I set off some spooky speak the other day. 
 
That is to say, I innocently sparked a controversial candy convo with some of my pals simply by asking: “Does anyone know if we’re still having trick-or-treating?”
 
The Zoom glares zapped my way were anything but Zen, ya dig?
 
“Of course there’s trick-or-treating!”
 
“What are you insinuating?”
 
“Why would they cancel it when the kids are already together in school?”
 
“Wait, what? I don’t necessarily think they should…” I started to reply, to no avail.
 
“I’m sorry but you’re WRONG, Patty! There SHOULD be trick-or-treating. Period!”
 
They cut me off faster than “Leatherface” slices apart victim appendages in the “Texas Chainsaw Massacre.”
 
I’m telling you, that whole discourse was more dire than solo strolling in the woods at midnight at Camp Crystal Lake, capisce?
 
Shudder.
 
Man, did I ever start a feud. The battle raged like an autumn bonfire – and I was catching quite a few embers.
 
Sheesh! All I was trying to do was mentally make my grocery list? Let’s see – TP, dog food, Lysol wipes, chicken breasts, and oh, that’s right, 8,492 bags of M&Ms.
 
We get a lot of little goblins and ghouls at my ‘hood, yo.
 
In fact, our little zombie zone goes ALL out for Halloween. Firstly, there are those folks at the top of the development who are, frankly, fright fanatics.
 
They line both sides of their driveway with life-size mannequins of movie murderers including, but not limited to:
 
-Freddy Krueger (“Nightmare on Elm Street” sleep-time slayer)
-Jason Voorhees (“Friday the 13th” serial slaughterer)
-Pennywise (the laughin’ assassin from “It”)
-Hannibal Lecter (cannibalistic crackpot from “Silence of the Lambs”)
-Michael Myers (people predator from the anthology of, you guessed it, “Halloween”)
 
Simultaneously, they conduct a blaring sicko symphony of macbre music, laser out strobing black, orange, and purple lightshows, and ooze a dried-ice-induced fog out into their frontyard…
 
Which is dotted by gravestones, oversized tarantulas, and bloodied, battered faux human hands seeming clawing their way out of early graves after being buried alive.
 
They even have a coffin propped up way in the back in the garage -- some years, the male homeowner dresses as Dracula and lies inside of if, waiting to terrify passersby.
 
Demons and monsters and ogres need not apply; they’re already on the payroll. I’m pretty sure the “Tell Tale” heart is tucked within the floorboards of their dining room.
 
Blech.
 
Have I mentioned how much I loathe the evil aspect of Halloween lately?
 
Yes, people, you’re right. Why should we deprive unleashing all of that on our wee ones?
 
Gulp; I can’t believe I’m about to say this but, why, indeed?
 
IF we can find some pandemic-proof way to pull it off, I must admit that I would hate for one of the very funnest of all the kid days to be yanked away. Poor little honeys certainly have had childhood interruptus courtesy of you-know-what.
 
Shoot, 2020 is pretty much a scare-fest in total anyway, why not at least let the children have some candy to take the edge off a bit?
 
So, here’s hoping there’s a secure but sweet answer for the kiddos by all hallow’s eve.
 
And that my neighbors’ power goes out from 5PM on October 31 until the raven, er, rooster crows at daylight on November 1.
 
Kimerer is a columnist who hates Halloween creepiness but loves lighting up little faces with Reese Cups and Twizzlers and Kit Kats, oh my! Check out her sweet li’l blog www.patriciakimerer.com
 

Ecc 3 - "...There is an appointed time for everything, and a time for every thing under the heavens. A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to uproot the plant. A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to tear down, and a time to build. A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance. A time to scatter stones, and a time to gather them; a time to embrace, and a time to be far from embraces. A time to seek, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away. A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to be silent, and a time to speak. A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace..."

I know, I know. If you're like me, your mind is already singing "Turn, Turn, Turn" - right?

Either way.

This old testament passage for today feels pretty relevant right here and now in this blasted 2020.

Think about it. There really IS a time for everything in the cycle of life. Sometimes we get it, sometimes we don't.

This year is a bit of a "don't" by pretty much all accounts. 

And then again, maybe this time is meant to teach us about time itself ... how precious it is.

You know, how it's the manner in which we spend our time that really, really matters.

No one dances or sings or laughs or embraces 24/7. The same is true about the sadder side of the coin.

But here's the rub: more often than not, you can choose how you allocate your time. And even when you can't, you CAN determine how you react to the circumstances that prevent such, Capsice?

In other words, while you can, as much as you can, and as often as you can, make good use of your precious, precious time with the other humans.

​How?

​Lots of ways -- but mostly by loving and praying and smiling and giving for the better part of it.

And, of course, by jamming to rock classics. 

#Respect #Kindness #Empathy #Pray #Peace

It’s taken all this time but they’ve finally sprung deep roots. That's right, my Quarantine Quirks have officially become habits.

According to the wellness site “Healthline”, “a habit can take anywhere from 18 to 254 days for a person to form a new habit and an average of 66 days for a new behavior to become automatic.”

Sixty-six days. Hmm. Well, since we’ve been casa contained for the past, um, 87 years or so, I feel that I can pronounce them Pattyisms heretofore.

I find myself worrying that I may have trouble readjusting to a tangibly social, post-pandemic community given the following irritating practices I have developed since becoming a relative recluse:

1) FALLING ON MY FACE. Er, falling down on making sure my face is presentable, that is.

It’s become an unfortunate fact that I tend to plop down in front of my computer and hit the ground running early each morn, fresh from the shower. Now, while I’m fully clothed and coiffed and 80% presentable in terms of attire – my tired eyes are not necessarily camera-ready, Capisce?

Yep, COVID-19 and its related stressors have made my already horrendous sleep patterns entirely erratic. Ergo, there are mornings when these peepers need de-puffed. So, on the days I jump headlong into projects pre-pampering (like, most of ‘em), I may or may not turn my camera off for the first few moments of an 8AM meeting.

What am I going to do once back in the office? Stand outside the conference room shouting muffled input whilst furiously applying coverup with a compact in one hand and eyeliner in the other --until such time that I’m face-able? Hmm; maybe I can Zoom from the hall. Oh well, at least the mask will save me from rouge responsibilities.

2) PUMPING OUT PRODUCTIVITY. Some feel it’s a blessing, some feel it’s a curse.

Personally, I think it’s the best thing EVER to have work right here at your fingertips, 24/7. Inspiration strikes? BAM! Forgot to send an email during the day and can’t sleep at 3AM? BAM! Behind on a project and don’t mind simultaneously eating, typing, and restructuring a spreadsheet? BAM!

I mean, how am I gonna get half of that done if I have to like, drive to the office and back in between tasks---and not like, sleep there and stuff?

Did I mention how much I miss my kid?

3) CELEBRATING CHRISTMAS DAILY. Oh, I’m sorry. That was really unclear.

While it IS my fave time of year and I’d love nothing more than to have life be one long Christmas Day (as opposed to Groundhog Day, thanks COVID), I am referring to my online shopping addiction.

I don’t mean addiction really. Okay, yes, yes I do.

The whole not-going-to-the-store thing was a nightmare at first. And then, like most of the rest of humanity, I learned that you can pretty much order anything and everything you need (within reason) online for home delivery.

Groceries, toiletries, clothing, textbooks, meals, candles, appliances, cutlery, I-phone screens, dog treats, prescriptions, and even automobiles. No, of course I didn’t ---yet.

Any-who, every time a box comes, it’s like opening a present on Christmas morning! Even though you already know what’s in there….you are Santa…AND all his elves…and sometimes there’s an upcharge; sorta like getting a gift COD. Bah humbug.

Oh well, at least I’ve made some good friends with Santa’s sleigh team, a/k/a my new buddies from Amazon, Fed-Ex, UPS, and the good old USPS.

Maybe they’ll swing by to visit me at the office, too ---if ever we go back?

Kimerer is a columnist who thinks she may be unfit for the future. Tell her she’s okay at www.patriciakimerer.com

Well, it was bound to happen.
 
It is, after all, the worst year...like, out of all the years.
 
Okay, maybe not EVER in the history of people-kind. But it’s got to be up there in at least, the top three or so.
 
I mean, how can anyone deny that we have been truly living life on one gigantic hamster wheel of poo since March?
 
By a show of hands --how many of y’all would like to go back to 2019 or earlier?
 
Okay, careful; don’t spill your coffee. Go ahead and lower your hands. It’s hard for me to type that way for very long, anyway. Ahem.
 
A friend of mine recently posted a Facebook wall photo of two highway signs. The left-hand sign indicated the current lane (and directed staying on its forward path). It was titled “2020” while the off ramp sign read “1980s.”
 
She posted a note below it indicating that she’d exit stage right ASAP if she could and added, “Who’s with me?”
 
I call shotgun, Debbie. Oh, the ‘80s.
 
Such a simple time: when hair bands ruled the airwaves, we all joined “Hands Across America,” Bill & Ted were on their original excellent adventure, and the only required clothing accessories were shoulder pads. No masks necessary; except on Halloween, natch.
 
Anyway, back to my original thought: 2020’s claimed yet another casualty. Brace yourselves: this is the last season of “Keeping Up With the Kardashians”.
 
Stop pretending you don’t know who they are and that you’ve never watched their show. It’s a flipping pandemic, people; all binge-viewing rules are out the window, a’ight?
 
Sure, this year’s produced much worse, but it IS the end of an era, kinda. No more KUWTK.
 
You might love them. A lot of people do, after all.
 
You might dislike them. A lot of people do, after all.
 
Or you might love one or some of them and dislike others of them. A lot of people do, after all.
 
For instance, I LOVE Khloe and Kendall. I even like Corey, Kris’s boyfriend.
 
You aren’t going to like what I’m about to say --- but I actually like Kanye a little bit.
 
Look, I think his heart’s in the right place most of the time, if not his mouth. I mean, he’s not ALL bad, just often confused and misspoken, methinks.
 
Anyway, they’re probably going to be okay. And I have a feeling we haven’t really seen the last of them. But I do believe Kourtney finally got her way.
 
Kourtney is the eldest Kardashian kid. Recently, she’s been pushing back on having her life on display 24/7. She even threatened to quit filming. Looks like she finally kyboshed the whole operation, capisce?
 
Just like Denise Richards on the “Real Housewives of Beverly Hills”. When something comes up she doesn’t want to share with the world (which she and Kourtney agreed to while cashing the big paychecks, if I’m not mistaken? Hmm.)…anyway; she shuts that stuff down immediately. How?
 
The Housewives have an emergency stop-filming-me-right-now-or-else safe word. It’s “Bravo! Bravo! Bravo!” Usually screamed falsetto amidst a diva, hissy fit. 
 
Denise loves to toss out the kill phrase. A lot.
 
For her part, Kourtney hurls out F-bombs to stop Kardashian kameras from kontinuing.
 
Either way, I’m just jealous. I want to tell 2020 to stop. On the count of three, let’s scream “Like Totally Tubular!” -- and maybe it’ll be 1984 again?
 
Kimerer is a columnist/blogger who just wants 2020 to take a chill pill. Totally check out patriciakimerer.com

Here it is, once again.

Patriot Day. A date on which we commemorate one of the very darkest days in our nation's history.

The day of the worst terrorist attack on U.S. soil: September 11, 2001.

Every year, on this day, we all remember exactly where we were, who we were with, and what we were doing on that horrific day.

I remember my 21-month-old baby boy bouncing around the house in his blue, footed pajamas; begging me to watch "Barney" as I fought to retain composure in front of him while watching the second plane hit the first tower of the World Trade Center IN REAL TIME.

I believe my go-to reaction was to offer a cookie. What can I say? Italians throw food at almost every problem, Capisce?

As the day unfolded, so did the destruction, death, fear, ugliness, and heartbreak.

In the years since, hundreds of thousands of commemorative celebrations, documentaries, re-enactments, and various other displays of honor and memorial have emerged, great and small, in states, counties, cities, and communities throughout our great nation.

And yeah, we're in a bit of snit with ourselves at the moment but indeed, we are STILL a great nation. As long as we remember how we all felt on September 11, 2001: distraught but not defeated; badly broken but not beaten.

More importantly, we need to remember how we felt and acted on September 12, 2001: patriotic, compassionate --- UNITED.

As we bow down in prayer to honor the collective memory of all those lost on 9/11 and in thanksgiving for the outpouring of bravery and genuine solidarity that ensued, let's look to the Survivor Tree. You know all about the little pear tree that could, don't you? Here's a summary, courtesy of www.911memorial.com:

In October 2001, a severely damaged tree was discovered at Ground Zero, with snapped roots and burned and broken branches. The tree was removed from the rubble and placed in the care of the New York City Department of Parks and Recreation. After its recovery and rehabilitation, the tree was returned to the Memorial in 2010. New, smooth limbs extended from the gnarled stumps, creating a visible demarcation between the tree’s past and present. Today, the tree stands as a living reminder of resilience, survival, and rebirth.

​If this charred out little sapling can grow into a blooming beauty after surviving the terror attacks of 9/11, surely we can all remain civil, kind, and respectful of one another ... no matter whose candidate wins in November.

If 9/11 taught us nothing, it should leave these indelible marks on all our hearts and souls: We are one nation under God and we can endure anything so long as we love, support, and defend one another - no matter what.

It’s the ugliest word in the English language.
 
I realize that’s a fairly bold statement – especially from a self-proclaimed words girl.
 
But let’s face it. There’s hardly a more offensive, explosive, dangerous, and destructive word than hate.
 
Sure, there are a gazillion other awful, unacceptable, absolutely despicable words out there.
 
Shoot, I could create an entire dictionary of idioms, phrases, expressions, and plain old nasty names that should never be uttered by any human…anywhere…ever. Or any other intelligent life forms, either.
 
I must admit, the way some of the earth dwellers have been speaking to and treating one another lately, I have to question whether or not we even deserve our spot at the top of the food chain these days? I digress.
 
Back to the business of that repugnant word.
 
You know what I really hate, er, abhor about it the most? The fact that we all say it. Oh, yes you do; stop it.
 
We don’t hurl it around maliciously, at least not most of us. But it slips out occasionally…doesn’t it? It does, too, now come on!
 
I ha --- um, I mean, I really, really don’t like it when that happens.
 
But it does; more often than we care to admit, right? Consider Exhibits A – D:
 
“I hate my hair...” or “Ugh, I hate the shape of my nose.” These two quotes may or may not be autobiographical in content.
 
“I hate people who drive slow in the passing lane!” Really? This is the platform on which you’re basing your ire? Someone going the speed limit? Perspective, people.

“I hate ‘Shark Week’.” Okay, I could potentially get on (non-surf) board with that one. I just don’t get the allure of taunting a man eater?
 
“I hate the New England Patriots.” Literally biting my tongue here. I ain’t a fan, yo.
 
So, you see, we’re all offenders. For my part, I’m retraining my brain to delete it from all file folders. Check these:
 
I oppose acknowledging that summer is effectively kaput. I blinked and my favorite season vanished faster than a can of Lysol spray at Wal-Mart. And yet, despite this, 2020 is somehow lasting an entire flipping decade. How is this even possible???? I hat… uh, really dislike this year.
 
I detest the Alexa commercial with the opera lady singing and the guy that busts in all sweaty and gross, on the chaise lounge to create a music library. It triggers me; it just does.
 
I have a distaste for Politicians. All of ‘em. Everywhere. All parties. Both lanes. Yep the Tories AND the Whigs equally bug the bejeepers outta me.
 
I loathe the VMAs and frankly, video music channels in general these days. If video killed the radio star, social media massacred the video star, capisce? Hmpf. And why do they suddenly have to be simulcast on 87 channels? The VMAs – meh. I don’t know most of the performers. The ones I do know and root for NEVER win. #IAmAncient
 
At the risk violating my own rule, I am willing to sling the H word in exceptions such as: COVID-19. Cancer. Injustice. Cruelty. Intolerance. Abuse. Hate.
 
So, I’m asking you to join me in boycotting the h word. If you agree, you won’t try to rip my toenails off when I reveal who I truly wish could be our next President: Phoebe Buffay from “Friends”.

​What? Can you imagine anyone else getting Putin to sing along to “Smelly Cat”?
 
Kimerer is a columnist who hates complainers. Wink. File yours to her at www.patriciakimerer.com

I’m not very high maintenance. Ask around.
 
I don’t get mani-pedis. I don’t get $200 haircuts. I don’t buy Michael Kors or Coach bags.
 
I’m not a Wal-Mart snob. I think it’s fabulous, paying half price for the same brand name groceries I can get at bigger, chain markets. That being said, I will NOT leave a trip to Buffalo without visiting Wegman’s. Sorry, I LOVE me some Wegman’s, yo.
 
My favorite clothing store is JC Penney…and I frequent the clearance rack. I go to Payless Shoe Source all the time.
 
I’m not into labels. In fact, all I really know from labels is that the ones tagged inside my clothes tend to fall off from being worn for so many years. Seriously, when I need to know something about fancy, high-end fashions or styles, I’ve got to ask my sister, sister-in-law, or girlfriend Chris.
 
I wear the same running shorts I have since before I had Kyle. I’ve changed the seat pad but kept the same rocking chair for the past three decades. People, I have been using the same ice bucket for 25 years. That’s right. It was a wedding present.
 
The rubber rim is quite worn and doesn’t perform it’s one and only function to create a vacuum suction that, you know, keeps the ice from melting. It’s pretty much just a big, decorative cup with a lid at this point.
 
And when I say “decorative” –well, I’m being PK polite. It’s white with pink and blue horizontal stripes circling it. Blech.
 
It’s plastic. It matches nothing. It’s worn and old. It’s, um, kind of hideous, really. It wasn’t even that awesome in its prime, let alone a quarter of a century later. Not really sure what made me register for it in the first place? Hmm.
 
Over the years, I’ve seen much more expensive, lovely, sleek, modern, and practical ice buckets. And chests. And chillers. I’ve seen stainless steel models. And self-closing ones. And crystal ones. And gold-encrusted, engraved ones.
 
I’ve seen ice “tubs” so large they can accommodate an entire case of beer and a bazillion ice cubes. And every time I schlep out the old girl, I invariably think, “Man, I have GOT to chuck this thing!” Yet somehow, I can’t. Why?
 
It’s the bucket that we used the first time we hosted a holiday. As all was chaos around it; there it sat, dutifully chilling.
 
It attended every one of Kyle’s 18th birthday parties when the house was filled with such love and laughter…and food, natch.
 
It bore being manhandled at every single summertime function Kerry and I have hosted in the past 25 years.
 
We used it for the ALS ice bucket challenge…and, in a pinch, to transport frozen or needs-to-stay-cold foods to remote family functions, swim picnics, school fundraisers, and so on and so forth.
 
It’s sort of, family itself, at this point. Honestly? The old girl could very well be me.

Sure, she's not as snappy as she was in her youth; she's visibly weathered; she is deeply flawed and imperfect but she is loyal and upright and reliable and stands at the ready, literally living to serve her loved ones in the biggest or smallest of ways, 24/7, 365.
 
And since Kimerer hasn’t traded me in for a new, sleek model, I guess I owe my rickety old ice bucket the same courtesy, Capisce?
 
Happy 25th hon, thanks for the roses ...and keeping me around all this time. I love you a bucket, er, a bushel and a peck…always.

Don’t look now, but COVID-19 has prompted yet another unforeseen onslaught: the constant rerunning of certain classic television sitcoms. I mean, they’ve trotted out some treasures that are trending higher than Trump’s Twitter, a’ight?  
 
I’m not clear on who decided which shows would be resuscitated for non-stop looping … or why or how. But I know “Friends,” “Everybody Loves Raymond,” “Frazier,” “Mom,” “The George Lopez Show,” and “King of Queens” all made the cut. I dig the first five. Sorry, Kevin.
 
Over on the Food Network, Guy Fieri shows air literally every moment in some time zone across the globe. Seriously. Look, I love the man but come on, already? I digress.
 
The elimination process for rerunning only select shows is as mystifying as how we expect five-year-olds to wear masks all day when there’s not even the slightest chance it will result in a pillow case full of Halloween candy? I’m just sayin’.
 
Back to the telly.
 
For yet some other in-explainable reason, I continue to re-watch both “Golden Girls” (GG) and “Sex and the City” (SATC) incessantly.
 
Hey, I have to do something now that Hallmark Channel is on Christmas break and while I await new episodes of “Better Call Saul,” “Ozark,” “You,” “The Haunting of Hill House,” and “Stranger Things” - okay? Yeah, fine, so I’m Netflix Girl. Either way.
 
It occurs to me that, while it’s not apparent outright, the ladies from both GG and SATC have a lot in common. Hear me out.
 
First of all, each show focuses on four strong, independent women. In fact, even though SATC’s gals are singles in NYC and GG are seniors living in a retirement village in Miami, I feel there are many parallels.
 
Look closer at GG’s OG, Sophia: a smart, no-holds-barred, tell-it-like-it-is yet lovable loudmouth. If she was a red-headed lawyer, she very well could be SATC’s Miranda. They say what everyone else is thinking but don’t have the chutzpa to verbalize.
 
Then there’s GG’s sweet, traditional Rose; a woman who seems daffy on the surface but has a heart of pure gold and serves as the group’s moral compass. Rose’s deepest desire is a clean, happy home … and, you know, world peace. Um, hello? SATC’s Charlotte, anyone?
 
This brings us to Blanche. Hilarious, perfectly put-together, well-coiffed Blanche who’s healthy self-image lends itself perfectly to her life mission: having a good time with the fellas. Let’s face it, she’s pretty much the geriatric version of SATC’s “I’m fabulous” bad girl Samantha. Even Rose and Charlotte could have called that one.
 
Finally, there’s the “everybody’s best friend” character. This is the go-to gal. She solves everyone’s problems all the time but can’t quite figure out her own happy ending with the man of her dreams --until the series finale, that is.
 
She is the glue holding the whole operation together. On GG, her name is Dorothy while SATC-watchers know her as Carrie.
 
These eight wonder women seem to share the same basic life lessons:
 
-Believe in yourself and you got this.
-Sisters over misters.
-Just because all around you is chaos doesn’t mean your bag and shoes shouldn’t match.
-There’s nothing in life you can’t get through without true friends and a big slice of cheesecake.
-Life’s short; laugh and love in excess … and pray.
 
Okay, that last one is a little more GG than SATC. But then again, so am I.

​Happy sitcomin’, y’all!
 
Kimerer is a columnist/blogger who needs someone to hide her remote. Check out her musings at www.patriciakimerer.com