"Paint Misbehavin' "

By Jerry Zezima

As a guy who is off the wall, I like to give the brush-off to stuff that goes on the wall.

By that I mean paint. And, even worse, the process that goes into picking it out.

Color me confused when I go to a paint store, where I end up throwing shade at the thousands of shades of paint that my wife, Sue, wants me to consider when she is going to pick the one she wants anyway.

That is exactly what happened when Sue said she wanted me to paint both the living room and the dining room, which look good even though I painted them so long ago that the shade of paint I used (a pinkish tone called, I believe, “pinkish tone”) has been discontinued.

I knew this was not going to be an easy project when Sue told me that she had already gone to a paint store and had talked with a salesman who said he couldn’t help her pick out the right shade of paint because he is — are you ready for this? — color blind.

“You have to go back there with me so I can meet this guy,” I told Sue.

When we arrived, we were greeted by a salesman named James.

“Are you color blind?” I asked.

“No,” he responded quizzically. “Why?”

“My wife,” I said, pointing to Sue, “was in here recently and spoke with a salesman who said he’s color blind.”

“He was helping this woman who had a million and one questions,” Sue explained. “I guess he was overwhelmed. When he got to me, he said the store has 8,860 shades of paint and that he couldn’t help me pick out the right one because he’s color blind.”

“That’s insane!” James exclaimed. “He probably made it up because nobody wants to go through all those colors. Unless he’s keeping it a secret from me.”

“Maybe you can help,” Sue said as she looked through several rows of beige and pink samples. “This one,” she added, holding up a sample, “is too beige. And this one,” she said, pointing to another sample, “is pink teetering on beige.”

“What do you think?” James asked me.

“I think I’m bored teetering on senility,” I told him.

We all agreed that the problem with paint samples, which aren’t much bigger than postage stamps, is that it’s almost impossible to tell how a particular color will look on a wall.

That was evident when Sue brought home samples from her first trip to the store and asked me how they looked in the dining room.

“Do you like early sunset?” asked Sue, referring to one of the colors.

“I prefer daylight saving time,” I answered.

“You’re no help at all,” she huffed.

“Thank you,” I said.

Back at the store, Sue said she wanted to replicate the color in the dining room and the living room and described it to James.

“It sounds like dogwood,” he said.

“That’s it!” Sue squeaked.

“I can mix a small can for you to take home,” said James, who added that picking the right color is the toughest part of painting.

“It’s very stressful,” Sue agreed.

“The painting itself is easy,” said James.

“Especially if you have beer,” I chimed in.

When the paint was finished being shaken, not stirred, James handed the can to Sue.

“Let me know how it turns out,” he said. “If you don’t like it, we have thousands of other colors to choose from.”

When we got home, Sue found an old paintbrush, opened the can and brushed some paint on the living room wall.

“It’s too light,” she said.

“Wait for it to dry,” I suggested.

“I’ll have to put on a second coat,” Sue said.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

Sue shook her head and waited until the next day, when the paint had dried and her head had stopped shaking.

“It’s not the right color,” Sue announced after she tried again. “But I’m going to find it. We just have to go back to the store and get more samples.”

“Don’t ask me for any further advice,” I said.

“How come?” Sue asked.

“I forgot to tell you,” I said. “I’m color blind.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"Hooked on Crocheting"

By Jerry Zezima

Ever since I could talk, which led to the invention of earplugs, I have been pulling the wool over everyone’s eyes by spinning yarns. Now I am using the wool in a ball of yarn to make a blanket that you can pull over your eyes and, since I can’t stop talking about it, your ears, too.

That’s because I have taken up crocheting.

I got hooked when I saw my wife, Sue, making a blanket for one of our young grandchildren. So I needled her to show me how it’s done.

First, I had to learn the basics.

“Are we working with yarn or wool?” I asked.

“Yarn,” Sue answered.

“What’s yarn made of?” I wanted to know.

“Wool,” said Sue.

I sighed and asked if she was using a hook or a needle.

“A hook,” Sue said. “Now,” she added, handing it to me, “take this needle.”

“I thought it was called a hook,” I said.

“It is,” Sue replied.

“This is going to be complicated,” I said.

Sue shook her head and said, “I might need a glass of wine.”

Thus began my first crochet tutorial, in which I proved to be a knit wit.

The main problem was digital.

“You have sausage fingers,” Sue told me.

“Hot or mild?” I asked.

“Neither,” she responded. “They’re too fat.”

In other words, I was all thumbs. It explained why I had an almost impossible time with the simplest stuff, like getting looped, which did not involve the wine Sue said she might need.

“Hold the hook in your right hand, the wool in your left and cross over to make a loop,” she instructed.

When I couldn’t get the hang of it, Sue said, “Follow my hands.” Then she showed me how to pull the wool through the loop.

“Make a circle through the first hole,” she said. “Take the yarn, wrap it around and pull it through.”

Then she said we were going to make something called a Chain 3.

“So far,” I noted, “it’s Chain 3, Jerry 0.”

Sue shook her head again.

“I can see I don’t have you in stitches,” I said.

“You don’t have the yarn in stitches, either,” she retorted.

“Let me try again,” I said.

I fumbled the yarn, which kept falling off my index finger. I was going to use the middle finger, but Sue said it wouldn’t be proper crochet etiquette.

Time after time I tried to make stitches, loops, circles, chains and double crochets, also known as DCs. My efforts weren’t successful because I am another DC: dumb crocheter.

Finally, with Sue’s expert guidance and eternal patience, I managed to pull the wool through two loops, then two more.

“You did it!” Sue squealed. “Hooray!”

It was just the initial step in making a six-inch square, 30 of which would be needed to complete the blanket.

Sue had to make dinner, so she suggested I go on YouTube and watch a video tutorial called “Hooked by Robin.”

In it, a nice Englishwoman named Batman (no, I mean Robin) used her fingers to walk me through the process of making what is known in crochet circles as a granny square.

“I’m going back to basics with the humble granny square,” Robin said at the beginning of the half-hour video. “This tutorial is for total beginners. So grab a cup of tea and crochet your very first granny square with me.”

I made myself a cup of Earl Grey, naturally, and went back to the video, which featured Robin’s slender fingers, a hook and some yarn.

“I’m going to show you how to do the first three rounds,” Robin said. “Then I’m going to show you how to change color.”

I wondered if the audience included chameleons.

Robin did what Sue showed me how to do, except I couldn’t stop her to ask questions or make stupid jokes. So I had to go back and rewatch certain parts.

Eventually, I got the hang of it and actually replicated my triumph with Sue.

I stopped the video and ran to show her.

“You did OK,” Sue said approvingly. “Your stitches are tight, but you’re doing a good job. You just have to practice. After a while, it becomes second nature.”

“With me,” I said, “it’s more like 92nd nature.”

“That’s not the half of it,” Sue said. “Once you make all these squares, you have to sew them together. It’s very time-consuming.”

“I don’t mind,” I said. “I just want to make a blanket that the kids will enjoy.”

“By the time you’re finished,” Sue predicted, “they might be in college.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"Flaky the Snowman"

By Jerry Zezima

Once upon a time, in the frozen wastes of a suburban backyard that was buried under two feet of snow after a monumental blizzard, there lived Flaky the Snowman, who was so puny, so pathetic, but still so lovable that he could melt your heart if you met him.

I not only met this snowman, I made him with my own hands. As my wife, Sue, said after the flaky guy was finished, “Frosty would be embarrassed to be seen with him.”

Since I was suffering from brain freeze, which happened quickly because my brain is the size of an ice cube, and inspired by the famous “Frosty the Snowman” tune, I came up with a song for the little fellow:

Flaky the Snowman

Was a silly lump of ice.

With a pair of shades and a floppy hat,

He was dumb and short and nice.

And little he was: 1-foot-3 in his stocking feet. Or he would have been if he had feet.

I envisioned a much larger creation when I trudged through my winter blunderland in the hope of building a snowman that would become a legend in my own mind.

The problem, I immediately found out, was that the snow was powdery. That’s fine for skiing (I never took up the sport, even though I’ve been going downhill for years), but it wasn’t so good for packing and rolling the three balls — large bottom, medium midsection and small head — needed to make a perfectly proportioned precipitation person.

The fact that I hadn’t built a snowman since woolly mammoths roamed the earth didn’t help matters.

But I was determined to create a cool dude that would impress neighbors, visitors or anyone who didn’t mistake him for a burglar and call the cops.

I started by gathering the stuff I would need for limbs and facial features. For the limbs I chose — you guessed it — limbs. Actually, they were a pair of twigs that Sue broke off a fallen tree branch. She also gave me a carrot for the nose and a bunch of purple fish bowl pebbles for the mouth. For the eyes, I got two wine corks on which I drew pupils.

The finishing touches were a pair of sunglasses and a hat like the one Bill Murray wore in “Caddyshack.”

Now all I had to do was make the body.

“I can’t pack the snow,” I told Sue.

“You have to roll it into a ball,” she said.

“It’s falling apart,” I complained.

Suddenly, a rare thought crossed my cranium and I snapped my fingers, which didn’t work because I was wearing gloves.

I got a watering can, filled it with vodka (sorry, I mean water) and poured the liquid over a patch of snow.

I couldn’t get the ball rolling, but I managed to pack enough snow for a lumpy base. Then I made a misshapen head and attached it to the deformed body.

The snowman couldn’t give me the cold shoulder because he didn’t have one.

But he did have arthritic arms (the twigs), an orange nose (the carrot) and a sly smile (another twig, which replaced the totally unusable pebbles).

I ditched the cork eyes and stuck on the shades. Then I topped him off with the hat.

“Your snowman has nothing on Frosty,” Sue declared.

But he did impress a couple of young guys who came over to clear the driveway and shovel the walks.

“He’s great,” said Justin Felix, 20, who co-owns North Coram Snow Removal. “Just like people, snowmen come in all shapes and sizes.”

“He’s pretty cool,” said Matthew Owens, also 20. “I like the hat and the nose. And the shades are a nice touch.”

The next day, a cable company contractor arrived to take care of a sagging wire.

“That’s a nice little snowman,” said Ryan Howell, 23. “It’s better than what I could do. I’ve never made one. You did a good job.”

A few days later, rising temperatures and falling rain spelled the end for Flaky.

I looked out the window and sang: “Flaky the Snowman was a puny guy, I’d say. But we had some fun, he was number one, he’d beat Frosty any day.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"The Big Stuff Theory"

By Jerry Zezima

I’ve always considered myself top drawer, but the sad fact is that I’m bottom drawer, too. And it’s all because my drawers are stuffed with drawers.

Every drawer in my house, as well as every closet, cabinet and bin, is stuffed with stuff.

It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that this is a problem. But it did take a rocket scientist to explain why.

“It’s the law of physics,” said my son-in-law Guillaume, an accelerator physicist who may not work with rockets but is a dedicated man of science and a great guy who works on a particle collider. He is destined, I proudly predict, to win the Nobel Prize.

I, on the other hand, am a lazy man of journalism who flunked science in school and thinks a collider is a car that has been in a fender bender. And if the vehicle happened to be mine, the particles would include protons, neutrons and, of course, a moron. For that, I would no doubt win the Ig Nobel Prize.

Still, I reacted with the speed of light beer when I learned that physics is the reason my underwear can’t fit in my dresser.

“No matter how many drawers you add to your bedroom, eventually all of them will be filled,” Guillaume explained. “In physics, there is a theory that states that every empty space will eventually get filled. Everything has to be stable, everything radiates energy.”

“Even my boxer shorts?” I asked.

“Basically, yes,” Guillaume replied.

“I’m not stable,” I said. “And I seldom radiate energy.”

“You are a scientific wonder,” said Guillaume, adding: “A French chemist named Antoine Lavoisier said, ‘Nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed.’ ”

“And it’s transformed in my house,” I said.

“But there is a reverse corollary,” Guillaume noted. “If you put something down in a specific place, something you know you need, like your car keys, and you tell yourself, ‘Now I know where it is,’ you won’t be able to find it again.”

I understood perfectly because my wife, Sue, can never find any of the half-dozen or so pairs of eyeglasses she has scattered around the house.

“If I won Powerball, I’d never collect the money,” I told Guillaume. “That’s because Sue, a neat person, would inadvertently throw out the ticket or I, a messy person, would put it somewhere in the house and never find it.”

“Don’t worry,” said Guillaume, “it’s the same in my house. Spaces get filled and things we need can never be found.”

I was beginning to comprehend this phenomenon because I could barely open my dresser drawers, one of which is jammed with underwear, another with socks, a third with T-shirts and a fourth with pajamas.

In my office, there is a plastic bin with three drawers that are stuffed with sweatpants and sweatshirts. I have to sweat just to get them open.

The hall closet is filled with coats and jackets, as is the family room closet. The vast majority of the outerwear, I hasten to add, isn’t mine. It belongs to Sue, who thoughtfully buys me the clothes that can’t fit into my dresser drawers or in my bedroom closet, which is bulging with shirts, pants, suits, ties and sport jackets, some of which I haven’t worn in years.

The hall dresser has enough gloves, scarves and knit caps to keep the entire population of Sweden warm.

Then there’s the kitchen, which has one small holder containing approximately three dozen pens and pencils and a larger holder with spatulas, ladles, tongs and other items that practically have to be hammered in. I’m surprised there isn’t a hammer in there.

And there are the kitchen drawers, two of which have enough utensils for a state dinner and another that is filled to overflowing with pot holders, oven mitts, trivets and so much other stuff that it couldn’t be closed by a charging rhinoceros.

I don’t even want to talk about the cabinets, though I will say that half of the world’s coffee and tea could be poured into all the mugs we have.

The garage is also littered with stuff, but Sue recently came up with the great idea to transfer some of it to a space that has gone to waste since we moved in nearly a quarter of a century ago: the attic.

The other day I lugged several boxes of Christmas stuff up there. Also moved to the attic was a large suitcase belonging to our younger daughter, Lauren, who not only has been out of the house since the administration of George W. Bush but happens to be Guillaume’s wife.

“Pretty soon, the attic will be filled, too,” Guillaume predicted.

“And the only empty space in the house will be the one between my ears,” I said.

“That’s because you have too thick of a skull for anything to penetrate,” Guillaume observed.

“You’re brilliant,” I said. “If you don’t win the Nobel Prize, the judges can go stuff it.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"A Grave Situation"

By Jerry Zezima

If I have learned anything in my 68 years on this globe — aside from the fact that life is too short for light beer — it is this:

The older you get, the younger old people seem to be.

This was driven home (though not, thank God, in hearse) when three things recently happened.

(a) My wife, Sue, and I redid our wills.

(b) I got a brochure in the mail from a cemetery.

(c) My doctor said I won’t have to worry about the first two for a long time, although he did add that for enough money, he could have me declared legally dead.

All of these comforting thoughts entered what little remains of my mind when Sue and I visited our lawyer, Tim Danowski.

“Are you going to discuss our habeas corpses?” I asked.

“That’s a dead issue,” said Tim, who drew up what he called “I love you” wills.

First we went over Sue’s will, which refers to me, in Article IV, as her “beloved husband.”

“I notice that in Article V, I am not ‘beloved’ anymore,” I pointed out. “I’m just referred to as Sue’s husband.”

I didn’t worry about it because the “beloved” reference to Sue, and subsequent lack thereof, was the same in my will, which also detailed what would happen if I became incoherent.

“My family thinks I’m that way now,” I said.

Then we got down to assets and what our children would get.

“We don’t have millions of dollars,” Sue said.

“We have dozens of dollars,” I added.

“Our younger daughter has already said she wants my ice cream,” Sue told Tim.

“All I have of any value are beer, wine and Three Stooges memorabilia,” I said. “Let the kids fight over it.”

“They won’t have to do it for quite a while,” said Tim. “You guys are young.”

“When you get to be our age,” I told Tim, who is in his 30s, “anyone who is older is young. Even if a guy dies when he’s 80, we’ll say, ‘What a shame. Cut down in the prime of life.’ Now that we aren’t young anymore, nobody else is old.”

“That’s one way to look at it,” said Tim, whom we thanked for his excellent work in helping us get our affairs in order.

And not a moment too soon because the very next day, I got a brochure from Pinelawn Memorial Park and Arboretum.

“Give your loved ones a gift that will provide peace of mind and lasting comfort,” it read. “Those who visit Pinelawn Memorial Park and Arboretum will find themselves surrounded in the beauty of the grounds with wide-sweeping lawns that feature majestic trees, colorful flower beds,  historic sculptures and tranquil fountains. This carefully planned and expertly maintained landscape has made Pinelawn the most beautiful memorial park in America.”

“All I have to do,” I told Sue, “is die.”

“I’ll visit you once a week,” she promised.

I wanted a second opinion. So I saw my physician, Dr. Antoun Mitromaras.

“Tell the people at the cemetery to call me,” Dr. Mitromaras said. “I’ll tell them that I won’t let you die.”

“Do I have a pulse?” I asked the good doctor.

“Yes,” he announced, adding that my blood pressure was perfect and my weight was normal.

“I guess the cemetery will have to wait to get business from me,” I said.

“Unless they want to give me $10,000,” Dr. Mitromaras said. “Then I can arrange for you to be a customer.”

My heart raced.

“Just kidding,” said Dr. Mitromaras, an 80-year-old jokester who knows that laughter is the best medicine.

“What’s your secret of longevity?” I asked.

“Minerals,” he responded.

“Aren’t they hard to swallow?” I wondered.

“Not if they’re in pill form,” Dr. Mitromaras said. “Multivitamins are good, too. So is physical activity. And nuts.”

“I’m nuts,” I informed him.

“I know,” he said, adding that when he dies, he wants an above-ground tomb. “In case I wake up in a year or two. And I want it with a glass ceiling and a view of the water.”

“You want a tomb with a view?” I asked.

“It’s the only way to go,” said Dr. Mitromaras.

When I got home, I told Sue that I passed my physical with flying colors.

“It looks like you’re stuck with your ‘beloved’ husband,” I said. “And now I can tell the people at the cemetery to drop dead.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"Portrait of the Artist as a Family Guy"

By Jerry Zezima

As a husband, father and grandfather, which puts me at the bottom of the family pecking order, I have a lot in common with Brian Crane, the Reuben Award-winning cartoonist who created the wildly popular syndicated comic strip “Pickles.”

The only real difference between us — aside from the incredible fact that he has 16 more grandchildren than I do — is that I’m such a bad artist, I couldn’t even draw a good salary.

“My grandkids are van Gogh compared to me,” I told Brian in a recent phone chat. “Except they still have all their ears.”

“Maybe they can start a comic strip,” Brian suggested.

“It could be about a grandfather with a mustache,” I said. “He’d be the butt of the jokes.”

“Hey, that sounds familiar,” Brian said.

No wonder. The star of “Pickles” is Earl, a mustachioed grandfather who, more often than not, is the butt of the jokes in the family, which includes his loving but long-suffering wife, Opal. The retired couple live with their daughter, Sylvia; grandson, Nelson; dog, Roscoe; and cat, Muffin.

My loving but long-suffering wife, Sue, is a big fan of the strip. So is yours truly, a mustachioed grandfather who, more often than not, is the butt of the jokes in the family, which includes two daughters and five grandchildren.

Brian has a loving but long-suffering wife of his own, Diana, with whom he will celebrate 50 years of marriage in June.

“Sue and I will celebrate our 44th anniversary on April 2,” I informed Brian.

“What a coincidence!” he said. “April 2 is when ‘Pickles’ debuted in 1990.”

“I wanted to get married on April Fools’ Day,” I said, “but Sue nixed the idea because she was afraid I would get her whoopee cushions as anniversary gifts.”

Another thing Brian and I have in common is that we are January babies: He was born on the 3rd, I arrived on the 11th.

“The only famous person who was born on my birthday was Alexander Hamilton,” I said. “That means I’ll either have a hit Broadway show or be killed in a duel.”

“I don’t know of anyone famous who was born on my birthday,” said Brian, who just turned 73 and, though five years older than I am, is a fellow baby boomer.

“My due date was Dec. 20,” I told him. “I was born more than three weeks later and haven’t been on time for anything since.”

“Your mother should have sent you an eviction notice,” said Brian, adding: “I was due in December, too. I was a breech birth. I came out feet first.”

“I landed on my head,” I said. “It explains a lot.”

Mining humor from family situations is also a similarity — except Brian’s clan is a lot larger than mine. He has seven children and 21 grandchildren.

“How do you keep track of them all?” I wondered.

“That’s a good question for my wife,” said Brian. “Our oldest child is a son in his 40s and our youngest is a daughter in her 20s somewhere. It keeps changing all the time. My wife has the ability to figure it out. It’s like a miracle to me. But I do know all their names.”

Then there are the grandchildren.

“We have a bunch of them,” Brian said. “It’s quite a dynasty. My wife knows their ages, weights, sizes, everything. I can recognize them on sight. The oldest is a sophomore in college. The youngest two were born a year ago. They’re not twins; they’re cousins who are a month apart.”

“Do you know all their names, too?” I asked.

“Yes,” Brian replied proudly. “Although sometimes things get so crazy, I can’t remember my own name.”

If so, Diana will be there to help.

“She’s always been there for me,” said Brian, adding that Diana encouraged him when he told her about his “secret ambition” to do a comic strip. “I was working for an advertising agency. I was in my late 30s and we were accumulating more children. I didn’t know how we could afford it. But she said, ‘You have to do it.’ I said, ‘I don’t have the talent.’ I was rejected by three syndicates, but Diana wouldn’t let it go. I wouldn’t be doing this if it weren’t for her. She’s my first editor and biggest supporter.”

Now, more than 30 years later, “Pickles” is syndicated by the Washington Post Writers Group in more than 900 newspapers. Brian also has produced nine “Pickles” books.

“How much of Earl is you and how much of Opal is Diana?” I asked.

“Roughly, I’m Earl and she’s Opal, but there are days when I’m Opal and she’s Earl,” Brian said. “We do display both characteristics. She’s more outgoing. I’m an introvert. In a crowd, I clam up. She does all the talking. Also, I’m not very handy. My father-in-law was the world’s best mechanic. My wife expected I would be like that. She was greatly disappointed. She’s pretty handy. She can do things I wouldn’t try. And she’s smarter than I am. She can figure things out better than I can.”

“My wife is the same way,” I said. “And, like Opal, she’s married to a guy with a mustache.”

“You look good in a mustache,” said Brian. “I, on the other hand, look ridiculous. I grew one and my wife said, ‘Shave that silly thing off.’ A few years ago I had Earl shave his mustache. Then I came up with the idea to have readers vote to bring it back or not. I put out a call for entries. I even had a post office box. You wouldn’t believe the amount of mail I got. They voted for Earl to keep his mustache.”

“My grandchildren would vote for me to keep my mustache, too,” I said.

“They could put that in their comic strip,” Brian suggested.

“Maybe it’ll be syndicated,” I said. “They can call it ‘Poppie,’ which is what they call me.”

“Will you be the butt of the jokes?” Brian asked.

“Of course,” I said. “And like any good grandfather, I know all the kids’ names.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"The Dance of the Dunce"

By Jerry Zezima

If I were in a dancing competition, I would never experience the thrill of victory, but I sure would know the agony of the feet.

Unless, of course, the judge took pity on me.

That’s exactly what happened when I found myself in a dance-off with my granddaughters Chloe and Lilly.

The girls, who are 8 and 5, respectively, are veritable pros compared to me, a geezer with the smooth moves and fancy footwork of a drunken platypus. Forget hip-hop. My specialty would be hip-replacement-hop.

This was sadly evident when Chloe and Lilly challenged me to a dance-off in which I almost needed CPR (Clumsy Poppie Resuscitation).

The judge was my wife, Sue, who wisely sat this one out.

It was the culmination of a wonderful day that began when the girls were in a recital sponsored by Inspire Dance Centre, where they take lessons.

Last summer, they were in an outdoor show at a vineyard, where Sue and I toasted the dancing stars with glasses of vintage grapes. This time, the “Winter Showcase” was held in a roller skating rink.

And the girls were, indeed, on a roll, even though they wore dancing shoes instead of skates. They were each in only one routine in the 20-dance program, but they performed so well, in my humble and totally unbiased opinion, that if they were on “Dancing With the Stars,” hard-marking judge Len Goodman would have given them perfect scores.

I certainly did when Lilly stole the show in a dance from “Cinderella” and Chloe did the same in a routine performed to the Meghan Trainor song “Better When I’m Dancin’.”

When Lilly came out with the other girls in her group, she stood in the front row, stage right, though to me it looked like stage left, which is one of the many reasons, chief of which is a complete lack of performing talent, why I am not on Broadway.

As the music played, Lilly moved her arms in a wavy motion, then swayed to the beat, raised her hands above her head, sang a line of the song, did a pirouette, moved to the back, spun clockwise and exited with the others. She was the last one off and got a huge ovation.

“That was adorable!” Sue exclaimed.

Naturally, I agreed.

We had the same reaction for the next number, which featured Chloe. It was an upbeat performance in which she and the other girls in her group danced, pranced and clapped. Chloe had perfect timing. At the song’s conclusion, she and her fellow dancers knelt at the front of the stage and got a big round of applause. The loudest ovation was, of course, for Chloe.

When the show was over, our daughter Lauren and son-in-law Guillaume, the girls’ parents, beamed with pride through the face masks everyone was required to wear.

Sue and I presented Chloe and Lilly with flowers.

“They smell!” Lilly said.

“That may not prevent her from eating them,” remarked Lauren, noting that Lilly has a big appetite for such a little girl. Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” could have been written about her.

When we got back to Lauren and Guillaume’s house, Chloe and Lilly challenged me to a dance-off.

“Nini,” Chloe said to Sue, “you can be the judge.”

Lilly got her FreeTime and started playing “Gold Digger,” a Billboard hit from Ye, the artist formerly known as Kayne West.

We all started jumping around. Chloe and Lilly did handstands. I waved my hands, stamped my feet and almost keeled over.

“Freeze!” Lilly shouted as she turned off the song.

Sue deliberated for a moment and announced, “Lilly wins.”

When the song began again, the girls went into even greater gyrations. I gasped for air as I tried to emulate their moves.

“Freeze!” Lilly shouted.

The song stopped and Sue said, “Chloe wins.”

But the third time was the charm. I danced up a storm, putting my right index finger on the top of my head and spinning like a top.

It was, literally, a dizzying performance that not only impressed the judge but had her in stitches.

“Poppie wins,” Sue declared.

I could tell she took pity on me, but for a man with two left feet, which makes shoe shopping difficult, it made a great day even better.

I didn’t get flowers, like Chloe and Lilly, but I felt like a dancing star.

“Thanks,” I said to Sue. “You’re a much better judge than Len Goodman.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima