Please see sponsors below. Ps 27 The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom should I fear?
So, yesterday I finished my 52nd rotation of the sun. Started the old 53rd.
It’s funny how, the older you get, the less you care about outwardly observing the day you made your big debut to the other humans, no?
Well, that’s how it is for THIS human, anyway.
I’d much rather celebrate the birthdays of my favorite earthlings than think about the day I interrupted my Mother’s lunch in a such an intrusive, unpleasant way just before Noon on March 27, 1968.
Sorry about that, Ma.
Not that she’s ever complained. Or ever would.
Nor would I…or any Mum, yo. That’s just the way it is, you see. Because: not matter how much it hurts; no matter which daypart it obliterates; no matter how much ickiness, mushified yucky, and/or blechy-blech it happens to generate … a mother will ALWAYS embrace the absolute miracle that is the birth of her child.
Anytime, anywhere, anyhow. Period, No matter how gross it is. Know what I’m sayin’?
That’s just how we Moms roll, yo. Either way.
This year, just for something wildly off the beaten path, I decided to spend my special day in quarantine. With COVID-19.
It was tons o’ fun.
When it’s your birthday and you have the modern-day plague, you get to be the Pariah, er, I mean Queen for the day.
Or, like 10 of ‘em or so. I digress.
On your Leper, um, I mean COVID-19 big day, you get lots and lots of opportunities to self-focus.
And I’m talking, tons.
Remember how the Tom Hanks character in “Castaway” got to solo vacation on that deserted island for a spell? Yeah, it’s that kind of quality, “me” time.
In fact, COVID-19 birthdays are akin to that whole mid-stretch of the movie. Oh, you don’t remember it? That’s because you probably nodded off.
In between the scenes when Fed Ex exec Chuck gets called away from his fiancée and family Christmas dinner to transport important packages (that apparently absolutely positively had to be there overnight?), his plane crashes and yadda yadda yadda, they’re reunited (sorta) --- there’s a whole bunch of…um, time.
As in, the movie’s whole main arc is a SLOW moving depiction of him struggling to make clothes, find food, take shelter, crack open coconuts, start to lose touch with reality by befriending a volley ball --- and oh, yeah, attempting to get rescued.
It's a fascinating man vs. nature battle. And by fascinating I mean as boring as a four-hour study hall under the watchful eye of your school principal.
Who is a Catholic nun. Insisting on silence.
Yeah, COVID-19 birthdays are a lot like that. Full of – let’s refer to it as, solitude?
Feels more like solitary confinement.
There’s lots of advantages, though. Tons. Loads. Like…
I’m thinking, I’m thinking.
Oh right. So, firstly, you get the whole couch all to yourself. And the recliner. And the ottoman. And the rocking chair.
In fact, the family room is pretty much yours for the taking. Or sitting, sleeping, eating, working, and basically existing, ya feel me?
You don’t have to fight for the remote because nobody wants to touch it after you. Same with the serving spoon. And the fridge handle. And the hallway closet doorknob.
Also, you can eat anything you want without fear that someone will want to split, share, or swipe it.
Cooties Patty birthday was…certainly ONE way to go.
In truth, I’m just grateful to be on the other side of IT and COVID-19.
And I’m thankful to the Big Guy for both, Capsice? Thanks, Big Guy.
Kimerer is a columnist in search of friendly volley ball face. Contact her via www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Ps 23 Even though I walk in the dark valley I fear no evil; for you are at my side.
She had a decidedly off-center smile; partly due to that one jagged incisor which jutted out unceremoniously.
I called it her snaggle tooth.
But that was sort of the least of her worries, given that her oversized tongue NEVER FIT INTO HER MOUTH. Literally.
The result? Her pie-hole rarely closed completely and her toothy smile sloped slightly southward.
My sweet, not-so-little pup, Monnie.
Her official name was Monica Arleen Kimerer. And if I’m being technical, she really wasn’t mine – we got her for Kyle when he was 11 years old.
We’d lost his last puppy to a rare form lymphoma a few years prior. Pure agony.
So we surprised him with some fib about trekking out to a new country restaurant …er, sumthin’. I don’t remember the fib precisely…just its yield.
Which was one elated little boy. “You mean … she’s mine?” he asked mushy Mom as she nodded and sobbed.
She was immediately a free spirit. Okay fine, a rabblerouser; but only in the most playful, loving ways on the planet.
Monnie was part of our family for approximately four minutes before she tried wandering out into the world on her own…and right off the stoop into the bushes.
And there wasn’t a dull moment from then to the end.
Monica Arleen (named after my Gram and Mom) hated a couple of things: humidity, the hose, smoke alarms, being crated. She also despised pretzels a/k/a the only foodstuff created for any species that she patently rejected with full malice and zero contrition.
More than anything, she one bazillion to the infinite power hated fireworks.
But, at her core, she was just a big, brown buncha brindled Boxer benevolence. Monnie loved so very many things, like:
Monnie adored Kyle with every fiber of her being.
Other than me, she was always the most heartbroken whenever he headed back to college.
Who will mope with me now? Who’ll be here to slobber my walls, nose-print my windows, and poo-bomb my front walkway?
I don’t have another girl in the house – or someone to share my: birthday week, WFH workdays, baked potatoes, and middle name.
What can I say? There’s a gaping hole here at Casa Kimerer…and an even bigger one in its collective heart.
I’m so glad that, after that last burst of independence (running away), we finally got her home to cross the Rainbow Bridge peacefully.
A million thanks to all who helped us search those agonizing 17 hours. And to the scuzz-bag who tried scamming us; there’s a special version of Cujo awaiting you where dog haters go, Capisce?
Meanwhile, all dogs go to heaven, where there’s copious sunshine with a 0% chance of humidity.
Sleep well, Monamoosh. We'll miss you so...
Kimerer is a columnist with a broken heart. Tell her canine tails at www.patriciakimerer.com
Please see sponsors below. Jn 8:12 I am the light of the world, says the Lord; whoever follows me will have the light of life.
Well, it’s upon us once again … that ridiculous date on which we are all forced, kicking and screaming, into “springing ahead.”
Yep, it’s here already, people; crummy old Daylight Saving Time (DST) day.
A/K/A the date on which we annually lose 86,400 seconds.
I’m not sure what irks me more; the fact that we have no say in the matter or that the reminders are so stinking chipper and happy.
Do I SEEM happy about losing 86,400 seconds of my life I’ll never get back?
Hey, that’s A LOT of seconds, okay? And, no, I am NOT being overdramatic, thank you very much.
Oh, alright, fine; it’s just an hours’ worth of sleep and we get it back in November. But, still; any way you slice it, that’s like, a jazillion seconds I’ve lost in the past (almost) 53 years, yo.
Man, I hate this day. Maybe hate’s a little too strong a word.
But I’m telling’ you, straight up, that I dread this day.
Every. Single. Year.
Not because I don’t LOVE having “more” daylight. I mean, DUH. What am I? A vampire?
Every human craves sunshine, warmth, and brightness. We aren’t reptiles, for heaven’s sake.
And, if I’m not mistaken, even snakes sun themselves, no? Of courssssssssse they do.
I totally dessssssspise snakes. The nerve of those scary, slithering sin solicitors -- soaking up my sweet, sweet sunshine.
DISSSSSSSSSSSSSGUSTING. I digresssssssssssss.
It’s just that, if I live through another (almost) 53 DST days … I’ll never understand why we can’t just stay on either Standard Time or DST 24/7, 365.
Pick a lane already!
Because the changing of the time in spring and winter is a MAJOR nightmare for those of us who are, um, let’s call it, sleep challenged.
Kerry likes to say that, much like a newborn trying to navigate nocturnal-ness, I’ve got my days and nights mixed up.
Hmpf. What does he know?
Just because I tend to sleep only about four hours per night. And never at the same stretch. Just depends on when I finally plop down on what my Gram used to call “the davenport.”
Quick sidebar for you young’uns who won’t know but Davenport was the name of a series of sofas made by the Massachusetts furniture manufacturer A. H. Davenport and Company circa 1900.
Although he and it are no more, the popularity of that couch brand was a precursor to what I like to call “the Kleenex effect.”
You know, that phenomenon in which a product and brand become so synonymous that they are often used interchangeably in conversation and/or reference.
Former Ohio First Lady Janet Voinovich told me that herself, BT Dubs. Yeah, in a former life, Kerry and I worked on a local television show called “At The Butler,” which highlighted Buckeye-born artists and pieces.
One episode centered on art at the Governor’s mansion and, I’m not trying to brag or anything, but she invited me to sit on her Davenport.
“Oh, so then this is a DAVENPORT davenport!” I said, in true dolt fashion.
Ever gracious, she patted my hand as smiled, “Yes, dear, it’s a DAVENPORT davenport.”
It might have been the only time I didn’t fall asleep therein, Capisce?
Either way, I’m sure I’ll be up when we officially lose an hour o’ snooze.
Hmpf. I’m over the whole falling back/springing ahead; isn’t all the rotating and revolving enough for one sleepy species? Sheesh!
Kimerer is a crabby columnist who thinks life’s too short to skimp on daylight, period. Contact her via www.patriciakimerer.com at any hour; she’s awake.
Please See Sponsors Below Ps 130 I hope in the LORD, I trust in his word; with him there is kindness and plenteous redemption.
Remember that old adage, “Cat got your tongue?”
You know, it’s that little quip we shoot out at someone when they’re uncharacteristically quiet. Or more specifically, when they’re completely ignoring us, yo.
It’s pretty much a low-key dig, yet the phrase is an oldie but a … well, mediocre-ie; at least in my humble opinion.
It’s never been a favorite expression of mine. I find it odd, offensive and just not terribly cutesy, creative or clever.
Frankly, it has always kind of weirded me out. I mean, what’s a cat doing that close to my mangia machine in the first place?
Who on the blue planet ever thought up this creepy catchphrase, anyway? Curious as a you-know-what, I started searching its origins and root cause.
What I found confirmed and considerably cranked up the ick factor.
The not-so fairy tale starts this way: Once upon a time, clandestine kitties DID actually eat people tongue.
Wonder if they thought it tasted like chicken? I digress.
Apparently, ancient Egyptians/cat worshippers, fed the tongues of suspected liars to their cats. Like, for real.
By the time the Middle Ages medieval-ed their way into being, there was a widespread irrational fear that black cats (at the bidding of their mistress witches) tore the very tongues out of witch work “witnesses.”
Then again, I suppose it’s a pretty effective way to hush over broom flying, cauldron concocting, spell casting and the like.
WHAT IN THE ACTUAL HEX?
Man, the Middle Ages were clearly one dark period … exclamation point.
In more recent days (circa the super-hip 18th century), the English Royal Navy evidently scourged sailors into submission.
It seems a common practice among the maritime masters of the Hundred Years War was to torture its own, matey.
That’s right. The lowly Able Rates (equivalent to our Privates) as well as various other swabbies and sea soldiers who stepped out of line were swiftly silenced.
Bad boat boys were often beaten into bloody unconsciousness with a nine-knotted, leather-strapped whip. Not that anyone complained about the “cat ‘o nine tails” treatment.
Mostly because they were cataleptic … er, comatose.
Holy ferocious frigates, Cat, er, Bat Man!
And you wonder why I’m a-scaredy of cats?
I don’t want them near my tootsies, tooshie, tongue --- or pretty much any other PK part.
Sorry, Morris --purr all you want. I’m a diehard doggie digger, a’ight?
Either way, I can’t help but feel that, in today’s topsy-turvy, quarantine cursed, antisocial society -- we should summarily scrap the slogan in lieu of a more timely version.
I’m thinking: “Mask got your tongue?”
Anyone else noticing how our countenance covers killed common courtesy quicker than Kim curb-kicked Kanye after quitting “Keeping Up with the Kardashians”?
People, people, it’s supposed to be that we can’t stand within six feet of each other …
Not that we CAN’T STAND EACH OTHER?!
Um, hello? As in, why won’t anyone say hello to strangers anymore?
Look, I know it’s kooky times. I know we have to steer a bit clear of the other earth dwellers.
And I know masks make things … murky.
But I also know that license plate number of every human who’s snubbed my hidden hellos in the past 10 months.
Better whistle while you catnap, Capisce?
Kimerer is a columnist who’s all talk but truly IS terrified of cats. Send her canine vibes via www.patriciakimerer.com
Please See Sponsors Below Ps 116:9 I will walk before the Lord, in the land of the living.
Well, it’s here. The day I’ve been dreading for exactly one year.
It is the anniversary of the day my Pop died.
Anniversary doesn’t seem like the right word to use, does it? That generally connotates happy feels, no?
That ain’t any part of today, yo.
It’s been, all at once, an eternity and blink. Frankly, it’s surreal, to this very moment.
One year in and I’m still trying to navigate this prickly, panicky, politically-pukey, pandemic planet without my Pop.
It’s…well let’s just call it the pits, though I’m sure Fernando would have a much more lively description of the sitch if he was here to tell it, Capisce?
Man, I miss his colorful cussin’.
Everyone warns you. “Anniversaries are hard. Firsts are tough. It’s the most difficult in the first year.”
Pfft. As Pop would say, “Stunads.”
No offense, but no one anywhere on the third rock can know exactly how another human feels, heals, or deals, you dig?
Even if you’ve gone through something similar, nobody truly understands your own individual experiences…and your reactions to them. Nobody.
As for me, I’ve found that it’s kinda odd, the things you do in the moments after losing the man who’s been your rock for the past five decades.
My first impulse, other than to comfort my absolutely distraught, adored Ma, was to warm him up.
“Ma, is it okay if I put some socks on him?” I asked as if I was seven again.
Truth be told, in that moment, that’s about how old I felt.
She smiled and hugged me, through her own unimaginable pain, and said, “Of course, honey.”
Listen, my Pop was rugged, tough, manly and a freaking force until he got very sick at the end of his life. Up to that point, however, the man didn’t have cold feet about anything, ever – especially the lifetime he told me he was blessed to have shared with my Mom.
But, as he struggled with Pancreatic Cancer, he became frail and was often cold. IT KILLED ME to see him this way. #IHATEYOUCANCER
So, in a truly ridiculous, futile and senseless effort, I put a pair of heavy socks on his feet.
I mean, I am always flipping freezing and I just couldn’t stand the thought of Pop’s tootsies being chilly.
Absurd, I know.
Heaviest sigh in the universe.
Anyway, in a concerted effort to get the horrendous images of that last day out of my mind’s eye, I’ve tried to think of the proverbial good times.
Last Sunday, as I sipped una tazza di caffè (that’s a cup o' joe) I decided to watch the sun rise in Pop’s honor.
He loved doing that, especially when there was little else he could do. It was a glorious sight.
For some reason, I then flipped on the Weather Channel for the first time in about a year (duh, I have the app) …
Only to catch tons of random sunrise photos, accompanied by one of my Pop’s favorite songs: “Country Road” by John Denver.
I heard the words of my oldest, dearest childhood pal. “He’s sending you signs, “in my head.
Clearly, he already had.
There was the dream where I found him in my childhood home, on crutches but fine. I hugged him endlessly and he laughed and kept saying, “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m here.”
And he was.
Then there was the one where I was flipping through a photo album and a picture of him came to life.
“Pop?” I yelled. He smiled and said, “It’s alright. Everything’s good; it’s good.”
I know he's in the best place now ... so, I'm sure it is.
As I reflected all this and felt my Dad near, I plunked down on the couch to start binging the series “Ratched.”
Upon hearing the show’s opening theme song “The Dance of the Macabre,” I dropped the remote.
It was a song Pop used to play for me as a little girl; a private joke -- something just between us.
Kind of nice to think maybe he misses me, too?
Kimerer is a columnist and grieving daughter who loves and misses her Pop. Share your parental memories with her at www.patriciakimerer.com
Please See Sponsors Below Ps 23: Th Lord is my Shepherd, there is nothing I shall want.
Do you know what Wednesday was?
Well, yes, Ash Wednesday and the start of the Lenten season. Let the Fish Fry and Pierogi sessions commence!
It also happened to mark the one-year anniversary of my gig at my day job. And what a sweet little situation it is.
My work peeps are fab and I'm super grateful to be there. What can I say .. I love that place, a'ight? #PDMIRocks
But it was a super special day for another reason, as well...
Because last Wednesday was also the birthday of my brother, Dan.
Now, I'm not trying to brag or anything but I have to tell y'all that I have, hands down, the world's greatest big bro, yo.
This is a man who endured unspeakable childhood misfortune: namely, being the only boy in a girl-dominant trio of sinister-sistered siblings. Being stuck with the Gina/Patty show was no Sunday matinee, you dig?
Let’s face it; it’s a miracle he survived his older sister bossing him around constantly and his younger sister antagonizing him incessantly. He was, in essence, our built-in Fall Guy.
Bottom line, if she could blame it on him to avoid prosecution and sentencing, she did. “I’m not even strong enough to have lifted your bed to look for hidden Christmas gifts…that had to be Danny!” argued artificial attorney and freakishly formidable girl Gina.
No angel myself, if it could get me out of a jam, I’d throw that boy under the bus faster than Superman catches bullets in his Krypto-choppers, capisce?
“Mommy! Danny tripped me and I fell and broke my Barbie mirror!” little-brat-version PK (then PM) whined, whipping up more fake tears than Visine.
I neglected to mention, naturally, the preceding pounding I gave him with said mirror, nor that the tripping of his tormentor was completely unintentional, unlike our motives. Oh, and let’s not forget holding him captive while we repetitively sang The Beatles’ “Yesterday” entirely off-key and with full malicious intent for the entire hour it took to get to my grandparents’ house in Ashtabula.
Despite his begging for the encore to end; we tortured the poor kid until his guitar…and soul…gently wept. #SistersAreMeanToBrothers
Yet, he remains the kind of big bro who will pummel you into polenta if you look at Mom or any one of his family members the wrong way, capisce?
This is a dude by whom you can set your clock; he’s that dependable.
No one adores his nephews, nieces, and their puppies more than Uncle Dan. No one is a greater authority on Star Trek. Or Star Wars. Or meatballs.
No one else will watch “A Christmas Story” with me in the heat of August. Only Dan can rival me in reciting the entire movie verbatim.
And no one knows 80s music better, especially the original artists/VJs featured on MTV.
Speaking of MTV, I am literally outraged that they could bleep out the word “GOD” during a recent showing of the movie “Ghost”. Um, with the trash y’all hawk as programming? Oh no you dittint!
Heaven help you heathens. Hmpf.
All I know is, I am done with that channel but thank You-Know-Who for my big bro. Happy birthday, Dan!
Kimerer is a columnist who loves her big bro and thanks GOD GOD GOD for him and all her other blessings, too. Send MTV-free viewing suggestions to her via www.patriciakimerer.com
Please See Sponsors Below Jn 14:6 I am the way and the truth and the life, says the Lord; no one comes to the Father except through me.
For me, it’s such a complicated calendar contribution, ‘Kay?
First of all, the whole there’s that whole “not enough days”-ness of it. Who the heck decided that and why? I’m missing something here. In fact, we all are…like a couple of earth axis rotations.
Except for leap year. Don’t get me started on that hurdle. Pun intended, a’ight?
I want to like February. I really do.
There’s some good stuff here, friends: Black History Month. Heart Health Awareness Month. The kickoff of the Lenten season.
What can I say? I like pesce, er, fish -- and faith, capisce?
Then again, it’s got flipping Groundhog Day; which, if we’re being honest, is just an annual exterminator of hope.
And speaking of wanting to off Mother Nature’s evil step rodent; she really could step in and whack that mole more often. Granted, there have been spring years when she has.
I can vaguely recall, (again, ever so rarely!), that it has been, like, almost warm … even sunny in the second month?
But, more often than not; she’s less fickle in her February form. It’s generally grosser that groundhog goop. Blech.
Not to mention: Shrug.
February is the paramount paradox. I consider it the month equivalent of an oxymoron.
So much so that it’s confusing and complicated to define my February feels…especially now that it houses such a bitter anniversary.
Almost a year since I lost my rock and some days it’s as raw as it was that awful day. #LoveYouPop
Flipping February. Oh! And, I almost forgot about the arguably most nonsensical feature of February…I mean, aside from it’s spelling. WHAT IN THE ACTUAL WED-NESS-DAY???
Ahem. I digress.
Another kooky quirk of February is the whole concept of Valentine’s Day. That’s a passion puzzler, people.
As in, who decided to make the allegedly most amorous, affectionate day of the year fall within its arguably coldest point in winter?
Wouldn’t it have made more sense to have this (made-up) holiday occur in, say, August? We could swap out one of these observances to February 14:
But instead, here we are: dressed in red only to soon turn blue.
“Oh sweetie, you look so beautiful in your red strapless gown and five-inch-heel open-toed Manolo’s for our romantic night on the town!”
“And I know you spent $457 on your new, rockin’ hairdo. Now put on this moose head hat, insulated duck boot galoshes, and oversized Gortex parka because it’s a blizzard out there and the temperature is two.”
Yeah, I don’t understand February. Or Valentine’s Day.
Or why we think groundhogs can do anything besides burrowing…and stockpiling snacks…and hibernating. Hmm; maybe those suckers are smarter than I thought?
Kimerer is a columnist trying to find February fulfillment. She sends happy wishes to all, especially her first Valentine in heaven and the one she’s had for nearly three decades. Contact her at www.patriciakimerer.com
Please See Sponsors Below. Mt 4:23 Jesus preached the Gospel of the Kingdom and cured every disease among the people.
I’m a happy person. Really, ask around.
I’m a smiler. A hugger. A well-wisher. I’m the “say ‘I love you!’ before hanging up with fam” girl. Every.Single.Time.
I’m also a world-class empathizer. I’m seriously all about the other humans, especially the ones in my particular orbit, you dig? #MyTribe
I pray for them. I brag on them. I worry about them. Like, a LOT.
Are they safe? Are they happy? Are they eating enough? Are they flossing after every meal?
Are they Clorox wiping their surroundings constantly? SIGH.
It’s exhausting sometimes but it’s part of my PK-ness., for better or “worst” as my Pop used to say. He always tweaked popular phrases to make them his own … guess that was part of his FM-ness. Man, how I miss him. #LoveYouDad #StillGrieving
Um, something else that defines yours very kookily truly? Being a homebody. Under pre-pandemic circumstances, anyway, (remember those?) I’m down for snuggling up with my favorite heavy blanket in front of the fireplace, watching a classic movie.
Or, when Kyle Kimerer’s in the house -- hiding beneath it because he’s found some really terrifying new Netflix series with which to torture his aged Ma. #PerfectNight
Sadly, however, staying at home more often than not is shadowing my sunny sheen. That is to say, I’m getting a little Covid Crabby, Capisce?
TBH, I could be one maddening episode of “Everybody Loves Raymond” away from becoming snide, cynical and maybe even, like, just this side of bitter, yo.
I’m sorry Ray Romano; you could very well be lovely IRL.
However, that doesn’t stop me from wanting to throat punch your TV alter ego. Why, for the love of all that is good and holy, would Debra ever have put up with a whiny, snively, self-absorbed, baby like Ray? Oh, right, hit TV show; big bucks, no whammies. Still…
Not only do I wish Ray’s gigantic brother Robert would have pulverized him into oblivion every time their mother Marie favored Ray (and why?) but also, I wish “Pioneers Girl” troop leader Peggy, would have blazed a new trail on his backside when she DID beat him up ala the cookie sale location debacle.
See? Lockdown’s makin’ me loopy. Silly things such as that wouldn’t have even registered a solitary radar blip before ---but are now completely blipping me off. Hmpf.
For instance, was our forced air heating/cooling system always this freaking loud? How could I have never noticed that it is the decibel level of a 747 prepping for takeoff? Dang!
Then there’s the washing machine. Holy Carboli! The stupid spin cycle takes like, four-and-a-half weeks to complete…and alas, when it finally does, it isn’t.
Why am I having to wring out clothes by hand that supposedly just twirled, swirled, and whirled longer than it takes a Happy Meal toy to decompose in a landfill? #PleaseRecycle
Luckily there has been at least one bright spot during all this cooped-up-ment: The Real Housewives of Salt Lake City. Thank you, Bravo.
Listen, nothing can lift me out of the doldrums like finding out the latest on my new fave super spouses. Sure, Jen Shah’s tantrums are the stuff of horror films and Mary M. Cosby’s hitched to her late Grandma’s hubby. No judgment.
But Meredith Marks is my homegirl and, other than my beloved great aunt and cousins living there, nothing could inspire me more to move to a state where lots of snow and lots of wives are common, ‘kay?
Kimerer is a columnist whose creaking floor boards are Poe-sitively making her mad. Contact her with pandemic relief hacks at www.patriciakimerer.com
Please See Sponsors Below. Ps 31: Let your hearts take comfort, all who hope in the Lord. Photo: pinterest.com
One of my favorite episodes of "Sex and the City" is the one after Aidan and Carrie break up and he moves out.
Oooh, speaking of SATC, are you aware that it's getting a reboot and there will be a third movie? WOOT WOOT!
Naturally, the good news comes with a touch of scandal; that being Kim Cattrall, a/k/a the supremely spicy and super sultry Samantha Jones, will NOT be involved in the project.
No savagely single, sexy, smart, shamelessly social Sam? With her bombastic banter and wicket wit; Sam was the fiercely ferocious, foxy feline, femme fatale who could have been so easily despicable - but was wildly fun and fabulous instead, thanks to Cattrall's talent and timing.
This foursome with a subpar Sam stand-in has me somewhat skeptical. Sure, it will still be awesome to find out what the other three gals have been up to since Abu Dhabi but, sans Samantha?
I guess I'm approaching it with guarded hopefulness. It's sort of like the re-tooled, Adam Lambert version of 'Queen," I suppose.
I mean, I love it and all… but ain't nobody can ever truly replace Freddie Mercury, you dig?
Moral of the story? You clearly don't mess with Sarah Jessica Parker if you intend to be in SATC sequels, yo.
Back to "Ring-a-Ding Ding" - the episode in which Carrie's faced with scrambling to come up with $30K to buy her apartment after Aidan low-key evicts her.
In summary, Carrie blames Charlotte of all people, for not offering her a loan. She admits that she "suddenly gets irrationally angry and knows just who to irrationally take it out on" then proceeds to lambaste poor Charlotte, who thinks money exchanges between friends makes things weird. She ain't wrong.
Any who, I love this episode for so many reasons:
1. I never liked Aidan with Carrie. Sorry, I just didn't. He was sweet and quirky and adorbs…and he loved her so much but she just didn't love him back. It was painful.
2. Carrie deserved to get dumped. She really did. Not only had she cheated on poor Aidan (not to mention literally smashing poor Natasha's teeth in) but also, she accepted his engagement ring knowing full well she would never truly commit to him. Not cool.
3. Big tried to rescue her. Yeah, he wasn't the best boyfriend ever but still didn't have to write her that check. I love Big and no one will change my mind so please don't try.
4. Sam and Miranda came in clutch. Not to mention showing how formidable they were…when offering Carrie cash 'cause they both HAD THAT MUCH TO SPARE!
5. It proved with Charlotte is my fave. She ultimately saves the day by giving Carrie her perfect Tiffany's engagement ring from Trey. Charlotte always does the right thing and I adore her, period.
This all brings me to my point: a year ago, at this time, life was still relatively normal. Mostly. Then Groundhog Day hits and it all goes downhill from there.
Pandemic, er, I mean Punxatawney Phil, I feel, is at the root of all 2020's problems.
Are you aware that he's only been 39% correct in his predictions since 1886? Jerk.
Look, is it really Phil's fault that Covid-19 season won't end? No. But I'm irritated and I know just who to irrationally take it out on…sorry, Phil.
Watch your shadow AND your step this year, ya rotten little rodent.
Kimerer is a columnist who clearly needs more sunlight. Send her Vitamin D coupons via www.patriciakimerer.com
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Here's the thing about 2021 so far ... meh.
I know I'm not the only one who feels this way but - did we actually enter a new year or not? Let's go over the evidence.
I mean, yes, I know I saw Andy Cohen and Anderson Cooper in TV special in front of a very empty Times Square on December 31, 2020. And yeah, J-Lo did a concert there that night ... then smooch-a-smooch-smooched A-Rod around midnight, I suppose.
I guess there WAS a ball drop. I suppose that does make a fairly compelling case for the technical flip of the annual calendar.
And sure, I did have to part company with the offspring so he could start "Spring Semester" last weekend. Sorta still sniffling; don't judge. Either way...
Allegedly, a new collegiate year has officially commenced. Okay fine, we had to send in the tuition payment; according to our bank statement, it commenced, yo.
Yeah, yeah, our W-2s for 2020 arrived in the mail. Well, all evidence certainly points to 2021.
But then, if it's true that we really DID start a new year, why are so many things the same?
We all remain banditos. Travel is a big question mark. Most places of entertainment have yet to reopen in total.
Dumb Tom Brady is in the Super Bowl. Netflix binging continues to replace baseball as America's pastime.
Worst of all, I can't hug at will, still.
Then again, there's always that one constant that is NEVER a bummer: the Big Guy hasn't gone anywhere because hope and love are still more contagious than any virus.
Here's to 2021 because we GOT this, everyone! #HangInThere #YouAreNotAlone #InThisTogether #Pray #Peace