"There's No Business Like Shoe Business"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

If the shoe fits, wear it. Then wear the other one because otherwise you would have to hop around on one foot and you’d end up spraining an ankle. That’s why I was reluctant to hop to it recently when my wife, Sue, a world-class bargain hunter, took me out to buy shoes.

“We’re going to the Bass outlet,” she told me.

“That’s my favorite ale!” I exclaimed.

“We’re not going drinking,” Sue said.

“Then you mean we’re going fishing?” I asked.

Sue rolled her eyes. “We’re going shoe shopping,” she said.

If you were to make a list of my least favorite things to do, shoe shopping would rank right up there with spraining an ankle and making a list of my least favorite things to do.

My aversion to footwear goes back to when I was a teenager and worked in a clothing store. I liked almost every aspect of the job, especially putting goofy notes in shirt pockets and joking around with the tailors. But I hated waiting on customers who wanted to buy shoes. It didn’t help that I could seldom find their size. And if I did, I’d forget to take out the paper balls that were stuffed inside the shoes.

I don’t think I ever sold a pair. After much sole-searching, I decided to pursue a different career path.

To me, shoes are things you put on your feet to prevent frostbite in the winter and athlete’s foot in the summer, although if I didn’t wear them, it would be a boon to the gas mask industry.

Most of the time, I wear sneakers. And even they have become annoying to shop for because you have to decide whether you want walking shoes, running shoes, hiking shoes, practically everything except what sneakers are supposed to be: relaxing shoes.

Sue, on the other hand (or, rather, the other foot), loves shoes. She’ll never rival Imelda Marcos, but she has a lot more than I do.

Currently, I have three pairs, including the black dress shoes I bought last year for the wedding of my younger daughter, who would have killed me if I’d shown up wearing sneakers.

Sue’s mission in taking me shoe shopping was to replace the clodhoppers that had served as my black casual pair for the past five or six years. She also wanted to return the nice brown pair she bought for me last year (but which I had never worn) because they were identical to the brown pair I had been wearing since I got the black clodhoppers.

I perused the store’s brown shoes and saw a pair I liked. I looked at the price tag. It said: $140. I had the same reaction I’d have if I took a whiff of my own shoes: I almost fainted.

“They’re on sale,” Sue pointed out.

Indeed, the price had been slashed to $25. Same with the black casuals I liked, which had been priced at $110. I tried on both pairs, initially forgetting, of course, to take out the paper balls. The shoes fit like gloves.

“Maybe I should wear them on my hands,” I said to Sue. She rolled her eyes again and led me to the checkout counter, where she not only returned my brown shoes but produced coupons that helped make this the deal of the century: two pairs of shoes, originally totaling $250, for $1.45.

That’s right: one dollar and 45 cents!

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. It didn’t.

“Not a bad deal,” Sue, Queen of the Bargain Hunters, said as we walked out.

“Now that,” I replied, “is what I call getting a shopping excursion off on the right foot.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Stand and Deliver, Then Run"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

In my 36 years in journalism, I have never believed that you shouldn’t let the facts stand in the way of a good story. But I do believe that the bare facts can make for the best stories.

That was reinforced recently when a couple of appliance deliverymen told me about the many customers who have answered the door in the nude.

Because I am modest, and didn’t want to get into legal trouble, in which case I would have to wear court briefs, I was fully clothed when Armando and Julio came over to deliver a new microwave.

“People may think our job is boring,” Armando said after he and Julio had removed the old microwave and installed the new one in the kitchen. “But that’s not always the case.”

Like the time they encountered a huge snake while delivering a refrigerator.

“We brought it to a house that was close to the water,” Armando recalled. “The lady was very excited about her new refrigerator. But first we had to go down to the basement to remove the old one. This basement had two doors leading outside. We started to move the old refrigerator when a big snake came out from behind it. This thing had to be 6 feet long.

“Julio and I ran toward one door,” Armando continued. “The snake must have been scared, too, because it actually jumped toward the other door. The lady screamed, ran upstairs and went out the front door. She was in the yard, on the phone with her husband, saying she wasn’t going back in the house until the snake was gone.”

The snake got out, the woman got her refrigerator, and Armando and Julio got a good story.

But the naked truth is that the really good stories involve not snakes, which shed their skin, but humans, who expose theirs by shedding their clothes.

“The first time it happened,” Armando remembered, “a naked woman opened the door. I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to look down, so I just kept making eye contact.”

“Did she know you were coming over to make a delivery?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Armando. “She got a call saying we would be there in about half an hour. You got a call, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “As soon as I hung up, I put some clothes on.”

“Some people are strange,” Armando said. “They know we’re coming over and they don’t bother getting dressed.”

Armando estimated that he and his partner -- sometimes Julio, sometimes another guy -- have encountered nude customers 10 times.

“And not all of them have been women,” he said. “Three have been men. I definitely didn’t look down then.”

The first naked woman went into the other room to watch TV while Armando and his partner did their work, after which she paid them and they left.

“It was strictly business,” Armando said. “But there was this one woman -- she was beautiful -- who answered the door dressed very professionally, in a business suit, when we came over to deliver a refrigerator. It wouldn’t fit into the kitchen, so she had to get another one. We went back three or four days later and this time her husband wasn’t home. Right after we got there, she changed into this hot outfit, with tight shorts and a very tight top. She wanted me to go into the bedroom to smoke weed with her and maybe do something else. I said, ‘I can’t do that, we’re not allowed, and besides, I’m happily married, but thank you anyway.’ You see some crazy things on this job.”

Julio, who also is happily married, didn’t have much to say, so I asked him if he liked his job.

“Yes,” he said. “Except if there are snakes.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Snow Way We'll Get a Blizzard"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a man who has been perpetrating snow jobs for more than half a century, I can say with authority that there is a simple reason why the Northeast has not yet been hit with a blizzard this winter: I had my snow blower tuned up.

Because I have brain freeze when it comes to preparing for the white stuff, I appreciated the reminder I got in the mail recently from Carl’s Equipment and Supply in Patchogue, N.Y., where my parents bought the snow blower for me almost 10 years ago.

On the card was this convincing line: “He who hesitates shovels!”

That’s exactly what I had to do two days before Christmas in 2009, when 2 feet of snow fell on my driveway. When it comes to snow removal, I am a wuss, which stands for “wait until spring starts.” But my younger daughter, Lauren, and her then-fiance (and now husband), Guillaume, had to fly to France for the holiday. Their flight was still on, but their limo driver wimped out, which meant they needed a ride to the airport from Dad’s Livery and Onion Service (“Driving You Crazy Since 1980”).

I tried to use the Little Snow Blower That Couldn’t, but it 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.

So I had to risk myocardial infarction, which is even worse than what it sounds like, by digging out with a plastic shovel only slightly bigger than the spoon I use to eat my morning cereal. Thankfully, my neighbor Ron came over with his snow blower and cleared the rest of the driveway so Lauren and Guillaume could make their flight.

The same thing happened -- minus the airport trip -- the day after Christmas in 2010, when we were hit with Snowmageddon.

After the freak October snowstorm of 2011, which spared my part of Long Island but socked my home state of Connecticut, I decided to get my snow blower fixed before the planet, contrary to evidence of global warming, was gripped by another ice age.

“Climate change could depend on you,” said Dawn, the service manager at Carl’s. “It’s a good thing you brought your snow blower in.”

That’s more than she could say for some other customers, like the guy who stuck his hand in a snow blower after he started it to see if it was working.

“He came back with bloody fingers,” Dawn recalled. “He said, ‘I thought I could do that.’ I said, ‘Duh! No, you can’t.’ Some people just shouldn’t own equipment.”

“Even I’m not that stupid,” I said. “Of course, my snow blower can’t hurt me because it won’t start.”

“We’ll fix that,” Dawn promised.

Sure enough, the following week, my snow blower was running like new.

“We rebuilt the carburetor, put in a new fuel filter and replaced the spark plug,” said Dawn, who showed me the proper way to start my snow blower. “Make sure you put it on choke,” she advised.

“When it wouldn’t start, I wanted to choke it,” I replied.

This time, it started right away.

“You’re good to go,” Dawn said. “This guarantees we won’t get another Snowmageddon. And you can take all the credit.”

I realize I am violating my own rule of meteorological journalism (“Never write about the weather unless it’s for the next day’s paper -- and even then you’re likely to be wrong”), so we could be hit with a blizzard right around the time this column runs. Still, I like to think I have done my part to make this a good winter so far.

And just to make sure we don’t have any floods this summer, I’ll get my lawn mower tuned up.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Let's Get Physical"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Even though I was recently edged out by Hollywood hunk Bradley Cooper as People magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, I am proud to say that, for a guy with an AARP card, I still have a boyish figure. So I wasn’t surprised when a personal trainer said that I have more fat in my head than I do on my body.

Del Davis, who also has a boyish figure, as well as an AARP card, made the calculation during my complimentary four-day membership at Eastern Athletic, a health club in Melville, N.Y.

Aside from adhering to a strict regimen of 12-ounce curls, I hadn’t worked out in decades. I may not be flabby, but I’m often winded just from getting up at night to go to the bathroom. Del had the unenviable task of whipping me back into shape without prompting People to name me Sexiest Man Deceased.

Del, who has been a personal trainer for 25 years, has amazing abs, bulging biceps, tremendous triceps and other massive muscles. He also has youth on his side because he’s 10 days younger than I am.

“You’re just a kid,” I told him before my first workout. “No wonder you look so good.”

“I am going to make you look good, too,” said Del, who has won several bodybuilding championships in the United States and Canada, including the coveted title of Mr. Apollo.

“In college,” I said, “I was known as Mr. Heineken.”

For that reason alone, I should have keeled over 30 seconds after Del put me on a treadmill. Surprisingly, I survived the initial one-hour session, which included stints on a stretching machine and a pull-up machine. I also lifted weights.

“It’s appropriate that I’m using dumbbells,” I said, “because I am one.”

“Not at all,” Del replied. “I’m very impressed. If I didn’t know you haven’t exercised in years, I’d say you have been working out.”

Fat chance. Which is why I was stunned at the beginning of my next session, a week later, to find out that I am a lean, mean geezer machine. Del took my height (6 feet) and weight (170 pounds) and programmed the information into a small device that measures fat content. After I held it up in front of me, Del said that I have only 19 percent fat.

“I have 18 percent, so your fat percentage is great,” said Del, adding that the average person has about 25 percent.

“Most of the fat must be in my head,” I said.

“Definitely,” Del replied.

The rest of the session was spent on an ab machine, a leg press and a back machine. I didn’t even break a sweat, though I was wearing sweatpants.

“Muscles have memory,” said Del.

“Mine are too old to remember anything,” I noted.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Your muscles are bouncing back.”

They were crying out in pain the following week, when Del stepped it up by making me step up on a machine called the versatile climber.

“Be like Spider-Man,” he said.

“Spidey never needed CPR,” I responded, huffing and puffing and almost blowing the gym down.

The rest of the session, which included a stint on a rowing machine (“I’m not going anywhere,” I said) and a workout with a medicine ball (“I’m going to need medicine after this”), was equally intense.

“You did well,” Del said afterward. “I didn’t even have to call an ambulance.”

The last of the four sessions was, by comparison, a breeze. I got back on the versatile climber, did pushups, pumped iron and did bench dips. But the workout was more invigorating than tiring.

When it was all over, Del gave me an evaluation. On a scale of 1 to 10, with 10 being the highest, I scored as follows: stamina, 10; agility, 8; strength, 9; fat percentage, 10; pushups, 9; dips, 10.

“And you don’t even do anything,” Del said. “I’m shocked. If you worked out regularly, you’d be off the charts. Overall, you’re a perfect 10.”

Take that, Bradley Cooper.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"That's All, Volts"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Whenever people admire my thick head of wild and crazy hair and ask how I keep it looking that way, I tell them I stick my tongue in an electrical outlet. That’s why I was shocked recently when a fuse blew on what turned out to be a bad hair day.

This time, however, the electrical problem was caused by my wife, Sue, whose hair is much nicer and more manageable than mine, primarily because she irons it. Just so you don’t think she puts her head on an ironing board and presses her beautiful tresses the way she presses her beautiful dresses, Sue uses a flatiron to straighten her naturally curly hair.

One morning, Sue was using the flatiron in our bathroom, which is the house’s flatiron district, when she blew a fuse. Not only did the lights in the bathroom go out, so did the lights, the clock radio and the ceiling fan in our bedroom, as well as the lights and the ceiling fan in an adjacent bedroom. We tried to restore power by flicking the circuit breakers in the fuse box, but nothing worked.

I didn’t want to be kept in the dark any more than I usually am, so I called Shawn, who owns Luminaire Electric in Yaphank, N.Y. Shawn sent over his top man, Jose, who had done excellent work for us before and even showed me how to change a light bulb.

This job was a bit more complicated because it entailed working with wires that, if crossed, could have electrocuted me, though my hair would have looked nice.

“You have to know what you’re doing,” said Jose, who knew I didn’t. He added that even an experienced electrician can get the shock of his life if he isn’t careful. That’s what happened to a co-worker who was splicing wires.

“I saw him shaking,” Jose recalled. “I thought he was joking because he has a good sense of humor and is always kidding around. Then he went backward and fell over, like a piece of wood. He was lying on the floor with his hands and feet sticking up in the air. He looked like a table that was upside down. I said, ‘Are you OK?’ He was all right, but he was really stunned. Since that day, he doesn’t joke around anymore.”

Jose wasn’t joking when he told me that our problem was potentially hazardous because of faulty wiring. He traced the trouble to the next bedroom, not the bathroom, and said the wires were old. He fixed them in the bathroom and both bedrooms and suggested that we eventually update our entire electrical system.

He also suggested we go easy with the flatiron and the hair dryer.

“They use a lot of power,” said Jose, adding that his wife, like Sue, uses a flatiron to straighten her naturally curly hair. “Women spend too much money on their hair,” he said.

When I admitted that I sometimes use a hair dryer, Jose said, “My father-in-law uses one, too. I always say to him, ‘You mean you can’t even go out without blow-drying your hair?’ He says no. I don’t understand it.”

Jose, who has a full head of thick brown hair, doesn’t use a flatiron or a hair dryer.

“I use glue,” he said, removing his cap to show off his spiked hairdo. “It’s like a gel but stronger. In the summer, when I sweat, it drips into my eyes. Sometimes I don’t even want to have hair.”

“Maybe that’s the answer to preventing blown fuses,” I said.

“Our wives wouldn’t like it,” Jose replied. “That’s why the electric bill is so high.”

“Tell me about it,” I said. “It’s enough to make your hair stand on end.”

Copyright 2011 by Jerry Zezima

"Christmas Letter 2011"

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 Dave and Guillaume, the sons-in-lawiarch. Happy reading!

Dear friend(s):

It sure has been an exciting 2011 for the Zezimas! The highlight of the year was when Lauren and Guillaume got married. Twice.

The first (and official) wedding was in France on April 30, the day after Prince William and Kate Middleton got hitched in England. It was nice of the royal couple to be the opening act for Lauren and Guillaume, who had what was referred to in the press (or at least in Jerry’s column) as the Wedding of the Century.

The trip to France was magnificent (magnifique) and memorable (memorable) because Jerry mastered the entire French language on the plane ride over and remembered enough curse words to use them effectively when his and Sue’s luggage got lost. It showed up one day before the wedding.

Still, the hospitality of Guillaume’s wonderful (merveilleux) family and the beautiful (beau or belle, take your pick) ceremony made everything perfect.

The second event, for the people from here who couldn’t make it there, was held on Long Island, N.Y., on June 5. It gave Lauren and Guillaume one more wedding than William and Kate had. This prompted Jerry to write the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge a letter to thank them for playing second fiddle to the real royal couple. William and Kate wrote back (actually, it was their secretary, Mrs. Claudia Holloway, but close enough) to extend their best wishes to Lauren and Guillaume. The letter will be framed and hung in a prominent place (though not over the throne) in the House of Zezima.

Speaking of travels, Katie and Dave went back to college. They moved from Boston, where they went to college the first time, to Ann Arbor, Mich., where Katie got a fellowship to the University of Michigan. Not only don’t they have to take tests, but they get to travel to places like South America and Turkey. Best of all: No tuition payments for Sue and Jerry!

And speaking of school, Sue and Jerry attended their 40th high school reunion. They laughed, danced and reminisced with old friends. Everyone looked great, especially Sue. Jerry recalled his days as the class clown, except this time he wasn’t sent to the principal’s office.

On the financial front, Sue, Jerry and Lauren had a tag sale. Though they had plenty of liquid assets (Bloody Marys), they actually lost money. And the garage is still full of stuff. Next time, they are going to give cocktails to the customers.

On the medical front, Jerry has been waging a yearlong battle with kidney stones. One was removed, but another one remains. This, too, shall pass. That’s more than the doctor can say for the rocks in Jerry’s head.

On a sad note, Jerry’s dad, the original and best Jerry Zezima, passed away at age 93. He was beloved by everyone in the family and is missed every day. He was Jerry’s hero, not just because he was a great guy, but because he introduced Jerry to such lasting influences as Looney Tunes, Laurel and Hardy and “The Honeymooners.” The applehead didn’t fall far from the tree.

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

Copyright 2011 by Jerry Zezima

"The Price Isn't Right"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Get-rich-quick schemes are a dime a dozen, which means you’d have to have dozens of them to get rich.

But my wife, Sue, and I recently came up with a get-poor-quick scheme: We had a tag sale. There were plenty of tags but not many sales. To make matters worse, we actually lost money. And our garage is still full of stuff.

To run a tag sale, you need two things: stuff and Bloody Marys. We had a lot more stuff than we had Bloody Marys, but the Bloody Marys went faster than the stuff.

Joining us in this disastrous venture was our younger daughter, Lauren, who had a lot of her own stuff in our garage and brought over even more stuff from her apartment. Lauren’s husband, Guillaume, wisely spent most of the day inside, going through a baseball card collection that is probably worth more than all of our stuff combined.

Among the items we put out in the driveway and on the front lawn were: two pairs of crutches ($5 and $10), the Bubble Mate Foot Bubbler ($10), a wok ($5), a dog cage ($20), a pair of ice skates ($5), two artificial Christmas trees ($10 and $20) and a painting of two barns in a field ($15), plus lots of clothes (reasonably priced) and costume jewelry (ditto).

The sale began at 10 a.m. Sue, Lauren and I sat on chairs in the driveway with a cash box (empty) and glasses of Bloody Marys (full), ready to do a brisk business.

At 11 a.m., a guy named Marty came by. “Times must be tough if you’re having a tag sale,” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I’m dependently wealthy.”

“What do you mean?” Marty asked.

“I’m depending on you to make me wealthy,” I said.

Marty left without buying anything.

“You’re driving customers away,” Sue told me.

“We’ll have to sell you,” Lauren chimed in.

“And take a loss,” Sue said.

“Who loses money at their own tag sale?” Lauren wondered.

“We do,” Sue noted.

“It’s pathetic,” said Lauren, adding, “Who wants another Bloody Mary?”

At 11:30, we made our first sale. A woman named Rosa admired the watercolor of the barns. “I painted it myself,” I said.

“Really?” Rosa chirped.

“No,” I admitted.

“Ten dollars,” she offered. It was five bucks less than the price on the tag. I drive a hard bargain, so I said, “Sold!”

A man named J.R. drove up with his children, Ana, 5, and James, 3, who wanted Lauren’s art set. I played hide-and-seek with the kids as J.R. handed Lauren $10, which she put in the cash box.

“Bye, Jerry!” the kids shouted from the car as J.R. drove away.

A woman who stopped with her adult daughter told us that she had recently been in a car accident. “If you get into another one,” I said helpfully, “we have crutches.”

No sale.

A young guy showed up to look at the jewelry. “I made it when I was in prison,” I told him.

“You did a nice job,” he said.

“I had a lot of time,” I replied.

“Prisoners generally do,” said the guy, who bought $12 worth of rings and earrings for his wife.

By 3 p.m., the official end of the sale, there was $55 in the cash box. We lugged most of the unsold stuff back into the garage and sent out for dinner, which came to $67.

“Next time we have a tag sale,” Lauren said, “we should give Bloody Marys to the customers. Maybe then we’ll make a profit.”

Copyright 2011 by Jerry Zezima