"Another Fine Mess"

By Jerry Zezima

If the remains of Jimmy Hoffa are ever found, ending a nearly half-century search for the notorious union boss, I know just where they will be:

My office.

That’s because I am in the middle of one of the biggest cleanups of all time, one that not only rivals the most ambitious urban renewal projects ever undertaken, but could be the basis for an episode of “Unsolved Mysteries.”

I am not a scientist, which is a blessing to humanity because I almost blew up the chemistry lab in high school, but I do know about the law of physics, which states that any space — except the one between my ears — will be filled.

That perfectly describes my office, where I routinely contribute to the decline of the newspaper industry by writing drivel like this.

I am cleaning up on orders from my wife, Sue, who is neater and more organized than I am. If we ever won the lottery, we would never collect the money because either Sue would inadvertently throw out the ticket or I would put it in my office for safekeeping and never find it.

In fact, it’s even worse than the bedroom once used by our younger daughter. One summer, when she was home from college, Sue described the room as a “disaster area.”

Because I think differently than most people, fortunately for most people, I decided to see if I could have the bedroom officially declared a disaster area so we would be eligible for state or federal funds to clean it up.

I called the New York Disaster Preparedness Commission, described the hellhole and was told that it was too big a job for the state and that I would have to go federal.

So — this is absolutely true — I called the White House to see if President George W. Bush, who was in office at the time and has two daughters about the same ages as my two daughters, had ever declared his kids’ rooms disaster areas.

I reached first lady Laura Bush’s press secretary, who said, and I quote, “That would be classified information.”

My daughter responded by putting a lock on her bedroom door.

That’s what I would do with my office door except I am neither as smart nor as handy as she is.

So I have begun a massive cleanup that includes getting rid of countless books (not any of the seven I have written, though Lord knows some people think they should be in a landfill) and reams of paper (I must have more paper, including almost 40 years’ worth of newspaper columns, than the National Archives).

I have so far donated more than 100 books to my local library, including textbooks from high school and college that I never read. It’s a wonder I graduated.

During the most recent of our never-ending home improvement projects, we had a Dumpster in the driveway. I took advantage of it by unloading tons of stuff that at one time seemed important but which clearly was dispensable.

Slowly but surely, there is light at the end of the tunnel. (I’m afraid that a locomotive is in there, too.)

But the cleanup isn’t over. I am taking a break because I am at the point of exhaustion. Yes, I know that a cluttered office is the sign of a sick, disorganized mind. On the other hand, a pristine office is the sign of a sick, compulsive mind. Either way, I can’t win.

Still, I am hoping to find Jimmy Hoffa. It would be like winning the lottery.

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima

"Rub-a-Dub-Dub, No Men in the Tub"

By Jerry Zezima

I haven’t taken a bath since the Johnson administration (Lyndon, not Andrew) and it looks like the drought will continue because boys aren’t allowed in our newly renovated bathroom.

That is the edict handed down by our three granddaughters, ages 11, 7 and 4. Even before the renovation began, they taped a sign to the door reading:

GIRL’S ONLY!

No boys allowed!

Yes, I know the word “girls” should be plural, not possessive, but you must understand that these girls are: (a) young and (b) very possessive of the bathroom they use when they visit our house.

They have an ally in their grandmother, my wife, Sue, a girl who doubled down on the order when she told me, the only boy on the premises, that the bathroom was hers.

Sue doesn’t mind sharing it with our granddaughters, who love to splash in the tub, but the rest of the time she wants the place to herself.

I don’t blame her. For the first 11 years of our marriage, we lived in an apartment with only one bathroom. Sue and our two then-young daughters, now the mothers of our granddaughters, complained that I took too much time doing important manly things like trimming my nose hairs and cutting myself to ribbons while shaving.

When we moved into a condo, the situation was somewhat better, but we were still in each other’s way when it came to personal hygiene and answering the call of nature.

For the past quarter of a century, Sue and I have lived in a house with two and a half bathrooms. We have shared the main bathroom, which has a shower but no bathtub. The other full bathroom, which is larger than ours, has a shower and tub and was recently renovated. It was seldom used — except when our granddaughters came over to put on makeup, frost cupcakes, play outside and wash everything off in the bath.

This got me thinking: It would be nice, after all these years, to take a bath, too. I typically take showers that use enough water to drown a walrus. But now that we have a brand-new tub, I have been tempted to pamper myself by soaking in a warm, relaxing bubble bath.

I remember the old TV commercial for Calgon bath and beauty products. A woman was in the tub, strategically covered by bubbles, smiling contentedly and exclaiming, “Calgon, take me away!”

I can envision myself in a new commercial, up to my neck in soothing water and strategically covered by bubbles, which would be appropriate since I am a bubblehead. I would also be playing with my granddaughters’ bath toys, which include a couple of rubber duckies.

“Quack, quack!” I would exclaim, to which I would add: “Calgon, take me away!”

If that ever happened, Sue would call the authorities to have me taken away. Then she would have both full bathrooms to herself.

But after so many years, it’s natural for spouses to want their own space. Even the most loving couples, as we are, need a little privacy.

That is why I am staking a claim to the main bathroom, which was renovated last year. I won’t go so far as to tape a sign to the door reading:

BOY’S ONLY

No girls allowed!

But I do think I deserve a sanctuary where I can trim my nose hairs, take marathon showers and bleed profusely while shaving.

The problem is that Sue hasn’t fully moved into her own bathroom yet, so we are still sharing the main bathroom.

That’s all right with me because I am not a selfish guy. So I don’t mind it when I am brushing my teeth and Sue wants to do the same. I simply smile, which causes toothpaste to drip out of my mouth, and move over.

But I am sometimes tempted, when nobody is around, to stand in the shower and exclaim, “Calgon, take me away!”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima

"Thanks for the Muscle Memory"

By Jerry Zezima

I have always believed that exercise and health food will kill you. This explains why I live in deathly fear of broccoli and don’t do anything more strenuous than getting up twice a night to go to the bathroom.

But now that I have reached the ripe old age of 70, and at the urging of my doctor, who takes my health to heart, I have returned to the gym for the first time in more than six months.

“It’s been 193 days,” team member Kenzie Evans said after I scanned my card at the front desk and told her I hadn’t been there in a while.

“I was in jail for sticking up a gym,” I said.

Kenzie blanched.

“Not really,” I assured her. “I’ve just been lazy. But I recently turned the big 7-Oh and figured it was time to come back.”

“Wow!” exclaimed Kenzie, who’s 19. “You look good — for your age.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I replied. “But thanks.”

“Don’t feel guilty about being away for so long,” Kenzie said. “There was a guy who hadn’t been back for a thousand days.”

“That’s two years and nine months,” I calculated. “He must have been in pretty bad shape.”

“I think that’s why he returned,” Kenzie said. “We kept his membership open.”

“And he was paying for it,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s crazy,” said Kenzie. “You might as well burn your money.”

“But it’s better to burn calories, right?” I said.

“Exactly,” said Kenzie’s boyfriend, Joe Dramis, who also works at the desk.

“Is it true,” I asked Joe, who’s 20, “that muscles have memory?”

“Yes,” he answered.

“It’s amazing,” I said. “I can’t remember what I had for lunch. My muscles have a better memory than my brain.”

“You can go on a long streak of no workouts, then go back to exercising every day,” Joe said. “Your muscles remember what your body went through.”

“My body went through the wringer,” I remembered. “It’s a good thing the wringer isn’t part of the exercise equipment.”

“All our equipment is on the floor,” said Joe.

“I don’t want to end up on the floor myself,” I remarked.

“You won’t,” promised Billy Beimann, another employee. “You just have to pick an exercise routine and start by going slow.”

Billy, 24, said he used to weigh 400 pounds.

“I’m down to 250,” he added. “I like to think most of it is muscle. But I started coming to the gym a year and a half ago. I lost a lot of weight and now I feel great.”

“Hey, that rhymes!” I exclaimed.

When he asked what my goal was in coming to the gym, I said, “I don’t want to leave in the back of an ambulance.”

“That’s a good plan,” he said.

“I want to do cardio exercises,” I told Billy.

“The stationary bike is good for that,” he said.

“I wouldn’t be going anywhere,” I noted.

“True,” Billy said. “But you won’t be in traffic, either.”

He added that weightlifting also is good for the heart.

“So is red wine,” I said.

“I had a rotator cuff problem and weight exercises really helped,” he said.

“Didn’t rotator cuffs used to be in cars?” I wondered.

Billy took me over to the weight area and asked, “Do you want to start with barbells or dumbbells?”

“I’m a dumbbell,” I said. “So let’s do barbells.”

I lifted the lightest one, 20 pounds, and got limbered up. Then I spent a few minutes on a bike. I barely broke a sweat.

“I started slowly,” I told Billy, Joe and Kenzie as I was leaving.

“Bye,” said Billy.

“We’ll see you soon,” Joe said.

“And not in 193 days,” Kenzie added.

“I’ll be back,” I said in my worst Arnold Schwarzenegger voice. “My muscles just remembered they could use a rest.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima