See Sponsors Below. Jn 10:27 My sheep hear my voice, says the Lord; I know them, and they follow me.The thing about sending your kid back to college after spending an extended spring/summer/Covid break with him is... Well, I don't wanna. Loud, exaggerated HMPF. Er, maybe even supersonic SIGH. Okay fine, big old snotty SNIFF. Alright ya got me already -- heaving SOBS of sadness, a'ight? Are you people happy now? Sheesh! I mean, sure, he's been bored out of his gourd since his summer job ended. And yes, he didn't have that much time for me while he was busy coaching swimming. Or hanging out with buddies he only sees when he's home. Or jet-skiing. Or writing music. Or playing "Rocket League" until 3:45AM and, you know, being all 21 and what not. #MomIsBoring And obviously he'd rather kick back with his buddies up in Buffalo than sit watching a "Christmas in July" Hallmark movie marathon with his boring Mambo, yo. What? Hallmark is my happy channel. Don't judge. I mean, where else can you spend an an entire weekend watching heartwarming stories about a hero/heroine heading home after being away in the big city for years -- you know, because they were uber busy becoming fabulously successful. Only to realize pop back into, um, Smalltown Mayberyville --where he/she returns only kicking and screaming but in which he/she will ultimately wind up taking over the family cafe or vineyard or bookstore or hotel. Why, you ask? Because it is, of course, about to be foreclosed-upon or otherwise devoured by some big, evil corporate empire. This recurring scenario puts the cafe/vineyard/bookstore/hotel in desperate need of being rescued by a slick attorney ... which our hero/heroine just happens to be, coincidentally. Did I mention that the "at risk" cafe/vineyard/bookstore/hotel is also ironically located just down the road apiece from a bakery owned and operated by none other than our protagonist's long-lost childhood sweetheart? This proprietor, of course, is the hometown honey the main character left behind right out of high school or college --- quite regretfully, under much duress and with great angst. Their separation was only due to circumstance, by the by, since neither one of them has ever loved (or dated or kissed or even noticed the mere existence of, apparently?) anyone else on planet earth. The reunited lovebirds join wings, er, forces to save the Mayberryville institution in question. and they all end up being gazillionaires. After ample filler film time, the family cafe/vineyard/bookstore/hotel ends up winning a humongoid national competition -- Which is, naturally hosted, in all the cities of all the states of all the random old, teeny-tiny one horse towns, yup: right there in Mayberryville. The cookies or wine or books instantaneously become the I-Phone of the day. Indeed, our huggable, lovable main characters are now the proud co-owners of the the hottest selling product in these United States. This makes our dynamic duo gazillionaires and allows them to celebrate their success at their perfect wedding held in the center of ... That's right, little old Mayberyville. That idyllic little spot which just so happens to also be covert outpost location of the North Pole, run by Santa and his elves, obvi. When it's all said and done, Hallmark delivers its signature ending, duh: the living of the happily ever after for all. Well, almost all. Because, even after all that warm, fuzzy, ooey, gooey, happyfullness, Kyle's still back in the empire state today, Capisce? Dumb old time making kids grow up...sniff. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to grab a box of tissues, the remote control ---and some of Mayberyville's finest Chardonnay, 'kay? Kimerer is a columnist/sad Mom researching non-fictional cities entitled Mayberyville. If you know where it is, send her directions via www.patriciakimerer.com
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See Sponsors Below. Lk 1:38 Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it done to me according to thy word... The MagnificatIt's funny how brave the humans are sometimes. And when I say brave, I am, of course, being snarky as snot. Wait, can snot be snarky? Hmm. How about slimy as snot? Slippery as snot? Stinky as snot? BAM. I'm totally being stinky as snot. My main point is this: There is many an earth-dweller who takes every available opportunity presented to hide behind their busy-ness, distracted-ness, tired-ness, overworked-ness or just plain crappy natured-ness to be rotten as poo, you dig? Impoliteness, if you will. Unkindness, as it were. You know, a complete inability to display compassion, empathy, or even some good old-fashioned common courtesy to the other riders of this big, round ball. That phenomenon known --well from today forward, anyway-- as butt-faced-ness. A simple characteristic that we, at the top of the list of all God's creatures great and small, seem to singularly possess. Forgive the digression session---but I met the most icky human the other day. She totally toggled my trigger. She was (and I'm certain, a week and a day later, still is) absolutely devoid of decency, yo. Someone so vapid of values and empty on empathy that I knew in an instant she was one of them: the raiders of rudeness who give the rest of us humanoids a bad name in the universe. Boorish behavior is nothing new; it's been occurring since early man thought it was cool for the boy cretins to drag around the girl cretins by their manes. As an aside, don't even think about it today, gents. We'll totally take you by the chin hairs and jettison you to Jupiter, Jack. Speaking of that big red splotch, it’s where I wanted to send pukiness personified/inspiration of my sarcasm spasm. She "welcomed" me to the hotel where my soon-to-be niece Annie's bridal shower was taking place and was immediately, unapologetically and unabashedly completely offensive. I struggled to even get her attention despite the fact that she was manning the reception desk and had neither a single customer in person nor via phone. She failed to ever look up at me. At all. Ever. Not once. Seriously. Empty lobby. Exasperated, I finally said, "Um, hello, could you please help me?" packages and what not spilling out of my hands. She spat the name of function room while checking her nails. "Um, which hallway?" I asked as she replied in an irritated tone, "THAT WAY" and tossed her head far to the right. "Could you, maybe, help me with a cart?" I said, balancing five boxes of donuts, a purse, a makeup bag, and a gift basket the size of Rhode Island on my head ala Carmen Miranda, if she was juggling Ricky Ricardo's band in her hands. "Nope-don’t have one right now," she said, still never meeting my gaze. "Cool, cool, well, thanks for all your help," I said, channeling all my Italian ancestors to conjure up the malochhio. #LookItUp I schlepped into the correct banquet room of the hotel that I will NEVER EVER, in eight bazillion years, for any reason book and put her out of my mind. Until the next morning, when I saw her again, still perched in her place. I had to go back to the scene of the stinkiness after having accidentally left my makeup bag behind in the previous day's flurry. "I got a call that you found my bag?" Not even blinking she said, "Nope." "IT'S ON THE LEDGE RIGHT BEHIND YOU & HAS A NOTE WITH MY NAME ON IT." She finally looked at my face. I searched her eyes for any recognition of our exchange the morning prior ... or even any signs of human life. No apology. No remorse. Nada. “Oh, here,” she said, tossing my bag on the counter. "Well, you have a great day. full of everything you deserve," not that she heard me. Suffice it to say, she's gonna be needing an old Italian lady with a container of olive oil any moment now. #DontMessWithItalians Kimerer is a columnist who will gladly tell you what IHG property to avoid at www.patriciakimerer.com See Sponsors Below. Jn 8:12bc Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness but will have the light of life, says the Lord. It was a good, long run. Most people don't have even half the time we had together. If I'm being honest, I knew the day would come that we'd be separated ... that we would lose contact entirely and that one, sad, cold, lonely day, er, in August, as it turns out, that it would be completely, utterly, sadly over. My first pair of pierced earrings. SIGH. What? Wait -- did you think I was talking about Kerry? Nah - we're stuck together for the long haul, yo. But, though they've disappeared, I know I saw those little teeny, tiny 14-karat gold balls sometime during quarantine. Yes, one day during lockdown I was so stir crazy that I started sifting through attic-ware. You know, the old trunk that hasn't been opened since Carter was President. The makeshift storage containers that are really just a trio of powder-blue American Tourister luggage pieces from a set circa 1962 that's crammed with crap from like, three generations worth of kin. The jewelry box from third grade that you can't seem to toss. The garage sale garbage, er, holdovers that you've had since the first time you hosted such an event --four houses ago!-- but can't seem to unload because SOMEONE refuses to list them at, you know, actual garage sale pricing. Columnist's Note: This means you, Kerry. Nobody's going to pay five dollars for the 1982 cornflower blue wallpaper set peppered with the pukey paisley pattern. Period. Fifty cent table MAX next time, a'ight? Ditto those dirty dumbbells from dorm-era days. Digressing. Getting back to the great balls 'o gold I got at 13...where, oh, where could they be? Sure they were all scratched up and sorta oblong rather than circular. Yeah, the original backs bailed about a month after I got 'em. And fine, I totally ripped the back off of one them like, 25 years ago when I was pulling them out to reminisce. Brittle little buggers. But they were such a source of pride. I was the first one in my immediate family to take the plunge and pump holes in my earlobes. (Mom and Gina had and still have, to this day, no interest.) They were sort of like my badge of honor; my first step toward independence and you know, grown-upedness. Ah well. Don't be sad, 13-year-old Patty. Grown-upedness ain't so grand all the live long day, anyway. Farewell, little ear enhancers. Enjoy that big jewelry tree up in the sky. Tell all my other lost jewelry hello; at least you were all spared the garage sale spiral of shame , Capisce? Kimerer is a columnist with lonely lobes missing their golden globes -- who also has way too much attic clutter. #ThanksKerry Contact Patty at pkimerer@zoominternet.net See Sponsors Below. Mt 4:4 One does not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.There's this newer show on Bravo a/k/a one of my new "only-viewing these channels" channel. The others include: the History Channel, the Food Network, E! and, natch, my all-time favorite -or- "it could only happen this way in the movies" network, Hallmark. Well, those and pretty much anything on Netflix, of course. This is the PK lineup of post-Covid television viewing. I call it the: 'I'm Tired of the Real World's Depressing News so I'm Now Watching Only Networks with Either Historically-Significant, Chef-Inspired-Brilliance, or Fabulously Fake Reality Shows" channel philosophy. Either way, Bravo debuted a show last year called "Family Karma." It's about this cluster of Indian American families in Miami, FL who are dedicated to preserving the beautiful, inspired, and wonderful traditions of their Indian culture while fully celebrating the fact that they are also all proud, patriotic, passionate Americans. "We're a really good mix of the East and the West," remarked one of the "Aunties" in a recent ad promoting the program. And so they are. The title of their cute-little glimpse of "Amerian" life got me to thinking about karma. Well, some people call it karma. Others call it retribution. Or come-uppance. Cause-and-effect. You know, the whole reaping of your sowing and what not. Karma. Or what my Grammi used to refer to as "one day, he'll get his" philosophy. Juju. Mojo. Tit for Tat. Sealing your fate. Karma, my Peeps. Here's how Thesaurus.com defines it: NOUN Hinduism, Buddhism. action, seen as bringing upon oneself inevitable results, good or bad, either in this life or in a reincarnation: in Hinduism one of the means of reaching Brahman. Theosophy. the cosmic principle according to which each person is rewarded or punished in one incarnation according to that person's deeds in the previous incarnation. Fate; destiny. The good or bad emanations felt to be generated by someone or something: "Let’s get out of here. This place has bad karma." I, too, am a firm believer in the concept of paying the piper...or facing the music... Which is why, after surviving a devastating professional whammy, losing the temporary crown on my molar, suffering a bout of food poisoning, having a mouse family set up shop in my basement, and --the cherry on the top of my 'why is this happening to me' sundae- the most painful kidney stone this side of the Himalayas, my friend. I wish I was joking about any of that. On the other hand, karma being karma and all...I feel fairly confident that I may just be a Publisher's Clearing House winner next month. I guess my chances will increase exponentially if I enter the sweepstakes. #ItsBeenARoughFewWeeks But you know what the best thing about having the poopiest seven-day stretch you've had in the last 777 years or so is? You learn who your real pals are ... and who they are not. No matter how poorly others act, I always try to stay on the good side of karma. The altitude for breathing is so much better up on the high road, Capsice? So... for everyone who's been such a cheerleading, soul-rebuilding, loyal like Ledecky friend to me (this includes my buddy Rodney, who took care of me in the ER when I should have been taken out back and face-pillowed): Thank you from the bottom of my heart. And remember, just like Santa Claus and karma, the Big Guy is always watching. Always. Kimerer is a columnist who believes karma might not be what's for dinner but it's what's forever. Drop her life philosophies at www.patriciakimerer.com See Sponsors Below. Ps 1: Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good.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 See Sponsors Below. Ps 95:8 If today you hear his voice,harden not your hearts.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! See Sponsors Below. Ps 124: Our help is in the name of the LORD, who made heaven and earth.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 See Sponsors Below. Ps 123 Our eyes are fixed on the Lord, pleading for his mercy.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! See Sponsors Below Ps 103/95: The Lord is kind & merciful...If today you hear his voice, harden not your hearts.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:
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 See Sponsors Below. Ps 33: Blessed the people the Lord has chosen to be his own.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!!!!!! |