By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Jerry, Jerry, quite contrary, how does your garden grow? Not too badly considering I am more of a vegetable than anything I've planted this year.
Actually, the little patch of earth on the side of the house is the first garden I have ever had. My wife, Sue, who has a green thumb (she really ought to see a doctor), could grow tomatoes in Death Valley. I, on the other hand, which has a dirty thumb, am responsible for making parts of our property look like that famous desert.
So when the only plant I could not kill, a gigantic butterfly bush, was removed earlier this year, I decided to put in herbs (nobody named Herb was harmed during planting) and various veggies (not including broccoli and zucchini, which I will consume only at the point of a gun) and turn the place into a Garden of Eatin'.
I was inspired to get into agriculture, which is the only culture I have, by President Barack Obama and his wife, first lady Michelle Obama, who recently planted a White House garden that is approximately the size of Rhode Island.
Mine is somewhat smaller (83 by 64 inches, to be exact), but you have to start somewhere, and I didn't think the Secret Service would let me do so outside the Oval Office.
I went with Sue to one of those home-improvement warehouses to pick out what I wanted to plant.
"Do you like squash?" she asked as we walked through the garden department.
"I'd rather play tennis," I replied.
Sue ignored the remark and suggested we get vegetables I would actually eat, which narrowed the choices considerably. They included tomatoes, eggplants, jalapeno peppers, bell peppers, string beans and cauliflowers. We also got parsley, as well as basil and rosemary. In fact, Basil, Rosemary and Herb are having a nice little menage a twine, which I am using to hold up the tomato plants.
The planting itself was pretty hard work. I was about to throw in the trowel when I realized I wouldn't see the fruits of my labors. And since tomatoes are also considered fruits, I wasn't taking any chances, even though they were tough rows to hoe.
Speaking of rows, I could have used a rowboat -- or maybe even an ark -- after we had what seemed like 40 days and 40 nights of rain, which nearly caused a flood of biblical proportions. Sue said it was God's way of telling me that I couldn't be trusted to water the garden.
I got the hint, however, and when the rain finally stopped, I began giving the garden a shower every evening. I give myself a shower every morning, but not outside.
To break up the monotony, I started talking to my tomato plants. But I stopped after I heard a report on the radio about how men can stunt the growth of their tomato plants when they talk to them. According to a study conducted by the Royal Horticultural Society in Surrey, England, tomato plants will respond to a woman's voice much better than they will to a man's and will grow up to an inch more when they hear soothing female sounds.
I thought only cauliflowers had ears, but I guess our world isn't called Mother Nature for nothing. When I told Sue about the study, she said, "Shall I go out to the garden and have a conversation with the tomato plants?"
She must have done so because we now have tomatoes the size of baseballs. (Imagine if it were basketball season.) I think the real reason the plants are doing so well, and haven't been affected by the current fungus that has ruined many tomato crops, is that I no longer tell them stupid jokes when I water the garden.
At any rate, because of my tender care, or perhaps despite it, my garden is growing just fine. We have had several delicious meals featuring string beans, jalapenos and parsley, and there will be plenty more when the tomatoes, eggplants, bell peppers and cauliflowers are ready to eat. Maybe then, if they're not too busy tending their own garden, we'll invite the Obamas over for dinner.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, July 24, 2009
Friday, July 10, 2009
"Color My World"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Because I have more gray matter on the outside of my head than I do on the inside, I am often asked why I don't dye my hair. "I do," I always respond. "I dye it gray so I'll seem more mature." To which people invariably say, "It's not working."
So when my barber, Maria Vieira, recently told me about a new kind of hair coloring treatment that covers enough of the gray to make you look younger but not enough so people will think you put shoe polish on your head, I decided to go for it. This wasn't just because my cranium resembled a snow-capped mountain peak, which could be why I frequently had brain freeze and was considered over the hill, but also because I wanted to see if anyone would notice that some of the snow melted.
As I sat in a chair at Charmed Salon & Spa in Miller Place, N.Y., Maria confirmed my theory that very few people, young or old, know what their original hair color was.
"They range from teenagers who have already dyed their hair a dozen times to seniors who went gray years ago," said Maria, who admitted that she can't remember exactly what color her hair used to be. It's now a rich brown with blond highlights and looks, if I do say so, beautiful. I was hoping she could make me look the same. Or at least young enough so Boy Scouts wouldn't start offering to help me cross the street.
But first, Katie McConnach, Maria's assistant, put color block along my hairline, my sideburns and the back of my neck. "We don't want to color your ears," said Katie, who then put some of the stuff around my mustache, which looked like a giant Brillo pad and also had to be dyed.
Next, Maria rubbed Menz Natural Hair Color Gel by Scruples into my curly locks, which she said were very thick. "So is my skull," I replied. Maria didn't disagree, although she did say that she was giving me a light ash brown color. "I know it's your natural shade because you still have brown in the back," she noted. "Besides, it will keep you lightheaded."
Then she got a paintbrush and applied the gel to my mustache and my eyebrows, after which she set a timer for five minutes. I felt like an egg.
Fortunately, the yolk wasn't on me. After the timer went off and the gel had been rinsed out, I looked in the mirror and saw a younger but not entirely different me. "Now you have more pepper in your salt," said Maria, adding: "Let's see if anyone notices."
The first test came when my wife, Sue, arrived home. It was a Friday afternoon and I helped her carry in some groceries, after which I talked with her in the kitchen. She looked right at me. "Wow," I thought, "she can't tell."
Later on, my older daughter, Katie, and her husband, Dave, who live in Boston, came down for the weekend. Neither one said anything about my hair.
The next day, we all saw my younger daughter, Lauren, for whom hair is a way of life. You'd need a calculator to figure out all the different shades of blond and brown she has colored it. She is very hair-aware, yet she failed to notice that I had colored mine.
On Sunday morning, before Katie and Dave left, I gathered them and Sue in the family room and asked if they noticed anything different about me. "You look thinner," Katie said. Sue and Dave were stumped. When I said I had colored my hair, Sue, who colors hers, said, "I've been married to you for 31 years and I didn't even notice." Katie, a journalist who colors her hair, said, "I feel terrible because it's my job to notice things." Dave, also a journalist (he doesn't color his hair), said, "I thought your mustache looked a little darker, but I didn't want to say anything."
That afternoon, I asked Lauren, who had come over with her friend Jen, if she noticed anything different about me. "I saw you in the sunlight before and thought your hair looked browner," she said. "Did you color it?" I said yes and added that it took her, a hair goddess, two days to catch on. Jen said, "It's very natural."
So now I look younger but still distinguished, if no more mature. It was an experience to dye for.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Because I have more gray matter on the outside of my head than I do on the inside, I am often asked why I don't dye my hair. "I do," I always respond. "I dye it gray so I'll seem more mature." To which people invariably say, "It's not working."
So when my barber, Maria Vieira, recently told me about a new kind of hair coloring treatment that covers enough of the gray to make you look younger but not enough so people will think you put shoe polish on your head, I decided to go for it. This wasn't just because my cranium resembled a snow-capped mountain peak, which could be why I frequently had brain freeze and was considered over the hill, but also because I wanted to see if anyone would notice that some of the snow melted.
As I sat in a chair at Charmed Salon & Spa in Miller Place, N.Y., Maria confirmed my theory that very few people, young or old, know what their original hair color was.
"They range from teenagers who have already dyed their hair a dozen times to seniors who went gray years ago," said Maria, who admitted that she can't remember exactly what color her hair used to be. It's now a rich brown with blond highlights and looks, if I do say so, beautiful. I was hoping she could make me look the same. Or at least young enough so Boy Scouts wouldn't start offering to help me cross the street.
But first, Katie McConnach, Maria's assistant, put color block along my hairline, my sideburns and the back of my neck. "We don't want to color your ears," said Katie, who then put some of the stuff around my mustache, which looked like a giant Brillo pad and also had to be dyed.
Next, Maria rubbed Menz Natural Hair Color Gel by Scruples into my curly locks, which she said were very thick. "So is my skull," I replied. Maria didn't disagree, although she did say that she was giving me a light ash brown color. "I know it's your natural shade because you still have brown in the back," she noted. "Besides, it will keep you lightheaded."
Then she got a paintbrush and applied the gel to my mustache and my eyebrows, after which she set a timer for five minutes. I felt like an egg.
Fortunately, the yolk wasn't on me. After the timer went off and the gel had been rinsed out, I looked in the mirror and saw a younger but not entirely different me. "Now you have more pepper in your salt," said Maria, adding: "Let's see if anyone notices."
The first test came when my wife, Sue, arrived home. It was a Friday afternoon and I helped her carry in some groceries, after which I talked with her in the kitchen. She looked right at me. "Wow," I thought, "she can't tell."
Later on, my older daughter, Katie, and her husband, Dave, who live in Boston, came down for the weekend. Neither one said anything about my hair.
The next day, we all saw my younger daughter, Lauren, for whom hair is a way of life. You'd need a calculator to figure out all the different shades of blond and brown she has colored it. She is very hair-aware, yet she failed to notice that I had colored mine.
On Sunday morning, before Katie and Dave left, I gathered them and Sue in the family room and asked if they noticed anything different about me. "You look thinner," Katie said. Sue and Dave were stumped. When I said I had colored my hair, Sue, who colors hers, said, "I've been married to you for 31 years and I didn't even notice." Katie, a journalist who colors her hair, said, "I feel terrible because it's my job to notice things." Dave, also a journalist (he doesn't color his hair), said, "I thought your mustache looked a little darker, but I didn't want to say anything."
That afternoon, I asked Lauren, who had come over with her friend Jen, if she noticed anything different about me. "I saw you in the sunlight before and thought your hair looked browner," she said. "Did you color it?" I said yes and added that it took her, a hair goddess, two days to catch on. Jen said, "It's very natural."
So now I look younger but still distinguished, if no more mature. It was an experience to dye for.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, June 26, 2009
"Rolling in Dough"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
When the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie, that's a mess. Or it would have been if I had tried to make my own pizza without the help of a pair of professionals who recently had me rolling in dough while creating a thin-crust pie that was, considering the lunar analogy, out of this world.
As a person of Italian heritage, I consider pizza one of the four food groups (the other three being Twinkies, Slim Jims and beer). When I lived in my hometown of Stamford, Conn., I gorged on pies from such fine establishments as Cove Pizza and the Colony. Since moving to Long Island, N.Y., I have become a frequent diner at Paradiso, a restaurant that is, true to its name, a paradise for pizza pies.
On a recent trip to pick up a takeout order (a large spinach and meatball pizza, my favorite), I asked co-owner Pietro Ribaudo if he would risk indigestion -- better known in pizza parlance as agita -- by letting me make a pie.
"Sure," he said. "And to minimize the risk to me and my customers, you are going to eat it."
A few days later, I stood behind the counter at Paradiso, in Mount Sinai, N.Y., with Ribaudo and his pizza partner, Keith Lindblad, ready to make culinary history. Or at least a large spinach and meatball pie.
The first thing I had to do was put on a white apron, which actually was the hardest part. I fumbled pathetically with the string, trying to knot it behind me, until Lindblad kindly pointed out that it's supposed to wrap around and tie in the front.
Then I had to make the dough. Ribaudo, who was born in Sicily and has been making pizza for most of his 50 years, took me in the back, where he instructed me to dump a 50-pound bag of enriched, high-gluten, bromated flour into a 60-quart bowl without rupturing a vital organ.
Next I put in three gallons of water, five pounds of semolina flour, 12 ounces of salt, 12 ounces of sugar and three ounces of yeast. Then I set the mixer for nine minutes, during which I found out that Lindblad, 43, is of Irish, German and Swedish extraction. "You don't have to be Italian to make good pizza," he said. To which Ribaudo replied, "But it helps."
When the timer went off and the mixture was dumped onto a flat surface, Lindblad told me, "Now you knead the dough."
"I could use a few extra bucks," I said.
"No," Lindblad responded. "I mean, you have to roll it."
This entailed taking a ball of dough, folding it over so there are no creases and putting it into a small tin. I thought I got the hang of it pretty quickly until I saw Ribaudo rolling a ball of dough in each hand at warp speed. "I'm ambidextrous, too," I noted. "The difference is that I'm incompetent with both hands."
The tins are refrigerated for a couple of days, so I had to make my pizza with pre-made dough, which was fine with me because if I had to wait that long, I would have starved.
Back behind the counter, on a table in front of the big stoves, Lindblad showed me how to remove dough from a tin and stretch it out while tossing it back and forth from one hand to another. "Contrary to popular belief," he said, "you don't twirl it in the air. I tried it once and the dough hit the ceiling fan, which shot it across the counter. It almost hit a customer."
Then I smoothed out the dough on the table while creating a ridge along the edge, after which I poured on the sauce, sprinkled on some cheese and oregano, and adorned the whole thing with spinach and meatballs. I put my pie in the oven and waited 10 minutes. When it was done, Ribaudo, Lindblad and Emily Werfel, who usually takes my telephone orders, all nodded approvingly.
"It looks delicious," said Lindblad, who put the pie in a box for me to take home.
"Mangia," said Ribaudo.
At dinner that evening, my wife, Sue, said, "This is very good. The crust is nice and crispy."
Our younger daughter, Lauren, who had come for a visit, added, "You didn't scrimp on the toppings, either."
But the biggest compliment came from Lauren's dog, Maggie, who wolfed down a piece that Lauren fed her and, in begging for more, gave me two paws up.
That's amore.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
When the moon hits the sky like a big pizza pie, that's a mess. Or it would have been if I had tried to make my own pizza without the help of a pair of professionals who recently had me rolling in dough while creating a thin-crust pie that was, considering the lunar analogy, out of this world.
As a person of Italian heritage, I consider pizza one of the four food groups (the other three being Twinkies, Slim Jims and beer). When I lived in my hometown of Stamford, Conn., I gorged on pies from such fine establishments as Cove Pizza and the Colony. Since moving to Long Island, N.Y., I have become a frequent diner at Paradiso, a restaurant that is, true to its name, a paradise for pizza pies.
On a recent trip to pick up a takeout order (a large spinach and meatball pizza, my favorite), I asked co-owner Pietro Ribaudo if he would risk indigestion -- better known in pizza parlance as agita -- by letting me make a pie.
"Sure," he said. "And to minimize the risk to me and my customers, you are going to eat it."
A few days later, I stood behind the counter at Paradiso, in Mount Sinai, N.Y., with Ribaudo and his pizza partner, Keith Lindblad, ready to make culinary history. Or at least a large spinach and meatball pie.
The first thing I had to do was put on a white apron, which actually was the hardest part. I fumbled pathetically with the string, trying to knot it behind me, until Lindblad kindly pointed out that it's supposed to wrap around and tie in the front.
Then I had to make the dough. Ribaudo, who was born in Sicily and has been making pizza for most of his 50 years, took me in the back, where he instructed me to dump a 50-pound bag of enriched, high-gluten, bromated flour into a 60-quart bowl without rupturing a vital organ.
Next I put in three gallons of water, five pounds of semolina flour, 12 ounces of salt, 12 ounces of sugar and three ounces of yeast. Then I set the mixer for nine minutes, during which I found out that Lindblad, 43, is of Irish, German and Swedish extraction. "You don't have to be Italian to make good pizza," he said. To which Ribaudo replied, "But it helps."
When the timer went off and the mixture was dumped onto a flat surface, Lindblad told me, "Now you knead the dough."
"I could use a few extra bucks," I said.
"No," Lindblad responded. "I mean, you have to roll it."
This entailed taking a ball of dough, folding it over so there are no creases and putting it into a small tin. I thought I got the hang of it pretty quickly until I saw Ribaudo rolling a ball of dough in each hand at warp speed. "I'm ambidextrous, too," I noted. "The difference is that I'm incompetent with both hands."
The tins are refrigerated for a couple of days, so I had to make my pizza with pre-made dough, which was fine with me because if I had to wait that long, I would have starved.
Back behind the counter, on a table in front of the big stoves, Lindblad showed me how to remove dough from a tin and stretch it out while tossing it back and forth from one hand to another. "Contrary to popular belief," he said, "you don't twirl it in the air. I tried it once and the dough hit the ceiling fan, which shot it across the counter. It almost hit a customer."
Then I smoothed out the dough on the table while creating a ridge along the edge, after which I poured on the sauce, sprinkled on some cheese and oregano, and adorned the whole thing with spinach and meatballs. I put my pie in the oven and waited 10 minutes. When it was done, Ribaudo, Lindblad and Emily Werfel, who usually takes my telephone orders, all nodded approvingly.
"It looks delicious," said Lindblad, who put the pie in a box for me to take home.
"Mangia," said Ribaudo.
At dinner that evening, my wife, Sue, said, "This is very good. The crust is nice and crispy."
Our younger daughter, Lauren, who had come for a visit, added, "You didn't scrimp on the toppings, either."
But the biggest compliment came from Lauren's dog, Maggie, who wolfed down a piece that Lauren fed her and, in begging for more, gave me two paws up.
That's amore.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, June 12, 2009
"Ramona"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
No man who has a cat can ever claim to be king of his castle. (No man who has a wife and children can ever make that claim, either, but that's another story.)
I found this out in 1989, when my wife, Sue, and I moved with our young daughters, Katie and Lauren, from an apartment to a condominium in Stamford, Conn. The girls, who longed for a "real pet," had grown tired of goldfish whose life expectancy was approximately as long as the Super Bowl halftime show. They wanted something that could return their affection, that had some semblance of intelligence, that would respond to their every command. True, they already had me. But they wanted something more. Specifically, they wanted a cat.
So, on an overcast Saturday, we went to the Humane Society and saw cats of every conceivable make and model. Asking not one child but two children, ages 9 and 7, to pick out the pet of their dreams borders on cruelty, not necessarily to the children, who would gladly devote their lives to such an endeavor, or to the cat, who couldn't care less because there's a sucker born every minute, but most definitely to the parents.
Ultimately, the decision was in my hands. Or, more accurately, on my feet. That's because one little kitten, a black and white cutie of almost unimaginable softness, climbed out of her box, scampered over to me and began to rub up against my size 11 sneakers. When I picked her up, she snuggled against my cotton shirt and purred contentedly. It would be years before she showed me such affection again. Of course, I couldn't have known that. But it was late, the girls were hopelessly confused and I was hooked, so I announced, "This is the one."
Katie named her Ramona, after Ramona Quimby, the title character in a series of books by children's author Beverly Cleary. It was a monumental misnomer: Ramona, the fictional 8-year-old girl, was charming, lively and smart; Ramona, the real-life 8-week-old cat, was grumpy, boring and stupid. But the girls were happy. Sue and I were, too, because for all her mental deficiencies, Ramona quickly learned how to use the litter box. I like to think she followed my example because, of course, I was already housebroken.
Ramona became internationally famous in 1992 as a charter member of "Who's Who of Animals." Here was her entry in that prestigious publication:
"Ramona Geraldine Zezima
"Stamford, Connecticut
"Ramona is a 3-year-old domestic house cat. She is small, sleek and coal black except for her white paws and whiskers and a white hourglass patch on her throat and chest. Ramona's greatest claim to fame is that she is even dumber than our goldfish, Pumpkin, out of whose bowl she likes to drink. A recent intelligence test pitting Ramona and a loaf of Wonder Bread proved inconclusive. She also is lazy, aloof and virtually unemployable. Still, we all love her because, frankly, we are only human."
Ramona's cushy lifestyle as a pampered princess who rarely deigned to associate with commoners ended in 1995 with the arrival of the newest member of the family, a puppy named Lizzie. Sensing competition, Ramona finally began warming up to us.
Her miraculous transformation into an affectionate sweetheart continued in 1998, when we moved to Long Island, N.Y., and got another cat, Kitty, who then had her own kitties, Bernice and Henry, all of whom ignored Ramona, who was only too happy to reciprocate and focus her attention on us.
Just before her Sweet 16th birthday party, Ramona began emitting a series of loud, strange, agonizing cries that sounded a lot like me when I get out of bed in the morning. Sue didn't help matters when she shook her head sadly and said, "It's her time."
I rushed to Jefferson Animal Hospital with Ramona, who sat calmly as Dr. Jeff Rose checked her teeth and, at the other end, took her temperature. Then he listened to her heart and began feeling her stomach. "Have you watched her when she uses the litter box?" he asked.
"I don't make a habit of it," I replied. "Why?"
"Because," Dr. Rose announced, "she's constipated."
"You mean I worried myself sick over this stupid animal, thinking she was at death's door, and the only thing wrong with her is that she can't have a bowel movement?" I said incredulously.
"I'm afraid so," said Dr. Rose.
The bill: $165.10. The prescription: a stool softener.
Our first "real pet" enjoyed good health for four more years, until about three weeks ago, just a few days before the end. She was two months shy of her 20th birthday.
For two decades, Ramona had us all wrapped around her little paw. She lived on her own terms and was loved unconditionally.
I guess she was pretty smart after all.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
No man who has a cat can ever claim to be king of his castle. (No man who has a wife and children can ever make that claim, either, but that's another story.)
I found this out in 1989, when my wife, Sue, and I moved with our young daughters, Katie and Lauren, from an apartment to a condominium in Stamford, Conn. The girls, who longed for a "real pet," had grown tired of goldfish whose life expectancy was approximately as long as the Super Bowl halftime show. They wanted something that could return their affection, that had some semblance of intelligence, that would respond to their every command. True, they already had me. But they wanted something more. Specifically, they wanted a cat.
So, on an overcast Saturday, we went to the Humane Society and saw cats of every conceivable make and model. Asking not one child but two children, ages 9 and 7, to pick out the pet of their dreams borders on cruelty, not necessarily to the children, who would gladly devote their lives to such an endeavor, or to the cat, who couldn't care less because there's a sucker born every minute, but most definitely to the parents.
Ultimately, the decision was in my hands. Or, more accurately, on my feet. That's because one little kitten, a black and white cutie of almost unimaginable softness, climbed out of her box, scampered over to me and began to rub up against my size 11 sneakers. When I picked her up, she snuggled against my cotton shirt and purred contentedly. It would be years before she showed me such affection again. Of course, I couldn't have known that. But it was late, the girls were hopelessly confused and I was hooked, so I announced, "This is the one."
Katie named her Ramona, after Ramona Quimby, the title character in a series of books by children's author Beverly Cleary. It was a monumental misnomer: Ramona, the fictional 8-year-old girl, was charming, lively and smart; Ramona, the real-life 8-week-old cat, was grumpy, boring and stupid. But the girls were happy. Sue and I were, too, because for all her mental deficiencies, Ramona quickly learned how to use the litter box. I like to think she followed my example because, of course, I was already housebroken.
Ramona became internationally famous in 1992 as a charter member of "Who's Who of Animals." Here was her entry in that prestigious publication:
"Ramona Geraldine Zezima
"Stamford, Connecticut
"Ramona is a 3-year-old domestic house cat. She is small, sleek and coal black except for her white paws and whiskers and a white hourglass patch on her throat and chest. Ramona's greatest claim to fame is that she is even dumber than our goldfish, Pumpkin, out of whose bowl she likes to drink. A recent intelligence test pitting Ramona and a loaf of Wonder Bread proved inconclusive. She also is lazy, aloof and virtually unemployable. Still, we all love her because, frankly, we are only human."
Ramona's cushy lifestyle as a pampered princess who rarely deigned to associate with commoners ended in 1995 with the arrival of the newest member of the family, a puppy named Lizzie. Sensing competition, Ramona finally began warming up to us.
Her miraculous transformation into an affectionate sweetheart continued in 1998, when we moved to Long Island, N.Y., and got another cat, Kitty, who then had her own kitties, Bernice and Henry, all of whom ignored Ramona, who was only too happy to reciprocate and focus her attention on us.
Just before her Sweet 16th birthday party, Ramona began emitting a series of loud, strange, agonizing cries that sounded a lot like me when I get out of bed in the morning. Sue didn't help matters when she shook her head sadly and said, "It's her time."
I rushed to Jefferson Animal Hospital with Ramona, who sat calmly as Dr. Jeff Rose checked her teeth and, at the other end, took her temperature. Then he listened to her heart and began feeling her stomach. "Have you watched her when she uses the litter box?" he asked.
"I don't make a habit of it," I replied. "Why?"
"Because," Dr. Rose announced, "she's constipated."
"You mean I worried myself sick over this stupid animal, thinking she was at death's door, and the only thing wrong with her is that she can't have a bowel movement?" I said incredulously.
"I'm afraid so," said Dr. Rose.
The bill: $165.10. The prescription: a stool softener.
Our first "real pet" enjoyed good health for four more years, until about three weeks ago, just a few days before the end. She was two months shy of her 20th birthday.
For two decades, Ramona had us all wrapped around her little paw. She lived on her own terms and was loved unconditionally.
I guess she was pretty smart after all.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, May 29, 2009
"Crash Course"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If my wife and I wanted to have an impact on the people around us, we would teach a crash course in driver’s education. That’s because we have been in three crashes caused by people who had an impact on us.
The first mishap occurred about a year and a half ago, when some idiot cut in front of me at an intersection because his GPS told him to go the wrong way down a one-way street. In this case, GPS must have stood for Guy Positioning System, since the guy obviously was lost and, like most men, wouldn’t stop to ask for directions.
The second mishap occurred a couple of months ago, when a little old lady pulled out of a side street in front of my wife’s car because, as the woman admitted, she wasn’t paying attention. I can only assume her GPS stood for Granny Positioning System.
The third mishap occurred only two weeks later, when an older man rear-ended my wife’s car at a red light, damaging her brand-new bumper, which she got as a result of the previous accident. His GPS apparently stood for Geezer Positioning System.
I don’t know where the drivers are worse, on Long Island, N.Y., where my wife and I live and where all three accidents occurred, or in our hometown of Stamford, Conn., where you take your life in your hands every time you get behind the wheel.
But I do know this: Everyone on the road these days is certifiably insane. Except for my wife and me. And we have the insurance settlements to prove it.
To get a driver’s education in the fine art of vehicular mayhem, I recently went to King O’Rourke Auto Body in Smithtown, N.Y., where my wife and I have had our cars repaired after each accident, and took a real crash course from manager Bobby Lombardi.
"The main problem," Lombardi said, "is that people don’t pay attention when they’re driving. Of course," he added with a smile, "it’s not a problem for me because it’s good for business."
There was one driver in particular who convinced him that auto body repair could be lucrative. The driver’s name: Bobby Lombardi.
"I totaled a cop car when I was 17," he recalled. "I was driving a van for a printing company. There was a misty rain and this lady in a station wagon with kids in the back cut me off. I remember thinking, ‘I can hit this lady or hit the cop car.’ The cop had gotten out of his car to write a ticket, so I said to myself, ‘I’ll hit the cop car.’ I hit it so hard that it slid and hit the car he was writing a ticket for. I jumped out of the van and said, ‘Get that lady’s plate!’ The cop gave me a ticket."
After a few more mishaps, which mainly involved clipping taxis in New York City and putting a notch for each hit on his dashboard, "I decided to get into this business," he said. "I figured, at the very least, I could fix my own vehicles."
Lombardi, 53, who has been in the business for 30 years, is now, by his own account, "an excellent driver." That’s more than he can say for a lot of other people.
"They drive while they’re texting or talking on the phone," Lombardi said. "Some people read the paper. I’ve seen women putting on makeup. It’s ridiculous."
But the biggest causes of accidents, according to Lombardi, are GPS devices.
"They’re worse than anything," he said, adding that he once got into an argument with his GPS. "It could speak different languages. I was looking for a place in Massapequa. The GPS said, ‘Do you want to speak Italian?’ I said, ‘No! I want Massapequa!’ It said, ‘No comprendo.’ I was actually talking with my hands to this thing, like a real Italian. I was yelling at it. Finally, I shut it off, went to a gas station and asked for directions. I know guys aren’t supposed to do that, but I had no other choice."
Lombardi and I, who are both of Italian descent, agreed that his GPS stood for Goomba Positioning System.
Lombardi, who has done wonderful work on our family cars, had this final piece of advice for drivers everywhere: "Pay attention. Don’t drink and drive. And if you see Jerry or his wife coming down the road, get the hell out of the way."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If my wife and I wanted to have an impact on the people around us, we would teach a crash course in driver’s education. That’s because we have been in three crashes caused by people who had an impact on us.
The first mishap occurred about a year and a half ago, when some idiot cut in front of me at an intersection because his GPS told him to go the wrong way down a one-way street. In this case, GPS must have stood for Guy Positioning System, since the guy obviously was lost and, like most men, wouldn’t stop to ask for directions.
The second mishap occurred a couple of months ago, when a little old lady pulled out of a side street in front of my wife’s car because, as the woman admitted, she wasn’t paying attention. I can only assume her GPS stood for Granny Positioning System.
The third mishap occurred only two weeks later, when an older man rear-ended my wife’s car at a red light, damaging her brand-new bumper, which she got as a result of the previous accident. His GPS apparently stood for Geezer Positioning System.
I don’t know where the drivers are worse, on Long Island, N.Y., where my wife and I live and where all three accidents occurred, or in our hometown of Stamford, Conn., where you take your life in your hands every time you get behind the wheel.
But I do know this: Everyone on the road these days is certifiably insane. Except for my wife and me. And we have the insurance settlements to prove it.
To get a driver’s education in the fine art of vehicular mayhem, I recently went to King O’Rourke Auto Body in Smithtown, N.Y., where my wife and I have had our cars repaired after each accident, and took a real crash course from manager Bobby Lombardi.
"The main problem," Lombardi said, "is that people don’t pay attention when they’re driving. Of course," he added with a smile, "it’s not a problem for me because it’s good for business."
There was one driver in particular who convinced him that auto body repair could be lucrative. The driver’s name: Bobby Lombardi.
"I totaled a cop car when I was 17," he recalled. "I was driving a van for a printing company. There was a misty rain and this lady in a station wagon with kids in the back cut me off. I remember thinking, ‘I can hit this lady or hit the cop car.’ The cop had gotten out of his car to write a ticket, so I said to myself, ‘I’ll hit the cop car.’ I hit it so hard that it slid and hit the car he was writing a ticket for. I jumped out of the van and said, ‘Get that lady’s plate!’ The cop gave me a ticket."
After a few more mishaps, which mainly involved clipping taxis in New York City and putting a notch for each hit on his dashboard, "I decided to get into this business," he said. "I figured, at the very least, I could fix my own vehicles."
Lombardi, 53, who has been in the business for 30 years, is now, by his own account, "an excellent driver." That’s more than he can say for a lot of other people.
"They drive while they’re texting or talking on the phone," Lombardi said. "Some people read the paper. I’ve seen women putting on makeup. It’s ridiculous."
But the biggest causes of accidents, according to Lombardi, are GPS devices.
"They’re worse than anything," he said, adding that he once got into an argument with his GPS. "It could speak different languages. I was looking for a place in Massapequa. The GPS said, ‘Do you want to speak Italian?’ I said, ‘No! I want Massapequa!’ It said, ‘No comprendo.’ I was actually talking with my hands to this thing, like a real Italian. I was yelling at it. Finally, I shut it off, went to a gas station and asked for directions. I know guys aren’t supposed to do that, but I had no other choice."
Lombardi and I, who are both of Italian descent, agreed that his GPS stood for Goomba Positioning System.
Lombardi, who has done wonderful work on our family cars, had this final piece of advice for drivers everywhere: "Pay attention. Don’t drink and drive. And if you see Jerry or his wife coming down the road, get the hell out of the way."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, May 15, 2009
"Sole Mates"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Even though I have a feminine side, which I’m usually sitting on, I am proud to say that I’m the very model of the modern middle-age man. In fact, I am so secure in my masculinity that I recently helped get a fundraiser off on the right foot, followed by the left, when I went to a beauty salon for a dueling pedicure with my wife.
The event, which raised money for the Scoliosis Association, was held at Charmed Salon & Spa in Miller Place, N.Y., where I get my hair cut.
While Sue gets pedicures all the time, this was only the second time I had gotten one. The first time was in 2006, when I was father of the bride and wanted my feet to feel good when I walked my older daughter, Katie, down the aisle. It worked: I didn’t fall on my face.
When Sue and I arrived at the catered affair, which featured vendors who were donating their services, salon owner Maria Vieira introduced us to Nicole McConnach, a licensed and very nice pedicurist who didn’t know what she was getting herself into. That was obvious when I showed Nicole my tan, navy and white argyles and said, "I’m not wearing socks. The doctor thinks this rash will clear up in a few days. Still want to give me a pedicure?"
Sue, Maria and Nicole simultaneously rolled their eyes.
Before going in the back to the private pedicure room, Nicole asked what color nail polish I wanted. "Well," I said, "the beach season is coming up and I want to look good when I dig my toes into the sand. I’d also like to impress the fish when I’m in the water. How about red?"
"Clear," suggested Nicole, who said guys shouldn’t wear red, which Sue picked, or even black, which is considered a hot color.
"I guess red would attract sharks," I noted. "And black would make me look like I had some sort of foot disease. Clear it is."
The well-appointed pedicure room contained two plush chairs and all kinds of lotions, towels and equipment – except, curiously, a gas mask, which I figured Nicole would need when I removed my shoes and the aforementioned hosiery.
As Sue and I settled into our respective chairs, rolled up our pant legs and stuck our bare tootsies into small whirlpool tubs that were filled with hot water and mint-scented foot soak, Nicole asked who wanted to go first.
"Me!" chirped my sole mate.
"You can save the worst for last," I told Nicole.
"You have very pretty and delicate feet," Nicole said to Sue, who wears a size 6 shoe.
"Wait until you see Jerry’s," replied Sue, who thinks I have the ugliest feet on earth.
"My shoes ought to come with oars," I said, noting that I’m a size 11. "My feet look like two huge Limburger cheeses with really long toes."
When Nicole finished giving Sue the deluxe treatment, capped with an application of bright red nail polish, she turned her attention to me.
"Your feet aren’t so bad," Nicole said as she examined them. "I’ve seen worse."
After Nicole applied lotion to my toes, she pushed back the cuticles with something that looked like a surgical instrument.
"What do you call that thing?" I asked.
"A cuticle pusher," Nicole answered. "It’s all very simple."
She said that most men don’t understand why women love to pamper themselves by getting pedicures, adding: "Usually, guys pamper themselves by buying more expensive beer."
After applying an exfoliant to my feet and calves, Nicole started buffing and rubbing until I exploded in a paroxysm of giggles that must have made the people out front wonder what the heck was going on.
"You’re ticklish," said Nicole, giggling herself.
The rest of my pedicure was so heavenly that I vowed not to wait until my younger daughter, Lauren, gets married to have another one. After Nicole applied clear polish to my nails, I walked out front wearing the largest flip-flops in the salon to show off my glowingly pink feet.
"They look beautiful," Sue admitted.
For a donation of $10 each, Sue and I helped raise nearly $1,000 for the Scoliosis Association. The fundraiser was so successful that Maria is hoping to have a benefit for breast cancer in October.
"I’ll be there," I promised. "And this time, I’m going to put the ‘man’ in manicure."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Even though I have a feminine side, which I’m usually sitting on, I am proud to say that I’m the very model of the modern middle-age man. In fact, I am so secure in my masculinity that I recently helped get a fundraiser off on the right foot, followed by the left, when I went to a beauty salon for a dueling pedicure with my wife.
The event, which raised money for the Scoliosis Association, was held at Charmed Salon & Spa in Miller Place, N.Y., where I get my hair cut.
While Sue gets pedicures all the time, this was only the second time I had gotten one. The first time was in 2006, when I was father of the bride and wanted my feet to feel good when I walked my older daughter, Katie, down the aisle. It worked: I didn’t fall on my face.
When Sue and I arrived at the catered affair, which featured vendors who were donating their services, salon owner Maria Vieira introduced us to Nicole McConnach, a licensed and very nice pedicurist who didn’t know what she was getting herself into. That was obvious when I showed Nicole my tan, navy and white argyles and said, "I’m not wearing socks. The doctor thinks this rash will clear up in a few days. Still want to give me a pedicure?"
Sue, Maria and Nicole simultaneously rolled their eyes.
Before going in the back to the private pedicure room, Nicole asked what color nail polish I wanted. "Well," I said, "the beach season is coming up and I want to look good when I dig my toes into the sand. I’d also like to impress the fish when I’m in the water. How about red?"
"Clear," suggested Nicole, who said guys shouldn’t wear red, which Sue picked, or even black, which is considered a hot color.
"I guess red would attract sharks," I noted. "And black would make me look like I had some sort of foot disease. Clear it is."
The well-appointed pedicure room contained two plush chairs and all kinds of lotions, towels and equipment – except, curiously, a gas mask, which I figured Nicole would need when I removed my shoes and the aforementioned hosiery.
As Sue and I settled into our respective chairs, rolled up our pant legs and stuck our bare tootsies into small whirlpool tubs that were filled with hot water and mint-scented foot soak, Nicole asked who wanted to go first.
"Me!" chirped my sole mate.
"You can save the worst for last," I told Nicole.
"You have very pretty and delicate feet," Nicole said to Sue, who wears a size 6 shoe.
"Wait until you see Jerry’s," replied Sue, who thinks I have the ugliest feet on earth.
"My shoes ought to come with oars," I said, noting that I’m a size 11. "My feet look like two huge Limburger cheeses with really long toes."
When Nicole finished giving Sue the deluxe treatment, capped with an application of bright red nail polish, she turned her attention to me.
"Your feet aren’t so bad," Nicole said as she examined them. "I’ve seen worse."
After Nicole applied lotion to my toes, she pushed back the cuticles with something that looked like a surgical instrument.
"What do you call that thing?" I asked.
"A cuticle pusher," Nicole answered. "It’s all very simple."
She said that most men don’t understand why women love to pamper themselves by getting pedicures, adding: "Usually, guys pamper themselves by buying more expensive beer."
After applying an exfoliant to my feet and calves, Nicole started buffing and rubbing until I exploded in a paroxysm of giggles that must have made the people out front wonder what the heck was going on.
"You’re ticklish," said Nicole, giggling herself.
The rest of my pedicure was so heavenly that I vowed not to wait until my younger daughter, Lauren, gets married to have another one. After Nicole applied clear polish to my nails, I walked out front wearing the largest flip-flops in the salon to show off my glowingly pink feet.
"They look beautiful," Sue admitted.
For a donation of $10 each, Sue and I helped raise nearly $1,000 for the Scoliosis Association. The fundraiser was so successful that Maria is hoping to have a benefit for breast cancer in October.
"I’ll be there," I promised. "And this time, I’m going to put the ‘man’ in manicure."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, May 1, 2009
"Out of Shape and Into Yoga"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a dedicated couch potato who would eat potatoes on the couch if my wife would let me, I firmly believe that exercise can kill you. After decades of being ridiculously sedentary, I still have not only my boyish figure but, on most mornings, a pulse.
Lately, however, I have begun to think that, at 55, I really ought to do more than what is now my main form of physical activity, which is to get up once a night to go to the bathroom.
So I recently took a yoga class.
I signed up for one very important reason: It was free. And, all modesty aside, I figured I was worth every penny.
Also, I received great encouragement from my older daughter, Katie, who is something of a yoga guru. She has been taking classes for the past few years and once participated in a "yoga challenge," which required participants to do yoga every day for a month. I would have been dead on Day Three.
"Are you doing hot yoga or regular yoga?" Katie asked.
"What’s the difference?" I replied.
"About 40 degrees," Katie said, explaining that regular yoga takes place at room temperature, whereas hot yoga is done at 110 degrees. At that rate, I’d have to be in either a sauna or Death Valley, so I was guessing – and hoping – it was the regular kind.
Then Katie said that I had to buy a yoga mat.
"What’s that?" I inquired.
"It’s a mat," Katie said, very patiently, "on which you do yoga."
Who would have guessed? So I forked over $12 for a baby blue mat that perfectly matched the baby blue T-shirt I planned to wear to the class. After all, sometimes a boy just likes to feel pretty, especially when he’s sweating like a stuck pig.
The first thing I noticed about the yoga class, which was held at work, was that there were 20 women and one guy. That guy was, of course, yours truly.
"Is this your first time?" asked Diane, who took a spot behind me.
"Yes," I said bashfully as I unfurled my yoga mat. Then I asked if anyone knew CPR, which I figured I would need, although I was worried that my T-shirt would blend in with my mat and nobody would notice that I had collapsed.
"You’ll do fine," Liz, another participant, said reassuringly.
I hoped I could say the same for the women around me because the instructor, Dawn, suggested that we do the session in bare feet. Fortunately, when I removed my sneakers and socks, nobody keeled over.
Dawn began the class by talking about positions, none of which was third base or, the place where I am always accused of being, left field. Instead, she said we would be doing down dog, plank, cobra and warrior 2. They involved gently stretching, twisting and otherwise contorting our bodies in ways I didn’t know a body could move. I must have looked like a cloverleaf on the interstate highway system.
Dawn instructed us to extend one arm while crossing the opposing leg over our bodies as we lay on our yoga mats. Then we had to get on all fours and extend one leg, then the other. I was so confused that I resorted to cheating by looking at the other participants to see which limb I was supposed to be lifting, extending or stretching at any given moment.
At the end of the 45-minute class, I had a sense of both peace (the soothing music helped) and accomplishment (because I didn’t have to be hospitalized). In fact, I have seldom felt better.
"You did very well," Dawn told me afterward. When I said I hadn’t exercised in years, she said, "You look like you’re in really good shape."
"Looks can be deceiving," I noted, "but this made me feel great. I’m not sore at all."
"That’s because we did hatha yoga," Dawn explained.
"Well," I replied, "hatha yoga is better than none."
Dawn politely ignored the remark and said that hatha is the regular kind of yoga, while Bikram is the hot version.
Either way, I had such an enjoyable experience that I would definitely take another class. Until then, maybe I can be a couch potato on my yoga mat.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a dedicated couch potato who would eat potatoes on the couch if my wife would let me, I firmly believe that exercise can kill you. After decades of being ridiculously sedentary, I still have not only my boyish figure but, on most mornings, a pulse.
Lately, however, I have begun to think that, at 55, I really ought to do more than what is now my main form of physical activity, which is to get up once a night to go to the bathroom.
So I recently took a yoga class.
I signed up for one very important reason: It was free. And, all modesty aside, I figured I was worth every penny.
Also, I received great encouragement from my older daughter, Katie, who is something of a yoga guru. She has been taking classes for the past few years and once participated in a "yoga challenge," which required participants to do yoga every day for a month. I would have been dead on Day Three.
"Are you doing hot yoga or regular yoga?" Katie asked.
"What’s the difference?" I replied.
"About 40 degrees," Katie said, explaining that regular yoga takes place at room temperature, whereas hot yoga is done at 110 degrees. At that rate, I’d have to be in either a sauna or Death Valley, so I was guessing – and hoping – it was the regular kind.
Then Katie said that I had to buy a yoga mat.
"What’s that?" I inquired.
"It’s a mat," Katie said, very patiently, "on which you do yoga."
Who would have guessed? So I forked over $12 for a baby blue mat that perfectly matched the baby blue T-shirt I planned to wear to the class. After all, sometimes a boy just likes to feel pretty, especially when he’s sweating like a stuck pig.
The first thing I noticed about the yoga class, which was held at work, was that there were 20 women and one guy. That guy was, of course, yours truly.
"Is this your first time?" asked Diane, who took a spot behind me.
"Yes," I said bashfully as I unfurled my yoga mat. Then I asked if anyone knew CPR, which I figured I would need, although I was worried that my T-shirt would blend in with my mat and nobody would notice that I had collapsed.
"You’ll do fine," Liz, another participant, said reassuringly.
I hoped I could say the same for the women around me because the instructor, Dawn, suggested that we do the session in bare feet. Fortunately, when I removed my sneakers and socks, nobody keeled over.
Dawn began the class by talking about positions, none of which was third base or, the place where I am always accused of being, left field. Instead, she said we would be doing down dog, plank, cobra and warrior 2. They involved gently stretching, twisting and otherwise contorting our bodies in ways I didn’t know a body could move. I must have looked like a cloverleaf on the interstate highway system.
Dawn instructed us to extend one arm while crossing the opposing leg over our bodies as we lay on our yoga mats. Then we had to get on all fours and extend one leg, then the other. I was so confused that I resorted to cheating by looking at the other participants to see which limb I was supposed to be lifting, extending or stretching at any given moment.
At the end of the 45-minute class, I had a sense of both peace (the soothing music helped) and accomplishment (because I didn’t have to be hospitalized). In fact, I have seldom felt better.
"You did very well," Dawn told me afterward. When I said I hadn’t exercised in years, she said, "You look like you’re in really good shape."
"Looks can be deceiving," I noted, "but this made me feel great. I’m not sore at all."
"That’s because we did hatha yoga," Dawn explained.
"Well," I replied, "hatha yoga is better than none."
Dawn politely ignored the remark and said that hatha is the regular kind of yoga, while Bikram is the hot version.
Either way, I had such an enjoyable experience that I would definitely take another class. Until then, maybe I can be a couch potato on my yoga mat.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
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