"The Best Seat in the Car"

By Jerry Zezima

I have been driving people crazy my whole life. But since I got my driver’s license at the tender age of 16, I have been driving them in my car.

That changed recently when I had the rare opportunity to be driven myself. And although I was sitting in the front passenger seat, it made me — much to the annoyance of my wife, Sue, who was behind the wheel of her car — a backseat driver.

It was delicious payback for all the criticism I’ve received from countless passengers over the years.

Sue, for example, has always said I drive too fast. Our younger daughter, an aspiring Formula 1 champion, thinks I drive too slow.

Yet, in 55 years of obeying (usually) the rules of the road, I have been in only two accidents, neither of which was my fault.

One time my car’s brakes failed at an intersection and I bowled into two other vehicles, leaving the 7-10 split.

Nobody was hurt, but one of the drivers wanted to know what happened.

“Those are the brakes,” I explained.

The other time, a guy driving in the opposite direction at a traffic light, which was green, suddenly cut in front of me and went the wrong way down a one-way street.

Again, nobody was hurt.

When I walked over to his car and asked why he made such a boneheaded move, he said, “My GPS told me to turn left.”

I said, “If you had been looking at the road instead of your GPS, you would have seen two things: (a) an arrow indicating you were going the wrong way and (b) me.”

Yes, there have been speeding tickets, but that’s only because I was going with the flow of traffic. My daughter, though not Sue, would understand.

So this time it was a welcome change to put the shoe on the other lead foot. And it just happened to belong to Sue, who actually has a feather foot because she’s a Sunday driver. And it was Saturday.

My first warning came right after we had buckled up.

“Be careful backing out of the driveway,” I said. And with good reason because our street is plagued by vehicular maniacs who routinely blow through the stop sign in front of our house.

“Who’s driving, you or me?” Sue asked.

It was a fair question, but I didn’t mind because Sue turned out to be a good driver, even though I agree with our daughter that she goes too slow. I wouldn’t have been surprised if we had been passed by a kid on a tricycle.

Still, the ride — to, ironically, our daughter’s house — was very enjoyable.

“I’m getting a chance to see things I normally don’t notice when I’m driving,” I told Sue.

“Like what?” she wondered.

“Pedestrians, red lights, stuff like that,” I replied.

She shot me a quizzical look.

“Keep your eyes on the road,” I instructed.

Since the day was beautiful, I also noticed birds, trees and a farm stand with a sign that read: “Pick your own.”

I suggested stopping so I could add the word: “Nose.”

Sue kept going.

I had a few little criticisms, like how she wasn’t watching out for idiots who I knew (not from personal experience, mind you) were plotting to get in a turn lane and cut in front of us when the light changed.

But otherwise, there were no complaints. In fact, I said, “You can drive from now on. And I am going to buy you a chauffeur’s cap.”

“Forget it,” Sue stated emphatically. “You’re the worst backseat driver ever.”

When we got to our daughter’s house, she wondered what took us so long.

“Mom drove,” I told her.

“How was Dad as a passenger?” our daughter asked.

Sue sighed and said, “He drove me crazy.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Crabbing About Grass"

By Jerry Zezima

I have often told my wife that I’m like crabgrass: She can’t get rid of me. Now that we have real crabgrass on our lawn, I’m trying to get rid of it.

The problem, according to Vinny, our turf guru, is that I am not spreading fertilizer.

“I’ve been spreading it for years,” I told him.

“I know that,” Vinny said. “But you haven’t been spreading it on your lawn.”

Vinny installed a new lawn for us last year because the front and back yards could have won a Sahara Desert lookalike contest. The only grass that grew was, naturally, of the crab variety. Moss (not Randy or Kate) was also a prominent feature.

After Vinny and his crew spread topsoil (it wasn’t dirt cheap) and dropped seed, the grass grew thick and green, even though we immediately had a dry spell and I had to water twice a day, the same number of times I water at night.

My job this year was to make sure the lawn was fertilized. This may sound like a load of the stuff, but I forgot. I also didn’t remember that Vinny had given me an estimate last year for his services this year.

The lawn care program included fertilizing in the spring with pre-emergent crabgrass control, doing the same in late spring, the slow release of granular fertilizer in the summer, and granular fertilizer in both early and late fall.

To get that much fertilizer myself, I’d have to own an elephant. And I’d still be called Dumbo.

When my wife, Sue, and I bought our house in 1998, I was a neophyte (an ancient Greek word meaning “useless”) at yard work.

But I enjoyed cutting the grass, raking leaves and shoveling snow because it was a novelty. I quickly grew tired of it. Not helping was the fact that Sue fired me as a grass cutter because I didn’t trim the edges of the yard.

And I worked for free! Unfortunately, I was worth every penny.

That’s why we hired the landscaping company that Vinny works for. They do a great job, not only of cutting the grass and trimming the edges of the yard, but of cleaning up the property every spring and fall.

I can’t say the same for the lawn service we hired to keep the grass thick and green, which is why, last year, Sue fired them, too.

Aside from my failure to spread fertilizer this year, the problem with the grass has been that the in-ground sprinklers, which work very well, don’t reach every inch of the front and back yards.

That’s why the irrigation company sent Jon, Bob and Lorenzo to install additional sprinkler heads.

I was relieved to know that I am not the strangest customer they have ever encountered.

“That would be the 88-year-old woman who doesn’t stop talking. She said Lorenzo is fiercely handsome,” Jon recalled.

“Is she a widow?” I wondered.

“Yes,” Jon answered.

“Are you spoken for?” I asked Lorenzo, a good-looking guy with a thick, dark beard and a full head of curly brown hair.

“I sure am. And I have two kids,” said Lorenzo, who’s 26.

“That’s a 62-year age gap,” I calculated.

“Watch out, Lorenzo!” Bob joked.

The hard-working crew used a big machine called a “pipe piper” to pull sprinkler lines under the ground so new heads could be attached.

“Now all of your grass will get properly watered,” said Jon, adding that I should thatch, seed and fertilize to get the lawn going again.

“When should I do it?” I asked.

“Early,” Jon answered.

“You mean before breakfast?” I wondered.

“I mean in early fall,” he said.

“I think I’ll wait for Vinny,” I said.

“That will take care of the crabgrass,” Jon said.

“Even with all that fertilizer,” I said, “my wife still can’t get rid of me.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"What's the Bad Word?"

By Jerry Zezima

As a man of many words, not all of which can be used in a family newspaper, I am delighted to announce that our special guest today is Prof. Ludwig Lingo, the noted linguistics expert and an ardent fighter of crimes against the English language.

JZ: Welcome, Prof. Lingo. What’s the good word?

LL: Beer.

JZ: What’s the bad word?

LL: Iconic.

JZ: Why is it a bad word?

LL: It’s not bad so much as it is annoying and overused. As a writer, you may have noticed that practically everyone and everything these days is described as being iconic.

JZ: Yes, I have noticed that. And I think it’s ironic.

LL: Why is iconic ironic?

JZ: Because it rhymes!

LL: Oh, brother.

JZ: What else is on your bad-word list?

LL: The phrase “going forward” and its equally evil twin, “moving forward.”

JZ: I’ve noticed that, too. It’s making the language go backward.

LL: It seems that no one can write or utter a sentence anymore without sticking “going forward” in there.

JZ: What if you’re talking about driving a car?

LL: Then “going forward” is perfectly appropriate. Unless, of course, you are in reverse.

JZ: Anything else you don’t like?

LL: Like.

JZ: Like what?

LL: Like “like.” Everyone says, “I was like … ” I can just imagine if Abraham Lincoln were giving the Gettysburg Address today: “Fourscore and, like, seven years ago … ”

JZ: Are there any other historical examples?

LL: Yes. During World War II, when Gen. Douglas MacArthur was leaving the Philippines, he famously said, “I shall return.”

JZ: What would he say today?

LL: “I shall circle back.”

JZ: I can imagine JFK’s inaugural address today: “Ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country — going forward.”

LL: Good one! You’re catching on.

JZ: How about a famous date in American history?

LL: July 4, 1776: The Declaration of Independence drops.

JZ: I guess nothing premieres or is released anymore. Instead, it drops. Now I don’t feel so bad because I’m always dropping things. What else gets your goat?

LL: G.O.A.T., which stands for Greatest Of All Time. Practically everyone is now described as the G.O.A.T. It has lost all meaning, just like BFF, Best Friend Forever. You can have only one best thing, whether it’s a friend or not. Now people have multiple BFFs.

JZ: At least they have friends.

LL: Yes, but I’m not one of them.

JZ: You are a genius.

LL: I know. The trouble is that everyone else seems to be one. Even if you do something ordinary, you are considered a genius.

JZ: Am I a genius?

LL: I should say not.

JZ: At least I have invited you to participate in this interview. It’s quite an event.

LL: What isn’t these days? There are no movies anymore. They are all movie events. The same with sales.

JZ: You mean they’re sales events?

LL: Exactly. Do you know what other word is overused?

JZ: What?

LL: Classic. Just like every person is a genius, everything is a classic.

JZ: Like a movie?

LL: You mean a movie event.

JZ: Sorry, I stand corrected.

LL: And if something isn’t a classic, it’s world-class.

JZ: My wife’s cooking is world-class.

LL: Invite me over for dinner and I’ll see.

JZ: You may have to eat your words.

LL: I have to go now. I don’t want to be late for my class.

JZ: What are you teaching?

LL: Remedial English to newspaper columnists.

JZ: Thank you for your time, Prof. Lingo. You are iconic.

LL: You are very welcome, Mr. Zezima. Have a nice day — going forward.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Bowled Over"

By Jerry Zezima

Something fishy is going on in my family. And it involves, for approximately the hundredth time, a dead fish.

The latest fine finny friend to go belly-up was Igor, a blue boy betta who belonged to two of my granddaughters, which made him, I guess, my grandfish.

But not to worry: There’s a replacement Igor swimming in the tiny bowl on the kitchen counter in the house where the girls (and their parents) reside.

And the girls (but not their parents) are none the wiser.

That’s because my younger daughter, the girls’ mommy, told me to check on Igor when my wife, Sue, and I brought our granddaughters back home after a sleepover at our house.

“Igor is on his last legs,” my daughter said in a phone call.

“You mean his last fins,” I replied, correcting her.

“Whatever,” my daughter said. “If Igor is dead, dump him in the toilet and replace him with the fish that’s in the laundry room. Make sure the girls don’t find out.”

Sure enough, Igor had breathed (or gulped) his last, so I flushed him to kingdom come and replaced him with the blue boy betta that swam jauntily in a clear plastic container from the pet store.

The girls, as they had so many times before, never knew the difference.

According to my daughter, the present Igor is number eight or nine or maybe even 10. She’s lost count.

Not long ago, my daughter saw one of the previous Igors lying motionless at the bottom of his bowl. She removed him and told the girls he had to go to the hospital for surgery, which gave her time to get a replacement fish. It’s the one I found resting lifelessly on the colorful pebbles in his watery domain.

Duping young children into believing that their fish will live forever, when in reality most of them last about as long as the Super Bowl halftime show, began when my daughter and her older sister were little.

Of the dozens of goldfish that resided in our humble home during my daughters’ early years, the most beloved — and tragic — was Curly.

I kept Curly alive for weeks after the sudden deaths of his bowl mates, Moe and Larry, who had died within minutes of each other, probably in a suicide pact.

I fed Curly daily, changed his water religiously and greeted him every morning with a cheery “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!”

One evening, I opened the door of a kitchen cabinet, directly above Curly’s bowl on the counter, only to see a bottle of vitamins fall out, in slow motion, and conk the little fish on the head.

By the next morning, Curly was deader than vaudeville.

“You killed our fish!” the girls wailed.

I tried to lessen their pain with words of comfort: “They were Mommy’s vitamins.”

Fast forward a generation to our younger daughter’s daughters, who talked their mother into getting the original Igor.

They also talked me and Sue into getting Camilla, a pink girl betta who would be Igor’s cousin. She lived on the liquor cabinet in the dining room in what I dubbed the Camilla Parker Bowl.

Forty-eight hours later, Camilla needed a royal flush. My granddaughters were on their way over, so I hightailed it to the pet store and got another Camilla, a lookalike in every way except he was a boy. It gave new meaning to the term gender-fluid.

The girls never knew the difference.

We have since had a half-dozen Camillas, all pink males who just like to feel pretty. The current one is about a year old and is starting to go gray around the gills.

The current Igor is young and healthy and lives in a little bowl on a counter in my granddaughters’ kitchen. So far, things are going swimmingly. I just hope he doesn’t get conked on the head by a bottle of vitamins.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima