"Sorry, Wrong Numbers"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I know you don’t know this because you aren’t clairvoyant, otherwise you would have won the lottery by now, but I recently failed to win the lottery even though my numbers were picked by a clairvoyant.

I was surprised and disappointed when I didn’t win $105 million in the Mega Millions drawing after playing my “personal lucky lottery numbers,” which were given to me by Maria Duval, who was described in a magazine ad as “the famous clairvoyant and medium.”

In her photo, she looked to be a medium, about size 8, but at least she wasn’t billing herself as Claire Voyant.

Anyway, next to the impressive background information on Maria, “holder of the highest honorary awards and degrees, more than 30 years of accurate and verifiable predictions,” was a form I had to fill out.

“Choose your 7 wishes NOW!” it urged.

Among the 33 choices, I checked off “Win enough money to never have to work again.” I don’t do much work now, but I figured it would be nice to do nothing in luxury.

I also checked off “Be the friend of wealthy people.” I could imagine being in the same social circles as moneybags like Donald Trump. Then The Donald could introduce me to his rich friends as The Jerry.

But the one that really appealed to me was “Win the lottery jackpot within two weeks.” Because I took a vow of poverty when I went into journalism, I wanted to strike it rich as soon as possible, so I filled out the form, which promised that the wishes I “cherished most” would be granted “FREE OF CHARGE,” and mailed it to Maria.

She responded immediately with a letter that contained not only my winning lottery numbers, but the promise that the following Tuesday “will mark a very positive turning point in your life.” Best of all, it was signed, “Your devoted friend, Maria Duval.”

The following Tuesday was cloudy. I ran some errands in the morning and went to work. Nothing happened. When I returned home, I had meatloaf for dinner. Afterward I watched TV, but there wasn’t much on, so I went to bed. It was one of the dullest days of my life.

But I wasn’t discouraged because I still had my “personal lucky lottery numbers” to play.

I went to Early’s Market & Deli and told owner Bob Mourlatos that he was looking at the next Mega Millions winner.

“Congratulations,” Bob said. “But how can you be so sure?”

“My numbers were picked by Maria Duval,” I explained.

“Who’s she?” Bob asked.

“The famous clairvoyant and medium,” I responded.

“I’ve never heard of her,” Bob said.

It didn’t matter because I knew Maria would not fail me. So did Doug Bauer, a regular customer who was so sure I would win that he wanted to play my numbers, too. “That way,” Doug said, “we could split the money.”

Lawrence Riley, another customer, declined to get in on the action because, he said, “If I ever won, I’d have a heart attack.”

I gave Bob my numbers: 6, 10, 12, 13, 20, 40.

“Good luck!” he said.

I had no luck at all because Maria correctly picked only one number, 13, which is, of course, unlucky.

You don’t have to be a famous clairvoyant and medium to know that I should have seen it coming.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Zezima the Geek"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As the very model of the modern middle-age man, I can say with great certainty and no small amount of confusion that when it comes to modern technology, I am still in the Middle Ages.

In 1999, for example, I decided to get into the 20th century before it was over, so I got e-mail. Now, a decade into the 21st century, I am not much further advanced.

Recently, however, I got a new computer. I will not identify the brand except to say that it is the Apple of my eye.

The computer is fun and, even for an idiot such as myself, pretty easy to use. Still, I figured I should take advantage of the year’s worth of lessons that were included in the purchase, so I went to the computer store for an introductory session with a very nice and, of course, very knowledgeable young man named Dave.

“What’s the most important thing you need to know about your new computer?” Dave asked.

“Can it pick next week’s winning lottery numbers?” I wondered.

“Only mine can,” Dave said. “And I plan to quit next week, so it’s a good thing you came in today.”

Timing is everything, and while Dave was still working I thought I would pick his brain because, unfortunately, there isn’t much of my own to pick, especially when it comes to computers.

“I don’t need a lot of bells and whistles,” I said.

“They’d only keep you awake at night,” Dave noted.

“Unless I turned off the computer before I went to bed,” I responded.

“At least you know how to turn your computer off,” Dave said. “Some people can’t even do that.”

I felt smarter already. Then I told Dave that I needed to know how to open documents because I’m a writer.

“What do you write?” he asked.

“Stuff that has no redeeming social value,” I answered.

“You mean you’re a newspaper columnist?” Dave said.

“How did you know?”

“Lucky guess.”

When Dave mentioned compatibility issues, I said, “I don’t have compatibility issues. I’ve been married for almost 32 years.”

“You just say yes a lot,” replied Dave, who is 26 and unmarried but wise beyond his years.

“Yes,” I said.

We talked about surfing the Web.

Me: “I once took a surfing lesson, but I couldn’t even stand up on the board.”

Dave: “Now you can hang 10 while sitting down.”

We talked about menus.

Me: “Can I make dinner on my computer?”

Dave: “No, but you can store a lot of recipes.”

Dave had an answer for everything. And no wonder. He has a master’s degree in arts and liberal studies. Before becoming a computer whiz, he taught music to kindergartners.

“Technologically speaking, I’m a kindergartner,” I said.

“Yes,” Dave agreed, “but you’re not as loud.”

Then he told me about a fifth-grader who comes into the store to take lessons in Final Cut Pro. “It’s a movie editing program,” Dave explained. “He could be the next Steven Spielberg.”

“It would be all geek to me,” I said.

This time Dave didn’t say anything. He just nodded. But he did, in 50 minutes, get me up and running on my new computer. He also proved to be the most entertaining techie I have ever met.

I had such a good time that I am going to schedule another lesson soon. I just hope Dave doesn’t win the lottery by then.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"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