"Move Over, Steve Martin"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If Steve Martin doesn’t want to do another “Father of the Bride” movie, and the studio can’t find anyone to replace him (original star Spencer Tracy can’t take the role because he is, contractually, dead), I have just the man to play the lead.

I refer, of course, to myself. That’s because I recently found out that I am going to star in the sequel to my own version of the popular series.

It gives me great pleasure to announce that my younger daughter, Lauren, is engaged to be married to a wonderful young man named Guillaume.

The first time I was father of the bride was in 2006, when my older daughter, Katie, married Dave, who also is a wonderful young man.

It goes without saying, but I will say it anyway, that Katie and Lauren are wonderful young women, primarily because they take after their mother, also known as my wife, Sue, who once again will be mother of the bride, the role played by Diane Keaton in the two Steve Martin movies and by Joan Bennett in the two Spencer Tracy movies. Maybe Sue should get an agent.

Anyway, in the immortal words of that great philosopher Yogi Berra, it’s deja vu all over again. I’m thrilled because the first time around was so memorable.

One part I will never forget, and which Hollywood could never top, was when Sue suggested we have Katie’s bridal shower at home because it would, Sue said, “save us money.”

“What a brilliant idea!” I responded enthusiastically, because as father of the bride I was already hemorrhaging cash.

“Of course,” Sue added, “we’ll have to redo the kitchen.”

As you already may have guessed, we didn’t save money. In fact, we spent more than my feeble mind could have imagined, not just on the kitchen, which was finished the day before the shower, but on our underground oil tank, which ruptured a week leading up to the occasion.

The tank was dug up, making the side yard look like a war zone, and was temporarily replaced by an old, rusty, above-ground tank that sat in full view of the guests, who gathered under a tent in the back yard. To add to the ambience, the replacement tank was festooned with balloons and a sign saying, “Congratulations!”

Still, the day was terrific. Not only were men invited, but it may have been the first bridal shower in history to feature cigars. It ended in a game of beer pong.

Because I have two left feet, which makes it extremely difficult to buy shoes, I took a dancing lesson so I wouldn’t humiliate myself at the reception. Sue came along because she wasn’t much better. In fact, we could have had our own show: “Dancing With the Stiffs.” The lesson helped.

We also assisted Katie and Dave in picking out a wedding cake. The decision was made one morning at an elegant bakery, where we each had a slice of eight different cakes for breakfast.

And, a week before the big event, I pampered myself by going to a spa for a day of beauty, which included a pedicure, a manicure and a massage. After all, sometimes a boy just likes to feel pretty.

It all culminated in the greatest wedding in the history of matrimony. Katie was a luminously beautiful bride, Dave was a dashingly handsome groom and I didn’t fall on my face while walking Katie down the aisle.

I’m sure my second time as father of the bride will be just as memorable. I might even invite Steve Martin to the wedding.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Driving Ambition"

By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate

I don’t like to brag because I am a modest person not given to superlatives, most of the time with good reason, but I am the driving force in my family. And I recently proved it by driving both of my daughters and their significant others to and from the airport, which amounted to four excursions in a week and a half, so they could go on trips that my wife and I couldn’t afford to go on ourselves.

It reminded me of the days when Sue (my wife) and I (myself) would drive Katie and Lauren (our daughters) and often their friends (too many to mention) to and from various destinations and important engagements, including school, the mall, the library, friends’ houses, fast-food joints, piano lessons, school concerts, softball practice, softball games, basketball practice, basketball games, band practice, drama club, religious instructions, the movies, the video store, the pet store and the school supply store. Then we would drive home, only to turn right around and go out again.

It’s a wonder the car didn’t explode.

A lot of people thought I was only 3 feet tall because the only time they saw me was when I was sitting in the car. (These same people, incidentally, thought Sue was 1-foot-10.)

Feeding and clothing your children are not nearly as important as driving them all over town every day. Eventually they become teenagers and get their driver’s licenses and start bugging you for a car. And when you refuse to buy them one, they begin using yours, leaving you without transportation.

Katie and Lauren are all grown up now and have had their own cars for years. But that did not prevent them from hiring Dad’s Livery and Onion Service (“Driving You Crazy Since 1980”) for their airport runs.

The first one was made the day we had a blizzard that dumped 2 feet of snow on my driveway. It must have dumped even more on the driveway of the limo driver who was supposed to take Lauren and her fiance, Guillaume, to JFK because the driver got cold feet and canceled the ride. Because the flight was still on, I had to dig out and drive to the airport so Lauren and Guillaume could fly to France to visit his parents, who are wonderfully nice and hospitable people.

A few days later, in what was appropriately a driving rainstorm, I had to drive back to JFK so Katie and her husband, Dave, could fly to North Carolina to visit his parents, who also are wonderfully nice and hospitable people.

The next trip was made to pick up Lauren and Guillaume when they returned on an evening flight. Neither snow, nor rain, nor dark of night could keep Dad from his appointed rounds. This time I took Sue, who fell asleep in the passenger seat on the way down. “Some company I am,” she said when she woke up, adding: “We’re doing all the driving and we’re not going anywhere.”

As they say in France, au contraire! That’s because, on another snowy day, I had to make a final run to JFK, where I should have my own parking space, to pick up Katie and Dave.

All told, I traveled almost 500 miles, which makes me wonder: Can I get frequent driver miles? If so, Sue and I may go on a trip ourselves. I just hope someone can take us to the airport.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"The Big Dig"

By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate

As a man who has been perpetrating snow jobs all his life, which is 55 years and counting, I can safely say that the recent blizzard dumped more of the white stuff on my driveway on Long Island, N.Y., than anywhere else on the East Coast.

I know because I got two feet, which I used to trudge out to the driveway to shovel the two feet of snow that buried my car, my wife’s car and, very nearly, me.

At first I tried to use the Little Snow Blower That Couldn’t, which 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. I was going to bury it in a snowdrift, in a solemn service with the words "died of fright" etched into the frosty tomb, but I feared that prolonged exposure to the elements would kill me, too.

Ordinarily, when it comes to snow removal, I am a wuss, which stands for "wait until spring starts." But I figured this accumulation wouldn’t be gone until the Fourth of July, so I got out my trusty shovel.

Of course, I didn’t want to have a heart attack, so I smartly decided to pile the snow in front of the mailbox so the bills couldn’t be delivered. If they don’t give you a heart attack, nothing will.

After half an hour, I had made excellent progress, having pushed approximately six inches of snow out of the way. Then my next-door neighbor Ron, who had just finished clearing his driveway, came over with his snow blower, which was still working, and kindly cleared most of mine.

It was a big help because I had to get my car out of the driveway so I could drive my younger daughter and her boyfriend to the airport. They were flying to Paris, which they’ll always have, and their flight was still on, but the limo driver who was supposed to take them to JFK got cold feet.

It was up to me to get them to the terminal on time. By then, my condition was terminal.

After a quick lunch, I went back outside to get into my car, only to see that a plow had come along and dumped a huge mound of snow at the bottom of the driveway. At that point, I felt like getting plowed, but it’s never a good idea to drink and drive, so I grabbed my shovel and started to dig out again.

Fortunately, my neighbor Mike, who lives next door on the other side, came over to help. Mike, who is younger and stronger than I am, which doesn’t distinguish him from most other people, did the bulk of the work.

As we tossed aside the last shovelfuls of snow, a car got stuck at the intersection in front of my house. In the vehicle were two young women in their late teens or early 20s.

"You’re the only person I have ever seen actually stop at the stop sign and look what happened," I told the driver. She and her friend giggled.

Mike and I dug them out, then gave the car a push to get it going. "Thank you!" chirped the girls as they drove away, waving and honking in appreciation.

As proof that no good deed goes unpunished, as I was about to put my shovel away, not one but two other plows came along and dumped more snow at the foot of the driveway. I shouted a cheery holiday greeting that can’t be printed in a family newspaper.

Eventually I got out; drove my daughter and her boyfriend to the airport; marveled at how the storm had brought people, both friends and strangers, closer together; and realized that I am a man for all seasons except winter.

Next time it snows, I am going to drive back to the airport and get on a plane myself.

Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima

"Christmas Letter 2009"

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 Katie’s husband, Dave, the son-in-lawiarch. Happy reading!

Dear friend(s):

It sure has been an exciting 2009 for the Zezimas! The highlight was when Jerry went to jail. Specifically, he went to Rikers Island for crimes against journalism, which he shared with three writing classes at Horizon Academy, a school for detainees in their teens and 20s. Jerry gained early release, after only a few hours, on bad behavior, even though the school administration said he was a good influence on the inmates.

Jerry had another brush with the law when Sue discovered that someone had stolen his identity. The thief, who was never caught, was putting charges on Jerry’s debit card for $1.13, prompting Jerry to wonder if that was all he’s worth. He also wondered who would want to be him. A bank official, who issued Jerry a new card, said, "I guess there’s at least one idiot out there."

On the positive side, 2009 was a year of celebration. Jerry’s parents, Rosina and Jerry Sr., celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary with a party at Sue and Jerry’s house. Not to be outdone, Jerry celebrated the 30th anniversary of his mustache. This impressed Dr. Aaron Perlut, chairman of the American Mustache Institute, who urged Jerry to enter next year’s Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Contest. "If you win," Perlut said, "it won’t be lip service."

Jerry took a yoga class. When the instructor informed him that they would be doing hatha yoga, Jerry said, "Hatha yoga is better than none." He is no longer taking the class.

Sue couldn’t take advantage of the Cash for Clunkers Program (the government wouldn’t take Jerry on a trade-in), but she still got a new car, which some jerk promptly scratched in a parking lot. Figures.

Sue and Jerry went on a whale watch. Almost everyone on board except Jerry and the captain got seasick. Sue got sick five times. The whales must have been sick, too, because they never showed up. The trip gave new meaning to the old whaling term "Thar she blows!"

On a sad note, Ramona, the world’s dumbest cat, went to that big litter box in the sky. She was two months shy of her 20th birthday. The good pet news is that Lizzie, the family pooch, is back in playing shape after tearing her ACL. Jerry thinks she should be a pro athlete.

Katie, Dave and Lauren, who came over for Thanksgiving, all had better years than Jerry, who had his hair colored at a spa (no one in the family noticed), made his own pizza at a pizzeria (nobody had to be hospitalized after eating it) and got to taste the merlot he helped make at a vineyard (a professional wine critic said it would go well with his pizza).

Last but certainly least, Jerry wrote his first book, "Leave It to Boomer: A Look at Life, Love and Parenthood by the Very Model of the Modern Middle-Age Man." It will soon be available on Amazon.com and BarnesandNoble.com. Jerry proudly calls this column collection "a crime against literature." Can a return trip to Rikers Island be far behind?

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

Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima

"The Smoke's on Me"

By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate

Everybody knows that cigar smoking can kill you, but very few people know why. Here’s the reason: Whenever a man wants to smoke, which he can do almost nowhere these days but in his own home, his wife makes him go outside. And there, depending on the season, he either freezes to death or dies of sunstroke.

As the Bible says, ashes to ashes.

Still, I like a good cigar once in a while. And I have had none better than the one I smoked recently. That’s because I rolled it myself.

I got a lesson in the fine art of cigar rolling from Julio Polanco, who runs a cigar company called, oddly enough, Polanco Cigars.

The first thing I found out when I went to his shop in Port Jefferson, N.Y., was that Polanco and I have a lot in common. Like me, he has a wife and two grown daughters.

"Does your wife let you smoke in the house?" I asked.

"No," Polanco said. "She makes me go outside."

"My wife doesn’t let me smoke in the house, either," I said. "If I get a hankering for a cigar and the weather is lousy, I go in the garage."

"You’re lucky you have a garage," Polanco said. "I live in an apartment, so I have to park on the street."

"I guess you can’t smoke in the car, either," I said.

"No," Polanco replied, "but I solved the problem by opening a cigar shop. Now I smoke here."

The shop, which is small but nice, has two couches and a large-screen TV.

"A lot of my customers come in to watch soccer," Polanco said. "One guy always wants me to put on Dominican music so he can dance."

"Has anyone ever wanted you to show him how to roll a cigar?" I asked.

"Yes," Polanco said.

"How did he do?" I inquired.

"Not so good," Polanco said. "But at least he didn’t cut off any of his fingers. I bet you’ll do better."

As I sat at a table behind the counter, Polanco said I could choose one of three kinds of wrappers: Brazil, Sumatra or Connecticut.

"I’m originally from Connecticut," I said. "Can I get frequent flier miles if I choose either Brazil or Sumatra?"

"I don’t think so," Polanco said.

"In that case," I replied, "I’ll take Connecticut."

The tobacco used for Connecticut wrappers is mild, explained Polanco, who is from the Dominican Republic, where his father, Pablo, founded the company, which fills orders from around the world on its Web site: polancocigars.net.

"The filler for our cigars comes from the Dominican Republic and Nicaragua, which gives them a better taste," said Polanco, who gave me a wrapper and said the veins should go on the inside.

"My veins are on the inside, too," I said as I laid the wrapper on the table and tried pathetically to wrap it, not too loose and not too tight, around the filler. My fingers fairly fumbled as Polanco looked on in amusement.

"You have to put the wrapper at the right angle," he said as he showed me how it’s done.

I got the hang of it, sort of, until it came time to use a brush to apply a naturally grown glue (made with tree powder and water) to the edge of the wrapper. I got more glue on my fingers than on the wrapper. Then I had to use a rounded knife to cut the excess wrapper and the tip of the cigar without, somehow, giving myself an extreme manicure.

"You did it!" exclaimed Polanco, who added that it would take me a while (perhaps years) to become a master roller but that I wasn’t as bad as that other customer.

I took my cigar home and, a couple of days later, on an unseasonably mild afternoon, went outside for a sensational smoke.

Would my wife have let me smoke my very own creation inside? Close, but no cigar.

Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima

"Construction Project"

By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate

When I think of history’s classic constructions – the Great Pyramid of Giza, the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Green Monster at Fenway Park – I naturally think of the Seven Wonders of the World. But there is another one that is so impressive, so outstanding, so absolutely fantastic that it should be added to the list.

I refer to the braces on my teeth, which ought to be called the Great Project of Geezer.

This architectural marvel has been engineered and constructed by Dr. Ben Murray, an orthodontic resident at the Stony Brook University Dental Care Center on Long Island, N.Y.

I have braces because a couple of my teeth have shifted, which is pretty remarkable considering I can’t shift for myself. According to Murray, this isn’t uncommon among baby boomers, especially those who, like me, didn’t have braces as a kid.

I got mine about a year ago in the right upper side of my mouth. Every month since then, Murray has worked on this construction project. He hasn’t worn a hard hat or used a jackhammer. And he hasn’t, thank God, needed dynamite. But he has employed tools such as a screwdriver and, during one memorable appointment, a blowtorch, which fortunately wasn’t applied directly to my mouth. None of it has hurt a bit.

In a recent office visit, Murray drew up a blueprint of his work and explained it in layman’s terms so even I could understand it.

"We’re working on the right buccal segment of the maxillary arch to distalize that area and correct the Class 2 malocclusion," he said.

"Ong, ong, ong," I replied, because Murray was still working on my teeth. When he was done, he explained further.

"The lateral incisor is severely rotated," he said. It sounded like one of the tires on my car. At least he didn’t call it a snaggletooth. Then I would have been like Snaggletooth, also known as Snagglepuss, the cartoon mountain lion ("Heavens to Murgatroyd!") on the old Yogi Bear TV show.

"The whole right side has moved forward," Murray continued. "This mesial shift is common in adults."

To straighten out this mess, Murray has embarked on an engineering job involving screws, springs, wires, brackets and anchor pins. It’s like a suspension bridge. The only thing missing is an E-ZPass lane.

When Murray showed me his drawing, which resembled either a football play or plans for a housing development, he said, "I have put braces on the upper right teeth from the second molar to the canine. Then I put a TAD, also called a temporary anchorage device, between the premolars and I distalized the second molar. The pin stabilizes the second molar and the first premolar. I retracted the first molar off the second molar and pushed the second molar back off the first premolar."

It all made perfect sense. The only glitch came when the pin, which was inserted in the outside of my gums, loosened due to hard brushing and wasn’t strong enough to anchor the wire pulling my teeth backward. So Murray ingeniously put another TAD in my palatal mucosa on the inside. It has worked like a charm.

Even though they are mostly hidden by my cheek, these aren’t your ordinary braces. Murray must keep adjusting them to move my teeth backward so there will be room to rotate the incisor to its original position. This should take a few more months, at which point I will be fitted with "invisible braces," which will cover all my teeth and straighten not only the incisor but the other crooked tooth, which is on the bottom in front. Or Row A, Seat 2 in your theater program.

In the meantime, I am going to start a campaign to nominate Murray for an International Architecture Award. The best way, of course, is by word of mouth.

Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima

"Lip Shtick"

By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate

I may not be British, even though my favorite breakfast cereal is Cheerios, but for the past three decades, I have kept a stiff upper lip. Now, after all these years of hair-raising adventure, I am celebrating the 30th anniversary of my mustache.

I had never thought to grow one because mustaches are not common in my family. Two of the only relatives who ever had them were my Uncle Bill, who sported a dapper mustache, and my grandmother, who wasn’t dapper but had inner beauty and made a mean dish of spaghetti and meatballs.

Then, in 1979, I had surgery to correct a deviated septum, which in my case was like repairing the Lincoln Tunnel. For more than a week, I was wrapped in bandages and couldn’t shave. When the bandages came off, I had a mustache.

My wife liked the new look (anything was better than the old one), so I kept it.

Ever since, I have been told I look like Groucho Marx, who is dead and can’t sue me. In fact, I like to go out on Halloween dressed as Groucho so I can get candy and beer from startled neighbors. I also was once mistaken (by friends, co-workers and even my own mother) for the infamous Groucho Robber, who struck several banks in Stamford until his photo, showing him in a Groucho disguise, appeared on the front page of the paper. He was subsequently caught and I, saying the secret word ("innocent"), was exonerated.

So you can imagine my surprise and delight when I recently found out about the American Mustache Institute, a St. Louis-based advocacy organization that, according to its Web site (americanmustacheinstitute.org), is dedicated to "protecting the rights of, and fighting discrimination against, mustached Americans by promoting the growth, care and culture of the mustache."

"We are the ACLU of downtrodden mustached people," Dr. Aaron Perlut, the group’s chairman, told me over the phone, adding that AMI is "the only mustache think tank in the United States." Its slogan: "A mustache is a terrible thing to shave."

I quickly realized the immense value of the American Mustache Institute because, as I had long suspected, there is a lot of discrimination against mustached Americans. For example, the last U.S. president to wear a mustache was William Howard Taft, who left office in 1913. Perlut said that the last mustached major-party presidential candidate was Thomas E. Dewey, who did not, despite a famous newspaper headline, defeat Harry S. Truman in 1948.

Mustaches made a comeback in the 1970s, when, according to Perlut, "every man had three things: a mustache, a perm and a turtleneck." But lip hair suffered a big blow in 1981, when, said Perlut, two things happened: "Ronald Reagan became president and ushered in a clean-cut, corporate culture, leaving mustaches to the fields of nail technicianry, motorcycle repair and refuse disposal. And Walter Cronkite, who just died, God rest his soul, left the air. From that time on, it became unfashionable for TV newsmen to wear mustaches."

Now, however, mustaches are on the upswing. "When people like Brad Pitt and George Clooney grow them, it’s good for the movement," said Perlut. "And the fact that Attorney General Eric Holder has a mustache is very important to our way of life."

To keep the momentum going, AMI hosts the Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Award. This year’s contest had a field of 100, including 18 finalists, and drew almost 100,000 votes. The winner was Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher Clay Zavada, who sports a handlebar mustache. He beat out the likes of hero pilot Chesley "Sully" Sullenberger. I voted for journalism’s only representative, hirsute humorist Bill Geist, whose neatly trimmed mustache gets plenty of face time on "CBS News Sunday Morning."

Perlut, who has a doctorate in international studies and, he said, "nuclear mustacheology," congratulated me on the 30th anniversary of my mustache.

"Since you represent our way of life so well," he said, "you should nominate yourself for next year’s Goulet Award. And if you win," Perlut added, presumably with a straight, mustached face, "it won’t be lip service."

Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima