Jerry Zezima

"Snow Way We'll Get a Blizzard"

2012-01-20T03:40:00.001-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a man who has been perpetrating snow jobs for more than half a century, I can say with authority that there is a simple reason why the Northeast has not yet been hit with a blizzard this winter: I had my snow blower tuned up.

Because I have brain freeze when it comes to preparing for the white stuff, I appreciated the reminder I got in the mail recently from Carl’s Equipment and Supply in Patchogue, N.Y., where my parents bought the snow blower for me almost 10 years ago.

On the card was this convincing line: “He who hesitates shovels!”

That’s exactly what I had to do two days before Christmas in 2009, when 2 feet of snow fell on my driveway. When it comes to snow removal, I am a wuss, which stands for “wait until spring starts.” But my younger daughter, Lauren, and her then-fiance (and now husband), Guillaume, had to fly to France for the holiday. Their flight was still on, but their limo driver wimped out, which meant they needed a ride to the airport from Dad’s Livery and Onion Service (“Driving You Crazy Since 1980”).

I tried to use the Little Snow Blower That Couldn’t, but it gasped when it saw the winter wonderland and said, “I think I can’t, I think I can’t.” Then it coughed, wheezed and breathed its last.

So I had to risk myocardial infarction, which is even worse than what it sounds like, by digging out with a plastic shovel only slightly bigger than the spoon I use to eat my morning cereal. Thankfully, my neighbor Ron came over with his snow blower and cleared the rest of the driveway so Lauren and Guillaume could make their flight.

The same thing happened -- minus the airport trip -- the day after Christmas in 2010, when we were hit with Snowmageddon.

After the freak October snowstorm of 2011, which spared my part of Long Island but socked my home state of Connecticut, I decided to get my snow blower fixed before the planet, contrary to evidence of global warming, was gripped by another ice age.

“Climate change could depend on you,” said Dawn, the service manager at Carl’s. “It’s a good thing you brought your snow blower in.”

That’s more than she could say for some other customers, like the guy who stuck his hand in a snow blower after he started it to see if it was working.

“He came back with bloody fingers,” Dawn recalled. “He said, ‘I thought I could do that.’ I said, ‘Duh! No, you can’t.’ Some people just shouldn’t own equipment.”

“Even I’m not that stupid,” I said. “Of course, my snow blower can’t hurt me because it won’t start.”

“We’ll fix that,” Dawn promised.

Sure enough, the following week, my snow blower was running like new.

“We rebuilt the carburetor, put in a new fuel filter and replaced the spark plug,” said Dawn, who showed me the proper way to start my snow blower. “Make sure you put it on choke,” she advised.

“When it wouldn’t start, I wanted to choke it,” I replied.

This time, it started right away.

“You’re good to go,” Dawn said. “This guarantees we won’t get another Snowmageddon. And you can take all the credit.”

I realize I am violating my own rule of meteorological journalism (“Never write about the weather unless it’s for the next day’s paper -- and even then you’re likely to be wrong”), so we could be hit with a blizzard right around the time this column runs. Still, I like to think I have done my part to make this a good winter so far.

And just to make sure we don’t have any floods this summer, I’ll get my lawn mower tuned up.

"Let's Get Physical"

2012-01-13T03:46:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Even though I was recently edged out by Hollywood hunk Bradley Cooper as People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, I am proud to say that, for a guy with an AARP card, I still have a boyish figure. So I wasn’t surprised when a personal trainer said that I have more fat in my head than I do on my body.

Del Davis, who also has a boyish figure, as well as an AARP card, made the calculation during my complimentary four-day membership at Eastern Athletic, a health club in Melville, N.Y.

Aside from adhering to a strict regimen of 12-ounce curls, I hadn’t worked out in decades. I may not be flabby, but I’m often winded just from getting up at night to go to the bathroom. Del had the unenviable task of whipping me back into shape without prompting People to name me Sexiest Man Deceased.

Del, who has been a personal trainer for 25 years, has amazing abs, bulging biceps, tremendous triceps and other massive muscles. He also has youth on his side because he’s 10 days younger than I am.

“You’re just a kid,” I told him before my first workout. “No wonder you look so good.”

“I am going to make you look good, too,” said Del, who has won several bodybuilding championships in the United States and Canada, including the coveted title of Mr. Apollo.

“In college,” I said, “I was known as Mr. Heineken.”

For that reason alone, I should have keeled over 30 seconds after Del put me on a treadmill. Surprisingly, I survived the initial one-hour session, which included stints on a stretching machine and a pull-up machine. I also lifted weights.

“It’s appropriate that I’m using dumbbells,” I said, “because I am one.”

“Not at all,” Del replied. “I’m very impressed. If I didn’t know you haven’t exercised in years, I’d say you have been working out.”

Fat chance. Which is why I was stunned at the beginning of my next session, a week later, to find out that I am a lean, mean geezer machine. Del took my height (6 feet) and weight (170 pounds) and programmed the information into a small device that measures fat content. After I held it up in front of me, Del said that I have only 19 percent fat.

“I have 18 percent, so your fat percentage is great,” said Del, adding that the average person has about 25 percent.

“Most of the fat must be in my head,” I said.

“Definitely,” Del replied.

The rest of the session was spent on an ab machine, a leg press and a back machine. I didn’t even break a sweat, though I was wearing sweatpants.

“Muscles have memory,” said Del.

“Mine are too old to remember anything,” I noted.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Your muscles are bouncing back.”

They were crying out in pain the following week, when Del stepped it up by making me step up on a machine called the versatile climber.

“Be like Spider-Man,” he said.

“Spidey never needed CPR,” I responded, huffing and puffing and almost blowing the gym down.

The rest of the session, which included a stint on a rowing machine (“I’m not going anywhere,” I said) and a workout with a medicine ball (“I’m going to need medicine after this”), was equally intense.

“You did well,” Del said afterward. “I didn’t even have to call an ambulance.”

The last of the four sessions was, by comparison, a breeze. I got back on the versatile climber, did pushups, pumped iron and did bench dips. But the workout was more invigorating than tiring.

When it was all over, Del gave me an evaluation. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, I scored as follows: stamina, 10; agility, 8; strength, 9; fat percentage, 10; pushups, 9; dips, 10.

“And you don’t even do anything,” Del said. “I’m shocked. If you worked out regularly, you’d be off the charts. Overall, you’re a perfect 10.”

Take that, Bradley Cooper.

"That's All, Volts"

2011-12-23T04:21:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Whenever people admire my thick head of wild and crazy hair and ask how I keep it looking that way, I tell them I stick my tongue in an electrical outlet. That’s why I was shocked recently when a fuse blew on what turned out to be a bad hair day.

This time, however, the electrical problem was caused by my wife, Sue, whose hair is much nicer and more manageable than mine, primarily because she irons it. Just so you don’t think she puts her head on an ironing board and presses her beautiful tresses the way she presses her beautiful dresses, Sue uses a flatiron to straighten her naturally curly hair.

One morning, Sue was using the flatiron in our bathroom, which is the house’s flatiron district, when she blew a fuse. Not only did the lights in the bathroom go out, so did the lights, the clock radio and the ceiling fan in our bedroom, as well as the lights and the ceiling fan in an adjacent bedroom. We tried to restore power by flicking the circuit breakers in the fuse box, but nothing worked.

I didn’t want to be kept in the dark any more than I usually am, so I called Shawn, who owns Luminaire Electric in Yaphank, N.Y. Shawn sent over his top man, Jose, who had done excellent work for us before and even showed me how to change a light bulb.

This job was a bit more complicated because it entailed working with wires that, if crossed, could have electrocuted me, though my hair would have looked nice.

“You have to know what you’re doing,” said Jose, who knew I didn’t. He added that even an experienced electrician can get the shock of his life if he isn’t careful. That’s what happened to a co-worker who was splicing wires.

“I saw him shaking,” Jose recalled. “I thought he was joking because he has a good sense of humor and is always kidding around. Then he went backward and fell over, like a piece of wood. He was lying on the floor with his hands and feet sticking up in the air. He looked like a table that was upside down. I said, ‘Are you OK?’ He was all right, but he was really stunned. Since that day, he doesn’t joke around anymore.”

Jose wasn’t joking when he told me that our problem was potentially hazardous because of faulty wiring. He traced the trouble to the next bedroom, not the bathroom, and said the wires were old. He fixed them in the bathroom and both bedrooms and suggested that we eventually update our entire electrical system.

He also suggested we go easy with the flatiron and the hair dryer.

“They use a lot of power,” said Jose, adding that his wife, like Sue, uses a flatiron to straighten her naturally curly hair. “Women spend too much money on their hair,” he said.

When I admitted that I sometimes use a hair dryer, Jose said, “My father-in-law uses one, too. I always say to him, ‘You mean you can’t even go out without blow-drying your hair?’ He says no. I don’t understand it.”

Jose, who has a full head of thick brown hair, doesn’t use a flatiron or a hair dryer.

“I use glue,” he said, removing his cap to show off his spiked hairdo. “It’s like a gel but stronger. In the summer, when I sweat, it drips into my eyes. Sometimes I don’t even want to have hair.”

“Maybe that’s the answer to preventing blown fuses,” I said.

“Our wives wouldn’t like it,” Jose replied. “That’s why the electric bill is so high.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “It’s enough to make your hair stand on end.”

"Christmas Letter 2011"

2011-12-09T04:57:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

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 once again 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; Sue, the matriarch; Katie and Lauren, the childriarchs; and Dave and Guillaume, the sons-in-lawiarch. Happy reading!

Dear friend(s):

It sure has been an exciting 2011 for the Zezimas! The highlight of the year was when Lauren and Guillaume got married. Twice.

The first (and official) wedding was in France on April 30, the day after Prince William and Kate Middleton got hitched in England. It was nice of the royal couple to be the opening act for Lauren and Guillaume, who had what was referred to in the press (or at least in Jerry’s column) as the Wedding of the Century.

The trip to France was magnificent (magnifique) and memorable (memorable) because Jerry mastered the entire French language on the plane ride over and remembered enough curse words to use them effectively when his and Sue’s luggage got lost. It showed up one day before the wedding.

Still, the hospitality of Guillaume’s wonderful (merveilleux) family and the beautiful (beau or belle, take your pick) ceremony made everything perfect.

The second event, for the people from here who couldn’t make it there, was held on Long Island, N.Y., on June 5. It gave Lauren and Guillaume one more wedding than William and Kate had. This prompted Jerry to write the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge a letter to thank them for playing second fiddle to the real royal couple. William and Kate wrote back (actually, it was their secretary, Mrs. Claudia Holloway, but close enough) to extend their best wishes to Lauren and Guillaume. The letter will be framed and hung in a prominent place (though not over the throne) in the House of Zezima.

Speaking of travels, Katie and Dave went back to college. They moved from Boston, where they went to college the first time, to Ann Arbor, Mich., where Katie got a fellowship to the University of Michigan. Not only don’t they have to take tests, but they get to travel to places like South America and Turkey. Best of all: No tuition payments for Sue and Jerry!

And speaking of school, Sue and Jerry attended their 40th high school reunion. They laughed, danced and reminisced with old friends. Everyone looked great, especially Sue. Jerry recalled his days as the class clown, except this time he wasn’t sent to the principal’s office.

On the financial front, Sue, Jerry and Lauren had a tag sale. Though they had plenty of liquid assets (Bloody Marys), they actually lost money. And the garage is still full of stuff. Next time, they are going to give cocktails to the customers.

On the medical front, Jerry has been waging a yearlong battle with kidney stones. One was removed, but another one remains. This, too, shall pass. That’s more than the doctor can say for the rocks in Jerry’s head.

On a sad note, Jerry’s dad, the original and best Jerry Zezima, passed away at age 93. He was beloved by everyone in the family and is missed every day. He was Jerry’s hero, not just because he was a great guy, but because he introduced Jerry to such lasting influences as Looney Tunes, Laurel and Hardy and “The Honeymooners.” The applehead didn’t fall far from the tree.

Well, that’s the news from here. Merry Christmas with love and laughter from the Zezimas.

"The Price Isn't Right"

2011-11-25T05:03:00.001-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Get-rich-quick schemes are a dime a dozen, which means you’d have to have dozens of them to get rich.

But my wife, Sue, and I recently came up with a get-poor-quick scheme: We had a tag sale. There were plenty of tags but not many sales. To make matters worse, we actually lost money. And our garage is still full of stuff.

To run a tag sale, you need two things: stuff and Bloody Marys. We had a lot more stuff than we had Bloody Marys, but the Bloody Marys went faster than the stuff.

Joining us in this disastrous venture was our younger daughter, Lauren, who had a lot of her own stuff in our garage and brought over even more stuff from her apartment. Lauren’s husband, Guillaume, wisely spent most of the day inside, going through a baseball card collection that is probably worth more than all of our stuff combined.

Among the items we put out in the driveway and on the front lawn were: two pairs of crutches ($5 and $10), the Bubble Mate Foot Bubbler ($10), a wok ($5), a dog cage ($20), a pair of ice skates ($5), two artificial Christmas trees ($10 and $20) and a painting of two barns in a field ($15), plus lots of clothes (reasonably priced) and costume jewelry (ditto).

The sale began at 10 a.m. Sue, Lauren and I sat on chairs in the driveway with a cash box (empty) and glasses of Bloody Marys (full), ready to do a brisk business.

At 11 a.m., a guy named Marty came by. “Times must be tough if you’re having a tag sale,” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I’m dependently wealthy.”

“What do you mean?” Marty asked.

“I’m depending on you to make me wealthy,” I said.

Marty left without buying anything.

“You’re driving customers away,” Sue told me.

“We’ll have to sell you,” Lauren chimed in.

“And take a loss,” Sue said.

“Who loses money at their own tag sale?” Lauren wondered.

“We do,” Sue noted.

“It’s pathetic,” said Lauren, adding, “Who wants another Bloody Mary?”

At 11:30, we made our first sale. A woman named Rosa admired the watercolor of the barns. “I painted it myself,” I said.

“Really?” Rosa chirped.

“No,” I admitted.

“Ten dollars,” she offered. It was five bucks less than the price on the tag. I drive a hard bargain, so I said, “Sold!”

A man named J.R. drove up with his children, Ana, 5, and James, 3, who wanted Lauren’s art set. I played hide-and-seek with the kids as J.R. handed Lauren $10, which she put in the cash box.

“Bye, Jerry!” the kids shouted from the car as J.R. drove away.

A woman who stopped with her adult daughter told us that she had recently been in a car accident. “If you get into another one,” I said helpfully, “we have crutches.”

No sale.

A young guy showed up to look at the jewelry. “I made it when I was in prison,” I told him.

“You did a nice job,” he said.

“I had a lot of time,” I replied.

“Prisoners generally do,” said the guy, who bought $12 worth of rings and earrings for his wife.

By 3 p.m., the official end of the sale, there was $55 in the cash box. We lugged most of the unsold stuff back into the garage and sent out for dinner, which came to $67.

“Next time we have a tag sale,” Lauren said, “we should give Bloody Marys to the customers. Maybe then we’ll make a profit.”

"Royal Response"

2011-11-11T04:12:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

On behalf of Prince William, an heir to the throne of the House of Windsor, which is in Buckingham Palace, and myself, an heir to the throne of the House of Zezima, which is in an upstairs bathroom, I am happy to announce that the centuries-old feud between our two families is finally over.

It was all a misunderstanding, as I explained in a letter I wrote earlier this year to William and his lovely bride, Kate, who were married in England the day before my younger daughter, Lauren, and her handsome groom, Guillaume, were married in France.

The letter read, in part, as follows:

“Dear William and Kate:

“I am writing somewhat belatedly to congratulate the two of you on your nuptials and to welcome you back from your honeymoon in the Seychelles....

“You must know that the Zezimas and the Windsors have had a chilly relationship since the Revolution, when an ancestor of mine, John Quincy Zezima, a columnist for the Colonial Advocate, wrote an investigative piece exposing King George’s war plans, thus leading to the Empire’s defeat.

“The fact that my parents were not invited to the coronation of Queen Elizabeth or that my wife, Sue, and I were not on the guest list for the wedding of Charles and Diana is further proof of the chasm between our two families.

“Naturally, I was hurt when Sue and I weren’t invited to your wedding, but then I realized that you knew we would be otherwise engaged with the big event for Lauren and Guillaume. And since we knew the two of you were getting married the day before, we didn’t send you, Charles, the Queen or anyone else in your family an invitation, though I admit the courtesy would have been nice. For that, I apologize.”

I went on to describe the wonderful time we had at Lauren and Guillaume’s wedding and concluded:

“Now that we are back to our normal lives, I just want to say that Sue and I wish the two of you nothing but the best. I am sure your family wishes the same for Lauren and Guillaume.

“I hope this letter helps thaw the relationship between the Zezimas and the Windsors and that someday we can all get together to exchange wedding pictures. In the meantime, keep a stiff upper lip and give our best to the Queen.”

I sent the letter to William and Kate, hoping but not really expecting to hear back. Imagine my surprise and delight when the following letter arrived in the mail recently.

“St. James’s Palace

“From: The Office of TRH The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and HRH Prince Henry of Wales

“Private and Confidential

“25th October, 2011

“Dear Mr. Zezima,

“The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have asked me to thank you for your letter of 15th July.

“Their Royal Highnesses are grateful to you for taking the trouble to write as you did and were touched by your kind words of support.

“The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have asked me to send you their warmest thanks together with their belated congratulations to Lauren and Guillaume.

“Sincerely,

“Mrs. Claudia Holloway”

In case you are wondering, Mrs. Holloway, who signed the letter with a distinctive flourish in royal blue ink, is head of correspondence for the royal family, which receives about 30,000 letters a year.

I don’t know how Mrs. Holloway can still feed herself, much less sign all those letters, but I appreciate her response and the warm wishes extended by the Duke and Duchess.

Of course, we will have the letter framed and hung in a prominent place in our home, although it won’t go above the throne because, God help us, it would be kind of tacky.

Now that the Zezimas and the Windsors are back on good terms, we can’t wait until Prince Harry gets married. I’m sure an invitation will be in the mail.

"Confessions of a Class Clown"

2011-10-28T03:57:00.001-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If life begins at 40, I am 17 years old, which was exactly my age when I graduated from high school 40 years ago.

This was the belated math lesson I learned recently when my wife, Sue, and I attended our 40th high school reunion.

We are both proud members of the Stamford Catholic High School Class of 1971. I was the class clown, even though, still crazy after all these years, I have no class.

My goal in life was to be silly and irresponsible and actually get paid for it, which is why I went into journalism. My decision could be encapsulated in one word: algebra.

Here, as I dimly recall, which is how I recall most things these days, is the typical algebra problem:

The Smiths are leaving New York for Boston at 9 a.m., averaging 55 mph. The Joneses are leaving Boston for New York at 10 a.m., averaging 50 mph.

Question: At what point in the 200-mile journey will they pass each other?

Answer: Who cares?

This was my attitude toward high school algebra, which explains why I got a D, which stood, of course, for Dumb.

I always did better in classes where I really didn’t have to know the answers. I was especially good on essay tests because I could bluff my way through them. If high schools gave BS degrees, I would have graduated magna cum laude.

In an English class, each of us was assigned to write an essay on the same topic (I forget what it was) and get up in front of the class to read it. Nobody wanted to do this -- except me. Everybody took it seriously -- except me.

I wrote the silliest, stupidest, craziest, funniest stuff I could think of. When it was my turn, I got up in front of the class, read my essay and got big laughs. I thought: Maybe I could do this for a living.

All the teachers at Catholic High were extremely supportive. Even though they were too kind to say so, they strongly implied that I was spectacularly unqualified to do anything else.

One teacher, a very smart, decent and patient guy, wore an obvious toupee. I’d often go up to him and say, “What’s on your mind?”

Yes, it was sophomoric. Then again, I had his class in sophomore year.

Another teacher, also a terrific guy, caught me playing floor hockey in home room. He told me to go home that night and write, 100 times, on lined paper and in my best handwriting, “I will not play floor hockey in class,” and bring the paper back to him the next morning.

“Very good, Mr. Zezima,” the teacher said when he saw I had completed my punishment. “I hope you have learned your lesson.” Then he gave the paper back to me.

Instead of throwing it out, I put it in my notebook. The following week, I was caught playing floor hockey again. The teacher once more assigned me to write, 100 times, “I will not play floor hockey in class.”

I went home that night and watched TV. The next morning, I handed the teacher my original paper. “Very good, Mr. Zezima,” he said. “I hope you have learned your lesson.”

I did, indeed. From this teacher, I learned creativity and ingenuity. In fact, I learned a lot at Catholic High and had a good time in the process.

The best thing that happened to me in high school was that I met Sue, who at the time was dating someone else. On the advice of my attorney, I can’t say who or where he is, but he didn’t show up at the reunion, which was a lot of fun.

Sue and I laughed, danced and reminisced with old friends. And everyone looked great, especially Sue.

I did, however, resist the urge to play floor hockey. Maybe, if I can find my notebook, I’ll do it at our 50th.

"Branching Out"

2011-10-14T04:45:00.001-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

For centuries, nature lovers and people with too much time on their hands have asked a perplexing and frankly ridiculous question: If a tree falls in the woods, and no one is there to hear it, will there be a sound? For weeks, I had asked an even dumber question: If a tree falls in my backyard, and I am there to hear it, will it land on my head?

I got the answer recently when a tree did fall in my backyard. It landed on the ground and did, indeed, make a sound, which wasn’t nearly as loud as it would have been if the tree had landed on my head.

A few years ago, a large oak on the edge of my property fell on the house next door. My neighbors got the firewood, which I happily gave to them, not just because they were so nice and understanding (insurance paid for the damage), but because it would have been extremely dangerous to use the wood to start a fire in my house for the simple reason that I don’t have a fireplace.

This year, my wife, Sue, and I worried about falling trees every time a violent storm was forecast. We also worried about the skylight in the family room. Skylights are nice when the sun is out, but essentially they are floods waiting to happen. And our skylight would leak during a drought.

“If a tree fell on our house, and we were there to collect the insurance money, would we get a new roof and skylight?” I asked Sue.

“What a ridiculous question,” she replied, adding: “Although it worked next door.”

Storm after storm raged, we lost power, we lost food, we lost patience, but no trees fell. Then, one day, Sue noticed that a slender oak was leaning precariously, its branches almost touching the power lines and its roots coming up from the soggy ground.

“It’s going to fall on the lines,” she predicted. “You better call the power company.”

Two days later, a couple of beefy guys came over to size up the situation.

“The company isn’t going to send anyone to take the tree down,” one of them said.

“Maybe you can take it down yourself,” the other one suggested. “Do you have a chainsaw?”

“No,” I said. “Just a handsaw.”

“Get a rope, tie it around the tree, tie the other end of the rope around this other tree,” the first guy said, referring to a larger oak several feet away, “and start cutting.”

By this time I was at the end of my rope and was about to make a cutting remark when the second guy, who looked like Paul Bunyan, suggested all three of us try to push the tree over.

I felt like Paul’s pal, Babe the Blue Ox, not because I am strong but because I am dumb as an ox, which I proved by saying, “Good idea!”

It actually turned out to be brilliant. We huffed and we puffed and we pushed the tree down. It landed far from my head. The sound, which we all heard, wasn’t deafening.

“Now you’re a lumberjack,” said the guy who looked like Paul Bunyan.

“Or a lumberjerk,” I noted.

After the men left, I got my trusty handsaw and, with the help of WD-40 and beer, started seeing that the sawing was easier than I thought. By the end of the afternoon, I had cut off all the branches, cut up the trunk and dragged the whole kit and caboodle to the curb.

The next morning I could barely get out of bed.

If another tree looks like it is going to fall, and I am there to cut it down with a handsaw but am afraid it will land on my head, will I say the hell with it and call a professional tree service?

What a ridiculous question.

"The Wrong Stuff"

2011-09-30T04:30:00.001-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I had always thought that my garage was the stuff of legend because it’s stuffed with stuff, most of which isn’t my stuff but my daughters’ stuff. It has been accumulating since they left the nest, which supposedly is empty because they don’t live at home anymore but really isn’t because a lot of their stuff is still here.

Then I talked with my college buddy and longtime friend Tim Lovelette, who not only has a garage full of his kids’ stuff but a basement full of it, too, which makes both places the stuff of legend.

“If our kids’ stuff had any value, they wouldn’t trust us with it. They’d be using it,” Tim told me. “Why have we got it? Because they don’t want it. This is nefarious, no question about it. Somehow, a whole generation has gotten together and conspired to fill our homes with worthless stuff.”

Tim has more stuff than I do because he and his wife, Jane, have three kids, Marshall, 32, Amy, 30, and Brendan, 28, while my wife, Sue, and I have two, Katie, 31, and Lauren, 28. They’re all great kids, even though they aren’t, technically, kids anymore. Still, when you get to be my age (old enough to know better), practically everyone else is a kid. So here’s looking at you, kids. And all your stuff.

“I think somebody’s got a key to the house and brings stuff in,” Tim theorized. “I change the locks and it still goes on.”

This means the reverse robber is leaving stuff not only in Tim’s garage but in his basement, a problem I don’t have because I don’t have a basement.

“You’re not qualified to have adult children if you don’t have a basement,” Tim said. “Where are they going to put their stuff?”

“In the garage,” I replied.

“You wouldn’t appreciate anything until you’ve seen my garage,” Tim said. “How many bicycles can you accumulate in a lifetime? I don’t even like bicycles.”

Another thing Tim has in his garage is the snow blower he bought for Marshall.

“I bought it for him for Christmas three or four years ago,” Tim recalled, adding that Marshall’s wife, Sara, said she would buy Marshall a shed for his birthday so he could put the snow blower in it. “But she never bought the shed,” Tim said. “Now I have two snow blowers in my garage. Sara and Marshall have a basement, but there can’t be anything in it, including the snow blower. I don’t think it’s ever been started, but it’s there, ready to go, in my garage.”

Then there are all those skis and ice skates.

“How many pairs of skis can you accumulate?” Tim wondered. “Just go to my garage and count them and figure it out. And I have all their ice skates. My kids haven’t ice-skated in 15 years. If they had to use this stuff, which is all out of date, they’d go out and buy new ones and leave the old ones in my house.”

“What about the basement?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t believe it,” Tim replied. “It’s filled with He-Man toys. You wouldn’t know about them because you have girls, but these toys go back 20 or 30 years. This whole thing must go back to prehistoric times. I can envision caves, with Neanderthal-type people, caves filled with stuff, and the kids are saying, ‘No, you can’t throw away my bones.’ It’s been going on for centuries.”

“What can we do about it?” I said.

“Pack up their stuff in a moving van and have it delivered to them,” Tim answered. “Or have a yard sale. If you have ever gone to a yard sale, you’d see that there’s always a free table. All the stuff you have that belongs to your kids should go on the free table. Just tell them, ‘I’m giving your stuff away.’ What can they do? They can’t hit us.”

“Then we’d have the last laugh,” I said.

“Not really,” said Tim. “There’s a final resolution to all of this: When we die, our kids will have a houseful of stuff -- not just their stuff but our stuff. They’ll say, ‘What are we going to do with Dad’s stuff?’ Answer: They’ll have a yard sale. Our stuff will go on the free table.”

"How Now Waxed Brow"

2011-09-16T04:19:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am not a highbrow kind of guy because, unfortunately, I am afraid of heights. So today I am going to wax poetic, nostalgic and, most important, analgesic about being lowbrow. That’s because I recently, for the first time, got my eyebrow waxed.

Before undergoing this increasingly common masculine procedure, which women get all the time, I had, indeed, only one eyebrow. It was what is known in tonsorial parlance (a highbrow way of saying barber talk) as a unibrow, a strip of hair not unlike roadkill that extended from above the corner of my left eye to above the corner of my right eye. The left and right brows were linked by a hairy bridge that did not take E-ZPass. The result was one long eyebrow.

To achieve the desired effect of hair today, gone tomorrow (I told you I’m lowbrow), I went to see my barber, Maria Santos, who owns Charmed Salon and Spa in Miller Place, N.Y.

“More men are getting waxed these days,” said Maria, referring not just to eyebrows but to legs, chests and backs. It hurt just thinking about it. The imagined pain was excruciating when Maria described Brazilian waxes.

“They’re like bikini waxes,” she said.

“Guys don’t wear bikinis,” I replied.

“No,” Maria said, “but some wear Speedos.”

I got the idea, then started squirming in my chair.

“Don’t worry,” Maria said. “We don’t do those here.”

That was good to hear. Speaking of hearing, Maria told me about the guy who inadvertently got his ear hair waxed.

“He’s a customer of mine, but he was on a business trip in California and needed a haircut, so he went to a barber who told him that he had a lot of hair growing out of his ears and asked if he wanted it waxed,” Maria said. “The barber spoke with an accent and the guy didn’t understand and said yes, go ahead and remove it. So the barber waxed his ear hair. The guy said it was the most painful experience of his life.”

After hearing that, I was afraid to ask about nose hair. But I wasn’t too skittish to ask for a brow treatment. Maria took me to a small room in the back of the salon and introduced me to Carla, a very pleasant and reassuring aesthetician who waxed rhapsodic about her job.

“I have been doing this for 30 years and I love it because I meet a lot of nice people, like you,” said Carla, who asked me to lie back on a cushioned table while she got her tools, which did not, I am happy to report, include pruning shears or a Weed Whacker.

“I use tweezers, snippers and a comb,” Carla said. Then she inspected my unibrow, which she said was “bushy but not unusual for a guy,” and applied some analgesic soothing cream to soften the skin from which the middle part of my eyebrow grew. Next she got an adhesive muslin strip and pressed it to that spot.

“Ready?” Carla asked.

“Let ’er rip!” I exclaimed, instantly regretting my choice of words.

A second later, it was over. I listened carefully but did not hear a piercing scream emanate from my throat. In fact, I didn’t feel a thing. Carla showed me the strip, on which was stuck a tuft of hair.

She then combed and clipped my now separate eyebrows, applied lotion to the newly bare area and handed me a mirror. I no longer resembled either Groucho Marx or Joan Crawford in her “Mommie Dearest” period.

“What do you think?” Carla inquired.

“Beautiful,” I responded happily.

Now that I’m the very model of the modern man, maybe a figure of me will go on exhibit at Madame Tussauds wax museum. I bet that’ll raise some eyebrows.

"The Best Seat in the House"

2011-09-02T04:47:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am not one to couch my comments, so I will come right out and say that I would be a couch potato if my wife, Sue, let me eat potatoes on the couch. Sadly, I can no longer eat, sleep, drink beer, watch football, get thrown up on by our kids or do anything else on the best couch we ever had because it has gone to what I assume is, appropriately, its eternal rest.

This couch had great sentimental value because it was our first major piece of furniture, a brown, beige and gold work of upholstered craftsmanship dating back to 1978, when Sue and I got married.

The couch was also called the sofa because I’d relax on it while I should have been doing household chores and would say to Sue, “Sofa, so good,” to which she would reply, “Maybe you’d like to sleep on it tonight.”

It was almost as comfortable as our bed, though with slightly less legroom. It also was durable enough to withstand the worst kind of abuse, such as spills (beer, soda, baby formula) and soils (from our daughters, Katie and Lauren, before they were potty trained). The messes were easily wiped away because the couch was made of some super-resistant, possibly bulletproof material that did not, unfortunately, repel cat and dog hair.

The couch was a repository for food — pretzels, popcorn and, of course, potato chips — that had been dropped between the cushions. A yearly cleaning could have produced enough nourishment to feed Luxembourg.

I often munched away on the couch because it was my ringside seat for televised sporting events. I parked myself there for Super Bowl clashes, World Series showdowns, Stanley Cup contests and March Madness matchups. When a big game wasn’t on, I would watch something intellectual, like the Three Stooges.

The couch will go down in posterity, if not prosperity, as the site of an infamous photo taken one Halloween when I dressed up as Groucho Marx and our next-door neighbor, Frank, dressed up as a lady of the evening, complete with a wig, lipstick, stockings and a padded dress. I must say, he looked pretty good. We sat next to each other on the couch as Sue took our picture. If it ever turns up, I could lose thousands of dollars in blackmail money.

The best couch photo of all time did turn up recently when Katie’s husband, Dave, posted an old shot of the girls on Facebook. Katie, who was about 3 years old, was sitting on the couch with two Strawberry Shortcake dolls and a box of Cheerios; Lauren, who was 1, was leaning against the couch, sucking her thumb. Under the photo was the announcement that, since Katie and Dave were moving, the couch was for sale.

Katie had taken possession of it nine years ago, when she graduated from college and had moved into the apartment that she and Dave were now vacating.

Sue and I would have taken back the couch, which no one bought, but we are empty nesters in the sense that our kids may have moved out, but a lot of their stuff is still with us, which means the nest isn’t empty at all.

We recently spent the weekend with Katie and Dave as they got ready to move. For two nights, Sue slept on the couch. “I had two of the best nights’ sleep of my life on that dumb couch,” she said.

That morning, Dave and I carried it to the curb, where it was claimed by the garbageman. Maybe he took it home, but more likely it went to the dump and was crushed to kindling.

Farewell, old couch. Rest in pieces.

"Put on a Hairy Face"

2011-08-19T05:41:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As runner-up in the 2010 Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Contest -- a defeat I took with grace, humility and, of course, a stiff upper lip -- I know what it’s like to lose by a whisker.

So it was with a sense of deja fu manchu that I recently got involved in another hairy situation when I attended the launch party for the new reality TV series “Whisker Wars.”

IFC, the cable station on which “Whisker Wars” airs Fridays at 11 p.m., hosted the bash at the Blind Barber, a New York City establishment that is part barbershop and part bar. According to the bartender, however, it does not serve gin and hair tonic.

The nice folks at the Blind Barber let me come in, though I have no hair on my chinny chin chin. I couldn’t say that for the bearded boys of “Whisker Wars,” a program devoted to what is described in an IFC press release as “the fascinating and hair-raising world of competitive facial-hair growing.”

Yes, raising a beard, or a mustache, or a goatee -- which is much less expensive than raising a child, because you don’t have to put a beard through college -- is now a sport. I felt right at home.

“You have a very nice mustache,” said Phil Olsen, the founder and self-appointed captain of Beard Team USA and one of the stars of “Whisker Wars.” Olsen not only has a mustache himself but a thick, luxurious and extremely impressive footlong beard.

“I get compliments on my beard every day,” said Olsen, 62, a semiretired lawyer and a settlement conference judge in Nevada. “I’ve never heard anyone say anything negative about it. I’m sure some people don’t like it, but they can keep their opinions to themselves or I’ll send them to jail.”

“I like your beard,” I said.

“Thank you,” Olsen replied. “You are free to go.”

And go I did, straight to the mustache competition, which was being judged by three other “Whisker Wars” stars: Alex LaRoche, Jack Passion and Myk O’Connor.

In a strong field that featured a variety of lip growths, I made it to the semifinals: a hairy half-dozen composed of five men and one woman.

Unfortunately, my chevron mustache, which was so successful last year, didn’t make the cut.

That wasn’t the case with Wendi Gueorguiev, an artist from Queens, N.Y., who made it to the three-person finals despite wearing a faux manchu.

“Sorry,” O’Connor told me, “but she has better qualifications.”

They weren’t enough to put her over the top. Still, Gueorguiev was pleased to be the runner-up, especially since, technically speaking, she cheated.

“There’s a photo booth in the back of the bar,” she explained. “I was trying on hats, mustaches and beards. I decided to keep the mustache. I don’t know what came over me. I made my way out front to the contest. I was surprised I finished second. I felt honored.”

Gueorguiev, who declined to give her age but said she is “old enough to grow a mustache,” commented favorably on mine. “It’s pretty formidable,” she said. “It’s thick, nice and lush, a little more masculine than the Dali-esque mustache that won.”

But the winner was masculine, indeed.

“Hello, Dali,” I said to him.

“Hello, Jerry,” replied Max Baehr, a 25-year-old Web producer from Brooklyn, N.Y. The champ said he was inspired by his father, Tim, who isn’t so much a Salvador Daddy as he is a whisker warrior.

“He has a beard,” said Baehr, who waxed poetic about his waxed handlebar mustache. “My lady friend likes it,” said Baehr, adding that he likes my mustache. “It looks great,” he said.

It wasn’t good enough to win the contest, but maybe, if I borrow one of the Blind Barber’s fake beards, I could still be a star on “Whisker Wars.”

"He's All Wet"

2011-08-05T04:21:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

A rolling stone gathers no moss -- except, of course, for Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, who are looking a little green around the gills these days. But a standing house gathers moss -- and it takes a lot of green to get it off.

That’s why I recently shelled out $300 for a power washer.

I was prompted to make the purchase when a guy who does power washing on the side (as well as, presumably, in the front and back) offered to do the house for $400.

My wife, Sue, who is always thinking (of stuff for me to do), said we could save money if we bought a power washer and did the house ourselves. Or, more specifically, myself.

After God made Sue, He broke the mold. Now it was up to me to get rid of the mold with a new power washer.

I went to a large home-improvement store and spoke with a very nice, knowledgeable and helpful sales associate named Frank, who knew that when it came to power washing, I was wet behind the ears.

“The proper attire for power washing is a bathing suit and goggles, but if you want an undersea effect, you can use a snorkel,” Frank said after I chose a machine approximately the size of a Subaru, which was no coincidence because it has a Subaru engine.

Before I loaded the power washer into my car, which is not a Subaru, I got quite an education from Frank, a college business professor who has worked in landscaping and construction.

“I wear many hats, but not when I power-wash my house,” said Frank, who added: “You’re the first guy I have ever met who admitted that he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

According to Frank, guys think they know everything about home improvement, even when they don’t, which is most of the time. But even if they’re handy, they’ll always defer to their wives.

“I’m pretty handy,” Frank said. “But my wife doesn’t trust me. We were redoing our home and we had to get his and hers shopping carts. When we got to the register, she kept everything in her cart and I had to empty mine. Guess who did the work. Me! And with the stuff she bought.”

The house came out nice, said Frank, who predicted that mine would, too, because my power washer would get off all the moss, mold and mildew and that, thanks to Sue, I would save money.

“The wives are always right,” Frank noted.

I wasn’t so sure when I got the power washer home and it wouldn’t start. When I brought it back to the store, Frank started it on the first try.

“You have to pull the cord like you’re mad at it,” Frank said. “Swearing helps, too.”

“I already tried that,” I replied.

“And make sure the choke is in the right position,” he advised.

“I’d like to choke the stupid thing,” I said.

“Don’t get that mad at it,” Frank warned.

When I got the power washer back home, I swore at it and pulled the cord hard. It started on the first try.

Clad in a bathing suit and goggles, I posed as Sue took a photo, which will no doubt end up on a “wanted” poster. Holding the trigger handle and spray wand, I looked like either an action hero or a space alien.

When I pulled the trigger, a powerful stream of soap and water shot out. It splashed off the vinyl siding and soaked me.

“Are you having fun?” Sue asked above the din of the power washer.

“It’s like my own personal water park!” I said giddily.

Best of all, the green on the side of the house started to melt away.

There’s still more to do, but the place is looking much better. And, for what it’s worth, I’m the cleanest guy in the neighborhood.

"The French Connection"

2011-07-22T04:21:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I’ll always have Paris.

Excusez-moi, s’il vous plait. I should say I’ll always have Paris-Charles de Gaulle Airport, where I recently spent eight minutes (huit minutes) sprinting from one airplane (l’avion) to another during an otherwise magnificent (magnifique) and memorable (memorable) trip to France (la France).

My wife (ma femme), Sue (Sue), and I (Jerry) flew from New York to Boston, where we had a layover of more than five hours (cinq heures) before crossing the Atlantic (Atlantique) to Paris and then, after our mad dash through the airport to catch our connecting flight, which was boarding as we were landing, to our final destination, Marseille (no translation).

It was during this interminable journey that I completely mastered the French language (francais). Using a book titled “Say It in French,” I memorized key French phrases (Ou sont les toilettes? Where is the men’s room?) and words (au secours! help!), then practiced saying them with a nasally intonation that would have sounded better if I’d had a head cold.

Unfortunately, I fell asleep during the last hour of the transatlantic flight and forgot most of it, though I managed to get by without insulting anyone, which might have gotten me in trouble with the police (gendarmes).

Fortunately, and contrary to their unfair reputation for being rude, the French people were extremely pleasant (agreable) and helpful (utiles).

Whenever I didn’t know what I was saying, which I can do in any language, I would ask, “Parlez-vous anglais?” (“Do you speak English?”) The very nice person who knew I was a fumbling American (americain) would smile, hold his or her thumb and forefinger an inch from each other and respond, “A leetle beet.”

Then that person would proceed to speak English with a charming French accent. To show my gratitude, I would speak English with a terrible French accent.

This came in handy when our luggage (les bagages) showed up two days after we did. I consulted my little phrase book for the proper reaction (not repeatable in either language) after being forced to wear the equivalent of a prison-issue T-shirt that was kindly provided by the airline. You don’t know what a thrill it is on your first visit to a foreign country to wear the same underwear (les sous-vetements) for 48 hours.

My mastery of French also came in handy when eight of the nine people in our party got violently ill. The sole exception was me (moi). It was not because of the food. Au contraire! The meals we had in France were delicious (delicieux). Rather, somebody caught a stomach bug that passed from one person to the next until the toilette almost exploded.

“Je suis pas malade” (“I am not ill”), I told Bruno, who, with his lovely wife, Gielle, owns Hostellerie du Luberon, where we stayed.

“Pourquoi?” (“Why?”) he asked.

“Vin rouge” (“Red wine”), I explained.

“Ha ha!” (“Ha ha!”) Bruno laughed. “You have French blood!”

When everyone was feeling better, we went sightseeing. The South of France is like rural New England, with its rolling green (vert) hills and farms. Vineyards (see: vin rouge, above) are everywhere.

I especially enjoyed the markets in Luberon and Cadenet, where I purposely stood in people’s way just so I could say -- in French, of course -- “pardon” (“pardon”).

One day Sue and I got into our rented car (la voiture) and took a day trip to Aix-en-Provence, where we got lost thanks to the annoying woman whose voice, in English, was programmed into our GPS (Gallic Positioning System).

Her (for the 150th time): “Recalculating.”

Me: “Taisez-vous!” (“Shut up!”)

All in all, however, our trip was fantastic (fantastique). France is a beautiful country with wonderful people. Next time we go, we’ll see more of Paris than just the airport.

Vive la France! Merci beaucoup. And, to anyone who was within earshot when our luggage got lost, pardon my French.

"Father Knew Jest"

2011-07-08T03:58:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

One evening, when my sisters and I were young, we were eating dinner with my parents when my father suddenly complained that he had a splitting headache. “It feels like my eyes are about to pop out of my skull!” he moaned.

Then he got up and stalked out of the kitchen. We were all worried because my father never complained about anything.

A minute later, he came back into the kitchen wearing a pair of fake plastic eyeglasses, out of which, on springs, popped a pair of bloodshot styrofoam eyeballs.

My mother, my sisters and I burst into laughter. My father proudly joined in.

He had spent the day at work, fashioning these glasses that made it look like his eyes were popping out of his skull, just so he could play a practical joke on his family.

“What a guy!” I thought. I had always loved and admired my father, but from that moment on, he was my hero.

I grew up wanting to be like my dad, the original and best Jerry Zezima, because he was the funniest guy I ever knew.

One of his favorite stories involved his service in World War II. He was too humble to brag about his Purple Heart, but he did love to say that when he arrived in London, he got a letter from his mother, warning him about all the seedy nightclubs she had read about in the paper. In the letter, she included the names of those clubs. My father smiled and told me, “They were the first places we went.”

One night, when I was a kid, I was trying to get to sleep in my bedroom when I thought I heard my father crying. I got up, padded down the hall and found him in the living room, crying -- with laughter -- while watching Laurel and Hardy.

“They were on a train,” he later explained, “pulling people’s pants down.”

Thanks to my dad, I came to appreciate the genius of Stan and Ollie.

I also grew to revere other comic duos, like the Road Runner and the Coyote. My father and I watched their crazy cartoons, cackling as the Coyote’s attempts to snare his avian adversary with a contraption from the Acme Company invariably blew up in his face.

We also loved another animated twosome, Sylvester and Tweety, the former a fumbling feline who hungrily stalked the latter, a little yellow bird who exclaimed, “I tawt I taw a puddy cat!” When Sylvester got his comeuppance, which usually involved an anvil, my father and I roared with delight.

Then there were Jackie Gleason and Art Carney, two other comic geniuses who starred in “The Honeymooners,” which my father thought was the greatest sitcom ever made. So do I.

My father and I were also a comedy team. I was the straight man. Whenever I called my parents after work and my father answered, he’d say, ostensibly with a mouthful of food, “We’re right in the middle of dinner.”

“Sorry,” I’d reply.

My father would chortle and say, “I’m just pulling your leg! We already ate.”

In some ways, we were comically different. He was the handiest guy I knew. Unfortunately, his skills skipped a generation because I am the least handy man in America. To me, a screwdriver is vodka and orange juice.

My dad was ahead of his time in that he was thoroughly domesticated. He bathed us kids when we were babies, he fed us, he did household chores. My mom said he never left his dirty socks and underwear on the floor. For me, it was another trait that unfortunately has skipped a generation.

One thing that I wasn’t bad at, and at which my dad excelled, was sports. He played semiprofessional football as a young man and always found time to have a catch with me. He also took me fishing a lot. Once, when I wasn’t with him, he caught a 41-pound striped bass. My mom took a picture of him with the monster, which he then gutted, cleaned and chopped into fillets. Only afterward did he realize that he should have had it mounted. “It would have been a great trophy,” he said.

But the real trophy was my father, who died recently at 93.

Mark Twain once said that there is no humor in heaven. That’s not true anymore because my dad is there, laughing at the antics of Laurel and Hardy and playing practical jokes.

God, they’ll love the one with the eyeglasses.

"The Weddings of the Century"

2011-06-24T04:19:00.001-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Prince William and Catherine, Duchess of Cambridge

St. James’s Palace

Chapel Royal, Cleveland Row

London, England SW1A 1DH

Dear William and Kate:

I am writing somewhat belatedly to congratulate the two of you on your nuptials and to welcome you back from your honeymoon in the Seychelles.

I also want to thank you very much for being the opening act to the wedding of the century, the most magnificent event in Europe this year and, if you will pardon the expression, a true crowning achievement.

I refer, of course, to the wedding of my younger daughter, Lauren, who is my princess, and her husband, Guillaume, a prince of a guy, who were married in France on April 30, the day after your wedding.

They also had a lovely ceremony in the United States on June 5.

That means Lauren and Guillaume had two weddings and you had only one. I’m sure yours was very nice, although I had to read about it in the papers because I did not receive an invitation.

You must know that the Zezimas and the Windsors have had a chilly relationship since the Revolution, when an ancestor of mine, John Quincy Zezima, a columnist for the Colonial Advocate, wrote an investigative piece exposing King George’s war plans, thus leading to the Empire’s defeat.

The fact that my parents were not invited to the coronation of Queen Elizabeth or that my wife, Sue, and I were not on the guest list for the wedding of Charles and Diana is further proof of the chasm between our two families.

Naturally, I was hurt when Sue and I weren’t invited to your wedding, but then I realized that you knew we would be otherwise engaged with the big event for Lauren and Guillaume. And since we knew the two of you were getting married the day before, we didn’t send you, Charles, the Queen or anyone else in your family an invitation, though I admit the courtesy would have been nice. For that, I apologize.

Still, I wish you could have been in France for Lauren and Guillaume’s wedding, which was spectacular.

First, we went to the city hall in the charming village of Cadenet, the hometown of Guillaume’s family, the Roberts. After the mayor officially married Lauren and Guillaume, everyone went up the hill to a breathtaking 900-year-old church for a religious service that was performed in both French and English and was unforgettably moving.

Kate, I know your dress was sensational, and was the talk of two continents, but Lauren’s was even nicer. She was an absolutely beautiful bride. And Guillaume, in a classy gray suit that didn’t have epaulets, was a handsome groom.

Later, we attended a fabulous reception hosted by Guillaume’s parents, Martine and Pascal. It is nice to see that the Windsors and the Middletons get on so well. I am delighted to say the same about the Zezimas and the Roberts.

Martine and Pascal are wonderful. They welcomed us into their home the day before the wedding for a delicious meal, during which we talked, laughed and got to know each other. Language was not a barrier. Martine’s mother, who is affectionately called Grandma, won our hearts with her wit and warmth.

The Roberts continued their hospitality and generosity at the reception, the highlight of which was a slide show that was set to music and put together masterfully by Guillaume’s younger brother, Frederic. It showed Guillaume and the Robert family through the years and included, of course, Lauren. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Throughout the day, we somehow managed to keep the paparazzi away.

While the two of you were in the Seychelles, Lauren and Guillaume honeymooned in Italy. When they got back, we had the American wedding, which was held at the Thatched Cottage, a lovely hall near our home on Long Island, N.Y. It also was a memorable day enjoyed by family and friends who toasted the beaming couple and treated them royally. You know the feeling.

Now that we are back to our normal lives, I just want to say that Sue and I wish the two of you nothing but the best. I am sure your family wishes the same for Lauren and Guillaume.

I hope this letter helps thaw the relationship between the Zezimas and the Windsors and that someday we can all get together to exchange wedding pictures. In the meantime, keep a stiff upper lip and give our best to the Queen.

Sincerely,

Jerry Zezima

"Magic Carpet Guy"

2011-06-17T04:59:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I have never been one to sweep things under the rug, mainly because I don’t wear one. And I have never been on a magic carpet ride, mainly because all of our carpets are nailed to the floor. But I was floored recently to hear a carpet cleaner come clean about his crazy carpet capers.

Dan Gallagher was hired by my wife, Sue, to clean some of our carpets because they were embedded with dirt, hair and suspicious substances that I blamed on our cats.

“Your carpets aren’t that bad,” Gallagher said. “The job looks pretty easy, which is more than I can say for some other places I’ve been to.”

Like the house that burned to the ground.

“I was outside taking a break when I saw smoke coming up from the back,” Gallagher recalled. “Then I saw flames shooting from the roof. I rushed back inside and said to the homeowner, ‘Lady, your house is on fire.’ This angry look came over her face. I had already been there a couple of hours and she was still mad at me because I showed up late. I had other appointments and couldn’t help it, but she didn’t care.”

As the fire raged, Gallagher asked the woman if there were any kids or pets in the house.

“She had three dogs and three or four cats that shed all over the carpets and the furniture, which is why she called me in the first place,” Gallagher said. “I was like Ace Ventura, Pet Detective, rescuing these animals. One of the dogs tried to bite me. I had to coax another one out with dog treats.”

The whole time, Gallagher said, the woman wouldn’t help him.

“Then this guy came out of nowhere -- I don’t know if he was a neighbor or what -- and tried to put out the fire with a garden hose,” Gallagher remembered. “I said, ‘Dude, that’s not going to do any good.’ So he disappeared. Then the fire department came. They put out the fire but couldn’t save the house.”

When it was all over, the woman reluctantly paid Gallagher for the part of the job he had completed. “I saved her and all her pets,” he said, “and she didn’t even tip me.”

Neither did the 12-year-old boy whose mother went out and left Gallagher in charge of her 14 other kids while he cleaned the carpets.

“This woman had 15 children that ranged in age from 3 to 12,” Gallagher said. “And she left me with all of them. There were diapers all over the floor. And one of the fuses blew -- it was an old house -- so I had to unplug the TV to plug my machine into that outlet. The kids had been watching ‘Dora the Explorer.’ They were screaming, ‘What happened to Dora?’ I called the mother on her cell phone -- I don’t know where she was -- and she was yelling at me. She had some nerve. Worst of all, she never came back.”

When Gallagher was done, the 12-year-old boy paid him. No tip this time, either. As Gallagher was leaving, the 3-year-old girl said, “Aren’t you going to turn the TV back on?”

There have been lots of other kooky customers, like the woman who was growing marijuana in her basement (“It’s a good thing that house didn’t catch fire,” Gallagher said), so Sue and I ranked among the more normal ones.

Gallagher said he would rank himself and his wife as pretty normal, too. They have two dogs, a 7-year-old Labrador retriever and a 1-year-old German shepherd-greyhound mix.

“Must be tough to keep the carpets clean,” I said.

“Not at all,” Gallagher replied.

“Why, because you have an industrial machine?” I asked.

“Even better,” he said. “We have hardwood floors.”

"Oh, Henry"

2011-05-27T03:57:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Over the years in my humble and frequently fur-flown household, I have been surrounded by women: one wife, two daughters and various animals. The pet population has included a dog, four cats, two frogs, approximately 147 goldfish, half a dozen hamsters and too many gerbils to count because, face it, gerbils can’t do math.

Of these many fine, furry and finny friends, only one (to my knowledge) has been a guy. His name was Henry, one of our quartet of felines, son of Kitty, brother of Bernice, no relation to Ramona. He thought Lizzie, the dog, was his mother.

Henry was a mama’s boy because he loved Lizzie and loved my wife, Sue, even more. He liked his real mother, Kitty, but he had little use for me, his surrogate daddy and the only other male in the house, perhaps because he saw me as competition for female affection but more likely because I would get rid of the scores of eviscerated creatures (birds, rabbits, mice, squirrels, practically everything but the mailman) he left at the back door or, worse, wanted to bring inside.

Henry was a paradox: He was the most ruthlessly efficient killer I have ever known (not that I hang around with murderers, in case the police are reading this), but he also was the biggest wimp in the world.

And he was, indeed, big. I conservatively estimate he weighed 200 pounds, give or take 180. He was like a small mountain lion.

Most of it was fur. His rich black and white coat was so long that sometimes you couldn’t see his feet, which were armed with razor-sharp claws that left a scar on my left wrist from the time Sue and I attempted to put flea powder on him. It worked because I haven’t had fleas since.

I’d say Henry was a Maine Coon except he wasn’t from Maine and raccoons were about the only fellow beasts he didn’t count among his trophies. As a result, our yard -- and, by extension, the entire neighborhood -- was devoid of vermin. Not including me.

On the other hand (or, rather, paw), Henry was afraid of his own considerable shadow. We had him for 12 years, but just about every time he saw me or any other human besides Sue, he would cower and run away. I always treated him well. I fed him, I brushed him, I tried to do the male bonding thing.

“It’s just you and me, Henry,” I would say.

“Meow!” he’d shriek. Then he would make a beeline upstairs.

That was another thing about Henry: He sounded like Frankie Valli.

“What’s the matter, Henry,” I would ask, “is your underwear too tight?”

“Meow!”

Then again, he purred with love for Sue. He followed her around so much I was tempted to get a restraining order against him. If I fed Henry, he’d eat only a little bit and wait for Sue to give him more.

“He wants me to feed him,” Sue would explain.

“Suppose you weren’t around for a few days,” I’d respond. “What’s he going to do, go on a hunger strike?”

Between his critter diet and his regular cat food, Henry looked like he missed very few meals.

One thing he did miss, however, was Lizzie. They were inseparable. Henry loved to sleep right next to Lizzie, often with his head on her hind leg. He even took on the canine characteristic of giving the paw whenever he wanted something.

Henry hadn’t been the same since Lizzie passed away last year.

Now he’s gone, too. The house is a little quieter and, considering his size, a lot emptier. Sue misses him terribly. So do I. And although he wasn’t a typical guy, a man’s man with whom I could bond and goof off and do paw bumps and watch sports on TV, I have to say that, all things considered, Henry was the cat’s meow.

"Cool in the Shades"

2011-05-13T17:17:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I have never been mistaken for Jack Nicholson, the eternally cool Hollywood legend who wears sunglasses everywhere -- even, I bet, in the bathroom -- but I can imagine starring in this dramatic scene with my wife, Sue.

Me (yelling from the bathroom): “Hon, we’re out of toilet paper!”

Sue: “There’s a new roll on the vanity.”

Me: “I can’t see it.”

Sue: “You’re hopeless. And that’s the truth.”

Me: “You can’t handle the truth!”

Sue: “The roll’s right in front of you. Take off your sunglasses.”

Me (after removing shades): “Got it. Thanks.”

Still, I felt like Jack recently when I went shopping for a new pair of shades. I wanted to look cool for the upcoming summer season, something I couldn’t do in my previous sunglasses, which were old, scratched and misshapen. Then again, it could have been my head.

So I drove to a nearby mall and walked up to a kiosk store called the Sunglass Hut, where I was greeted by a very nice sales associate named Nicollette.

“May I help you?” she asked pleasantly.

“Yes,” I replied. “I want to look cool. You know, like Jack Nicholson.”

Possibly because she was about 20 years old, Nicollette didn’t know Jack. But she did know sunglasses. “What do you want them for?” she asked.

“This may sound crazy,” I replied, “but I want them to keep the sun out of my eyes.”

Nicollette patiently explained that some people wear sunglasses only for certain activities, such as driving. “If you want to wear them to the beach, don’t get Guccis,” Nicollette suggested.

“Why?” I inquired.

“You don’t want sand to scratch them,” Nicollette answered. “They’re $300.”

I gulped. Then I tried on a less expensive pair. “They’re Pradas,” Nicollette said.

“How much?”

“Two hundred and ninety dollars.”

The devil wears Prada, so I thanked Nicollette and went around the corner to the NYS Collection kiosk, where Dan, a baby boomer who has heard of Jack Nicholson, told me that the sunglasses average $15 a pair.

“Will they make me look cool?” I asked.

“I think we can find a pair that will do the trick,” said Dan, adding: “I haven’t looked cool in 20 years.”

Of course, he wasn’t wearing sunglasses, but he has three pairs, all of which, he said, are fashionable.

“And inexpensive,” said Dan, who used to work at the Sunglass Hut. “They’re made of polycarbon, which is the same material in Guccis and Pradas. You’re not paying for the name.”

“Cool,” I said.

As I reached for a pair, my arm hit a box that tumbled to the floor, spilling a stash of stylish shades.

“They’re also very durable,” Dan commented as he picked them up.

“So if I fall, my face might break but my sunglasses won’t?” I wondered.

“Right,” said Dan, adding that most guys buy sunglasses primarily to look cool. “One young guy was here recently with his girlfriend,” he recalled. “Apparently he was paying too much attention to other women when he was trying on sunglasses. I guess he thought he was cool. He and his girlfriend got into a big fight and left. They came back the next day and the same thing happened, but I sold him a pair of shades before another fight started.”

Though Sue wasn’t with me, I didn’t pay attention to any other women as I tried on several pairs of sunglasses. One pair, with bright yellow reflective lenses, made me look like a giant bug in one of those 1950s sci-fi movies.

Then Dan showed me wraparounds, one with a blue tint, the other gray. I was coolness personified.

“They’re you,” Dan said after I chose the grays.

At home, I showed Sue my new shades. Her one-word reaction: “Cool.”

Just like Jack Nicholson. Now all I have to do is remember not to wear them in the bathroom.

"Stupid Crook Tricks: Global Dumbing"

2011-05-06T04:56:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Time now for another exciting episode of Stupid Crook Tricks, the hard-hitting series that presents actual cases of bumbling incompetence by some of the most inept criminal masterminds in America.

All of these stories are true. The names have been eliminated to protect the dumb, de-dumb-dumb, dumb, de-dumb-dumb-duuuumb.

Today, we here at CSI (Criminal Stupidity Investigations) go overseas to track down crooks whose idiocy knows no boundaries.

We begin in Italy with some legal advice for prospective criminals: When in Rome, don’t do as this Roman did. Hunger got the best of a convicted drug trafficker who had eluded Italian police by hiding out in Belgium. He was nabbed when he came back home for a plate of his wife’s lasagna. Acting on a tip, as well as the aroma of simmering tomato sauce, cops burst into the house at lunchtime and arrested the dumb diner, who was definitely out to lunch.

Another lesson for crooks to chew on: Never sleep on the job. That’s what happened in Malaysia, where a bungling burglar broke into an empty house and pocketed several hundred dollars in cash before taking a nap. He woke up the next morning when the homeowner returned and called police. The drowsy dope went from being under a rest to under arrest.

The last tip for international idiots: Always go to the bathroom before leaving the house. That’s what a bank robber in Denmark failed to do prior to hiding in a bank vault. He got locked in and had to wait until the bank opened the next morning to get out. Meanwhile, he had to answer the call of nature, so he relieved himself in a box before escaping with jewelry and $500,000 in cash. Cops got the whiz kid’s DNA and later arrested him. Needless to say, it wasn’t a safe deposit.

These three cases are overwhelming evidence of global dumbing. As a proud American, however, I can say with utter confidence that crooks in the United States still lead the world in stupidity.

Exhibit A: The guy who robbed a convenience store in South Carolina, got in his truck and started going the wrong way. The truck broke down, so the genius hailed a cab and asked the driver to take him to a town that the driver had never heard of. When they came upon the store that had just been robbed, the crook told the cabbie to ask a cop for directions. The cop recognized the idiotic passenger from a surveillance tape and arrested him. For once a man asked for directions and look what happened.

Exhibit B: The moronic motorist in Ohio who led police on a high-speed chase before abandoning his car and jumping a fence -- directly into a prison yard. It was a women’s prison, so he had to be transferred to a men’s facility. At least he didn’t need to ask for directions.

Exhibit C: This one stands for Connecticut, my home state, which has no shortage of stupid crooks, like the guy in Old Saybrook who burglarized three condos and then called the cops to report that his getaway car had been stolen. When the police pulled up, they saw the felonious fool with a pillowcase full of loot and arrested him.

Then there was the pothead in Farmington who called 911 to ask how much trouble he could get into for growing a marijuana plant. He soon found out. Maybe his case will be tried in a high court.

Finally, there was the idiot in New Canaan who called police to report that his car had been rear-ended by some other dummies who had allegedly robbed him of his marijuana. And the governor wants to decriminalize small amounts of the stuff.

I don’t know if that’s a good idea, but I do know this: When it comes to stupid crooks, it’s a small world after all.

"The Loan Arranger"

2011-04-15T05:48:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Ever since my wife and I were rejected for a home refinancing loan by our bank, which actually owns the house but kindly allows us to pay the mortgage, I have been wondering what we did wrong. The answer, I now realize, is that I didn’t rob the bank.

On the advice of my attorney, who is in jail, I will say for the record that I would never resort to bank robbery. And our loan officer, Joe, who has been in the banking business for almost 30 years, is so ethical and honest that I call him the Loan Arranger. He’s not a masked man, but he is a straight shooter. And a good guy.

“Times are tough,” Joe said when I went back to case the joint -- sorry, I mean to pay the mortgage. “And people are frustrated.”

A classic example, Joe recalled, was the guy who had been put through the wringer by the underwriters, who kept asking him for pay stubs, insurance forms, bank statements, everything but his birth certificate.

“Nothing he provided was good enough to get his refinancing application approved, so they kept asking for more,” Joe said. “The guy got so angry that when the underwriters demanded to see where he kept his money, he took a picture of a stainless steel box with an arrow pointing to it. He said, ‘The money is in the box.’ I was hysterical. But the underwriters weren’t amused. They said, ‘Open the box and give us pictures of George Washington.’ The guy didn’t get the loan.”

It’s stuff like this, Joe said, that causes people to try to outwit underwriters -- not a very difficult task, he and I agreed, because they seem pretty witless.

“They’re stupid. They have no common sense,” said Joe, who remembered the guy who pooled his resources by hiding his pool.

“He had a built-in swimming pool that he didn’t have a certificate of occupancy for,” Joe said. “The guy took the ladders out of his pool, put plywood over the whole thing, threw dirt and grass seed over it and roped it off. He told the appraiser not to walk on that area because it was freshly seeded. The appraiser never suspected and the guy was approved. He got away with it.”

Then there was the guy who got approved by not having an open-door policy.

“He had converted the garage to a living space that he didn’t have a certificate of occupancy for,” Joe recalled. “He took the facade off the front of the house and put two garage doors up. They didn’t work, so you couldn’t open them, but the appraiser didn’t know because he never checked. Most appraisers don’t bother to go into the garage. This guy got away with it, too.”

So did the guy who used pull to get approved.

“He had a huge deck on the back of his house that he didn’t have a permit for,” Joe said. “He also had a huge tree by the deck, so he devised a pulley system on the tree to pull up the appraiser, who went along with it. The appraiser took pictures of the back of the house from above that never showed the deck.”

Of course, some plans backfire, which is what happened to a guy who tried to doctor his W2 form but put down the wrong address for a company he said he worked for but didn’t.

“He wasn’t that sharp,” said Joe, adding that he would never go along with such chicanery. “My reputation is involved,” he said.

Still, Joe said, banks have been robbing people for so long that some people have decided to use pens and ingenuity instead of guns and bravado to rob banks.

“It’ll keep happening,” Joe promised. “You can bank on it.”

"Jest What the Doctor Ordered"

2011-04-01T15:50:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

You have to have the patience of a saint to deal with a devil of a patient.

That’s what I learned recently when I went to the hospital for a ureteroscopy, a surgical procedure taken from the Greek words “ureter” (an extremely sensitive area of the lower anatomy) and “oscopy” (invaded by a scope the length of a boa constrictor).

The intention was to blast to smithereens a kidney stone that, because it appeared to be composed of concrete and asphalt, was barely dented by shock waves in a less invasive but unsuccessful procedure a few weeks earlier.

Despite the persistent fear that I would wake up as the lead singer for the Vienna Boys’ Choir, I was in a pretty jaunty mood as I sat in the pre-op unit with my wife, Sue, who was at my side to provide comfort, support and, if necessary, information about my living will.

“Are you diabetic?” asked Janice, a nursing assistant.

“No,” I replied. “I’m Italian.”

Janice laughed.

“It gets worse,” Sue promised.

Sure enough, when Janice asked if she could take my blood pressure on my left arm, I said, “Either arm is fine. I have it narrowed down to two. Good thing I’m not an octopus or we’d have to do this underwater.”

“Is he always like this?” Janice asked Sue.

“Yes,” Sue responded. “I just ignore him.”

I helpfully pointed out that I hadn’t even been given drugs.

“If I gave you Sodium Pentothal, you’d be gabbing up a storm,” Janice said.

“Please,” Sue begged, “not that.”

“Do I have a pulse?” I asked Janice.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s 64. And your oxygen level is 100 percent.”

“I never got 100 on any test in school,” I said.

“You just aced oxygen saturation,” Janice replied.

“Too bad the oxygen isn’t going to my brain,” I noted.

Sue nodded.

Mary, a nurse, came in to continue the prep work.

“Turn toward me,” she said.

“I’m taking a turn for the nurse,” I told Sue.

Mary looked at Sue and said, “You’re his daughter, right?” Sue chuckled. Mary smiled and said to me, “I’m giving it right back to you.”

She was just what the doctor ordered: nice, funny and very good at her job.

Then the doctor (or one of them) came in.

“I’m Dr. David Paul, your anesthesiologist,” he said.

“What’s up, doc?” I asked in my best Bugs Bunny voice.

“I’m going to knock you out,” he said.

I thought Sue, Mary and Janice would kiss him.

After a brief discussion about allergies (“I’m only allergic to myself,” I said), the doctor left and Brian, a nurse anesthetist, came in.

“Do you have any questions?” he asked.

“Yes,” I responded. “Will you be giving me domestic beer or an import?”

“You’ll be getting craft beer,” Brian said. “It’s the best-quality brew.” He should know because a friend of his owns a brewery. “By the way,” Brian added reassuringly, “I won’t be having any during the operation. I’ll wait until tonight.”

“Cheers!” I said as Brian left. Then my urologist, Dr. Albert Kim, who would be performing the procedure, came in.

“Are you behaving?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I replied.

“Good,” he said with a smile. “See you in surgery.”

The operation was a success. I’m grateful to Kim and everyone at John T. Mather Memorial Hospital in Port Jefferson, N.Y., for taking such good care of me.

The next day, Louise called from the hospital to ask how I was feeling.

“Couldn’t be better,” I said. “It’s been a rocky road, but the stone is gone.”

“Did she get the joke?” Sue asked after I hung up.

“I think so,” I answered.

“Next time you have surgery,” Sue said, “they should take the rocks out of your head.”

"Seals of Approval"

2011-03-25T04:02:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Unlike a lot of seals, who have managed to gain steady employment in circuses and aquariums, I have never tried to balance a beach ball on my nose. Considering the prominence of my proboscis, nobody could tell the difference.

But I once was a seal trainer for a day at Atlantis Marine World in Riverhead, N.Y. I even have a framed certificate and a photo of me being kissed by a 465-pound sea lion named Herbie.

I figured this valuable experience would come in handy when my wife, Sue, and I went on a seal walk recently with our favorite naturalist, Dr. Artie Kopelman.

A couple of years ago, Kopelman led me, Sue and about 80 other people on a whale watch off Montauk, N.Y. Everyone but Kopelman, the captain and yours truly got violently ill. Sue was green for three days. Even the whales must have been sick because none showed up.

There was little chance of a repeat on the seal walk because we would be on terra firma, not the open ocean. (The ocean, by the way, is open until 9 p.m. on Thursdays.)

Lacking seal blubber, which made me want to blubber when I realized how cold it was, I was bundled in four layers of clothing to ward off the 30-degree temperature, 20-mph wind gusts and 20-degree windchill, conditions that are positively balmy for seals. Then again, I’m positively balmy myself, so I was prepared to perambulate with a pack of pinniped pals.

So were 40 or so fellow seal walkers who huddled in Cupsogue Beach County Park in Westhampton, N.Y., and were warmly welcomed, figuratively speaking, by Kopelman, a college professor and president of the Coastal Research and Education Society of Long Island (cresli.org).

Before we set out on our walk, Kopelman warned, “Never get in the water with a seal.”

That’s because -- if you don’t freeze to death first -- seals will eat you. Or try to balance you on their noses.

Peg Hart is living (fortunately) proof. “I was bitten by an elephant seal,” said Hart, a naturalist who specializes in birds (she was, after all, talking to a birdbrain) but also works with marine mammals.

“It happened in San Francisco,” Hart recalled. “The seal had to be restrained so its blood could be drawn.”

Instead, the seal drew Hart’s blood. “It was a fluke,” she said, rolling up her sleeve to reveal a long scar.

“Looks more like it was a tooth,” I said.

Hart left her seal in San Francisco. Now she’s back East and going on seal walks with Kopelman.

Curiously, seals don’t like to walk, preferring to take mass transit by swimming together, which made the seal walk a misnomer.

The two dozen harbor seals we saw were about 150 yards away, lounging on the beach but not, as far as I could see, reading romance novels.

I did get a better view of them when I looked through Kopelman’s telescope. One of the bigger ones turned on its side and waved a flipper at me. I waved back.

“I can see some of my regulars,” said Kopelman, noting that a few of the seals return to the beach every year from Canada, where they have summer homes. On the water, of course.

Despite the difficult conditions, it was a fascinating experience. Kopelman, who has been leading such groups for more than 20 years, had great insight not only about marine mammals but terrestrial ones, too.

“A couple of weeks ago, this kid showed up in shorts, with no gloves and no hat,” Kopelman said. “He must have eaten dumb flakes for breakfast. Then there was the woman who asked, ‘Do seals have bones?’ And some people want to know where the bathroom is. I always say, ‘It’s at home.’ Thanks to humans, these seal walks can be a real adventure.”

"The Stripper"

2011-03-04T05:58:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Don’t tell my wife, but lately I’ve been frequenting a strip joint. It’ll sound even kinkier when she finds out that the joint is a dental center, the stripper is an orthodontist named Michael and his best customer is a patient who happens to be me.

To avoid further confusion, as well as a raid by the police, I should mention that the young man in question, Dr. Michael Sheinis, always wears his white lab coat when I visit him in the Dental Care Center at Stony Brook University on Long Island, N.Y. But he does strip my teeth, which I guess makes me the strippee.

It also makes my pearly whites easier to move into the desired position now that I am wearing invisible braces. I need them because two of my teeth, one on the top and the other on the bottom, have shifted. Since I can’t shift for myself, I have been going to Stony Brook to get things straightened out.

For a year and a half, I had a short strip (there’s that word again!) of metal braces in the upper right part of my mouth. The braces moved back the teeth in the buccal segment so the lateral incisor could be rotated to its original position.

After the construction project was dismantled by Sheinis, a nice and talented resident at Stony Brook, I was ready for my invisible braces, known by the brand name Invisalign.

But first, the good doctor had to put cement in my mouth. Not blocks, which would have been appropriate because I’m a blockhead, but small attachments on a few of my teeth so the clear plastic braces can be snapped into place. At mealtime, I can pop out the upper and lower trays, stuff my face, brush my teeth and put the braces back in. No one can see them. Only my orthodontist knows for sure.

“I won’t tell anyone,” promised Sheinis, who used a composite gun to apply the attachments. It looks like a cross between a caulker (“No, I didn’t get it at Home Depot,” Sheinis said) and the phaser Capt. Kirk used on “Star Trek” (“Going where lots of other orthodontists have gone before,” the doctor added).

On a recent visit, Sheinis announced, “I have to do a little stripping.”

“Keep your shirt on, doc,” I urged.

“Not me,” he replied reassuringly. “Your teeth. I have to strip some of the bottom ones so the invisible braces can move them more easily.”

To do so, Sheinis used interproximal strips, which are essentially pieces of sandpaper floss. The idea was to slenderize the aforementioned teeth so the crooked one on the bottom could be pushed back into line with the others.

The stripping was done over three visits. “It keeps the shape of your teeth, but it narrows them a bit,” explained Sheinis, 27, who had braces -- metal, not invisible -- when he was 10.

“My dad’s an orthodontist,” he said. “He put every appliance in my mouth. I even had the headgear with the strap that comes out of your face. I had the lip bumper, too.”

The only good part, Sheinis said, was that he got to pick which color elastic bands were used on his braces. “I always chose colors to match my favorite sports teams,” the native Floridian said, referring to the Miami Dolphins (aqua and orange) and the Miami Heat (red and black).

Today, his teeth are perfectly straight, which will make him look good in his wedding pictures (he’s engaged to be married later this year). “The braces worked,” he said, noting that mine will, too.

“By the end of the year, you’ll have a dazzling smile,” Sheinis said. “And no more stripping. I’m sure your wife will be happy to hear that.”

"Open Letter"

2011-02-18T04:19:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Jamie Dimon

President and CEO

JPMorgan Chase

270 Park Ave.

New York, N.Y. 10017

Dear Mr. Dimon:

I’m Jerry Zezima. The name probably doesn’t mean much to you (it doesn’t mean much to me, either, although it is of great interest to my creditors), but I am a Chase customer who, like you, has been victimized by the bad housing market.

I am writing to tell you that I sympathize with your recent decision to sell your Chicago mansion for only $6.95 million, which is about half the original asking price of $13.5 million. My wife, Sue, and I had been trying to refinance our house, which is nice but certainly no mansion, and just found out that we have been denied by your bank.

It all started when we went to our local Chase branch and saw a very nice loan officer named Ernie. Let me say from the outset that you should give Ernie a raise. I’d give him one myself, but because of the denial, I don’t have the extra cash. Then again, you know the feeling.

Anyway, we wanted to refinance because our younger daughter is getting married and, as father of the bride, I figured we could use the money, which we otherwise would have blown on frivolous luxuries like food and, of course, shelter.

So we began the Application from Hell. Little did Sue and I know that the process would take almost six months. I am now convinced that the full name of your bank is Wild Goose Chase.

We had to produce enough paperwork to wipe out the Amazon rainforest, the North Woods of Maine and all the trees in our yard. Scientists may well blame Chase for climate change.

Practically every day I had to drop off copies of pay stubs, insurance forms, bank statements, income tax returns and so much other stuff I could barely carry it all. I’m surprised I wasn’t required to bring my high school transcript, which would have shown that I am so bad at math, I could get a job as an underwriter.

For the record, your underwriters not only are underhanded and overrated but also sadistic. They kept asking for personal information (I wear size 34 boxer shorts, by the way) but were never satisfied. So I had to produce even more evidence that Sue and I still live in our house, still have jobs and, perhaps most important, are still alive.

It got to the point where I was spending more time with Ernie than I was with Sue. People were starting to talk.

Then we had to shell out $400 for a house appraisal. It turned out that our house was acceptable but we weren’t. So our application was denied.

I don’t know what you are going to do about the hit you took on the sale of your Chicago house, but if you are thinking of recouping the money by refinancing your home in Westchester County, N.Y., I have two words of advice: Forget it!

Take it from me, Mr. Dimon: It will be the worst experience of your life.

I am telling you all this because I know you’re not a bad guy. In fact, The New York Times called you “America’s least hated banker.” You should put that on your business card.

Since you live fairly close to our place on Long Island, N.Y., Sue and I would like to invite you and your wife to the wedding. Maybe you can stop by the house, which I am sure you will like. You may even wonder why we weren’t able to refinance it.

In the meantime, Mr. Dimon, good luck. If you need to borrow a few bucks until payday, I’d be happy to help. And at a low interest rate. After all, in these tough times, we homeowners have to stick together.

Sincerely,

Jerry Zezima

"Kidney Stone II: The Sequel"

2011-02-04T04:04:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

For the past 15 years, I had taken great pains to forget a terrible episode in which I hit rock bottom. A couple of weeks ago, another terrible episode made me acutely aware that the great pains were back. And so was the rock.

In what I fear will become a series with more sequels than “Rocky,” I had my second kidney stone.

The first -- now known as Kidney Stone I, designated with a Roman numeral to distinguish it from the recent one, Kidney Stone II -- struck in 1996. It happened in my hometown of Stamford, Conn., where I received great care and got the stone as a keepsake.

The latest episode started in Stamford, on a visit to my parents’ house, and continued after my wife, Sue, and I returned to our house on Long Island, N.Y.

As a man who has been known to withstand a hangnail without flinching, I thought I could tough it out. But as the pain in my left side intensified to the point where it felt like I was trying to pass a bocce ball, I said to Sue, “I think we should go to the emergency room.”

Sue drove me to John T. Mather Memorial Hospital in Port Jefferson, where two unsettling things happened: I noticed the word “memorial” on the sign outside the building and I was asked if I was on a “do not resuscitate” list.

Otherwise, I couldn’t have been in better hands. A nurse named Ron showed his skill as a mixologist by making me a cocktail that eliminated not only the pain but most of my already limited cognitive functions.

I told Tom, the radiologic technologist who gave me a CAT scan, that we have three cats. “Will I need three scans?” I wondered.

“Just one,” said Tom, adding, in answer to my next question, “No, we don’t have a DOG scan.”

A little later, Dr. Perry Shapiro announced I had a kidney stone.

“It’s pretty big,” he said, giving me a prescription that included Percocet. Because I was still a little groggy, I didn’t quite understand the rest of it, but I thought he said I could get the meds from a couple named Flo and Max.

Shapiro also gave me a paper strainer in the hope that this, too, would pass and the name of an excellent urologist named Dr. Albert Kim.

The next day, after I had an X-ray, Sue drove me to Kim’s office in -- how appropriate is this? -- Stony Brook. As I got out of the car, I noticed a small rock in the parking lot. I picked it up and put it in the strainer.

In the office, a medical assistant named Grace asked how I was feeling.

“I think I passed the stone,” I told her.

“That’s great,” she said. “Let’s see.”

I showed her the rock in the strainer. Grace’s eyes bugged out of her head. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed. “It’s huge.”

“Actually,” I admitted, “I found it in the parking lot.”

Grace laughed. Kim, who also was vastly amused, had already seen the X-ray. “We’ll have to blast,” he said.

“With dynamite?” I inquired fearfully.

“The Percocet is making you even dopier than usual,” Sue noted.

Kim, who assured me that he wouldn’t need explosives, scheduled the procedure in two days at a place called the Kidney Stone Center in East Setauket.

Meanwhile, I had to fill out so many forms that my hand hurt worse than my side.

On the day of the procedure, I was prepped by a very nice nurse named Gabrielle. Dr. Rick Melucci, the anesthesiologist, did everyone a favor by knocking me out. Kim then used shock waves on my kidney stone.

I’m not shocked that I am feeling much better. And I am grateful to everyone who took such good care of me, especially Sue.

Since these episodes seem to occur every 15 years, I won’t have to worry about Kidney Stone III until 2026. In the meantime, the only rocks I have will be in my head.

"Hot Stuff"

2011-01-21T03:51:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If you can’t stand the heat, get into the kitchen. That’s the lesson I learned recently after the oven lost heat in the kitchen and I couldn’t stand the prospect of having to eat cold dinners until the apoplectic appliance was fixed.

Fortunately, my wife, Sue, without whom I would have starved to death long ago, is at home on the range, otherwise known as the stovetop, which she uses to cook hot meals that sometimes include Stove Top stuffing.

The meltdown began just before Christmas, which we were going to host for 13 people, two dogs and me.

Enter Larry, a very nice and very knowledgeable repair specialist, who examined the oven, performed all kinds of sophisticated tests and came up with an unsettling diagnosis: “This thing is possessed.”

I took his word for it -- and added a few choice words of my own -- because the lights kept flickering. It looked like something out of a horror movie. Even worse, Larry asked me several times to hit the circuit breaker, which I figured would either fry me or bake him, leading to the following spectacular headline: “Oven cooks repairman: Last job not well-done.”

I knew the situation was critical because the oven was running a low temperature of 0 degrees. Normal is 350.

“I have to order a new control board,” Larry said, referring to the electronic gizmo that runs the oven like the Starship Enterprise.

“When will it be here?” I asked.

“After New Year’s,” Larry replied.

When Sue heard this, her temperature skyrocketed. “How am I going to cook Christmas dinner?” she cried.

Even without Santa’s help, the holiday meal was sensational because the smaller bottom part of the oven worked, as did the stove. Our younger daughter and my mother pitched in by bringing food. Everyone -- including the dogs -- loved it.

A few days later, the board arrived, but we couldn’t get an appointment until almost a week after New Year’s.

Enter Larry again.

“You’re back!” I exclaimed.

“Yes!” he said.

I knew Larry was the man for the job when he told me that he used to repair military equipment. “I did jet engines,” he said. “In fact, I used to do everything. Now I’m an oven and dishwasher specialist.”

“Sue has always said that no man in America knows how to load a dishwasher the right way,” I told Larry.

“I don’t even have a dishwasher,” he said. “I wash the dishes myself.”

“At least if your oven needed to be repaired, you could do it,” I noted.

“No,” he said. “I’d throw it out and get another one.”

Larry also said he does most of the cooking at home.

“I can barely make toast,” I admitted.

“My wife likes my cooking,” Larry said, adding that he started when he was a teenager working in restaurants. “I specialize in Italian dishes, but I also do a lot of barbecuing. You don’t need an oven for that.”

Appliances have changed a lot in the 40 years that Larry has been repairing them.

“You almost have to be a rocket scientist these days,” he said, referring to the computer technology.

“It also seems like you’re a doctor on call,” I noted.

“Except we don’t get paid like doctors,” Larry said. “But I do have a lot of patience,” he added, laughing at his own joke.

With the skill of a surgeon, Larry replaced the board and had our oven running like new. Then he printed out the bill, which came to $653.67. Fortunately, it was covered under the warranty.

“I’m very happy to get my oven back,” Sue said.

“Me, too,” I chimed in. “Now I won’t starve.”

“Maybe,” Sue said to me, “you should learn how to use the oven.”

Larry nodded and said, “Now you’re cooking.”

"Home, Sweetly Appraised Home"

2011-01-07T04:20:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

In the nearly 13 years since my wife, Sue, and I bought our house, I have come to realize that a man’s home is his hassle. That’s because Sue frequently asks me to undertake projects I could do in no time if my name happened to be Bob Vila. Or even Pancho Villa.

As the Least Handy Man in America, a title I have copyrighted until an even more incompetent guy can prove otherwise, I am surprised I have been able to accomplish these tasks without either destroying the place or suffering life-threatening injuries.

Fortunately, Sue not only is handier than I am, she has much better taste.

Because of our hard work and the money we have spent on these home improvement projects, the Zezimanse, as I have dubbed our humble abode, is one of the nicest houses in the neighborhood.

At least that’s what we hoped an appraiser would say when he came over one recent morning to tell us how much our house is worth.

The appraiser, whom I will call “John” because that’s his real name, had a measuring tape, a camera and a clipboard on which he would grade our home and property but not, alas, Sue’s pumpkin pie. She gave him a slice with a cup of coffee because we wanted to be hospitable. After all, a little buttering up (a little butter was in the recipe) never hurt.

“This pie is delicious!” John exclaimed.

“Will it increase the value of our home?” I asked.

“No,” John replied, “but it shows that your wife puts the kitchen to good use.”

John started the appraisal by walking around the yard, which I made sure was devoid of droppings after a recent visit by our younger daughter’s dog. “We didn’t want you tracking anything into the house,” I told John, who finished up inside with an inspection of the upstairs, the downstairs and the garage.

“Your house is very nice,” John said. “You keep it neat and clean. Some people call up to make an appointment and I go to their house a week later and it’s a falling down wreck. They’ll say, ‘Sorry, we didn’t have time to clean up.’ I’ve been to places where you can’t even see the floor.”

“I’m not the neatest guy in the world,” I confessed. “Sometimes I leave my dirty socks and underwear on the floor in the bedroom. Sue made sure they were picked up before you came over.”

John admitted that he wouldn’t win any Good Housekeeping awards himself but said his wife, like Sue, puts a premium on neatness. “She was very strict with our two sons and wouldn’t allow them to be messy,” said John. “They’re all grown up now and are out of the house, though we still have some of their stuff.”

“Our two daughters are out of the house, too,” I noted, “and we still have some of their stuff in the garage. You probably saw it.”

John nodded and said, “I always blame the kids.”

He was impressed when Sue and I told him about our home improvement projects, including the kitchen and bathroom renovations. “Did you do them yourself?” John asked me.

“Are you kidding?” I responded. “I can barely handle a paintbrush.”

“Sometimes I get involved in projects that are a little beyond me,” John said. “I’m not the world’s handiest guy, either.”

“How would you appraise your own house?” I inquired.

“Very well,” John said. “I give a lot of credit to my wife.”

Sue looked at me and smiled.

“I meet a lot of nice people in my job,” John said. “But it’s not without its hazards. One time I was bitten by a dog.”

“Were you appraising a doghouse?” I wondered.

“No,” he said. “But I’ve been in some pretty weird places.”

Ours wasn’t one of them because John gave it a generous appraisal.

“It’s one of the nicest houses in the neighborhood,” he said. “If I could include the pumpkin pie, it would be worth even more.”

"Missed by a Hair"

2010-12-24T06:04:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Always a bridesmaid, never a bride: It’s the story of my life. But the hairiest part of the story is that I am the only bridesmaid I know with a mustache.

That is why I was not surprised to find out that I recently finished second in the Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Contest.

This was the third time I have finished second in a national competition. The first was in 1990, when I was runner-up in the Curly Howard Sound-Alike Contest. Was I thrilled? Soitenly! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk! The second was in 1998, when I was second in the pasta sauce division of the Newman’s Own & Good Housekeeping Recipe Contest for a dish I called Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger. Paul Newman himself tried it and didn’t have to be hospitalized. That he is currently deceased is merely a coincidence.

But the mustache contest was special because I not only was up against some stiff-upper-lipped competition, but because I lost by -- you guessed it -- a whisker.

The third annual Goulet Award competition -- sponsored by the American Mustache Institute (“Defending the rights of the Mustached American community since 1965”) and named for the late mustachioed singer -- was the largest yet.

According to the AMI website, americanmustacheinstitute.org, there were more than 300 entrants this year. In addition to yours truly, the 19 finalists included such notables as Minnesota Twins pitcher Carl Pavano, TV personality Pat O’Brien, filmmaker Morgan Sperlock, North Dakota Gov. John Hoeven and Washington Post columnist Gene Weingarten.

I also was up against two inanimate objects: Paydirt Pete, a cartoon mascot, and Carstache, a mustache for cars.

Of the more than half-million online ballots cast, I got about 85,000 votes. For this unbelievable outpouring of support, I must thank my vast network of People With Too Much Time On Their Hands. My mother alone probably accounted for half of my total. I apologize to anyone who, as a result of constant computer clicking, has come down with RSI, which stands, of course, for Repetitive ’Stache Injury.

My supporters also can take pride in the fact that the Goulet contest raised money for Movember (us.movember.com), an international charity that not only helps fund cancer research but encourages men to grow mustaches.

“Your performance was clearly admirable and your chevron mustache is very impressive,” Dr. Aaron Perlut, chairman of AMI and the self-described “most ruggedly handsome man in America,” told me by phone. “It was nice to see that your supporters came out in droves. You have quite a following.”

But not as large a following as the winner, Brian Sheets, a firefighter from Osceola County, Fla., who got about 120,000 votes. He was honored at ’Stache Bash 2010, which was held under the world’s largest mustache, the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, where he received the coveted Goulet Award and a $3 crown.

“I’m humbled,” Sheets told me when I called to congratulate him. “When my students at the Central Florida Fire Academy found out about the contest, they nominated me. Then friends and family started voting. It spread like wildfire.”

It was the only fire that Sheets, who sports a Fu Manchu, didn’t want to put out.

“I’ve always talked about the power of the mustache,” said Sheets, 39, adding that he will never shave his. “I burned it once, but I just trimmed the singed parts. I’d rather have my heart burned out of my chest than shave my mustache.”

I must admit that Sheets is a very brave and worthy winner, which is why, even though he is from Florida, I won’t demand a recount.

All I can do is start preparing for next year’s contest and hope I’m not a bridesmaid again. Maybe I’ll join the fire department and grow a Fu Manchu.

"Christmas Letter 2010"

2010-12-10T05:27:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

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; Sue, the matriarch; Katie and Lauren, the childriarchs; and Katie’s husband, Dave, the son-in-lawiarch. Happy reading!

Dear friend(s):

It sure has been an exciting 2010 for the Zezimas! The highlight of the year was the engagement of Lauren to a wonderful young man named Guillaume. Everyone in the family is thrilled for the happy couple, who will be married next year. In fact, there will be not one but two weddings, the first in France (where Guillaume is from) and the second in the United States (where Lauren is from). Is Jerry saving his euros? Oui!

In related developments, Sue and Jerry hosted Lauren’s bridal shower, for which they rented a tent that was never used, and Jerry opened a father-of-the-bridal registry at Home Depot. (Hint: He needs screwdrivers. Don’t worry about the orange juice. Just buy him vodka.)

Katie turned 30. She and Dave celebrated by going to Costa Rica, where Katie hurt her shoulder zip-lining and has needed physical therapy. It's tough getting old.

Sue and Jerry went to Cape Cod. They had a great time. And nobody got hurt.

In fact, Sue and Jerry had many excellent adventures in 2010. Sue won two tickets to a taping of “Late Show With David Letterman” in New York City. They didn’t meet Dave, or even announcer Alan Kalter of Stamford, but they did have lunch at the Hello Deli and met famous owner Rupert Jee, who made Jerry “The Letterman,” a heart-healthy hoagie inspired by Dave’s past cardiac troubles. It was delicious.

Sue and Jerry went to Upton, N.Y., to visit Brookhaven National Laboratory, home of the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider, where the origin of the universe is studied, and got a tour from Guillaume, an accelerator physicist at the lab. Jerry, who is not exactly a rocket scientist, didn’t blow anything up.

Speaking of adventures, Sue and Jerry attempted to clean the garage in anticipation of a home refinancing appraisal. They got rid of a lot of junk but not all of it, so they still can’t fit a car in there.

And speaking of cars, Jerry took his to be serviced and got a massage while he waited. Now he wants to have the oil changed every week. He also was a Target Boy for the Great Throwdini, the world-famous knife thrower, and made a point of living to tell about it.

If that weren’t a close enough shave, Jerry was a finalist in the Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Contest. In a field of about 300, he finished second, losing by a whisker.

On a sad note, Lizzie, the family dog, who once beat Jerry in a blackjack tournament, passed away, a month shy of her 15th birthday. She was the sweetest creature God ever made and will always be missed.

The highest achievement of the year was when Jerry took the first solo flight of his life. He traveled to Dayton, Ohio, to be a speaker at the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, where he signed copies of his book, “Leave It to Boomer.”

Yes, Jerry actually became a published author in 2010, and his book, he is proud to say, is a crime against literature. He even won it in a raffle at a dinner in Darien, Conn. Someday he might read it.

Well, that’s the news from here. Merry Christmas with love and confusion from the Zezimas.

"Have a Knife Day"

2010-11-26T04:38:00.001-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am proud and slightly flummoxed to say that I have done some incredibly stupid things in my life, which is why I am not considered the sharpest knife in the drawer. And I proved it recently when I was a target for a knife thrower known as the Great Throwdini.

Throw, as he is called by his many friends and admirers in the impalement arts, is in the Guinness Book of World Records for being the world’s fastest and most accurate knife thrower. According to his website, knifethrower.com, he received magic’s highest honor, the coveted Merlin Award, in 2009; he is the only artist to perform the Veiled Wheel of Death; and he has made many television appearances, the most recent being humorist Bill Geist’s profile of him on “CBS News Sunday Morning.” His slogan: “Throwetry in Motion.”

Because Throw lives a knife’s throw from my house on Long Island, N.Y., I arranged to pay him a visit and, for once, do something that wasn’t pointless.

The first thing I noticed about Throw is that he wears glasses.

“I’m blind as a bat without them,” he admitted.

I gulped. What was I getting myself into? Even more unnerving, what would be getting into me?

But Throw took great pains, so to speak, to put me at ease. His real name is the Rev. Dr. David R. Adamovich. He is a minister in a nondenominational Christian church. “I’ve never had to give anyone last rites,” he assured me.

He also has a doctorate in exercise physiology and for 18 years was a college professor of electrocardiography.

“I didn’t get into knife throwing until I was 50,” said Throw, who is 64.

He is so good that he can throw 10 knives in 3.9 seconds. Even more impressive is that he performs with a Target Girl who stands against a board or is attached to a spinning wheel while Throw throws knives that land within inches of her.

“It’s fun,” said Lynn Wheat, one of Throw’s several Target Girls. Lynn, 27, who teaches theatrical carpentry on the college level, said she enjoys motorcycles and fast cars, adding: “I like to do crazy things.”

One of them was being on the Wheel of Death for the “Sunday Morning” segment. As the wheel spun with Lynn attached to it, Throw tossed the tools of his trade. When the wheel stopped, Lynn was closely surrounded by a chilling array of large, glistening knives.

“My mother saw it on TV,” Lynn related. “Her only complaint was that I showed too much cleavage.”

I wasn’t showing anything except the tiniest hint of sheer panic as the three of us headed up to the attic, where I was about to make my debut -- but not, thank God, my farewell -- as a Target Boy.

“What advice would you give me?” I asked Lynn.

“Go with the flow,” she answered.

“Of blood?” I stammered.

Lynn shook her head and smiled. She said I should enjoy the experience and have complete confidence in Throw. “I do,” she said. “And I’m still here.”

She was still there after Throw stood her against a 6-foot-high, 4-foot-wide red wooden board and threw eight 14-inch knives around her in rapid succession from a distance of 7 feet. Then she turned sideways and clenched a black cocktail straw between her teeth as one of Throw’s 16-inch knives snapped off the spangled tip.

Next it was my turn to throw knives -- but not at Lynn, who wisely had no confidence in me. Throw showed me how to hold a knife, cock my arm and release the fearsome implement. My first one thudded off the board, but most of my subsequent throws stuck firmly in the wood.

“You’re good,” Throw said. “Now comes the real test.”

I stood with my back to the board and looked straight at Throw. A strange sense of calm pervaded me. Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap went the knives to my left; thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap to my right, the closest impaled 3 inches from my ear.

“You didn’t flinch,” Throw said. “You’re an excellent Target Boy.”

Just call me the Great Throwdummy.

"It's About Time"

2010-11-12T04:25:00.000-08:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I was born more than three weeks past my due date and haven’t been on time for anything since. In fact, I have such a reputation for tardiness that people have said I will be late to my own funeral, which is fine with me because I am in no big hurry to get there.

From the day I entered this world, I have been the late Jerry Zezima. But now, at long last, there may be hope for me.

It comes in the form of a study that has just been released by my favorite mad scientist, Dr. Alan Hirsch, founder and neurological director of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago.

In the study, “Effects of Odor on Time Perception,” Hirsch found that the smell of baby powder can make time seem shorter, while the smell of Colombian coffee can make time seem longer.

I use baby powder because a boy just likes to feel pretty, and I drink coffee because a geezer just needs to stay awake, but since I am always running late, I had never taken the time to smell them. So I called Hirsch to get up to snuff on his latest scientific breakthrough.

Hirsch, the author of several books, including the recently published “How to Tell If Your Teenager Is Lying,” said that, like me, he is notorious for being late.

“I’m always running behind,” he acknowledged. “Maybe I should put baby powder out for my co-workers to make it seem like I’m on time.”

The people in Hirsch’s study wore surgical masks that had the scent of either baby powder or Colombian coffee. They didn’t do anything they would ordinarily like or dislike. Instead, they sat in chairs while Hirsch recorded their perceptions of the time that had elapsed. But the masks could work in everyday situations, he said.

“If you are doing something pleasurable, like eating chocolate cake or having social interaction of an intimate nature, you could put on the coffee mask and you will perceive time to be longer,” said Hirsch. “Of course, it’s tough to eat cake while wearing a surgical mask,” he admitted. “And the mask may discourage further social interaction. But it could be fun to try.”

Conversely, the smell of baby powder can make a bad experience, like waiting in a doctor’s office, seem shorter. “It could be part of the new health-care initiative,” Hirsch suggested. “Unfortunately, it wouldn’t work with my patients because they can’t smell.”

I can smell -- and often do if I don’t use baby powder -- so Hirsch mailed me two scented masks. “You can use them to conduct your own study,” he said.

After they arrived, I was going to ask my wife to have social interaction with me while I wore the coffee mask, but I thought better of it. So I wore it while watching a football game. It went into overtime. Or at least it seemed like it did.

The next morning, I wore the baby powder mask so I wouldn’t be late for work. The main reason I am always running behind is that I take long showers, but since the mask would get wet, I put it on afterward. I took it off to have breakfast and put it on again to get dressed.

The morning seemed to fly by and I left the house a little earlier than usual. I had to stop at the bank, so I took the mask off because I didn’t want to get arrested, which really would have made me late for work.

Unfortunately, after I ran my errand, I hit a lot of traffic, which I tried to avoid by taking an alternate route. I got lost and arrived at the office 15 minutes past my start time.

As we tardy people always say, better late than never.

"Grease Is the Word"

2010-10-29T03:30:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I will never be in a NASCAR pit crew, mainly because my automotive skills are the pits, but I do know that when it comes to car care, it’s never too late to be oily.

That’s what I learned recently when I went to Mid-Island Hyundai in Centereach, N.Y., so a certified mechanic could show me how to change the oil in my car.

As a certified cheapskate, I knew I could save money if I learned how to do it.

“In a tough economy, every little bit helps,” technician Naresh Ramjet said as we stood under my car, which was on a lift in the dealership’s garage. “Besides,” he added, “it’s not that difficult, even for an amateur.”

That, of course, would be me.

“You can’t be any worse than the guy who hacked off the end of a spark plug and put it in the oil pan to hold the oil,” said Ramjet. “Rule No. 1: Don’t do that!”

As Ramjet showed me how to remove the splash shield and the filter, and how to drain the oil into an oil catch, service adviser Rich Heins gave me another piece of advice: If you’re going to pull a robbery, make sure your getaway car starts.

“This guy with a Corvette came in complaining that his car wouldn’t start after he shut it off,” Heins recalled. “So we left the car idling. Somebody came along, saw this nice car running, jumped in and took off. He drove to a hospital, parked the car, went inside and robbed the place. He ran back outside and jumped in the ’Vette. It wouldn’t start. It was just going, ‘Click, click.’ There was a cop standing next to the door, tapping on the window. This idiot had the ultimate getaway car and he couldn’t get away.”

Service adviser Mary Husson remembered the time an older gentleman came in and said his car was making noises. “Nobody else could hear these noises,” Husson said. “It turned out the guy had a hearing aid and he was getting feedback.”

“Then there was the time a woman came in to say that her car smelled,” Heins said. “It really did. The smell was awful. This was in the middle of a heat wave in August. The woman said the smell started about a month before. Apparently she had gone food shopping in July and forgot to take the groceries out of the trunk. We couldn’t do much about the smell, but we did take the groceries out. It’s all part of the service.”

Heins also recalled the man who complained that there were holes in the interior roof over the backseat. “I asked him who drove the car besides him. He said, ‘My daughter.’ We figured out the holes were made by pump heels,” Heins said. “His daughter was doing more in the car than just driving. The guy’s face turned beet red. He never came back.”

I was getting quite an education in car care. Learning how to change the oil wasn’t the most exciting part, but it was the most useful, thanks to Ramjet, a class A technician -- the highest grade -- who keeps up on technology by going back to school twice a year.

After he showed me how to replace the filter and put the splash shield back on, he lowered the car and showed me how to put in new oil and measure it with a dipstick.

“You may not qualify for a NASCAR pit crew,” Ramjet said, “but now you can change your own oil.”

And I’ll save money. Because an oil change is $36, and should be done every 3,000 miles, and I drive about 15,000 miles a year, it’ll amount to $180 annually.

“You’ll keep your car running well,” Heins said. “Just make sure some stupid crook doesn’t try to steal it.”

"Get the Picture?"

2010-10-15T05:03:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If there is one thing I have found out from being on Facebook -- aside from the incredible fact that I have more friends than the guy who founded it -- it’s that a picture is indeed worth a thousand words.

I made this fascinating discovery recently when I posted a new profile photo of myself. I had it taken because my old photo, which was taken half a dozen years ago for my 50th birthday, was being used in bars all across this great land by drunken dart players. This just added to the holes in my head.

So I opted for an updated profile picture.

After being on Facebook since last year, I figured it was about time. Besides, practically everybody in the United States is on Facebook. My mother was on it before I was. Even my younger daughter’s dog has her own Facebook page. And all of them are constantly changing their profile photos or posting new shots of themselves. Sometimes these pictures are not exactly flattering.

Therein lay my dilemma: Would my new photo actually look like me? Would my more than 400 Facebook friends mistake me for Freddy Krueger? Would people start sending my wife condolence cards?

Fortunately, I had the good sense to ask a colleague named Andreas, a talented photographer and a very patient guy, to shoot me. After the trouble I put him through, he probably wanted to.

But the result was worth it. The new photo, I must say with all due modesty, will not scare small children.

“It’s nice,” said Martha, who works at a nearby Apple store. I went there because I am so technologically inept that I needed a lesson in how to post my photo in places other than the post office.

The procedure is so astonishingly simple that even a kindergartner could do it. Unfortunately, I don’t know any kindergartners, so I took a computer lesson.

Along with my original profile shot, photos of me have been posted, or “tagged,” by other people. This was the first time I attempted to do it myself.

The reaction has been very gratifying.

Wendy wrote: “You don’t age. Not fair.”

My response: “I’m shockingly immature, Wendy. It makes me seem younger.”

Bozena wrote: “Nice shot, Jerry. Nice coat, too.”

My response: “Thanks, Bozena. I had to give the coat back after the photo shoot. I kept the pants.”

Leland wrote: “What a great picture. That should be your ‘If I ever get kidnapped, use this picture’ picture.”

My response: “If anybody kidnapped me, it would turn into ‘The Ransom of Red Chief.’ ”

No comment yet from my younger daughter’s dog, but I am sure she likes the picture, too.

This got me thinking: I wonder if Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg would like my new profile photo?

Except for money, power and influence, I have a lot in common with Zuckerberg, the subject of the new movie “The Social Network,” because, of course, our last names begin with Z.

So I went to his Facebook page. There was Mark, in all his geeky glory, grinning goofily in a black-and-white photo.

I wanted to friend him, and ask what he thinks of my new profile picture, but I couldn’t. All I could do was click on “Like” and read his postings, one of which was about his “great day” on “The Oprah Winfrey Show.”

Incredibly, and a little sadly, the genius behind Facebook has no friends.

Don’t worry, Mark. I’ll be your friend. But first, get a new profile picture.

"Jerry Appleseed"

2010-10-01T04:19:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Everyone knows the story of Johnny Appleseed, who introduced apples in the Midwest by saying, “Granny Smith, meet McIntosh. Mac has invented a newfangled device called a computer. You can get a year’s worth of free lessons if you buy one now.” Granny rebooted Mac out the door and had Johnny arrested for littering after he dropped appleseeds all over her yard.

But very few people know the story of Jerry Appleseed, who recently dropped a bunch of Granny Smiths and McIntoshes all over an orchard when his bag broke while he and his wife, Sue, were apple picking.

I, of course, am that seedy character, and I am a lot like Johnny because, as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

That’s the lesson I learned when Sue and I drove out to Lewin Farms in Wading River, N.Y., to partake in an autumn ritual that did not, unfortunately, involve staying home to watch football.

The first thing we discovered was that approximately half a million people had the same idea. Sure as God made little green apples, we found ourselves competing with packs of pome-picking persons who either wanted to eat so many apples that they turned green or hoped to turn their bounties into apple pies, apple crisps, apple tarts, apple candies, applesauce, applejack, apple juice or apple cider. Not among them was R.W. Apple, the legendary New York Times reporter who is, at the present time, dead.

When Sue and I got to the entrance, we saw a sign that read: “Baskets $5, bags 5 cents.” I may be a basket case, but I’m also really cheap. “Let’s bag it,” I said.

Sue grabbed three bags, the flimsy plastic kind you get at the supermarket, and together we headed into the orchard, where I got a lesson in apple picking from a 6-year-old boy named Adam, who brought his parents, Paul and Samantha, because he couldn’t possibly carry all those apples by himself.

“First you twist them,” Adam said authoritatively. “Then you look at them.”

“I’ve been doing it the opposite way,” I confessed. “No wonder I’m not a good apple picker.”

Adam smiled. So did Paul, who sprang for a basket, which was full of fruit. “I’d rather be watching football,” Paul said as he lugged the heavy load from tree to tree.

“I’ll never hear the end of this,” Samantha said.

“Are you a football fan?” I asked Adam.

“No,” he said as he put another apple in the basket. “I like baseball.”

A few minutes later, I felt something fall on my foot. Then I heard something hit the ground. Then something else. I looked down. Apples were cascading from my bag, which had broken because I had overloaded it. I put them back in the bag and carried the whole kit and caboodle in my arms.

“You should have brought a wagon,” said a guy named Tony, who was walking with his family. Tony’s son, A.J., was pulling a wagon belonging to his 2-year-old daughter, Norah. The wagon contained three baskets full of apples.

I asked Norah, who was on her first apple-picking adventure, if she was having a good time. The little girl didn’t answer.

“She’s coming off a cold,” said her mom, Angel.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away,” I advised.

Norah sneezed.

When Sue and I were finished, we brought our three bags to a woman who weighed them. “That’ll be $34,” she said. I only had a 20. “Look at the sign behind you,” the woman said. The sign read: “What you pick, you buy.” The apples were priced at a buck a pound. The woman took back my bag and said, “Two bags, $20. But please watch out next time.”

There won’t be one because next year, I’m staying home to watch football. How do you like them apples?

"Mr. Clean"

2010-09-17T04:14:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If it’s true that one man’s junk is another man’s treasure, I must be the richest man on earth. Or so I thought recently when my wife, Sue, and I embarked on the herculean task -- which even Hercules couldn’t accomplish by himself -- of cleaning the garage.

As it turned out, I’m the man with all the junk. That’s because there wasn’t much to treasure in everything that had accumulated since we moved in a dozen years ago.

I had tried to clean the place a couple of times before, but my efforts were half-hearted and no-brained. Now, Sue said, I had to put my nose to the grindstone, which was hidden in a corner, next to the garage door opener my parents gave us for Christmas 2005, I think, but which we haven’t installed because, let’s face it, why open the door when you can’t get in?

“This place is a mess,” Sue announced as she surveyed the hellhole from the other door.

“It’s not so bad,” I replied as I tripped over a box and almost broke my foot, which would have given me a good excuse to put off the project for another few years.

The box was sitting next to two folding tables, two baby gates, a dog cage, a large wooden board and an oven door.

I found photos of our two grown daughters when they were kids. “Wow, look at these,” I said nostalgically. There also were some shots of Sue and me when we moved into the house. “That was when this mess started,” I remarked.

“You spend more time looking at stuff and reminiscing than actually cleaning up,” Sue retorted.

My main job, I soon learned, was to dig through things that had no earthly value and try to convince Sue that we should keep them. One such item was a book titled “101 Elephant Jokes.” It was in a box with such other literary classics as “How to Eat Fried Worms” and the Britannica Book of the Year for 1971.

Sue, meanwhile, was working diligently to decide what stayed (two old bureaus and a long-lost water bottle) and what went (the aforementioned books and, if I didn’t watch out, me).

We also kept -- for now, at least -- the BubbleMate, a luxury foot bubbler that I don’t think has ever been used; a treadmill that, if we someday decided to get in shape, would give us a reason not to throw away the foot bubbler; and a vintage Christmas record by the Chipmunks.

We also found records by such baby boomer icons as Neil Young, Cat Stevens and Steppenwolf. “I’m putting them on eBay,” Sue said.

I found an open box of tissues that probably dated back to the Clinton administration. “Do you want them?” I asked Sue.

“No!” she shot back. “They’re disgusting. I wouldn’t blow my nose in them.”

Speaking of disgusting, I also found petrified goldfish food. Since we no longer have any petrified goldfish, I threw it out.

I kept four toolboxes, three bicycles, two ladders and a partridge in a pear tree, which was in a box of Christmas ornaments.

By the end of the day, we had filled 10 bags and one box for Goodwill. We also filled several garbage bags and a recycling bin. And we’re still not done, though the place is less of a fire hazard and we are a lot closer to actually being able to fit a car in there.

Now Sue wants to have a garage sale. “How are we going to sell the garage without selling the house, too?” I asked. Sue ignored me.

There are, it seems, a few treasures after all, some of which we will try to sell to other people who like to collect junk.

The garage door opener, which may finally come in handy, is not one of them.

"Down to a Science"

2010-09-13T04:07:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to write a newspaper column, but sometimes it helps to be a nuclear physicist.

Aside from realizing that I’m not smart enough to be either, which is why I write a newspaper column, that’s the lesson I learned recently after my wife, Sue, and I went on a tour of Brookhaven National Laboratory in Upton, N.Y.

We were among the approximately 1,800 people who saw the lab that day as part of Brookhaven’s Sunday Summer Tours. The program allows the public to view virtually every major part of the sprawling laboratory, which is operated in conjunction with the U.S. Department of Energy and has won seven Nobel Prizes.

Our group was welcomed by nuclear physicist Phil Pile, who said, “The world’s most perfect liquid was discovered here.”

“Wow!” I whispered to Sue. “They’re going to serve beer.”

No such luck. Phil was referring to a type of matter thought to have existed microseconds after the Big Bang. This means, I guess, that it was microbrewed.

The Big Bang is the prevailing cosmological theory of how the universe was created and is not to be confused with the Big Band, from which popular music was created.

Brookhaven is famous for the Relativistic Heavy Ion Collider, aka RHIC, pronounced Rick, which makes the laboratory Rick’s Place. “Of all the lab joints in all the towns in all the world, you had to walk into ours,” Phil didn’t say to the group.

He did say, however, that RHIC, where the origin of the universe is studied, is the first machine capable of colliding ions as heavy as gold.

“Maybe I’ll get some jewelry out of this,” Sue suggested.

Phil said that accelerated particles in RHIC have been known to travel 700 million miles per hour, which is almost as fast as some drivers go on Interstate 95 or the Long Island Expressway.

Phil also talked about protons and neutrons, though he didn’t mention morons, probably because he didn’t want to embarrass me. But he didn’t spare Albert Einstein (e equals MC Hammer), who was shown in a photo riding a bicycle without a helmet. “Not very smart,” Phil said.

Our group then got on a bus headed for STAR, one of two detectors we would see. STAR stands for Solenoidal Tracker At Relativistic. Xian Li, a brilliant doctorate student, told us how heavy ions are smashed together in a structure that looks like a huge roulette wheel. Even more brilliant was a 12-year-old girl named Mikaela Egbert, who showed me how to use my cell phone to take pictures.

Our next stop was the other detector, PHENIX, which stands for Pioneering High Energy Nuclear Interactions eXperiment. Aside from not being in Arizona, PHENIX also is where scientists collide heavy ions. Protons are collided in both detectors as well.

The last stop was the Tunnel, where an accelerator physicist named Mei Bai said the lab spends $600 million on parts.

“Do you go to Home Depot?” I inquired.

“When we need ladders,” she responded.

Accelerator physicist Todd Satogata talked about the Brookhaven Graphite Research Reactor, or BGRR. “It’s affectionately known as Booger,” he said.

Our group was given a tour by Guillaume Robert-Demolaize, an accelerator physicist who also happens to be my future son-in-law. He is even smarter than that 12-year-old girl and will one day win the Nobel Prize. You read it here first.

“This is where the magic happens,” said Guillaume, adding: “The person who asks the best question wins a T-shirt.”

“Can you use E-ZPass in this tunnel?” I asked.

I didn’t win the shirt.

But Guillaume gave a winning presentation, which included a detailed description of the 2.4-mile-long tunnel’s two concentric rings, which are made up of 1,740 superconducting magnets. “They’re not the kind you put on your refrigerator door,” he said.

After the tour, Sue said, “This was like being with Bill Nye the Science Guy.”

The whole day was fun and fascinating. The best thing I learned is that, when it comes to riding a bike without a helmet, Albert Einstein was no smarter than me.

"The Wedding Planner"

2010-08-20T04:43:00.000-07:00

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Because I am going to be father of the bride for the second time -- which puts me ahead of both Spencer Tracy and Steve Martin, just in case any Hollywood producers are reading this -- I was extremely interested to read about Chelsea Clinton’s wedding.

My wife, Sue, and I weren’t invited, probably because, in 1992 and 1996, I was a candidate for vice president of the United States on the Cocktail Party ticket. Both times, my running mate, Alan Abel, and I lost to Bill Clinton and Al Gore in what can only be considered great upsets because Alan and I were greatly upset that we lost.

Still, I am willing to let bygones be bygones, which is why I want to invite Bill and Hillary, as well as Chelsea and her husband, Marc Mezvinsky, to my younger daughter’s wedding next year.

Of course, Sue and I can’t afford to spend $3 million on the big day, which is what Bill and Hillary reportedly spent on Chelsea’s wedding. That’s because we have already spent at least that much over the years on things like Girl Scout cookies, school fundraisers, clothes, shoes, college tuition and, when our two daughters were living at home, phone bills.

Then there was our older daughter’s wedding, in 2006. The cost included not only the big day but a kitchen renovation, which Sue commissioned because, in a brilliant plan to “save money,” we had the bridal shower at our house.

Now, Sue and I are planning our younger daughter’s wedding and have decided to invite a lot of the people who reportedly were on Bill and Hillary’s guest list.

That includes, of course, Bill and Hillary.

As a former president, Bill will add prestige to the event. He also has proven to be an effective fundraiser for worthy causes, and I can think of no worthier cause than the Jerry’s Kids Wedding Fund.

The goal is $3 million. If any money is left over, Sue and I will blow it on frivolous luxuries like food and shelter. After all, you only live once.

Hillary will be a great guest, too. As secretary of state, she can help with diplomacy when it comes to the seating arrangements. And since our future son-in-law is from France, Hillary can use her expertise in international relations to make already warm relations even better.

We’ll also invite Barbra Streisand, who I am sure will not mind providing the entertainment. She was interviewed recently on “CBS News Sunday Morning” and she still has a terrific voice. People who need people at their daughter’s wedding are the luckiest people in the world.

Then there is Barbara Walters, who can announce the happy couple at the reception and perhaps conduct a short interview. She can ask about the rings, the bride’s dress and the honeymoon plans. She should avoid asking, “If you two were trees, what kind would you be?” Think about it, Barbara. We’re in touch, so you be in touch.

Ted Danson can be the bartender. During the cocktail hour, Ted, everyone will know your name. Cheers!

Finally, there is Oprah Winfrey, who can host a video of the big day. She can also give away cars or even cash to lucky attendees, most notably yours truly.

What do you say, folks? As far as Sue and I are concerned, your presence is more important than your presents. It will be a wonderful time. Bill and I can even put aside our political differences and swap funny stories about being father of the bride.

The wedding is set for June 5, 2011. Save the date.