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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

I  heard the craziest thing the other day.

Someone told me a local company was offering potential staffers an extra $2 an hour “bonus” simply to (A) accept the position and (B) once hired, work their full, regular old standard, run-of-the-mill 40-hour work weeks consistently.

​Meaning, er, weekly.

​I was like, huh? Am I missing something here? Hmm.

Wait, I don’t understand. So, like, full-time employees? Getting whatever percentage higher hourly pay — just to, what, not call off? I’m confused.

Snagging $2 bucks extra an hour. For, you know, showing up.

​And staying.
I found my head cocked to the side like a confused puppy trying to figure out if his name is “Good Boy” or “Not Inside!”

Anyhoo, I supposed a crucial detail had been lost on me at some point in this conversation. But nope. It was just what I suspected I’d heard. No one’s interested in going to work because they’re actually making more money on COVID-19 relief support.

I immediately heard my pop’s voice in my head, which was now cocked to the other side. “I’ll be go to Carmel.”

Only, you do understand that he didn’t say Carmel.

He never said Carmel. He never went to Carmel-by-the-Sea. He never even had any particular interest in California.

But you get the idea. Suffice it to say, the word I’m subbing out for is of the cuss variety. A monosyllabic quip rhyming with a place hotter than Carmel, Capisce?

It would irk the Carmel out of Pop to know that folks who were physically capable of working opted out for any reason. That’s just not how he rolled, yo.

As I chatted with him at the cemetery on his 86th birthday yesterday, I updated him on the state of the union. I gave him this latest tidbit, knowing full well his reply would be: “You want something in this life — work for it!”

Indeed.

“Oh, Pop, you left and everything just sorta went to Carmel,” I told him.

And it’s true, really. After we lost Pop on Feb. 28, 2020, COVID-19 hit. And it’s been a veritable poo show ever since.

Hmpf.

Sure, there have been SOME good things — babies is the first thing to pop out, um, I mean up in my head.

But the bottom line is, things are weird and I just really miss my daddy.

I miss how enthusiastically he’d greet me whenever I walked in the door. “Hey, Bone! Che succeed? How in the Carmel are you?”

I miss hearing his stories of the hilarious pranks he and his buddies pulled on each other “down the mill” back in the day.

I miss how I’d walk up the road from my previous job (at the end of my folks’ street) at lunchtime and see him out there tending his sun-soaked garden, donning his wide-brimmed hat and with his opera music blaring.

I miss how he never feared offering his very private opinions in very public places and when told to be quiet, would only up the decibel level. No one told him what to do.

I miss hearing him sing “O, Holy Night!” on Christmas Eve with Franco Corelli’s version playing on the phonograph.

And I miss his response of “I lova you, too,” every time I hugged him goodbye.

Though it’s never goodbye — just like it’s never not his birthday on May 15. 

Buon compleano, Papa. We’ll chat again, when I hopefully make it to that place all the way to the north of Carmel. #TiAmoPapa

Kimerer is a columnist missing her Dad. Reach out to her without cuss words www.patriciakimerer.com 

I am one lucky gal.
 
First --and of most significant wowzer factor- I am the Mom of the world’s most fabulous human. Seriously.
 
No offense to the other homo sapiens or anything. It’s just that for some reason, and through no particular worthiness on my part, I have been blessed with this remarkable offspring.
 
Tossing out phrases such as “proud of,” “amazed by,” “impressed with,” and so on when referring to my fancy of this kid? Well, those would be lamer than Richard Nixon’s presidency in early August of ’74, a’ight?
 
Either way, what an honor, privilege and honest-to-the-Big-Guy joy it is for me to refer to this exceptional person as my son. Ti adoro figlio. I love, love, love ya, kiddo.
 
Then again, I’m extraordinarily fortunate on the receiving end, as well, yo.
 
My Mom Arleen? Well, you probably recognize her from her photo alongside the definition of the “Greatest Mother of All Time” in that Guinness Book listing all the world’s records. I love you more than words could ever convey, Mama.
 
Let’s not forget about my bonus Mom, Pat. She is listed just below Arleen, for you reference guide junkies. Love you to the moon and back, Mum.
 
Any who… in the spirit of all this mushiness and in observation of you-know-whom day today, I feel it’s only fair to remind the children of planet earth that, as long suspected, Mom’s always right.
 
Not buying it? Hmm…allow me to toss out these refreshers:
 
He really WASN’T the one for you. Yes, it hurt when he broke your heart. Yes, it was tortuous to watch him move on with your “best friend.” (BT Dubs, Mom warned you about her, as well. I digress). Yes, you ate 14 gallons of Tin Lizzy ice cream in the immediate aftermath. But he not only cheated on her and dropped out of college; he ended up what’s-her-face, whose parents hate him. Not to mention, he’s since lost most of his teeth, all of his hair, and what he had left of his dignity when he began giving his Monster-in-Law bi-monthly pedicures. Besides, who kept holding your hand and buying the Pepto Bismol back then? Mom did…and gladly would anytime.
 
Missing that extra point won’t matter 20 years from now. Sure, it felt like the sun might fall right out of the sky that painful Saturday afternoon. Yup, a lot of your classmates gave you the cold-shoulder for months…until that other poor kid dropped what would’ve been the winning out in the state baseball championships the following spring. But in the big scheme of life, not only is it insignificant (Um, hello? Pandemic, anyone?) but also, no one even remembers. Except maybe that one jerk teammate you had - and he gives his mother-in-law pedicures. Besides, his nifty pastime somehow got leaked to the equivalent of the local Page Six…the township Facebook page. #ThanksMom
 
Honesty really IS the best policy. Test cheating, lap skipping, two timing your sweetie; none of these ever did or will end well. Besides, your integrity, sense of honor and penchant for standing up for what’s right not only landed you your dream job…but your soul mate. Ahem.
 
So give Mom a call, a hug, and a good, old-fashioned “Love you” today. Flowers, chocolates or jewelry wouldn’t necessarily be out of line either, capisce?
 
Happy Mother’s Day, Moms! And Happy 67th Anniversary to my beloved Jean and Jerry Ruggieri; a couple I absolutely ADORE…and for darned good reason.
 
Kimerer is one lucky daughter and ridiculously proud Mom. Read more a’gushin’ at www.patriciakimerer.com

You see it every day.
 
Modernization. Innovation. Conceptualization.
 
You know, new crap. Happens each new dawn in America. And Canada. And the Motherland.
 
And…well, you get the idea; the earth dwellers are a pretty smart bunch of cookies.
 
That’s why nothing unveiled, released, launched, or reimagined today stays new very long on the third rock. In fact, if you announced it at 7AM, your competitors will have splash-shouted their superior sort by sundown. Sigh.
 
Tough keeping up with some of these hyperactive humans.
 
Probably the most successful Peeps in this game? I’m gonna say the cell phone folks.
 
Let’s face it; they have people more addicted to upgrades and awaiting new versions of their product than, pfft, I dunno, Starbucks tantalizing tired teenagers?
 
I mean, what the heck IS matcha, anyway? It looks like something Linda Blair shotgun-spattered out of her spinning head in 1973.
 
Blech. I don’t care for pea soup ---or Linda Blair, particularly- to this day. Catholic to my core, Capisce?
 
Seriously, though, stop it, Starbucks.. Your stupid swill is slurping up my savings account.
 
Note to Kyle: Sip slower, sweetie. Sorry, sidetracked. As I was saying:
 
How many times have you seen some wickedly clever gizmo or awesomely overhauled new version of an old gadget … and the hundred gazillion dollars it’s inventor rakes in …  and thought “Now, why didn’t I come up with that?”
 
Or, worse, maybe it’s a concept that should have occurred to you…or did… and it was swimming around your noggin for years but you just never acted on it.
 
Son of a snapper, I HATE it when that happens! I’m such a said slacker. Take for instance, the self-parking car.
 
How, in the name of all that is holy, did I not think of this YEARS ago? Heck, with this puppy around, the dreaded maneuverability portion will finally, mercifully get bounced from that dang driving test!
 
I may or may not have killed a few cones in my day. Ahem.
 
Or perhaps, the air fryer? That was a great one and it’s honestly ridiculous that my calorie counting cranium didn’t conceive of it.
 
Sheesh; with the way I eat? Very little oil, butter, fat, um, taste, really. Either way, I TOTALLY should have thought of this!
 
Not to mention, but of course I will, the Snugli.
 
Hello? I was like, the original hawk new Mom (ask anyone!) and I DIDN’T think to kickstart the kangaroo contraption craze keeping Kyle -and all kids-- literally attached at the hip?
 
That’s just kooky.
 
Oh, and what about Air B&Bs?
 
Haven’t we all been doing this with out of town relatives for like, centuries? And it took until NOW for people to start cashing in on forcing others to sleep on an air mattress?
 
Along those lines, here are a few things I would like to invent, so don’t go stealing them, a’ight?
 
-Self-Cleaning Caps. Oh, I don’t mean, spill-free. I mean, something pops out of the squeezy bottle, wipes up all the gunk in the stopper and disinfects it before it goes grimily back in the fridge door. #KerryKimerer
 
-Climate Control Clothing. They make sheets and mattress that adjust to your body temp to keep it hot or cold; why can’t my stretchy pants follow suit?
 
-Scented Masks. Sure, they’ve got them in breathable, waterproof, never-lose-it form; but what about one that saves you from yourself after a beefy burrito supreme? Brilliant, right?

​I got a million of ‘em, friends!
 
Kimerer is a columnist with lots of thoughts. And maybe not enough sleep. Reach out with inventive suggestions www.patriciakimerer.com

So … it happened in the waning hours of the evening of April 20th.

​One by one, they glacially gathered –silently, secretly and under the dark sheath of night as their cover and shield. 
 
They’re sneaky like that… cold-hearted critters
 
They kept calling out to their little frigid pals to come on down join their steely soiree – a frosty little funfest that would leave so many of us waking up chilled to the bone the next day.
 
Which was, ironically, Earth Day Eve.
 
You’ll recall that Earth Day is celebrated on April 22nd to recall the day in 1970, when U.S. Senator Gaylord Nelson helped kick-off the concept formally.
 
This, after years of trying to raise the national, collective consciousness on eco-hazards such as oil spills, polluting factories/power plants, toxic dumps, and the loss of wilderness/extinction of wildlife --to name a few. It eventually led to the creation of the Environmental Protection Agency, BT dubs.
 
I digress. 
 
Yup. Snow. On April 20, 2021.
 
A full month into the spring season…one month to the day after its onset, actually. 
 
Mmm hmm. Snow.
 
Snow on April 20. 
 
Two months in advance of the onset of the summer solstice on June 20, 2021.
 
The SUMMER solstice. Summer.
 
Snow…so dangerously close to summer. As if we need yet another sign of impending doom these days. Sheesh!
 
Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, am I sending out irritated vibes?
 
Ah, well, that’s probably only because I am flat-out, COMPLETELY, ENTIRELY, and PASSIONATELY chapped, Capisce?
 
SNOW AFTER THE MIDPOINT OF APRIL? No.
 
Not cool. I don’t mean to rag on Mother Nature and all but, GURLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL, what in the actual what?
 
Since when is it okay that anyone has to endure snow at this point in the year (even a passing, wet flake!) who lives anywhere in one of the contiguous U.S. states other than ones immediately pressed up against Canada?
 
Fine, we’re just a hair below the border. And Chardon (in Geauga County), Ohio IS listed as No. 22 of Wikipedia’s “snowiest U.S. cities.” Whatever.
 
Stupid Lake Erie. 
 
How great of a lake can it possibly be if it doesn’t even shelter us away from arctic weather conditions toward the end of April?
 
Grrrr.
 
I had such high hopes for 2021 after such a BLEEP 2020.
 
Okay, maybe medium hopes.
 
Alright, perhaps slight hopes.
 
FINE, I was literally afraid to breathe I was so scared this year might actually be WORSE than last…but I had a slight sliver, a’ight?
 
But I gotta say, 2021? I swear, you reek almost as bad as your predecessor. 
 
You are literally in the narrowest of leads…by a proverbial nose (and like, a literal hair). 
 
Here’s some other stuff honkin’ me off this year so far:
 
***How whoever I root for one “Chopped” on the Food Network NEVER WINS. 
 
Not once. Legit. Nary a one. 
 
Appetizer, entrée, and dessert round. Every.Single.Time. #PKIsALoser
 
***Snow in March.
 
***How, while I’m super stoked to still be working from home, I find that I AM chewing 87 packs of gum per week.
 
Other than the lockjaw, it wouldn’t be that bad … except for biting the inside of my mouth.
 
In the same spot. 9,261 times. A day. Everyday.
 
***Snow in February.
 
***How all my shoes have disappeared.
 
Sure, it’s been a minute since I have worn …. well, any of them. But, I swear to you, I cannot find a single matching pair…other than my boots and snow shoes. 
 
Which clearly, may work until 2022.
 
Happy Spring, peeps!
 
Kimerer is a columnist who hates snow in springtime. And summer. And fall. And most of winter. Send rays of sunshine to www.patriciakimerer.com 

It’s amazing, really, what triggers memories in the humans. Frankly, even the faintest of feels can spark total recall in the average earth-dweller.
 
At least, that’s what I’ve noticed in my 53 years of observing, I dunno, about a gazillion or so of them? I mean, give or take a zillion, natch.

​Consider it.
 
Seeing a hilarious television commercial, the bobbing white caps on the lake, or a customized antique car.
 
Hearing a favorite song, the honk of a gaggle of geese flying overhead, or the roar of a crowd at a ball game.
 
Feeling a tropical breeze wash over your beach chair, the strength of your grown son’s arm on your shoulder to steady your gait, or the soft fur on your precious puppy.
 
Smelling the lilacs in springtime, the smoky mesquite from the grill, or the wafting wonder which is morning coffee brewing. Ahh.
 
Tasting a new flavor of ice cream, your most beloved home-cooked meal, or the sour slurp of an iced tea you believed to be sweet…erroneously. Either way.
 
The homosapiens can hurriedly hearken the old recollection connection at the mere drop of a hat…or the glimpse of a cat…or the sting of a gnat.
 
Okay fine, ya busted me. I DO like “Green Eggs and Ham.”
 
The Dr. Seuss classic, not the actual chow combo.
 
Why on earth would anyone willingly eat eggs the same hue as Mr. Yuck?
 
Ew, David.
 
I tell ya, I won’t do it. Not even for the good doctor himself…and not matter how clever and cutesy his quatrains, Capisce?
 
I will not eat them in a house,
I will not eat them with a mouse,
I will not eat them in a box,
I will not eat them with a fox,
I will not eat them here of there,
I will not eat them anywhere!
 
Green eggs? BLECH. No thank you.
 
Unlike the susceptible schoolboy in the book, I ain’t changin’ my mind, yo.
 
Sam I Am ,,, NOT. But much like that caving kiddo, I, too, am fiery about food. Uh, hello? I’m Italian.
 
So…is it fair to say that my memory mojo is most motivated at mealtime?
 
Well, duh.
 
The other day, my first-ever roommate (and bunk-mate … and couple’s skate … and double date) and I were chatting about how some of our happiest memories center around, you guessed it, the magic of MANGIA!
 
My sister and I waxed wistful about some of our all-time favorite fooderies in and about our hometown when we were "Sam I Am’s" age. Among our top picks for menu items we loved best:
 
-The mouth-watering thick-cut fries and consistently crispy onion rings at the Brown Derby. 
-The half-sandwich, half-pie, humongously portioned, and scrumptious pizza burger at Alberini’s. 
-The super sloppy and sensational Slim Jim at Bob’s Big Boy. (Remember how he held that burger up on that tray 356, 24/7 on the rooftop?) 
-The handmade cream sticks at Poulakos Bakery. 
-The tantalizing, topsy-turvy flawlessness that was the individual pineapple upside-down cake at Mr. Paul’s Bakery. 
-The positively perfect pizza per any of the following: The Oven, Petrillo’s Pizza, Margie’s Pizza. 
-Literally any Italian dish at Palazzo’s or Scarsella’s. 
-The fantastically fried clams at the restaurant in Howard Johnson’s. 

I’ll let you guess who preferred what and where. Okay fine, the clams were mine and Pop’s top pick and Gigi loves the cream sticks.
 
The most delicious dish of them all? The happy childhood memories they all served up, ya feel me?
 
Oh alright .. and the pineapple upside-down thingy.
 
Kimerer is a columnist who just made herself hungry. Check out her juicy ramblings at www.patriciakimerer.com

You know how they say: "What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger."?
 
I think that’s true.
 
You know how they say: "Adversity is the foundation of virtue."?
 
I think that’s also pretty accurate.
 
I mean, after all, it’s like they ALSO say: "Into every life, a little rain must fall."
 
Right? Right.
 
Then again, some rainfalls are a little more squall-ish than others. Hmpf.
 
Ahem; but that’s the beauty of adversity, I suppose. You know, because after the torrential downpour comes the rainbows and gorgeous flowers….
 
And wicked pollen. And sticky mud piles. And grimy windows and spattered siding.
 
And flooded basements. And attic leaks. And muck-filled spouting. Grr.
 
Yup. Rain and adversity. Absolute fabulosity.
 
But, um, I mean, of course, it’s all good because, you know, “Adversity comes with instruction in his hand.”
 
Too bad his directions are “Suck it up, Buttercup!”
 
I mean, that might not be EXACTLY what the Welsh intended by that proverb -- but adversity isn’t exactly the most compassionate of instructors, yo.
 
He’s kind of like that really mean professor in college who’s trying to ruin your perfect GPA because he “never, I REPEAT NEVER, gives out As.”
 
Both jerks.
 
Wait, what was I saying now? Oh yeah, sayings --- about adversity. There’s like a ton of ‘em. Er, maybe 62.
 
I recently came across most of ‘em when I landed on proverbials.com. And I thought I’d share some of them, since adversity recently dumped a minor bucket on my head. 
 
Oh, for the record, I’m still sorta reeling from some slight yet lingering COVID issues -- namely lethargy so extreme I have to lie down after exhausting, workout types of activities like…clipping my nails or texting my kid or you know, like, turning on the remote.
 
Oooh and then there’s the gloopy and oozing eye infection so full of slimy sludge I look like Popeye with sinusitis….after Brutus popped him a good one…and Olive Oyl dumped him and made him cry … and Wimpy stole his last can of spinach.
 
Um, I’m sorry, lost my train of thought (COVID fog), where was I? Ah! Adversity lessons:
 
In times of prosperity friends will be plenty, in times of adversity not one in twenty. ~ English Proverbs. Wow, thanks, Mother Land. I feel WAY comforted.
 
I ask not for a lighter burden, but for broader shoulders. ~ Jewish Proverb. Yeah, um, no offense, y’all but I’m voting for the former.
 
Bad is never good until worse happens. ~ Danish Proverbs. Awesome; thanks for that!
 
Adversity and loss make a man wise. ~ Welsh Proverbs. And also, might make you look like Marty Feldman, post COVID, just sayin’.
 
Adversity flatters no man. ~ English Proverb. See Marty Feldman above.
 
If you want a place in the sun, you’ve got to expect a few blisters. ~ Abigail van Buren. Dear old Abby never did pull any punches.
 
The difficulties of life are intended to make us better, not bitter. ~ Author Unknown. Speak for yourself author unknown.
 
If you’re in a bad situation, don’t worry it’ll change. If you’re in a good situation, don’t worry it’ll change. ~ John A. Simone, Sr. Clearly head cheerleader at his high school, no? Sheesh!
 
The darkest hour has only sixty minutes. ~ Morris Mandel. Now we’re talkin’. Thanks, Morris!
 
A bad grade is only one letter in the Essay of life. ~ Lee Drake. How do you like THAT one, Professor Poopy Head?
 
Take it from me, Marty Feldman, we’re gonna make it, y’all. Now go get the vaccine, Capisce?

Stare into Kimerer’s Marty Feldman eyes at www.patricia kimerer.com.

I like chocolate.

I like it … a lot.

We’ve been seeing each other for a very long time now.
 
As long as I can remember, actually. And, I’m not going to lie; it’s gotten pretty serious.
 
Our relationship has truly been one of the greatest sources of warmth and joy, consistently, over my past 53 years and eight days, quite frankly.
 
Ooh, speaking of birthdays, quick shoutout to my nephew/second son Scott. Love you, kiddo.
 
I digress, back to my honey. You know, chocolate.
 
I don’t think it’s overkill to say that we are in love.
 
I always have and always will adore this beau. It’s the real thing.
 
Truth be told, I’m not entirely certain I trust anyone who doesn’t share my confection affection.
 
That’s right, I went there. I know it’s controversial; I’m putting myself out there by saying it. But honestly, I really feel it’s un-American to dislike chocolate, at least in some fashion or form.
 
Because, let’s face it, the arguably best thing about chocolate is its sheer versatility.
 
There are so many different kinds that you have to be able to find at least one type that appeals to you. Literally.
 
Come on. It’s so resourceful and adaptable you know, agreeable, in a sense.
 
I mean, who else is there for you so unconditionally in so many ways, at so many times, in so many iterations, without question, judgement, or fail… am I right? Think about it.
 
There he is: helping make better all of your happiest occasions. At every holiday, birthday, celebration, commemoration.
 
Getting you through all your saddest situations. At every mercy meal, funeral function, breakup session.
 
Oh come on, Don’t pretend you didn’t comfort yourself with a half-gallon of chocolate chunk Hagen Daaz after Mr. Quarterback dumped you at the Homecoming in high school. It happens.
 
Also, he may or may not have gotten me through Freshman year Astronomy. 8AM in the college planetarium does NOT induce alertness at its most efficient form, a’ight?
 
And to this day, he’s pretty much there for you everywhere you turn, you know.
 
He’s in your cake. Your coffee. Your muffins, pancakes, breads, spreads, and creamers.
 
He’s in your cereal, your snack mix, your pesto. Okay fine, I just slipped that last one in and it MAY or MAY NOT be legit.
 
But the fact is, I love all cocoa of all kinds. Seriously. Milk. Melted. Malted.
 
In a shell. AS a shell.
 
Coated. Straight.
 
Powdered.
 
The kind mixed with fruit. Or bacon. Or oats.
 
Or fruit-bacon-oat bits. There’s a reason even ants and corn dogs and scorpions slather themselves in the stuff and finally become consumed, okay?
 
Every kind of chocolate is good. Except the kind that has like zero color or flavor. Or any form that’s mixed with coconut. That’s just gross. #SorryMa
 
I love a big old hunk of milk chocolate smashed between two thick pieces of Italian bread.
 
Pop used to let us eat that every Easter … a chocolate sandwich. #NotSorryPop

I think it might be one of the most unifying forces on the third rock, actually.
 
It’s something of a global panacea, methinks. If only we could somehow get the Covid-19 vaccine converted into a chocolate bar; all would be right with the world again, no?
 
In fact, if chocolate was a person, it’d be, like, Mother Theresa.
 
Or, you know, The Pope. Somebody everybody likes.

Um, like Betty White. Or, Tony Bennett.
 
I like dark chocolate the most.
 
But today, let’s all agree to enjoy some in the shape of bunny ears, multi-colored Easter eggs, steepled crosses, Passover crackle cakes.
 
Fine, eat a white chocolate tulip, even, if that’s what your little holiday heart desires. Blech.

Buona Pasqua, everyone!

​Kimerer is a columnist with a thing for chocolate. Send her sweet nothings at www.patriciakimerer.com