie "playdate" with another pup. Just make sure both dogs are healthy and will get along. 

PK addendum: Life’s too short not to stop and play with your friends sometimes. Atta boy, Fido!

3) Dogs Adapt Better to Change
Cats are usually sensitive to their environments and dislike change. Many dogs tend to accept change more easily. Of course, there are plenty of anxious and fearful dogs out there, but as a species, they're often calmer in the face of significant alterations to their lifestyles. 

When it comes to introducing new people, pets, or items to your home or moving to a new house, cats need more time to adapt. They don't automatically trust that all is well. They want proof first. Most dogs take their cues from their owners. If you're cool and calm when that new baby comes in your door, chances are that your dog will be, too. 

PK Addendum: See? Cats don’t trust us, so we need to be a little wary. Also, it’s important to note that my beloved cocker spaniel Courtney happily transitioned with me from house to apartment and back again with her floppy tail wagging nonstop. 

4) More Control Means Less Destruction
Try to control a cat, and you might hear the tiny sound of kitty laughter. Most cats will go where they want to go, jump where they want to jump, scratch where they want to scratch, and mark whatever they think needs marking. Then there are those hairballs, which are most readily discovered when you're barefoot in the middle of the night.   

​Yes, dogs can be destructive, but you can usually crate-train a dog and keep him and your home safe and secure while you're away. Most crate-trained dogs consider their crates to be their own special places. Try putting a cat in a crate or behind a closed door, and you'll have one unhappy kitty. 

Corrective training and a stern voice can have a lot of power over a dog. Try this with the average cat, and you'll be lucky if he glances in your direction while continuing to do whatever he was doing. 

PK Addendum: My beloved, long-gone boxer Monnie was not only easily crate-trained, but she also nonverbally asked permission to join me up on the couch by placing a paw on it and gazing lovingly up at me whenever she saw me plopped there. She was a world-class cuddler so, I never did refuse my darling doggy. And not once did she cough up a phlegm-filled treat on the carpet. Yuck!

5) Dogs Can Protect You
It's not in a cat's nature to defend you or your home. Cats are more likely to run and hide when faced with trouble. On the other hand, most dogs will instinctively protect their owners and their territory. They'll bark or growl to alert you to the presence of strangers, and many will even scare off intruders. Dogs can sense our fear, and they'll respond if they think we feel threatened.

PK Addendum: Did I mention that dogs might actually be better companions than certain humans? I said what I said.

In conclusion, I’d like to add my final, scientifically based deduction that a dog needs his/her person whereas a cat tolerates said individual. Hmpf.

And there you have it, friends. Proof positive that dogs rule and cats drool. Wink wink.

It’s mid-ish February here in northeastern Ohio.

​Most days, it’s gray and dreary. 

Sigh.

Oh, did I mention those “off” days in month Numero Dos when it actually IS sunny but also, sadly, boasting the approximate temperature of the Planet Hoth. What, no fellow “Empire Strikes Back” fans?

For those who don’t share my “Star Wars” geek status, Hoth was a place of unspeakably blistering cold where the rebel alliance –who fought the evil galactic empire– sought refuge from the bad guys and gals while strategizing their future game plans to take down said nasty regime.

By the by, I vividly recall that film’s arguably ickiest moment when Han Solo had to gut a Tauntaun (a/k/a one humongous, creepy snow lizard) and shove Luke Skywalker inside its, well, insides, to prevent the latter from freezing to death. 

Just do yourself a favor and pull a marathon session of all things “Star Wars,” okay? 

Either way, this past week here in Buckeye state, I might have considered joining Luke inside that stinky, gooey, hideously disgusting mess just to stay warm.

I digress.

Back to the gloominess that sadly personifies this particular little section of the globe much of the time. If you’re anything like me, heavy cloud cover directly impacts your/my generally sunny disposition. As in, it torpedoes it, you dig?

So, on our behalf, I went in search of alternatives to natural sunlight that might be of use to those of us who are Ohioans by birthright but long to become Floridians by the age of retirement.

And no, I will not be divulging how many more trips around that big fiery ball will occur before I’m able to take that big, permanent sabbatical down south. Those of you out there who happen to be aware of my crotchety chronology, please do a sister a solid and knock a decade or two off old PK’s fast-approaching sell-by date, Capisce? 

Without further ado, here are some ways to substitute sunshine in a second or so. These “Five Simple Ways to Boost Your Spirit on a Gloomy Day” come to courtesy of Leah Maxwell, PhD and founder of the website www.happier.com.

1. Get out! Instead of holing up inside whenever the weather’s a little lackluster, go for a brisk walk around the block, take the kids to a park, or even just enjoy your cup of tea on the porch instead of at the kitchen table. Pay attention to the sights, sounds, and smells of the outdoors; you’ll see that gloomy days are so much more than gray skies. 

2. Color yourself happy. Fight the drab weather and boost your mood with brightly colored clothing. Whether it’s a favorite scarf, red lipstick, bold statement jewelry, or shoes in an unusual shade, you’re going to feel better decked out in happy colors than you would being wrapped in a neutral trench and carrying a black umbrella. 

3. Picture this. Lighting is important in photography, but that doesn’t mean brighter is necessarily better. The flat light of an overcast day is the perfect condition for photographing things you love, including people, pets, nature, and even yourself. Dig out your fancy SLR or switch your smartphone to camera mode and start experimenting! Once you realize the magic of diffused natural light, you might even start looking forward to gloomy days. 

4. You are what you eat. Just because there’s snow on the ground doesn’t mean you can’t pretend you’re on a tropical beach with your toes in the sand. Eating or drinking something that reminds you of bright, warm weather can be a quick pick-me-up when you’re feeling desperate for sun, so get creative. Have a side of pineapple with lunch, or transform dinner into a full-scale picnic, complete with fresh-squeezed lemonade. 

5. Feel the bloom. Brighten up both a room and your mood with fresh flowers. A single bloom in a bud vase or an empty jar can do the trick.

So, there you have it. And while I’m on board with these notions except for the inference that I might actually welcome a cloudy, gray day at some point, I’m all in!
​
Happy happy-ing, y’all!

Hello, out there, good people of Earth!

Here it is, the eleventh day of the second (and shortest, natch!) month of the year of our good Lord 2025.

I chose this particular date on which to resume one of my greatest loves: writing little blurbs of hope and joy--and allegedly offering a chuckle here or there. Heavy emphasis on allegedly, by the by.

I digress.

Now, truth be told, this could very likely be only a pipe dream of mine. You know, the notion that anyone actually gives a single iota what old PK thinks or feels. In all actuality, my two cents COULD be worth roughly just that -- with some change to spare.

And, at the risk of my exact sentiments holding any particular significance at all, I'd like to venture a novel one on this bitterly cold northeast Ohio day. 

My thought for the day is this: Love.

Sure, we're on the cusp of Valentine's Day so chocolates of virtually every imaginable iteration, flowers of myriads of origins (though red roses tend rule the roost 99% of the time on VD), and chalky looking (and frankly tasting!) dialogue candies are all traditional forms of showing affection right around this time of year. These staples are as plentiful the copious amount brown M&Ms in a 10-pound bag, you dig?

But I'm referring to another form of the profession of love. As in the one listed in the good book. Or as I like to call it, the greatest one ever written, the Bible.

According to Matthew 22:36-40, the Bible emphasizes two primary commandments. In this poignant verse, Jesus summarizes the law with these words: "Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind." and "Love your neighbor as yourself."

Bam. There it is.

Put the Big Guy first and make sure our fellow inhabitants of the third rock from the sun follow suit. I feel the need to confess that my list reads as follows: God, my adored son Kyle and then the whole remaining lot of the post caveman-dwelling inhabitants of this big, blue ball we call home. 

Hee!

This means respecting everyone. Not agreeing with them or blindly subscribing to their preferences and/or notions. God gave us free will, after all.

What I'm referring to is simply offering support, kindness, compassion, empathy -- you know, the good stuff.

Smile at strangers with reckless abandon. Hold doors open for them. Carry groceries to the car for those in need of assistance. Let the lady behind you with two items take your spot in the grocery line when you've got a cart and a half full of rations in yours.

And always, ALWAYS thank a veteran for his or her service at every available opportunity. Period.

It saddens me to have to offer gentle reminders of tiny yet relevant displays of loving our fellow man -- and woman and child. Okay, who am I kidding, I'm all about canines, too. More digressing.

But the point is this. It takes very little effort to be kind. And even less to bow our heads to pause and thank our Creator for the generous bounty He bestows on us constantly. Let's not lose sight of that because, no matter how hard it may be to see them in certain stressful or challenging moments, God's blessings always abound, as does His grace.

Waking up every day is a gift we should never take for granted. So, like the good book says, "This is the day the Lord has made, let us rejoice and be glad!"

Happy Tuesday, y'all and God bless!

​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 [email protected]
​

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 [email protected].

​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 [email protected].