"Not Sorry to See Them Go"

By Jerry Zezima

As much as I appreciate receiving a daily barrage of email pitches for fat removers, teeth aligners, night vision binoculars and other amazing products I can’t possibly live without, I subscribe to the theory that I can’t unsubscribe from stuff to which I never subscribed.

That’s the quandary I can’t seem to get out of even with a 20-volt cordless drill, which I don’t want because I might hurt myself so badly that I can’t use the computer to unsubscribe from these relentlessly irritating offers.

It’s enough to make me buy a bottle of vegan gummies, which I would never take anyway because I’m not interested in “creating a powerful synergy,” as the offer suggests. What I am interested in is unsubscribing from the company that makes these things.

But the synergy of the sadistic salespeople who send out these electronic ads is more powerful than you can imagine — unless you, too, have been hounded beyond endurance with unwanted subscriptions that you can’t, no matter how many times you try, get out of.

Among the products from which I have tried without success to unsubscribe are:

The Wrinkle Eraser, a “60-second beauty trick” from a Beverly Hills “beauty expert.”

The Portable 2-in-1 Power Washing Nozzle: “Wash like a pro!”

Herpesyl, a cream that supposedly prevents herpes outbreaks.

Swollen Feet Relief: “See this incredible inflammation fix in action!”

The Car Dash Camera, which records “everything that goes on inside and outside your car.”

The Memory Foam Pillow: “Wake up feeling unstoppable!”

Lume Deodorant: “Smell better naked!”

There are others, such as an AI assistant (it starts at $1,800, which means you’d have to have artificial intelligence to fall for it), a premium credit card (so you can run up debt with the help of an AI assistant) and an “atom hearing device” (so you can hear yourself scream every time you try to unsubscribe from this stuff).

Whenever you click on the “unsubscribe” link at the bottom of an email offer, you are directed to a screen with these words: “We are sorry to see you go.”

Then it says, “Enter your email address to unsubscribe.”

It supposedly takes 10 days to remove you from the list, but you really aren’t removed because you keep getting ads for the same products. And you are put on new lists. It never ends.

I have noticed that most of these offers are sent by At Home Daily, a website that is owned by a company called FigJam Publishing.

Since turnabout is fair play, I recently sent the following email to the persistent folks at FigJam with an offer they can’t, I hope, refuse. I eagerly await a reply, but I am not holding my breath.

Dear FigJam Publishing:

I’m Jerry Zezima, a nationally syndicated newspaper columnist whose work, I am proud to say, has no redeeming social value.

I am writing to thank you for filling practically every waking moment of my otherwise dull life with exciting email offers for products to which I have never subscribed. Against my better judgment, I want to unsubscribe from them but can’t. If you could please help me, I would be most grateful.

I also would like to write about your wonderful company so the whole country will know about you. In addition, I am offering you the fabulous opportunity to subscribe to my column — free of charge! And believe me, it’s worth every penny.

Here’s the deal: Take me off your countless subscription lists or I will send you my latest column 150 times a day, seven days a week, until my next column comes out. Then I will repeat the process.

Thanks again, FigJam. I look forward to hearing back from you. Till then, order the vegan gummies. After you read my column, you’ll need them.

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima

"A Clothes Call"

By Jerry Zezima

Ever since my wife, Sue, has been out of commission with an injured hand, which required surgery and has prevented her from performing important tasks like keeping me alive, I have had a whole laundry list of things to do.

At the top is — how did you ever guess? — laundry.

For the past 46 years, I have been a basket case when it comes to dirty clothes. But you know the old saying: Everything comes out in the wash.

That’s why I have been washing, drying and folding shirts, pants, shorts, socks, towels, washcloths, bedsheets, pillowcases and, of course, underwear, which is the very foundation of laundry.

“Do you know how to turn on the dryer?” Sue asked.

“Sure,” I answered. “Whisper sweet nothings into the lint screen. That’ll turn it on.”

Actually, it’s not difficult. All I have to do is press “power,” followed by “start.” Since the setting is already on “normal” (which doesn’t apply to me), I don’t have to do anything else.

But I do have to remember to run the washing machine first, otherwise there wouldn’t be anything to dry.

“I’m catching on,” I told Sue, who showed me how to load the washer.

“You don’t want it to become unbalanced,” she said.

“Like me?” I asked.

Sue nodded and told me how much detergent to use so suds wouldn’t come streaming out and engulf the house like a soapy version of “The Blob.”

Once the clothes and other washables are done, they must be folded. This isn’t too complicated until you realize that if you don’t do it right, the shirts and shorts will become hopelessly wrinkled, especially if they are jammed into a dresser drawer.

The other day I put on a T-shirt that made me look like a rotten prune. Then again, it could have been me. I’m old.

The most difficult items are bedsheets. That’s because they are approximately the size of a parachute and can’t be folded neatly. You have to hold one end in each hand, stretch out your arms and, using your fumbling fingers, put the corners together once, twice, three times without dropping it on the floor.

Or you can simply start by spreading it out on the floor and trying to fold it that way.

And this is just for standard bedsheets. The really maddening ones are fitted sheets, whose corners have short elastic strips that go around the corners of the mattress.

“Are they called fitted sheets because you have a fit when you try to fold them?” I asked Sue.

“You just don’t know how to do it,” she replied.

She was right, so I rolled one of the stupid things in a ball and stuffed it into the linen closet.

The next day, I took it out, along with a regular sheet and four pillowcases, so I could change the bed, a challenging chore I had never done before.

I stripped the bed of the dirty sheets and pillowcases, along with the blanket and bedspread, and tried to fit the fitted sheet snugly over the corners of the mattress. When I realized I had turned the sheet the wrong way, I uttered a word that sounded like sheet.

Sue heard me.

“Having trouble?” she inquired.

“I’ll get this right if it’s the last thing I do,” I replied, envisioning myself becoming enmeshed in a swirl of sheets, with a pillowcase over my head for good measure, and meeting my demise by suffocation, although at least I would die in bed.

I finally got the fitted sheet fitted. I also got the regular sheet, which had a flowered pattern, over the mattress with the pale side up so when I folded the top part over the blanket, which I had to put on next, the “nice side” would show.

“Just in case we’re visited by Good Housekeeping,” I told Sue, who was impressed when she saw that the bed looked neat and crisp.

“Before I do the next load of laundry,” I said with a yawn, “I think I’ll take a nap.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima

"All in Good Taste"

By Jerry Zezima

If it weren’t for my wife, I would have starved to death long ago. If it weren’t for me, we both would have starved — or we would have had to eat out every night for a while — because Sue recently had surgery on her right hand and couldn’t cook.

That left me to be her right-hand man and make dinner without having to call either the fire department or an ambulance.

I became a kitchen magician after Sue tore ligaments in her thumb, which resulted in an operation that left her in a cast.

I may not be the chief cook in our house (I am the chief bottle washer and have the dishpan hands to prove it), but in 1998 I was first runner-up in the pasta sauce division of the Newman’s Own and Good Housekeeping Recipe Contest for a concoction I called Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger.

Paul Newman himself tried the delish dish and lived to rave about it. That he is no longer living, raving or flashing those dreamy azure orbs is purely coincidental.

This time I planned an elaborate menu that started with a sumptuous repast guaranteed to tickle the palate: meatloaf.

“Can I put beer in it?” I asked Sue.

“No!” came the immediate response.

So I used other ingredients, including — call me creative — meat. Specifically, it was ground beef, which I dumped into a large bowl. I added one egg, a bunch of breadcrumbs and a liberal splashing of Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce and, my secret ingredient, Kentucky whiskey barbecue sauce. I also put in garlic powder, onion soup mix and grated Parmesan cheese.

Then I mixed the mess with my bare hands, which were covered in egg, so the yolk was on me. I plopped the beefy ball into a glass baking dish and molded it into the shape of a football, resisting the urge to pass it to Sue or spike it on the kitchen floor.

For the final touch, I slapped four strips of bacon on top and stuck the meatloaf in the oven.

“You outdid yourself,” Sue said approvingly at dinner, which included a side order of broccoli that I also baked after using a large knife to cut off the bottoms and separate the stalks without severing a major artery.

I repeated my gastronomic wizardry a couple of nights later when I made one of my favorite dinners: kielbasa and beans.

I started by frying five strips of bacon in a pan on the stove.

“Set the temperature on low,” Sue instructed. “You don’t want to get splattered with grease.”

“Grease is the word,” I countered.

Sue poured herself a glass of wine.

“I’m having anxiety,” she explained.

On a cutting board, I cut up (because I’m a cutup) a green pepper, two large onions and two small tomatoes. I moved the bacon to the side of the pan and dumped in the veggies.

Then I opened two cans of beans — one maple, the other barbecue — and plopped them into a glass baking dish, mixing the sweet and savory legumes with a large spoon.

I took the bacon out of the pan, cut it up and put the crispy pieces in with the beans, after which I mixed in the vegetables.

I sliced a large kielbasa and mixed the chunks with everything in the baking dish, which I stuck in the oven.

“Yummy! This is really good!” Sue exclaimed. “You did a great job.”

It was so delicious that we each had a second helping.

During Sue’s convalescence, I’ve also made turkey London broil, grilled vegetables, baked salmon, Italian goulash and meatball-and-spinach pizza. Next on the menu: pork chops and peppers.

“You’re becoming quite the gourmet,” Sue said.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Even though your hand is in a cast, I appreciate the thumbs-up.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima