"The 2025 Zezima Family Christmas Letter"

By Jerry Zezima

Since I am in the holiday spirit (and, having just consumed a mug of hot toddy, a glass of eggnog and a nip of cheer, the holiday spirits are in me), I have decided to follow in that great tradition of boring everyone silly by writing a Christmas letter.

That is why I am pleased as punch (which I also drank) to present the following chronicle of the Zezima family, which includes Jerry, the patriarch, and Sue, the matriarch, as well as two daughtersiarch, two sons-in-lawiarch, five grandchildreniarch and a partridge in a pear tree.

Dear friends:

It sure has been an eventful 2025 for the Zezimas!

The year got off to a “ruff” start with the adoption of a puppy named Opal, a sweet, smart and sassy Chihuahua who has captured the hearts (as well as the fingers and toes, which she likes to nibble on) of everyone in the family, especially Jerry and Sue’s younger daughter, the doggy’s human mommy. Opal’s human sisters and her human daddy love her, too, and they are all proud that Opal graduated from obedience school, which is where everyone wishes Jerry would go.

That’s because he has done some incredibly stupid things this year.

One of the craziest was his attempt to buy a lighthouse. Because the historic structure needed work, and Jerry is the least handy man in America, and it was up for auction with the bidding starting at $100,000, and Sue told Jerry he couldn’t go over $25,000, and the winning bid was $370,000, Jerry lost out on a chance to replace Johnny Depp as the star of the next “Pirates of the Caribbean” movie.

It was proof, if any were needed, that Jerry is lightheaded.

He proved it again when he bought an air horn to rupture the eardrums of scammers who call incessantly and won’t take no for an answer. At least it didn’t cost as much as a lighthouse. Price: $7.99.

Jerry said he’s loud and proud. Sue still thinks he’s full of hot air.

Speaking of loud, Jerry’s constant snoring prompted him — at the urging of Sue — to enroll in a sleep study that found he has apnea at levels high enough to be recorded on the Richter scale. So he got a CPAP machine, which was designed to stop his overnight rumbling and save Sue from fixing the problem by means of asphyxiation. The machine worked for one night, after which Jerry stopped using it. He hasn’t snored since.

Jerry found that being a grandfather can be magical — as long as you don’t end up in jail. That’s the lesson he learned when he and Sue got together with all five grandchildren (and the kids’ parents) for a week in which Jerry assisted in science experiments performed with a magic wand, ran around a playground to the point of collapse, was served a delicious dinner of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, engaged in battles with a kung fu master and was arrested multiple times by the world’s youngest cop.

He pleaded immaturity and was released on his own recognizance because the children, who are more grown up than Jerry, don’t yet know what recognizance is.

Jerry learned that old can be gold when he and Sue attended their 50th reunion at Saint Michael’s College in Vermont, where they were in the notorious (thanks to Jerry and his pal Tim Lovelette) class of 1975. They met the school’s new president, who resisted the urge to revoke Jerry’s diploma after learning that he graduated magna cum lager. A good time was had by all.

Jerry marked the 40th anniversary of his syndicated humor column, which is distributed to hundreds of papers nationwide and abroad. If you have ever wondered why the newspaper industry is in trouble, it would be because of Jerry.

Last but certainly least, Jerry’s eighth book, “The More the Merrier: Laughing at Life When Everyone Thinks You’re Over the Hill,” was published. Like his other books, it’s a crime against literature. It also comes in handy for propping up wobbly table legs. And if you suffer from insomnia, you might even want to read it. Just ask Santa, who will be happy to stuff your stocking with a copy of this alleged masterpiece. Ho, ho, ho!

Merry Christmas with love and laughter from the Zezimas.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Plate Expectations"

By Jerry Zezima

I may not be the chief cook in my house (that would be my wife, Sue, without whom I would have starved to death long ago), but I am the chief bottle washer.

And I don’t wash only bottles. I also clean glasses, mugs, cups, saucers, bowls, plates, pots, pans, tongs, whisks, spatulas, ladles, forks, knives, spoons and, most important, ice cream scoops.

And I have the dishpan hands to prove it.

But help has arrived: We just got a new bottom rack for our dishwasher.

We needed it because, for many months, it was the best of tines, it was the worst of tines.

I refer to the plastic spikes that hold dishes so they don’t collapse, forcing the chief bottle washer to clean them himself and end up with hands rougher than the hide of a geriatric crocodile with a severe case of eczema — which, perhaps not coincidentally, rhymes with Zezima.

The problem was that the tines in the back of the bottom rack would keel over every time I tried to put a bowl between them. That’s because the clips that held the tines had fallen off and couldn’t be snapped back into place without the use of a jackhammer, which probably would have broken the bowls, sent knives flying past my head and destroyed the entire dishwasher.

So I had to settle for getting almost no use out of that side of the bottom rack and running the recalcitrant appliance so often that the water bill rivaled the gross national product of Finland.

This raised three questions:

1) How much would a new dishwasher cost?

2) How could two people go through so many dishes each day?

3) How come I don’t wear rubber gloves so my hands won’t become chapped, waterlogged or a deadly combination that prevents me from feeding myself?

The answer to the first question: Way too much.

The answer to the second question: Who knows? Neither of us is a glutton, although Sue’s cooking is superb, so maybe our cups and saucers are engaging in extracurricular activities and multiplying overnight in the dishwasher, leading to this shocking headline:

THE DISH ON SCANDAL

Steamy doings have hapless hubby in hot water

The answer to the third question: Because I’m too stupid to protect my hands so a daily deluge won’t rot them to the bone.

Other dishwashing dilemmas include the question of whether knives and forks should be put up or down in the cutlery basket. It’s like whether toilet paper should go over the top or under the bottom of the roller or whether the toilet seat should be up or down.

Even with all that’s going on in the world, these are among the most important issues facing a married couple, especially if the lesser half happens to be yours truly.

On that note, there is the conundrum about loading and unloading the dishwasher and whether, as is often claimed by the better half of a married couple, no man knows how to do either one properly.

The former because he can’t economize when arranging glasses and mugs on the top or bowls and plates on the bottom; the latter because he likely doesn’t know, even after decades of living in the house, where anything goes.

So Sue, tired of listening to me curse up a storm at a maddening contraption, ordered a new bottom rack.

She called the manufacturer and got the best deal possible: It was free.

The rack arrived a few days later and has ensured peace in the kitchen. Now I can put bowls between the tines without suffering an attack of apoplexy.

Next up: Buying a pair of rubber gloves. Then I’ll really be a hands-on bottle washer.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Seeing Is Believing"

By Jerry Zezima

For a double-visionary like me, the daily dilemma is not whether I can’t find my eyeglasses, in which case I would need a pair in order to find them, but why I forgot to bring them upstairs so I can see well enough to write drivel like this.

Until a few months ago, the only glasses I needed were the kind that hold beer or wine. Then I discovered I was farsighted, not to the point of being able predict the winning Powerball numbers, but being unable to clearly see things that were up close, such as letters that appeared to be fruit flies, tiny Volkswagen Beetles or the symbols for chemicals like boron.

That made it difficult to read what I was writing, which may actually have improved it.

So I got a pair of “readers,” which are nonprescription glasses so cheap that the price won’t knock your eyes out.

My wife, Sue, has what she estimates are “90 pairs” of readers scattered around the house, though I would put the number at no more than six dozen.

While my readers enabled me to see much better when I was reading or writing, they presented two problems:

1. They turned out to be women’s glasses.

2. I would always forget to bring them upstairs (to write columns and delete emails urging me to buy eyeglasses) or downstairs (to read the comics and peruse bills that I would throw out anyway).

The first problem was discovered by my two adult daughters, who wear glasses themselves. They and their mother were sitting at the kitchen table as I was catching up on the latest sports scores.

I soon heard chuckling. I looked up and saw three blurry people because my readers were not meant for distance.

“What’s the matter?” I wondered.

“You’re wearing women’s glasses!” one of my daughters said.

“No, I’m not,” I insisted, explaining that I had gone to CVS and gotten my readers from the men’s stand.

“A woman who didn’t want them probably put them there by mistake,” my other daughter said.

I turned to Sue and asked, “Are they right?”

“I don’t know,” she answered, very likely because she was wearing the wrong glasses.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Who’s going to see them anyhow?”

But I began to worry about the second problem: I was risking cardiac arrest by constantly having to go up and down the stairs to fetch my glasses.

“I need more glasses,” I told Sue.

“Let’s go online,” she suggested.

I had to put on my readers to see the selections that appeared on the screen.

“Are these men’s glasses?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Sue. “See, it says so right here, next to the picture of a man wearing glasses.”

“They’re very fashionable,” I said.

“And you get a three-pack for only $19.99,” Sue pointed out.

“I’m worth every penny,” I said. “Let’s order them.”

The glasses arrived two days later. I opened the box and tried on a pair.

“What do you think?” I asked Sue.

She had to take off her reading glasses and put on a pair for distance to see my new readers.

“They look really nice!” she said approvingly. “Can you see better?”

I looked at my phone and said, “Perfectly.”

“Where are you going to put them?” Sue wondered.

“I’ll put a pair in the kitchen and one upstairs in my office,” I said.

“What about the third pair?” she asked.

“Maybe I’ll put them in the bathroom,” I said. “It’s where I do some of my best reading.”

“And they’re men’s glasses,” Sue pointed out.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m a vision in them.”

Sue rolled her bespectacled eyes.

“You have to admit,” I said, “these new glasses really give me specs appeal.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"A Sound Idea for Deterring Scammers"

By Jerry Zezima

I don’t want to toot my own horn — that’s because I can’t play the tuba and tooting is rude, especially at the dinner table — but I have come up with a brilliant way to get rid of all those irritating scammers who call me every day, at all hours, especially when I am at the dinner table.

I bought an air horn and successfully used it on a real estate agent who called to ask, not for the first time, if I wanted to sell my house.

Her ears, if not her phone, must still be ringing.

I was moved to desperation after getting approximately 11,248 calls in the span of a week and a half, not only from real estate agents, but from relentless idiots trying to pass themselves off as bankers (“Your loan has been approved”), auto insurance reps (“We are calling about your car’s extended warranty”), even IRS agents (“Pay now or face the consequences”), most of whom speak a language that is not English and seem to be calling from: (a) their basement, (b) Tibet or (c) another planet.

I tried everything to fend off these hateful scammers.

One morning, the house phone rang. When I picked up, a telemarketer said, “Is Mrs. Zezima there?”

“No, she isn’t,” I answered.

“Are you Mr. Zezima?” he inquired.

“No,” I replied. “I’m a burglar. Make it fast. I have to get out of this house before the cops get here.”

He hung up and never called again.

I pulled the same kind of stunt recently when my mother was in the hospital. The phone in her room rang. It was, I swear to God, someone who wanted to sell her health insurance.

“This is Dr. Zezima,” I said. “I’m about to perform brain surgery, but I have an opening this afternoon, so I can operate on you, too. Do you have health insurance?”

The woman hung up.

A little while later, my mother’s room phone rang again. This time it was a man who wanted to sell her health insurance.

“I’m Sgt. Zezima of the police department,” I informed him. “We are tracing this call.”

The guy hung up.

My mother was vastly amused because laughter is, of course, the best medicine. And the cheapest. She is now out of the hospital and doing well.

My wife, Sue, and I routinely get calls from scammers who keep calling if we don’t pick up and won’t shut up if we do.

Some are downright nasty.

Two can play at this game, I figured, so I came up with what I thought was a stroke of genius: I would buy an air horn and use it on the next scammer.

“This is one of the dumbest ideas you have ever had,” Sue told me.

Undeterred, I went online and spent a grand total of $7.99 for an air horn. It arrived a couple of days later.

“Powerful sound blast,” it said on the package. “Alert for safety and distress. Meets U.S. Coast Guard requirements for boats up to 65 feet.”

I tested it out in the kitchen. Sue practically ricocheted off the ceiling.

“You almost blew my eardrums out!” she cried.

To which I replied, “What?”

The next day, the house phone rang. I picked up. A woman whose voice sounded familiar asked if I wanted to sell my house.

“Stop calling!” I demanded.

She kept talking.

So I put my air horn next to the phone and let loose.

I imagined the wax shooting like molten lava out of her ear.

“Are you there?” I asked.

No answer. She had hung up.

It worked!

“I guess it wasn’t such a dumb idea after all,” Sue admitted.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Now I have good reason to toot my own horn.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"If the Slippers Fit, Buy Them"

By Jerry Zezima

I am a human Bigfoot. I am taking the bold step of admitting this for two unsettling reasons: 

1. My feet seem to be getting bigger.

2. The most fashionable shoes I own are a brand-new pair of slippers.

The alarming increase in the length, width and overall size of my already tremendous tootsies was evident when I purchased the aforementioned soft and comfy footwear, which I wear not just around the house, but to throw out the garbage, get the mail and, if I am too lazy to put on sneakers, run errands in.

Speaking of sneakers, for most of my adult life, which according to many people has yet to begin, I have worn size 11. But when I purchased the pair before the ones I currently wear, I found out that my feet had widened and that I am now, fittingly, size 11 wide.

Last year, when I bought a pair of slides to replace the faded rubber ones I had been wearing since the second Bush administration, I found that I needed size 13 because my feet had apparently ballooned to the dimension of dinghies.

“Do they come with oars?” I asked a young sales associate.

“No,” he said.

“Will I need a boating license?” I wondered.

“Not unless you wear them in the water,” he answered, adding that slides — like every kind of footwear, including sneakers and, yes, slippers — run a little small.

I didn’t even bother to ask how they could run if I wasn’t in them.

Now I have purchased a new pair of slippers because the old ones look like a couple of deceased wolverines.

My wife, Sue, who thinks I have the ugliest feet on earth and is not shy about saying so, went to a store to buy slippers for me because they would be cheaper than the ones I wanted to order from the catalogue of a national clothing chain.

“They’re $80!” she protested. “I can get you the same pair for $24 and save at least half that with my store coupons.”

My wife, God bless her, would spare no expense for me!

I was feeling good about the financial windfall when Sue came home with a pair of slippers that were size 10-11.

I tried them on. Or, rather, I tried to try them on, but I couldn’t jam in my colossal dogs without cutting off the blood flow to my lower extremities.

And this was with my bare feet. I wear socks with slippers when I am going on an important mission to pick up pizza or Chinese food.

The next day I put on my sneakers and went to the store with Sue to exchange the slippers for the next size, which was 12-13.

Not only that, but I wanted to make sure the pair I got were fashionable. That means they had to be tan — I like a neutral color that will go with pajamas or sweatpants, part of my geezer ensemble — and not have laces.

Laces on slippers are stupid because they look terrible and, even worse, don’t stay tied. Plus, they do nothing to help the slippers fit properly.

“It looks like my feet are growing,” I told a nice salesperson named Theresa.

“What size do you usually wear?” she asked.

“Eleven,” I said.

“These slippers cover two sizes,” Theresa explained. “If the 10-11s are too small, you’ll need 12-13s.”

I brought my ratty old slippers for comparison.

“They’ve seen better days,” Theresa acknowledged.

“Put them back in the bag,” Sue whispered to me. “They smell.”

I took the 12-13s, which fit like gloves (maybe I can wear them on my hands, too), and was amazed at the savings we got with Sue’s coupons.

“Do you like your new slippers?” she asked when we got home.

“They’re priceless,” I said. “And now I’ll really be fashionable when I take out the garbage.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima