By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a coffee maker whose coffee maker was constantly sabotaging my morning brew, either by turning itself off before the coffee was made or by leaking all over the counter, I often had grounds for complaint. But because my wife has never had such problems, it was obvious that when it came to making coffee, I didn’t know beans.
That’s why I turned to the ultimate source for help and ended up being a barista for a day at Starbucks.
My lesson in Coffee Making 101 was given by my younger daughter, Lauren, who is the manager of a Starbucks store in Smithtown, N.Y. Lauren is, of course, smart, talented and beautiful, which means she takes after her mother.
Lauren began working at Starbucks at age 17, when she was in high school, and continued with the company through college. Now, at 25, Lauren has gone from being a barista to a shift supervisor to an assistant manager to a store manager. I’m not saying that Starbucks founder and chief executive Howard Schultz has to worry about his job, but when he retires, I know a good replacement.
Anyway, Lauren is a walking encyclopedia of coffee and can make it better than anyone I know. She also, it must be pointed out, sold us the coffee maker that had given me so much trouble.
"It’s not the machine, Dad," Lauren said recently. "It’s you."
So when she suggested that I go to her store for a crash course in coffee making, I jumped at the chance, probably because I’d had too much caffeine.
After I showed up for my late-morning shift, Lauren gave me a green apron, signifying my status as a barista in training. Then she sat me down and, like a parent teaching a child, told me everything I ever wanted to know about coffee but was afraid to ask.
I learned about the four fundamentals of coffee making: water, proportion, freshness and grind. I also learned to use two tablespoons of coffee per six-ounce cup.
Then Lauren opened three bags of coffee – Ipanema Bourbon from Brazil, Kenya from Africa and Komodo Dragon from Asia – and gave me a geography lesson while expounding expertly on the beans that are grown in each region.
She used those beans to make me three small cups of coffee, which she said I was supposed to sniff and then slurp. It was like a wine tasting, except that I didn’t need a designated driver.
Speaking of which, the Brazilian coffee didn’t contain bourbon, but it did have a touch of citrus. The Kenyan brew was slightly earthy with a grapefruit flavor. But my favorite was Komodo Dragon, which was very earthy with an herbal taste.
"That’s the one you’re going to make," said Lauren, adding that I would be using a French press.
"I can’t speak French," I replied.
Lauren, who thinks I talk too much in English, informed me that I have three French presses in the garage at home. Considering the mess in there, I’ll never find them.
Finally, it was time to go behind the counter to see if I could make coffee without either flooding the store or ruining the company.
Following Lauren’s instructions, I put 0.12 pounds of beans into a grinder. Then I poured the coarse grounds into the eight-cup French press, which I filled with 200-degree water. After waiting exactly four minutes, I attached the top, which had a metal mesh filter, and slowly pushed down to trap the grounds.
Next, I poured some of my coffee into a small cup and handed it to Lauren. She sniffed it, then slurped. "Wow, Dad, this is delicious!" she exclaimed. "You did a good job. I’m very impressed."
Then I filled a small cup and gave it to a customer named Nick, who had come in with some of his buddies from work. I told him I was a barista in training and asked what he thought of my coffee.
"It’s really good," Nick said after taking a sip. "Wanna try some?" he asked his pal Dominic, who emphatically refused by saying, "After your lips have been on that cup?"
"Well, I think you made good coffee," Nick told me. "I’m a satisfied customer."
Lauren, who runs a highly successful store and is well-liked and respected by her staff, said I am now certified to make coffee, not only at Starbucks, but also at home.
"What about that stupid machine?" I asked.
Lauren looked at me as if to say that it’s not the machine that’s stupid. She suggested that I simply press the "on" button and wait until the coffee is done. "It’s really not that difficult, Dad," Lauren said.
She was right. The next morning, I made a perfect pot of coffee without swearing at the machine or pushing the button half a dozen times.
"You did it!" my wife said after taking a sip. "You’re now a coffee master."
Too bad I couldn’t keep that green apron.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, April 4, 2008
Friday, March 21, 2008
"Back to School"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Even though I partied so much in college that I graduated magna cum lager, I went to class often enough that I still have a dream that is common among people who subconsciously recall the old alma mater. It starts with a beautiful co-ed in a filmy negligee – oops, sorry, wrong dream!
The one I mean begins with me sitting in a lecture hall where I am about to be given a test I didn’t study for. After I wake up in a cold sweat, I wonder what would happen – aside from bankruptcy, considering the cost of tuition these days – if I went back to college.
I found out recently when I enrolled in One Day University, a traveling institution of higher learning that allows people who are thirsty for knowledge, if not beer, to spend a day taking college classes without having to take tests that will come back to haunt them in their dreams.
This presentation of One Day University was given on the C.W. Post campus of Long Island University in Brookville, N.Y. When I entered Hillwood Lecture Hall, I was greeted by Steven Schragis, a Tufts University graduate who co-founded One Day University.
"Did you bring your homework?" Schragis asked.
"My dog ate it," I replied.
This did not affect my scholarship – Schragis waived the $219 fee because I am a newspaper columnist and therefore was considered a hardship case – but it did prove that while I have a B.A. in political science, I have a B.S. in life.
I am a 1975 graduate of Saint Michael’s College in Colchester, Vt., where I got a great education despite being on the dishonor roll for four years. But because I also am an encyclopedia of useless information (I can proudly say that I am one of the world’s leading authorities on the Three Stooges), I thought it would be beneficial to go back to school so I could learn something that might actually do me some good.
One of my classmates at One Day University was Jayme Wolfson, a friend and co-worker who graduated from C.W. Post in 1979. "I’m having flashbacks!" Jayme said as we took our seats in the third row of the large hall.
Since she was the only student I knew in the class of more than 200, I asked if I could cheat off of her. "Sure," Jayme said. "If you want to flunk."
Fortunately, that wasn’t possible because there were no exams, which meant I was guaranteed to get an A in all four 70-minute classes. "In college," I told Jayme, "I had a 4.0 average, but it was on a scale of 100."
The first class, taught by John Tomasi, a professor of political science at Brown University, was "Capitalism and Wealth Inequality – John Locke and the Birth of the American Dream."
Tomasi gave such a compelling lecture that there was no giggling, no note passing and, most impressive, no spitball shooting. He spoke with authority and wit about Locke, the 17th-century English philosopher who famously wrote, "God gave the world to the industrious, not to the lazy," which explains my sad lot in life.
The second class, taught by Anne Nelson, an adjunct associate professor at Columbia University, was "The Untold History of Resistance in Nazi Germany."
It was an eye-opening presentation, which means I did not, as sometimes happened when I was an undergraduate, fall asleep. Nelson’s well-researched stories of bravery and heroism were sad, illuminating and, ultimately, inspiring.
After lunch in the cafeteria, where I resisted the urge to start a food fight, we all went back to the lecture hall for the third class, "Words and Where They Come From," which was taught by Joshua Katz, an associate professor of classics at Princeton University.
This was my favorite lecture because Katz opened with the Latin phrase "In vino veritas." Translation: "In wine there is truth." He also used philology (not, as I thought, the study of guys named Phil) to explain the ancient linguistic derivation of the English phrase "Thank you very much, Bob!"
One Day University director of group sales and "dean of students" Bob Sadin replied by saying, in English, "You’re welcome, Joshua!"
The last class, "The Industrialization of Everything We Eat," was taught by Gabriella Petrick, an assistant professor of food studies at New York University. It was, of course, food for thought. And it was served with relish, a welcome ingredient because one of the main parts of Petrick’s lecture was a learned discourse on iceberg lettuce.
I can now say with great pride that I am a 2008 graduate of One Day University (more info at OneDayU.com). In fact, I feel so smart that I’d like to be a lecturer. My class will be called "The Three Stooges 101."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Even though I partied so much in college that I graduated magna cum lager, I went to class often enough that I still have a dream that is common among people who subconsciously recall the old alma mater. It starts with a beautiful co-ed in a filmy negligee – oops, sorry, wrong dream!
The one I mean begins with me sitting in a lecture hall where I am about to be given a test I didn’t study for. After I wake up in a cold sweat, I wonder what would happen – aside from bankruptcy, considering the cost of tuition these days – if I went back to college.
I found out recently when I enrolled in One Day University, a traveling institution of higher learning that allows people who are thirsty for knowledge, if not beer, to spend a day taking college classes without having to take tests that will come back to haunt them in their dreams.
This presentation of One Day University was given on the C.W. Post campus of Long Island University in Brookville, N.Y. When I entered Hillwood Lecture Hall, I was greeted by Steven Schragis, a Tufts University graduate who co-founded One Day University.
"Did you bring your homework?" Schragis asked.
"My dog ate it," I replied.
This did not affect my scholarship – Schragis waived the $219 fee because I am a newspaper columnist and therefore was considered a hardship case – but it did prove that while I have a B.A. in political science, I have a B.S. in life.
I am a 1975 graduate of Saint Michael’s College in Colchester, Vt., where I got a great education despite being on the dishonor roll for four years. But because I also am an encyclopedia of useless information (I can proudly say that I am one of the world’s leading authorities on the Three Stooges), I thought it would be beneficial to go back to school so I could learn something that might actually do me some good.
One of my classmates at One Day University was Jayme Wolfson, a friend and co-worker who graduated from C.W. Post in 1979. "I’m having flashbacks!" Jayme said as we took our seats in the third row of the large hall.
Since she was the only student I knew in the class of more than 200, I asked if I could cheat off of her. "Sure," Jayme said. "If you want to flunk."
Fortunately, that wasn’t possible because there were no exams, which meant I was guaranteed to get an A in all four 70-minute classes. "In college," I told Jayme, "I had a 4.0 average, but it was on a scale of 100."
The first class, taught by John Tomasi, a professor of political science at Brown University, was "Capitalism and Wealth Inequality – John Locke and the Birth of the American Dream."
Tomasi gave such a compelling lecture that there was no giggling, no note passing and, most impressive, no spitball shooting. He spoke with authority and wit about Locke, the 17th-century English philosopher who famously wrote, "God gave the world to the industrious, not to the lazy," which explains my sad lot in life.
The second class, taught by Anne Nelson, an adjunct associate professor at Columbia University, was "The Untold History of Resistance in Nazi Germany."
It was an eye-opening presentation, which means I did not, as sometimes happened when I was an undergraduate, fall asleep. Nelson’s well-researched stories of bravery and heroism were sad, illuminating and, ultimately, inspiring.
After lunch in the cafeteria, where I resisted the urge to start a food fight, we all went back to the lecture hall for the third class, "Words and Where They Come From," which was taught by Joshua Katz, an associate professor of classics at Princeton University.
This was my favorite lecture because Katz opened with the Latin phrase "In vino veritas." Translation: "In wine there is truth." He also used philology (not, as I thought, the study of guys named Phil) to explain the ancient linguistic derivation of the English phrase "Thank you very much, Bob!"
One Day University director of group sales and "dean of students" Bob Sadin replied by saying, in English, "You’re welcome, Joshua!"
The last class, "The Industrialization of Everything We Eat," was taught by Gabriella Petrick, an assistant professor of food studies at New York University. It was, of course, food for thought. And it was served with relish, a welcome ingredient because one of the main parts of Petrick’s lecture was a learned discourse on iceberg lettuce.
I can now say with great pride that I am a 2008 graduate of One Day University (more info at OneDayU.com). In fact, I feel so smart that I’d like to be a lecturer. My class will be called "The Three Stooges 101."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, March 7, 2008
"A Real Gem"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I’m the very model of the modern man. And I proved it recently when I made my debut as a model at a women’s jewelry show.
This sparkling event was hosted by my sister Susan, an independent representative for Silpada Designs Jewelry. She wanted to celebrate the opening of her business with a party where she could showcase her merchandise and where the invited guests – ladies only – could chat, laugh, gossip, try on jewelry, place orders, nibble on snacks, sip coffee and otherwise behave in a sophisticated and civilized manner that did not involve beer and belching, thus distinguishing it from a gathering of guys.
My wife, Sue, couldn’t make it because she was working, so I decided to crash the party, which was held at my parents’ house, and look for something to buy for her.
In exchange for being the only man except my father, who lives there and couldn’t very well be kicked out even though his jewelry consists of cufflinks and tie clasps, I agreed to be the model.
Amy, a Silpada representative who was sponsoring Susan, who was hosting the party even though the hostess was actually my mother (there is never this kind of confusion when guys get together to watch a game), predicted that I would be the life of the party.
That sentiment was echoed by the guests, who included my sister Elizabeth and Susan’s daughter, Whitney, who is 11. The other guests were Linda, Sally, Joanne, Patty and Kathy.
"You will be good for business," Amy told me.
"I’ve been giving Susan the business since we were kids," I replied, "so I’m happy to help."
The first of the many compliments I received was from Amy, who said that my baby-blue-and-white, vertically striped shirt was "very slimming." She didn’t say anything about my jeans and sneakers, but I could tell she was impressed by my sense of style.
Then I tried on my first piece of jewelry, a beautiful garnet lariat. I swept out of the bathroom and sashayed across the rug in the finished basement, turning gracefully so the ladies could get the full effect. When they applauded, I knew my modeling debut was going to be a smash.
"Garnet is my birth stone," I announced, prompting cheers. "It’s better than a kidney stone," I added, prompting groans.
Next Amy gave me a matching garnet bracelet, but it was too small, so she added an extender. She winked and said something about putting me in handcuffs. I blushed. The women giggled. And I thought guys were bad.
To complete the set, Amy gave me a pair of earrings. I don’t have pierced ears, although I do have a hole in my head, so she had to clip them to my earlobes. One earring stayed on but the other kept falling off. "They must be from the van Gogh collection," I said to Amy, who attached the earrings to my collar.
"You look fabulous," Joanne commented.
"Sometimes a boy just likes to feel pretty," I replied.
After taking off the ensemble, I donned a gorgeous turquoise necklace. "It’s you," Linda said. "But you need something to go with it."
"How about a silver chain?" Kathy suggested.
Sally spotted an item that definitely was not part of the collection – a leash my parents keep for my dog, Lizzie, and Elizabeth’s dog, Lucie, both of whom also attended the party. The leash had a silver chain.
"That’s for later," Amy said, nodding toward me and eliciting hoots from the guests.
"Ladies, please!" I protested. "What would my wife think?"
Actually, she thinks I’m wonderful because I bought her the turquoise necklace. My mother got the garnet lariat. The other women looked through the catalog (more info at mysilpada.com/susan.cassell) and made plenty of purchases.
"Thanks to you," Susan told me afterward, "the show was a huge success. You should be a model again."
It looks like I’ll get the chance because my wife has agreed to host a jewelry party. Being a sex symbol is a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I’m the very model of the modern man. And I proved it recently when I made my debut as a model at a women’s jewelry show.
This sparkling event was hosted by my sister Susan, an independent representative for Silpada Designs Jewelry. She wanted to celebrate the opening of her business with a party where she could showcase her merchandise and where the invited guests – ladies only – could chat, laugh, gossip, try on jewelry, place orders, nibble on snacks, sip coffee and otherwise behave in a sophisticated and civilized manner that did not involve beer and belching, thus distinguishing it from a gathering of guys.
My wife, Sue, couldn’t make it because she was working, so I decided to crash the party, which was held at my parents’ house, and look for something to buy for her.
In exchange for being the only man except my father, who lives there and couldn’t very well be kicked out even though his jewelry consists of cufflinks and tie clasps, I agreed to be the model.
Amy, a Silpada representative who was sponsoring Susan, who was hosting the party even though the hostess was actually my mother (there is never this kind of confusion when guys get together to watch a game), predicted that I would be the life of the party.
That sentiment was echoed by the guests, who included my sister Elizabeth and Susan’s daughter, Whitney, who is 11. The other guests were Linda, Sally, Joanne, Patty and Kathy.
"You will be good for business," Amy told me.
"I’ve been giving Susan the business since we were kids," I replied, "so I’m happy to help."
The first of the many compliments I received was from Amy, who said that my baby-blue-and-white, vertically striped shirt was "very slimming." She didn’t say anything about my jeans and sneakers, but I could tell she was impressed by my sense of style.
Then I tried on my first piece of jewelry, a beautiful garnet lariat. I swept out of the bathroom and sashayed across the rug in the finished basement, turning gracefully so the ladies could get the full effect. When they applauded, I knew my modeling debut was going to be a smash.
"Garnet is my birth stone," I announced, prompting cheers. "It’s better than a kidney stone," I added, prompting groans.
Next Amy gave me a matching garnet bracelet, but it was too small, so she added an extender. She winked and said something about putting me in handcuffs. I blushed. The women giggled. And I thought guys were bad.
To complete the set, Amy gave me a pair of earrings. I don’t have pierced ears, although I do have a hole in my head, so she had to clip them to my earlobes. One earring stayed on but the other kept falling off. "They must be from the van Gogh collection," I said to Amy, who attached the earrings to my collar.
"You look fabulous," Joanne commented.
"Sometimes a boy just likes to feel pretty," I replied.
After taking off the ensemble, I donned a gorgeous turquoise necklace. "It’s you," Linda said. "But you need something to go with it."
"How about a silver chain?" Kathy suggested.
Sally spotted an item that definitely was not part of the collection – a leash my parents keep for my dog, Lizzie, and Elizabeth’s dog, Lucie, both of whom also attended the party. The leash had a silver chain.
"That’s for later," Amy said, nodding toward me and eliciting hoots from the guests.
"Ladies, please!" I protested. "What would my wife think?"
Actually, she thinks I’m wonderful because I bought her the turquoise necklace. My mother got the garnet lariat. The other women looked through the catalog (more info at mysilpada.com/susan.cassell) and made plenty of purchases.
"Thanks to you," Susan told me afterward, "the show was a huge success. You should be a model again."
It looks like I’ll get the chance because my wife has agreed to host a jewelry party. Being a sex symbol is a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, February 22, 2008
"Sole Searching"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
When it comes to shopping, men usually get off on the wrong foot. So I recently took my wife, Sue, with me when I went shopping for sneakers.
As soon as I stepped into the store, I found myself in a dilemma, which would be a good name for a sneaker brand.
"What do you want to do in your sneakers?" asked Joe Karl, manager of the Athlete’s Foot at the Smith Haven Mall in Lake Grove, N.Y.
"Walk," I replied. "Or stroll. Maybe, if I’m feeling frisky, I’ll amble. But I don’t want to run. I can’t run. If I did, I’d drop dead and then my wife would have to pray for the repose of my soles."
Karl explained that there are, indeed, walking shoes, as well as running shoes, not to mention basketball shoes, tennis shoes and cross-trainers, but that if I got running shoes, I wouldn’t necessarily have to run in them. "You can walk in running shoes," he said. "You also can run in walking shoes, but you don’t have to."
It had been several years since I last bought a pair of sneakers, and I had mercifully forgotten about the complexity of such a purchase, so this put my mind, or what little was left of it, at ease.
I felt even better when Karl turned me over to Charles Seales, a bright, young sales associate who took one look at my grungy old leather sneakers, which really ought to be burned except that the fumes would only add to global warming, and suggested a different kind that would help my feet breathe.
"When I take these things off, you might not be able to breathe," I warned Seales.
But first, I had to choose among innumerable brands, including Jordan Retros, the most expensive shoes in the store. "How much do they cost?" I asked.
"Three hundred dollars," Seales said.
I had the same reaction I expected Seales to have when I removed my sneakers: I nearly fainted. "My entire wardrobe isn’t worth that much," I said.
Sue, who buys me all my clothes and was acting as my shopping consultant, agreed. "He really does need help," she told Seales. "That’s why he brought me along."
When I saw that Seales was wearing a pair of clean, white sneakers that were stylish but not too flashy, I asked, "What kind do you have on?"
"New Balance," he replied.
"I’m unbalanced," I said to Seales, who didn’t look surprised. "Maybe I should try on a pair."
After asking my size, he brought out two pairs of New Balance 621s, which he said are walking shoes. I prayed that the 621 didn’t stand for the price.
One pair was size 11 regular, the other was size 11 wide.
"Try a wide one on your right foot and a regular one on your left," Seales suggested.
As I put them on, I mused about my own brand of sneaker. "How about Air Zezima?" I asked Sue.
"How about Air Head?" she responded.
Anyway, the wide sneaker was too wide, but the regular one was just right. I put on both regulars, which were white and navy blue, and looked at my big feet in the mirror.
"Those sneakers are nice," my shopping consultant said. "I think you should get them."
At $59.99, they were a bargain. And because Sue bought them for me as a birthday present, I got the best deal possible.
"Have fun walking," the manager said as we were leaving.
"Thanks," I replied. "Now, when people tell me to take a hike, I can do it in style."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
When it comes to shopping, men usually get off on the wrong foot. So I recently took my wife, Sue, with me when I went shopping for sneakers.
As soon as I stepped into the store, I found myself in a dilemma, which would be a good name for a sneaker brand.
"What do you want to do in your sneakers?" asked Joe Karl, manager of the Athlete’s Foot at the Smith Haven Mall in Lake Grove, N.Y.
"Walk," I replied. "Or stroll. Maybe, if I’m feeling frisky, I’ll amble. But I don’t want to run. I can’t run. If I did, I’d drop dead and then my wife would have to pray for the repose of my soles."
Karl explained that there are, indeed, walking shoes, as well as running shoes, not to mention basketball shoes, tennis shoes and cross-trainers, but that if I got running shoes, I wouldn’t necessarily have to run in them. "You can walk in running shoes," he said. "You also can run in walking shoes, but you don’t have to."
It had been several years since I last bought a pair of sneakers, and I had mercifully forgotten about the complexity of such a purchase, so this put my mind, or what little was left of it, at ease.
I felt even better when Karl turned me over to Charles Seales, a bright, young sales associate who took one look at my grungy old leather sneakers, which really ought to be burned except that the fumes would only add to global warming, and suggested a different kind that would help my feet breathe.
"When I take these things off, you might not be able to breathe," I warned Seales.
But first, I had to choose among innumerable brands, including Jordan Retros, the most expensive shoes in the store. "How much do they cost?" I asked.
"Three hundred dollars," Seales said.
I had the same reaction I expected Seales to have when I removed my sneakers: I nearly fainted. "My entire wardrobe isn’t worth that much," I said.
Sue, who buys me all my clothes and was acting as my shopping consultant, agreed. "He really does need help," she told Seales. "That’s why he brought me along."
When I saw that Seales was wearing a pair of clean, white sneakers that were stylish but not too flashy, I asked, "What kind do you have on?"
"New Balance," he replied.
"I’m unbalanced," I said to Seales, who didn’t look surprised. "Maybe I should try on a pair."
After asking my size, he brought out two pairs of New Balance 621s, which he said are walking shoes. I prayed that the 621 didn’t stand for the price.
One pair was size 11 regular, the other was size 11 wide.
"Try a wide one on your right foot and a regular one on your left," Seales suggested.
As I put them on, I mused about my own brand of sneaker. "How about Air Zezima?" I asked Sue.
"How about Air Head?" she responded.
Anyway, the wide sneaker was too wide, but the regular one was just right. I put on both regulars, which were white and navy blue, and looked at my big feet in the mirror.
"Those sneakers are nice," my shopping consultant said. "I think you should get them."
At $59.99, they were a bargain. And because Sue bought them for me as a birthday present, I got the best deal possible.
"Have fun walking," the manager said as we were leaving.
"Thanks," I replied. "Now, when people tell me to take a hike, I can do it in style."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, February 8, 2008
"Hair of the Dog"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Have you ever wondered, while grooming yourself in the bathroom mirror the morning after a hard day’s night, where the expression "hair of the dog" came from?
Neither have I. But I found out anyway one recent morning after an easy day’s night, when I took my hairy dog, Lizzie, for a canine coiffure and ended up being an apprentice groomer.
My day as a doggie beautician was spent at the PETCO store in Selden, N.Y., which has a salon and spa for furry customers in need of makeovers.
This palace of pooch pulchritude, which also caters to cats, is run by grooming manager Kathy Welborne, who started in the business when she was 16 and has 41 years of experience. That makes her 57, although, Welborne noted, "I’m only 8 in dog years."
Lizzie, who is 12, or 84 in human years, still has the intellect and playfulness of a puppy, just like her daddy, who is 54, or almost 8 in dog years, which means I am old enough to know better, but, unlike Lizzie, I don’t.
At least I know how to keep my dog looking shiny and clean because I was Welborne’s right-paw man during her session with Lizzie, which began with a light brushing.
"She has a good coat," Welborne said. "It’s beautiful."
Lizzie, a mixed breed (Lab, border collie, Zezimanian), gave Welborne a kiss and wagged her tail appreciatively.
After meeting Tinkerbell, a 2-year-old cocker-poo who actually smiled as she was being brushed by pet stylist Melissa Garveric, we went into the spa so Lizzie could have a bath. Welborne and grooming assistant Kim Sciacca lifted her plump, 68-pound figure into an elevated tub. My job was to remove Lizzie’s collar and assure her that Welborne wouldn’t get soap in her eyes.
She didn’t, but that didn’t stop Lizzie from getting soap in my eyes when she shook herself off after being lathered with a tearless shampoo and rinsed with a soothing stream of warm water.
"Sorry I don’t have a rubber apron to keep you dry," said Welborne, who wore a waterproof smock.
"That’s OK," I replied. "I’m all wet anyway."
So was Lizzie, who loved every minute of it. The shampoo Welborne used on her had a gingerbread scent, which prompted Sciacca to remark, "She smells like a cookie!"
"I could use some of that shampoo," I said, pointing to my unruly mop.
"What do you use now?" Welborne asked.
"Woolite," I replied.
When I asked who has better hair, me or Lizzie, Welborne said, "You don’t want me to answer that, do you?"
"Yes," I said.
Welborne’s emphatic response: "Lizzie."
Next, she clipped the dog’s nails. "Lizzie’s getting a pet-icure," I remarked.
Welborne sighed. So did Lizzie.
It was my turn to sigh when Welborne regaled me with stories of memorable customers, including the woman who dressed her dog in a wedding gown. "This woman was going to take her dog to a breeder," Welborne recalled, "so after I gave the dog a beauty treatment, the woman put a dress on her so she could meet the groom."
"I guess they exchanged wedding bow-wows," I noted.
Welborne nodded and said, "I don’t even want to think about the honeymoon."
After Sciacca helped Welborne lift Lizzie out of the tub, I held her while Welborne sprayed her with a hair-taming, static-free styling aid and dried her off, first with a towel and then with a low-temperature, hand-held hair dryer. Next, Welborne gave Lizzie a comb-out as I watched the fur fly.
Then Lizzie was placed in a kennel large enough to accommodate me and relaxed while being gently air-dried by three large hoses. I declined the invitation to wait in the kennel next to Lizzie’s and instead went back out front to meet Welborne’s pooch, Sophie, a 3-year-old Shih Tzu who was working as the maitre dog, greeting customers as they came in for appointments.
"She gets paid in treats," said Welborne, who also has two cats and is a member of the Nature and Wildlife Photographers of Long Island.
After 45 minutes, Welborne took Lizzie out and brushed her teeth, then put her back in the kennel to finish drying. About 10 minutes later, she was all done. Welborne gave Lizzie an extra spritz of gingerbread and put a pink and red bow on her collar.
"You’re beautiful, Lizzie!" Welborne exclaimed.
"Woof, woof!" Lizzie replied in gratitude.
Welborne thanked me for being such a good assistant and invited me back.
"How about next week?" I said. "I could use a haircut."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Have you ever wondered, while grooming yourself in the bathroom mirror the morning after a hard day’s night, where the expression "hair of the dog" came from?
Neither have I. But I found out anyway one recent morning after an easy day’s night, when I took my hairy dog, Lizzie, for a canine coiffure and ended up being an apprentice groomer.
My day as a doggie beautician was spent at the PETCO store in Selden, N.Y., which has a salon and spa for furry customers in need of makeovers.
This palace of pooch pulchritude, which also caters to cats, is run by grooming manager Kathy Welborne, who started in the business when she was 16 and has 41 years of experience. That makes her 57, although, Welborne noted, "I’m only 8 in dog years."
Lizzie, who is 12, or 84 in human years, still has the intellect and playfulness of a puppy, just like her daddy, who is 54, or almost 8 in dog years, which means I am old enough to know better, but, unlike Lizzie, I don’t.
At least I know how to keep my dog looking shiny and clean because I was Welborne’s right-paw man during her session with Lizzie, which began with a light brushing.
"She has a good coat," Welborne said. "It’s beautiful."
Lizzie, a mixed breed (Lab, border collie, Zezimanian), gave Welborne a kiss and wagged her tail appreciatively.
After meeting Tinkerbell, a 2-year-old cocker-poo who actually smiled as she was being brushed by pet stylist Melissa Garveric, we went into the spa so Lizzie could have a bath. Welborne and grooming assistant Kim Sciacca lifted her plump, 68-pound figure into an elevated tub. My job was to remove Lizzie’s collar and assure her that Welborne wouldn’t get soap in her eyes.
She didn’t, but that didn’t stop Lizzie from getting soap in my eyes when she shook herself off after being lathered with a tearless shampoo and rinsed with a soothing stream of warm water.
"Sorry I don’t have a rubber apron to keep you dry," said Welborne, who wore a waterproof smock.
"That’s OK," I replied. "I’m all wet anyway."
So was Lizzie, who loved every minute of it. The shampoo Welborne used on her had a gingerbread scent, which prompted Sciacca to remark, "She smells like a cookie!"
"I could use some of that shampoo," I said, pointing to my unruly mop.
"What do you use now?" Welborne asked.
"Woolite," I replied.
When I asked who has better hair, me or Lizzie, Welborne said, "You don’t want me to answer that, do you?"
"Yes," I said.
Welborne’s emphatic response: "Lizzie."
Next, she clipped the dog’s nails. "Lizzie’s getting a pet-icure," I remarked.
Welborne sighed. So did Lizzie.
It was my turn to sigh when Welborne regaled me with stories of memorable customers, including the woman who dressed her dog in a wedding gown. "This woman was going to take her dog to a breeder," Welborne recalled, "so after I gave the dog a beauty treatment, the woman put a dress on her so she could meet the groom."
"I guess they exchanged wedding bow-wows," I noted.
Welborne nodded and said, "I don’t even want to think about the honeymoon."
After Sciacca helped Welborne lift Lizzie out of the tub, I held her while Welborne sprayed her with a hair-taming, static-free styling aid and dried her off, first with a towel and then with a low-temperature, hand-held hair dryer. Next, Welborne gave Lizzie a comb-out as I watched the fur fly.
Then Lizzie was placed in a kennel large enough to accommodate me and relaxed while being gently air-dried by three large hoses. I declined the invitation to wait in the kennel next to Lizzie’s and instead went back out front to meet Welborne’s pooch, Sophie, a 3-year-old Shih Tzu who was working as the maitre dog, greeting customers as they came in for appointments.
"She gets paid in treats," said Welborne, who also has two cats and is a member of the Nature and Wildlife Photographers of Long Island.
After 45 minutes, Welborne took Lizzie out and brushed her teeth, then put her back in the kennel to finish drying. About 10 minutes later, she was all done. Welborne gave Lizzie an extra spritz of gingerbread and put a pink and red bow on her collar.
"You’re beautiful, Lizzie!" Welborne exclaimed.
"Woof, woof!" Lizzie replied in gratitude.
Welborne thanked me for being such a good assistant and invited me back.
"How about next week?" I said. "I could use a haircut."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, January 25, 2008
"Another Fine Mess"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
My life is such a mess that if I ever won the lottery, I’d never collect the money. That’s because my wife, Sue, the kind of person who throws everything out, would inadvertently toss the ticket in the garbage or I, the kind of person who saves everything, would put it somewhere in the house and never find it again.
My special hiding place would be either my office, which is a pigsty; my bureau, which might contain the remains of Jimmy Hoffa; my closet, which has no skeletons but plenty of dust balls; or the garage, which looks like a bomb hit it. If you looked in the dictionary under the word "clutter," you would see a picture of one of these four places. Unfortunately, in my house, you couldn’t find the dictionary.
So, in a long-overdue effort to de-clutter my world, I recently went to the Nesconset branch of the Smithtown (N.Y.) Public Library for a program called "De-clutter Your World." It was run by Jennifer Ryan, a certified professional organizer whose company, Create New Order, was founded six years ago to help people like me and the 18 other disorganized souls who attended the program.
One of them was a woman who carries all of her bills in her pocketbook, which she lugged along as proof. "In a strange way, you’re pretty organized," Ryan told the woman, "but your pocketbook is a mess."
Speaking of messes, Ryan said she was once hired by a man whose house was so messy that he couldn’t find the $87,000 he received in an estate clean-out. "He knew it was in there, but he didn’t know where," said Ryan, who unearthed the cash in a storage area.
There are even messes in Ryan’s house, thanks mainly to her 18-year-old daughter. "Her room is such a disaster area that I just close the door," said Ryan, who listened in disbelief as I told her that I once called both the governor’s office and the White House to see if I could get my younger daughter’s room officially declared a disaster area so Sue and I would be eligible for state or federal funds to clean it up.
"What did they tell you?" Ryan asked.
"Close the door," I replied.
I was so impressed with Ryan’s program that I invited her to my house for a consultation, which is part of her service (information is at createneworder.com).
"Here’s my philosophy," I said as Ryan sat at the uncluttered kitchen table with Sue and me. "Men don’t know where anything is. Women do – except if a man asks. Then it’s never there."
"My husband is very structured, but generally speaking, you could be right," Ryan said. "Let’s find out. We’ll do the worst first."
"That’s definitely the garage," Sue said as she led Ryan in there.
"I’m hoping you can help us find $87,000," I said.
"Did you have $87,000 to begin with?" Ryan asked.
"No," I admitted.
"Then I can’t help you find it," she said.
Ryan would have had to do an awful lot of digging because there are still unopened boxes from when Sue and I moved in almost 10 years ago. "That’s nothing," Ryan said. "I had a client with 35 years’ worth of junk."
She waded through the clutter and said, "Buy some shelving, create a hole by moving some of this stuff over, and put the boxes, tools and other stuff on the shelves."
After Ryan saw my office, which she said wasn’t so bad because she could actually walk in without breaking her neck, she suggested shelves, another bookcase and a third filing cabinet.
As for my bureau, which is in the bedroom and contains, among lots of other things, my underwear, Ryan said, "We all have drawers in our drawers. Learn how to fold clothes properly and you’ll be amazed at how much more room you’ll have."
I didn’t come out of the closet because I couldn’t get in there, but Ryan said it wasn’t that terrible, even though I have pants that I got years ago and have never worn. "Give the old stuff to Goodwill or you’ll never get on the cover of GQ," she said.
All in all, Ryan added, there is hope. "You can be saved," she told me. "And if you ever win the lottery, remember where you put the ticket."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
My life is such a mess that if I ever won the lottery, I’d never collect the money. That’s because my wife, Sue, the kind of person who throws everything out, would inadvertently toss the ticket in the garbage or I, the kind of person who saves everything, would put it somewhere in the house and never find it again.
My special hiding place would be either my office, which is a pigsty; my bureau, which might contain the remains of Jimmy Hoffa; my closet, which has no skeletons but plenty of dust balls; or the garage, which looks like a bomb hit it. If you looked in the dictionary under the word "clutter," you would see a picture of one of these four places. Unfortunately, in my house, you couldn’t find the dictionary.
So, in a long-overdue effort to de-clutter my world, I recently went to the Nesconset branch of the Smithtown (N.Y.) Public Library for a program called "De-clutter Your World." It was run by Jennifer Ryan, a certified professional organizer whose company, Create New Order, was founded six years ago to help people like me and the 18 other disorganized souls who attended the program.
One of them was a woman who carries all of her bills in her pocketbook, which she lugged along as proof. "In a strange way, you’re pretty organized," Ryan told the woman, "but your pocketbook is a mess."
Speaking of messes, Ryan said she was once hired by a man whose house was so messy that he couldn’t find the $87,000 he received in an estate clean-out. "He knew it was in there, but he didn’t know where," said Ryan, who unearthed the cash in a storage area.
There are even messes in Ryan’s house, thanks mainly to her 18-year-old daughter. "Her room is such a disaster area that I just close the door," said Ryan, who listened in disbelief as I told her that I once called both the governor’s office and the White House to see if I could get my younger daughter’s room officially declared a disaster area so Sue and I would be eligible for state or federal funds to clean it up.
"What did they tell you?" Ryan asked.
"Close the door," I replied.
I was so impressed with Ryan’s program that I invited her to my house for a consultation, which is part of her service (information is at createneworder.com).
"Here’s my philosophy," I said as Ryan sat at the uncluttered kitchen table with Sue and me. "Men don’t know where anything is. Women do – except if a man asks. Then it’s never there."
"My husband is very structured, but generally speaking, you could be right," Ryan said. "Let’s find out. We’ll do the worst first."
"That’s definitely the garage," Sue said as she led Ryan in there.
"I’m hoping you can help us find $87,000," I said.
"Did you have $87,000 to begin with?" Ryan asked.
"No," I admitted.
"Then I can’t help you find it," she said.
Ryan would have had to do an awful lot of digging because there are still unopened boxes from when Sue and I moved in almost 10 years ago. "That’s nothing," Ryan said. "I had a client with 35 years’ worth of junk."
She waded through the clutter and said, "Buy some shelving, create a hole by moving some of this stuff over, and put the boxes, tools and other stuff on the shelves."
After Ryan saw my office, which she said wasn’t so bad because she could actually walk in without breaking her neck, she suggested shelves, another bookcase and a third filing cabinet.
As for my bureau, which is in the bedroom and contains, among lots of other things, my underwear, Ryan said, "We all have drawers in our drawers. Learn how to fold clothes properly and you’ll be amazed at how much more room you’ll have."
I didn’t come out of the closet because I couldn’t get in there, but Ryan said it wasn’t that terrible, even though I have pants that I got years ago and have never worn. "Give the old stuff to Goodwill or you’ll never get on the cover of GQ," she said.
All in all, Ryan added, there is hope. "You can be saved," she told me. "And if you ever win the lottery, remember where you put the ticket."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, January 11, 2008
"Dental Dilemma"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I have often been told, generally by people who need glasses, that I have a nice smile. I don’t know how they can tell because these same people are always saying that whenever I open my mouth, I put my foot in it.
So I would like to get something straight: my teeth.
Over the past several years, a couple of my pearly whites – one on the top, one on the bottom – have begun to wander. This is what my mind frequently does. At such times, my eyes will glaze over and I will break into a goofy grin that exposes 26 flawless teeth, as well as the two crooked ones that apparently have been pushed out of alignment by my size 11 foot.
To correct my dental dilemma, I have decided to get braces.
According to my dentist, Dr. Salvatore Trentalancia, who has a practice in Stamford with Dr. Craig Clabaugh, this is not uncommon among baby boomers who, like me, did not have braces when they were young.
How well I remember my unfortunate classmates who answered to the name "metal-mouth" and were warned, by sympathetic friends such as myself, to watch out for flying magnets. Now, at the ripe age of 54, I may end up looking like the grille of an old Ford Mustang. At least I don’t have zits anymore.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be fitted with something new called "invisible braces," which supposedly aren’t detectable to people who think you have a nice smile.
To find out if I qualify for braces, either traditional or trendy, I recently went for a consultation at the Stony Brook (N.Y.) University Dental Center, which is close to my house and has an excellent reputation as a teaching facility.
Dr. Ben Murray, an orthodontic resident who graduated last year from the University of Connecticut, was assigned to straighten out the situation.
Although Murray is, at 29, young enough to be my son, in which case he’d never have gone to dental school because I couldn’t afford the tuition, he immediately won my confidence. Not only does he have an easy manner and a playful wit, but he also has good roots: His father is an orthodontist and his grandfather was a dentist.
"Did you have braces when you were a kid?" I asked.
"Yes," Murray replied. "For four months. I was in fifth grade and I was a horrible patient for my father. I wouldn’t come in for appointments. Finally, I had enough of braces and asked my father to take them off."
"Are they that bad?" I wondered nervously.
Murray smiled, showing off nearly perfect teeth, and said, "No. I bet you’ll be a better patient than I was."
But first, I had to make a good impression. This entailed getting impressions made of my teeth. After a battery of X-rays numerous enough to make my head glow, even without a battery, I settled into a chair and opened wide as Murray gently inserted a pair of lip retractors into my big mouth. They made me look like the Joker on "Batman," only this time the joke was on me.
Then Murray stuck a mirror in there and began taking pictures. The inside of my mouth resembled the Grand Canyon with molars. I was going to suggest that the photos be sold as postcards, but I couldn’t talk. For this outstanding achievement, Murray deserves to win the Nobel Prize.
After the photo shoot, Murray took out the lip retractors and inserted some waxy matter so I could make a wax bite, which is probably the closest I will ever come to being in Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. Murray then asked me if I was having a gag reflex. I was going to say that my reflex is always to pull a gag when Murray said, "Last week, an 8-year-old boy threw up on me." As a good patient, I decided not to bring the matter up.
Now it was time for my impressions. Murray handed me a bib and some napkins. "You are going to drool," he assured me.
"There’s no drool like an old drool," I said, at which point Murray shut me up by putting some seaweed-based material into my mouth, first on the top, then on the bottom. The stuff was like Play-Doh, only not as tasty.
"Don’t bite down," Murray warned, "or you won’t be able to open your mouth again." I think he was trying to use reverse psychology.
When it was over, Murray said that my case would be reviewed by the staff, including Dr. Richard Faber, director of postgraduate orthodontics at Stony Brook, to determine what kind of braces I would need.
I am waiting to hear back. In the meantime, I guess I should take the foot out of my mouth.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I have often been told, generally by people who need glasses, that I have a nice smile. I don’t know how they can tell because these same people are always saying that whenever I open my mouth, I put my foot in it.
So I would like to get something straight: my teeth.
Over the past several years, a couple of my pearly whites – one on the top, one on the bottom – have begun to wander. This is what my mind frequently does. At such times, my eyes will glaze over and I will break into a goofy grin that exposes 26 flawless teeth, as well as the two crooked ones that apparently have been pushed out of alignment by my size 11 foot.
To correct my dental dilemma, I have decided to get braces.
According to my dentist, Dr. Salvatore Trentalancia, who has a practice in Stamford with Dr. Craig Clabaugh, this is not uncommon among baby boomers who, like me, did not have braces when they were young.
How well I remember my unfortunate classmates who answered to the name "metal-mouth" and were warned, by sympathetic friends such as myself, to watch out for flying magnets. Now, at the ripe age of 54, I may end up looking like the grille of an old Ford Mustang. At least I don’t have zits anymore.
If I’m lucky, I’ll be fitted with something new called "invisible braces," which supposedly aren’t detectable to people who think you have a nice smile.
To find out if I qualify for braces, either traditional or trendy, I recently went for a consultation at the Stony Brook (N.Y.) University Dental Center, which is close to my house and has an excellent reputation as a teaching facility.
Dr. Ben Murray, an orthodontic resident who graduated last year from the University of Connecticut, was assigned to straighten out the situation.
Although Murray is, at 29, young enough to be my son, in which case he’d never have gone to dental school because I couldn’t afford the tuition, he immediately won my confidence. Not only does he have an easy manner and a playful wit, but he also has good roots: His father is an orthodontist and his grandfather was a dentist.
"Did you have braces when you were a kid?" I asked.
"Yes," Murray replied. "For four months. I was in fifth grade and I was a horrible patient for my father. I wouldn’t come in for appointments. Finally, I had enough of braces and asked my father to take them off."
"Are they that bad?" I wondered nervously.
Murray smiled, showing off nearly perfect teeth, and said, "No. I bet you’ll be a better patient than I was."
But first, I had to make a good impression. This entailed getting impressions made of my teeth. After a battery of X-rays numerous enough to make my head glow, even without a battery, I settled into a chair and opened wide as Murray gently inserted a pair of lip retractors into my big mouth. They made me look like the Joker on "Batman," only this time the joke was on me.
Then Murray stuck a mirror in there and began taking pictures. The inside of my mouth resembled the Grand Canyon with molars. I was going to suggest that the photos be sold as postcards, but I couldn’t talk. For this outstanding achievement, Murray deserves to win the Nobel Prize.
After the photo shoot, Murray took out the lip retractors and inserted some waxy matter so I could make a wax bite, which is probably the closest I will ever come to being in Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. Murray then asked me if I was having a gag reflex. I was going to say that my reflex is always to pull a gag when Murray said, "Last week, an 8-year-old boy threw up on me." As a good patient, I decided not to bring the matter up.
Now it was time for my impressions. Murray handed me a bib and some napkins. "You are going to drool," he assured me.
"There’s no drool like an old drool," I said, at which point Murray shut me up by putting some seaweed-based material into my mouth, first on the top, then on the bottom. The stuff was like Play-Doh, only not as tasty.
"Don’t bite down," Murray warned, "or you won’t be able to open your mouth again." I think he was trying to use reverse psychology.
When it was over, Murray said that my case would be reviewed by the staff, including Dr. Richard Faber, director of postgraduate orthodontics at Stony Brook, to determine what kind of braces I would need.
I am waiting to hear back. In the meantime, I guess I should take the foot out of my mouth.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
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