"Pillow Talk"

By Jerry Zezima

Everyone knows that heat rises. Everyone also knows that I am full of hot air. Therefore, you could say with scientific certainty that I am an airhead.

But you would be wrong. That’s because, according to a respected sleep specialist, my head doesn’t get sufficient air.

That was the alarming finding in a sleep study I can’t fully remember because: (a) the oxygen level in my brain was low and (b) I was asleep.

“Losing air during sleep puts pressure on the brain,” Dr. Mohammad Amin told me during a meeting in his office.

“I didn’t think I had much brain activity to begin with,” I said.

“You have a good brain,” Dr. Amin assured me. “And a smart body.”

“Does that mean my backside is more intelligent than my cranium?” I wondered.

“No, it means that during the sleep study, you shifted positions so you could be more comfortable,” the good doctor said as he showed me a printout of the results.

Not surprisingly, I couldn’t make head or tail of them.

Listed under Patient Data was information about Recording Time (468.5-493.1 minutes), Total Sleep Time (339-372.9 minutes), Stage N3 (73 minutes) and Stage REM (39 minutes).

“REM is deep sleep,” Dr. Amin explained. “Most of your sleep during the study was shallow.”

“Is that because the bed wasn’t too high off the floor?” I inquired.

He looked at me like I still wasn’t getting sufficient oxygen to my brain.

“Your sleep was interrupted by a breathing problem,” Dr. Amin said as he went over Respiratory Data.

Then he discussed Body Position.

“Do you know what your favorite position was?” he asked.

“Centerfield?” I guessed.

“It was your left side,” he said. “You also spent time on your right side, though you began by lying on your back.”

“I knew you would have my back,” I said.

“You switched positions throughout the night,” Dr. Amin told me.

Finally, we discussed Snores, the recordings of which were on a scale that looked, truthfully, like a polygraph.

“The highest decibel was 8,” he said. “Yours was 2, which is not bad.”

“My wife would disagree,” I countered.

“The big concern is lack of oxygen,” Dr. Amin said. “It puts pressure on your brain and heart.”

He elaborated by saying I had PVC.

“I know,” I said. “The fence in our front yard is PVC.”

“The kind I’m talking about is Premature Ventricular Contraction,” the doctor said. “It affects the heart, which doesn’t like low oxygen.”

“What do you recommend?” I asked.

“You should get a CPAP machine,” he said, referring to a device that treats sleep apnea. 

“Is that what I have?” I inquired.

“Yes,” Dr. Amin said. “You have a moderate case. With the CPAP, your snoring will go away and your heart and brain will be much happier with good oxygen.”

He added that the machine, which used to be bulky, isn’t much larger than a clock radio.

“You can put it on the nightstand next to your bed,” the doctor said, adding that I would be hooked up to it with a mask and tubing.

“Won’t it bother my wife?” I asked.

“Not at all,” Dr. Amin answered. “Right now, what bothers her the most?”

“My stupid jokes,” I said.

“How about snoring?” he said.

“That, too,” I conceded. “My wife devised what she calls a snore shield. She stands a pillow between us like a wall.”

“Does it work?” Dr. Amin asked.

“Not at all,” I answered.

“The CPAP will fix the problem,” he promised.

“Will it prevent me from telling stupid jokes?” I wondered.

“No,” Dr. Amin said. “Maybe you can invent a machine for that.”

“You mean like a joke shield?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“OK,” I said. “I’ll sleep on it.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Stuck on Post-its"

By Jerry Zezima

When you get to be my age (old enough to know better), it’s hard to remember things. At least I think so. I can’t remember.

So you’d think modern technology would be helpful, but it isn’t.

There’s artificial intelligence. Let me tell you something: I was born with artificial intelligence. It doesn’t work.

Then there’s the calendar app, or the notes app, or whatever app on your phone that you can use to remember upcoming doctor’s appointments, haircuts, oil changes or anything else you have coming up. Unfortunately, I would need my grandchildren to help me, but I don’t see them every day.

So I rely on the best device ever invented for (with apologies to Marcel Proust) a remembrance of things fast.

I refer, of course, to Post-it Notes.

The little square sticky pieces of paper, which come in lots of delightful colors, are my main means of keeping track of all the things I have to do every day of my action-packed life.

“I see you have all your events lined up,” said my wife, Sue, referring to the half-dozen Post-it Notes stuck to the bottom my computer screen.

“I have a busy schedule,” I replied, noting (get it?) that I had a dental appointment on Monday, a Zoom meeting on Wednesday, a phone call and a doctor’s appointment on Thursday and several other things — including another doctor’s appointment, an out-of-town speech, a haircut and a car servicing — in the following two weeks.

“How come you don’t use Post-it Notes?” I asked Sue.

“Because,” she answered, “I have all kinds of pads.”

They are downstairs, on the kitchen counter, next to a small plastic container jammed with approximately two dozen pens, half of which don’t work.

The individual pieces of paper on the pads, which are larger than Post-it Notes, don’t have a strip on the back so you can stick them to whatever — computer, wall, refrigerator, mirror or, when I run out of space, forehead — you use as a bulletin board.

I’ll stick with Post-it Notes. I use so many, however, that I recently ran out and had to run out to an office supply store to replenish my office supply.

“Post-it Notes are among our most popular items,” said Dominick, the general manager. “They fly off the shelves.”

“How can they fly off if they’re stuck?” I wondered.

“Good question,” said Dominick.

“Do a lot of people my age buy Post-it Notes?” I asked.

“How old are you?” Dominick asked in return.

“I’m 71,” I told him.

“You look a lot younger,” he said.

“I credit immaturity,” I replied. “But if I didn’t use Post-its, I wouldn’t remember anything.”

“People of all ages use them,” said Dominick, who’s 25.

“Does that include you?” I inquired.

“Yes,” he said. “I have a bunch in my office. They’re for tasks to be completed.”

“I can’t figure out how to put notes or appointments in my phone,” I confessed.

“Neither can I,” Dominick said.

“What age group uses Post-its the most?” I asked.

“Believe it or not,” said Dominick, “middle school and high school students. It’s on their supply list.”

“My oldest grandchild just turned 12. She’ll be in middle school this fall,” I said. “She’s a whiz on all kinds of devices. She shows me how to use them.”

“When she gets to middle school, you can buy her Post-it Notes,” Dominick suggested.

“And I’ll show her how to use them,” I added.

“We have pens,” Dominick said.

“Do they work?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said. “They’re new.”

“Great,” I said. “I’ll buy some for my wife, too. Most of hers are out of ink.”

“You can also buy her Post-it Notes,” Dominick said.

“Good idea,” I said. “I’ll write it down on one of mine so I remember.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Stairway to Houseplant Heaven"

By Jerry Zezima

Now that my office has new flooring and is finally so clean that it could win an award from Good Housekeeping, I am turning over a new leaf.

Actually, 17 new leaves, which belong to a houseplant that my wife, Sue, gave to me so I could have someone (or something) to talk to when I am lonely or need inspiration so I can write drivel like this.

The plant is, fittingly, a dumb cane, which now has a dumb owner. It is known by the scientific name of Dieffenbachia, although I have named it Robert, after Robert Plant, the lead singer of the classic rock group Led Zeppelin.

I am calling our dynamic duo Led Zezima.

That’s why, according to Sue, I have to give Robert a whole lotta love. This includes watering him, talking to him and tending to his every need, which wouldn’t seem to be too extensive for a brainless creature that doesn’t do much.

Same goes for the plant.

Robert is one of 25 potted pals scattered around the house. The other 24 don’t have names because, let’s face it, they wouldn’t answer if you called them anyway.

But Robert is special. He’s my responsibility and I will do everything in my power to help him thrive except — this is where I draw the line — put him through college.

Sue is responsible for all the other houseplants because she has a green thumb. I think she should see a dermatologist.

They include seven Christmas cactuses that Sue said don’t know it’s not Christmas. And I thought my plant was dumb.

Nonetheless, the cactuses (didn’t the plural used to be cacti?) are downstairs in the living room and are blooming.

“They enjoy being by the triple window,” said Sue, adding that they are on the west side of the house.

Across the room, on the east side, are four plants of undetermined identity. They seem to be doing well, too.

“These guys,” I said, pointing to three small plants on the TV console, “look great.”

Sue sighed and said, “Those are fake!”

In the family room, also on the east side, are several plants, including one that Sue got at a high school reunion dinner and another she got when she had a heart attack.

Nearby, facing the south side, are an African violet and a purple plant that Sue calls “the purple plant.”

“They like it here,” she said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“They told me,” Sue answered.

In the kitchen, on either side of my chair at the table, are a poinsettia and a citronella that menace me when I am eating. It’s a good thing there isn’t a Venus flytrap or I would be dinner.

Speaking of which, in the dining room, facing the west side, are two unidentified plants, one of which Sue got a few years ago from a student at a school where she was a teacher’s assistant.

Sue put an ice cube in its pot. When it melts (the cube, not the pot), the plant can drink.

“Won’t it catch cold?” I wondered.

“Of course not,” she replied.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “I’ve never heard a plant sneeze.”

My plant, the only one that lives upstairs, is nothing to sneeze at. He’s healthy and handsome, he gets watered every Saturday and he sits by a window facing east, where the sun rises (last I checked) every morning.

“You’re doing a good job,” said Sue. “Robert seems very happy.”

“That’s because I talk to him,” I said.

“Does he answer?” Sue wanted to know.

“No,” I replied.

“Do you sing Led Zeppelin songs to him?” she asked.

“He doesn’t seem interested,” I answered.

“Maybe,” said Sue, “he’s not so dumb after all.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima