I am a first generation Italian-American on my Father’s side. 

It’s a lineage comprised to fiercely-devout Catholics.

I am the youngest child of a cradle Catholic on my Mother’s side. 

To be distinct, my Mom is woman so dedicated to her faith that her entire scholastic career consisted of attending Catholic institutions. She’s even a loyal-to-the-death Notre Dame Fighting Irish football fan. 

Again, it is a lineage comprised of fiercely-devout Catholics.

Personally-speaking, I try my best to live Catholic. 

This means always trying to consider WWJD when conflicted. It means following church teachings, practices, traditions, and you know, commandments. 

It means taking my cues from the Pope and his posse, Capsice?

Did I mention one of my closest friends is a Catholic priest? Father John Keehner; trust me when I tell you they don’t come any finer, my Peeps. Love ya, Padre! 

I digress.

​To say that Catholics are innately familiar with the concept of experiencing guilt would be like saying Tom kinda, half-heartedly, in a very casual way wouldn’t mind catching Jerry, you dig?

We realize when we coulda, woulda, shoulda done something different…and we gulp HARD when we know we’ve opted for the choice in the wrong column, a’ight?

But there ARE times when I know I’m going against popular opinion – and ding dang it, I’m just tired of feeling guilty about it, okay? 

Among these error-wrought choices are the following: 

1. Rooting for Chef Bobby Flay. I know, I know, the name of the show is “Beat Bobby Flay” and even his best friends fight hard to help his competing cooks roast him. But I can’t help it, I find myself always hoping he pulls it out in the end. Especially when the challenger is cocky. Really dude? It’s Bobby Flipping Flay, simmer down.

2. Recycling without removing the tabby thingy first. To be fair, I rarely do this and most often when it happens, it’s a result of me simply forgetting. But on that rare occasion when I do toss a can without having first popped off the little built-in opener, I always have that twinge of you-know-what. In fact, the night before the recycling bins go out, I usually run to the curb and rip off the few I’ve left behind. Seriously.

3. Not liking every single tweet by Pope Francis. I rarely see a post by him that I don’t immediately stamp with a heart emoji but every once in a great while, I’m just quick-scrolling and miss a post. I don’t THINK this is a sin but I’m gonna have to verify this with my Padre.

4. Turning the A/C or heat on for exactly four minutes to cool down or warm up the house in the morning. I know this is ridiculous and probably spikes some meter somewhere or throws the planets out of alignment but I hate waking up either soaked in sweat or hypothermic. Sue me, man.

5. Not watching the news anymore. I know, I know, it’s foolish and short-sighted and ignorant (literally) and ill-advised. But I simply cannot stomach it any longer. Everyone speaking has so many hidden personal agendas, you’d think it was Easter morning and we’re all ransacking the house in search of eggs or something. Over it.

There may be a few bonus guilt-gotchas like crying every time Kyle leaves to head back to campus or bawling like a baby as I watched my nephew/second son ascend the aisle to await his future bride at his recent wedding.

Sniff.

Either way, I’m glad to get all that off my chest.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go look up the times for Confession this week. 

Super hard Gulp --- and a half, yo.

Kimerer is a columnist who tries hard to be good but sometimes leans in to the voice over the wrong shoulder. Give her only good-for-others advice via www.patriciakimerer.com 

Anyone who knows me knows that Kyle Kimerer is the light of my life.

He's my heart and soul; my baby boy.

He's the best parts of both Kerry and yours truly. Only way better on all counts.

He's charismatic and handsome and funny and brilliant and kind and incredibly wise.

Objectively speaking, natch.

He is faith-filled and loyal and honest to a fault.

He's my Pop reincarnated. He's my rock.

He's my kiddo and, hands-down, my #1 top pick human.

Also, he's gonna kill me when he reads this. In fact, I can feel his eyes hard-rolling at me in Buffalo from here. 

All my proud mom rambling irritates this kid. Meh, it's a risk I'm just gonna go ahead and take, a'ight?

Bottom line: My son is, quite literally, everything to me.

He's my favorite 20-something male, hands down and no question.

Period. End of story.

Well, mostly. Maybe 3/4 of the story.

Because, and again, anyone who knows me also knows that --with PK, there's usually at least a little bit more to the end of the story, yo.

Call me Paula Harvey. Hee.

See, there IS this one other 20-something male whom I absolutely ADORE.

In fact, he stole a huge part of my heart on the very day we met...his birthday: April 4, 1998.

Exactly 30 years and one week after his favorite Aunt Patty (moi) was born.

Note to all of Scott's other aunts: I said that, he didn't.

Because that's not something my nephew Scott would say. In fact, he would NEVER intentionally hurt the feelings of another earth-dweller. Or those of any of the other planets, either.

My nephew/second son Scott is simply one of the kindest-hearted people on the third rock.

Which is why, when he married Annie, the absolute love of his life this weekend, I was proud and happy and elated and excited and overwhelmed and thrilled and excited and OVER THE MOON.

See, if I could've hand-picked a new family member and someone fabulous enough to be marrying my second son; I could never have found anyone more perfect than our sweet Annie.

To say that I'm happy for these kids and LOVE LOVE LOVE that Annie is our newest family member would be an understatement of the most severe sort.

All I can really say is, welcome to the fold, my sweet new niece.

I pray that God blesses my beloved Scott and Annie with a lifetime of health, happiness, and AMORE. 

No one deserves it a-more. Congratulations, my loves!

Kimerer is one proud aunt who clearly can boast on her babies with the best of 'em. Contact her for more mushy feels via www.patriciakimerer.com

You know how, after you've had a sleepless night, the next day is like...um. a living version of Salvador Dahli's "The Persistence of Memory"?

You'll recall his (arguably) most famous painting in which there are a bunch of melting stopwatches.

And they're on the beach.

Oh, and one is sort of dangling from a barren tree.

And it's not a palm tree, It's like a crabapple tree or something ... even though it's seaside.

Or maybe lakeside? 

Either way, it's a leafless tree that doesn't seem to belong where it stands and it's leafless despite the fact that the rest of the scene is very summery.

The tree is growing out of big brown block of, I'm not sure what, and there are two other melting stopwatches hanging around and there's like, a ping-pong table on the other side of the tree.

I dunno.  Dahli never told anyone what it meant.

All he ever said about the piece was that, he woke up in the middle of the night one night and saw cheese melting on his bedside stand.

Gross, man, how long was that cheese sitting there? 

Anyway, after seeing the seeping swiss, he got up and started painting his surreal masterpiece.

According to Wikipedia, "The Persistence of Memory alludes to the influence of scientific advances during Dali's lifetime. The stark yet dreamlike scenery reflects a Freudian emphasis on the dream landscape while the melted watches may refer to Einstein's Theory of Relativity, in which the scientist references the distortion of space and time."

Hmm. 

Any who. After you spend an entire evening watching every hour wrap up on your own non-melting clock, the next day is as distorted as a dramatic Dahli drawing, duh.

Oh wait -- some of you actually DON'T know about this?

Then you've never had insomnia.

Yawn-infused sigh. You lucky little loungers, you.

There are many, many potential causes of insomnia. They might include but clearly aren't limited to:

• Stress.
• Worry over work or school or finances --- or, fill-in literally ANY blank.
• Health issues.
• A hectic travel or work schedule.
• Poor sleep habits.
• Eating too much late in the evening.

Whatever the cause, whatever the duration, the worst thing about insomnia (at least for me) is:  it never REALLY goes away, yo.

Listen, I don't eat late into the night. I've been working remotely since March of last year. I drink chamomile tea, take lavender baths, and do my best to shut out the everyday worries humans have...which are stressful, at the very least.

And I still can't sleep more than two hours at a stretch.

Now, I don't require a ton of sleep; I've been that way since I was a little girl.  But my insomnia has gotten out of hand.

In fact, I was so tired during the middle of the day one day last week that I feel asleep at my desk.

Sitting straight up.

At 3PM. 

For like, 11 full minutes. 

I might still be there if my head hadn't lean itself backward far enough for me to thunk my head into the wall.

More yawning and sighing...

Look, I don't like the idea of taking  pills to make me sleep. Frankly, I don't like taking pills for much of anything.  But I do believe I may be reaching that point. 

Because if I go one more sleepless night, I may just leave my keys in the fridge and a skinless chicken breast in the lock, Capisce?

Then again, maybe I'll create a masterpiece and become a famous artist and be so financially set that I can Rip Van Winkle my way through the space-time continuum ... at least for a night or two?

Kimerer is a tired columnist wishing y'all sweet dreams. Check out her loopy ramblings at www.patriciakimerer.com

I was chatting with my bella cousin Mary Ann recently. Oh, that’s beautiful for y’all non-Italians, BT Dubs.

Anyway, my cugina (come on now, you can figure that one out on your own, no?) and I were waxing nostalgic, philosophical, political, and flipping hysterical as we laughed and talked and sipped our coffee.

And it was while we both enjoyed what my Pop always called “una tazza de café” we realized that we have some kooky coffee customs in common. 

Quirky cousins.

Correction, semi-pazzo (a/k/a crazy) Italian cousins – we are an odd lot.

In other words, we have some shared traits, habits, idiosyncratic (that one you can look up), and otherwise eccentric traditions that only other Italian Americans would understand.

Allow me to illustrate with an example. 

We both doctor up our daily coffee with creamers or sweeteners or other preferred add-ins; hers include coconut, which never occurred to me but now I’m definitely gonna try. Yum. 

Her concoctions are more elaborate typically include a press, mine are usually hand-selected K-Cups ordered online and delivered far too often. You’re welcome, Amazon.

Anywho, whilst we both dislike black coffee from the usual suspects: Starbucks, Panera, Dunkin’ Donuts, McDonald’s, Wendy’s or even some of the lovely local/regional java shops -- we somehow both love, love, love espresso.

You know, the stuff made in the teeny tiny percolator than only Italians and Italian-Americans own ---typically it
s stored on either the counter or stovetop. 

That little silver-colored contraption that can fit in a handbag but pack the punch of an eight-piece set of American luggage, a’ight?

It kinda looks like the love-child of a Keurig and a teapot. I digress.

Yes, we both love that distinctive coffee with the same consistency and hue as tar, basically. 

The stuff so flipping strong that you slurp it carefully through miniature cups that look like they belong in a little girl’s tea party set. 

It’s just one of the many things you have to be Italian or of Italian descent to fully appreciate.

For instance, you call it apple-picking season. We know better. When the leaves start to abandon their greenness and leap to their crumpled demise, it’s time to start canning tomatoes, yo.

Also, turkey’s for Tetrazzini. As I’ve mentioned a million times before, I didn’t know turkey was the traditional Thanksgiving dinner until I was about 37. 

In my house, we always had homemade pasta for Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And Easter. And New Year’s Eve. And New Year’s Day. Okay, you get it. 

Either way, all I know is, if Italians were at the first Thanksgiving, we’d given the Native Americans a nice Bolognese instead of beads. 

Seriously. There are tons of fabulous foibles that only those reared in Italian households completely comprehend. They include but are absolutely not contained to the following principles:

-Cleaning the house before you leave is imperative.
-Food is love.
-Beating your siblings routinely is okay. Someone else doing it is akin to signing their own death certificate.
-ITALIAN MOTHERS SMOTHER OUR SONS. Sorry. Actually, we’re really not. Deal with it.
-Visible dust on any piece of furniture, light fixture, or other household item is a mortal sin punishable by familial exile. 
-Everyone has a relative named one of the following:

MEN:

• Gino
• Mario
• Marco
• Anthony
• Giuseppe (“Joe for you third and fourth generationers)
• Giovanni
• Angelo
• Mario 
• Luigi

WOMEN:

• Anna
• Maria (modern variations include Mary, Marie, etc.)
• Gianna
• Teresa
• Angela
• Giovanna (my Nonna’s name!!!)
• Sofia
• Stella
• Aurora

Oh, and if you refer to us as EYE-talian? Expect a wooden spoon coming atcha, Capisce? Say Ciao to proud Italian Amerian Kimerer via www.patriciakimerer.com  

I've learned a lot of stuff in my 53 years circling the sun.
 
Some of it really, really helpful. Some of it I immediately filed it into the BFI dumpster, yo.
 
But most of it accumulated over the last 26 years; since I married that cute boy with the adorable smile on September 2, 1995.
 
When you live with someone for more than a quarter of a century, you start to get a feel for their general likes, dislikes, and you know, insanely annoying habits, quirks, and generally irritating traits.
 
For the record, this goes both ways; PK is likely a creature of notoriously neurotic norms, natch.
 
Clearly, I'm a nervous nellie, world-class worrier, and perpetual pain in the pants in certain regards.
 
Then again, most humans have at least a few manic mannerisms, in my weak defense.
 
But, if I learned anything about cohabitating with Martians, it's that we Venetians must adapt if we want peace on earth and goodwill toward the men we live with, capisce?
 
So, for all the newlyweds wondering if there's some sort of helpful cheat-sheet to wedded bliss, allow me to share what I've learned in the past 9493 days...
 
#1: There are two types of people in this world: those who screw the lid back on after each use, wipe the rim after every application, and properly squeeze the toothpaste from the end...and the rest of you.
 
Hmpf.
 
Look, if you're married to a mid-tube squisher, don't whip 'em with your water pick, just get two separate tubes. and voila, problem solved. Simply avoid gazing at his gloppy gunk and s'all good.
 
#2: Sometimes men really AREN'T thinking about anything. Like seriously. Nothing. Barren wasteland mind-spaces happen. And you know what? It's no reflection on how he feels about you. Truly. So, stop offering a penny for his thoughts every five seconds; it'll save a ton of aggravation ... not to mention like, a bazillion pennies, a'ight?
 
#3: The lid is never going down. This is neither negotiable nor intentional, in my experience. Either you can deal with manually lowering it or you can't. HINT: Just put it down yourself, gals. This is NOT a hill to down on because, in the big scheme of life, it just ain't a dealbreaker, okay? Save that energy for the bigger debates, like, I don't say, buying the bargain brand of toilet paper.
 
This is one I refuse to back down on. Period. End of story. Do NOT come home with single-ply, gents. Ever.
 
#4: Dads Discipline. Moms Cave. Now, for those of you who become parents, you’ll learn that one of you is sterner than the other. Typically, Dad is more the heavy while Mom is, well, let’s face it, bottle genie i.e. “Yes, Master, I Am Here to Grant Your Every Wish”.  Just go with it, Dads.
 
#5: If he holds your hand when you’re hurling, he’s a keeper. Listen, when you spend this many years sharing space with another homosapien, you’re bound to have many bonding moments. Lots are fab. Lots are soul-crushing.
 
But when you find the boy who will stand by you through childbirth and kidney stones and horrendous hair and irrational fears …
 
And job losses and friend betrayal and losing your very rock (still miss you, Pop) --- you hold his back.
 
Through anything. Through nothing. Through everything – and for as long as you both have hands, understand?
 
Thanks for always holding my hand, Kerry Kimerer. I promise to never let go of yours.
 
Cheers to 26 years! Send the Kimerers congrats via www.patriciakimerer.com
 

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

It'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

 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

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