"You Can Spray That Again"

By Jerry Zezima

Every so often, when dirt, grime and mildew build up, a good power washing is in order. But it would be too messy, so I took a shower.

I had the house power-washed instead.

It had been a long time since our humble abode got such a thorough cleaning. Before that, it was the same mold story: I was responsible for getting the green gunk off the outside of the two-story Colonial.

This involved climbing a ladder — a hard-bristled brush and a spray bottle of bleach in  hand — and attempting to scrub the fungi away.

Since I am afraid of being any higher off the ground than the top of my head, and I had to keep moving the ladder a couple of feet at a time, my efforts not only were pathetically ineffective, but they took roughly as long as it would take a kindergartner to read “War and Peace.”

Then I had a brilliant idea: Sell the house!

No, actually, I bought a power washer. But there was a problem: It wouldn’t start.

Risking the rupture of a vital organ, I loaded the bulky machine into my car and drove it back to the home improvement store, where a helpful employee started it on the first try.

When I got home, I revved up the power washer, squeezed the trigger and was immediately blasted with a soapy spray. In a grave miscalculation, I was standing about 10 inches from the side of the house and got soaked to the skin.

Unfortunately, the power washer wasn’t powerful enough to wash the second story. The first story, which began, “Once upon a time, there was an incompetent homeowner,” was easy to wash once I learned to back away.

Ultimately, I gave the power washer to our contractor, who stripped the house of its moldy aluminum siding and replaced it with clean vinyl siding.

Slow-forward several years.

“The house needs to be power-washed,” my wife, Sue, told me recently.

“I’m not buying another machine,” I told her.

So we hired Benedetto Costanzo, who owns Three Village Power Washing on Long Island, New York.

Benedetto and his great crew saved me from having a heart attack last winter by getting rid of the nearly five feet of snow that fell on our property.

This time they lived up to the company’s name by power washing not only the house (including all the windows, the French doors in back, the storm door in front, the brick facade, the foundation and the gutters), but the driveway, the Belgian blocks on either side of it and those surrounding a front-yard tree, the mailbox, the front and side walks, the white PVC fence, the short brick wall in front and the backyard patio.

“Close and lock the windows,” Benedetto said before his guys, Brendan and Jose, got started. “And don’t come out of the house until they’re done.”

That’s because the cleaning solution they would be using contained eco-friendly chemicals that only professionals should handle. The chemicals mixed with water from a tank in the back of the company truck, went through long tubes and were shot out of the nozzles of the two industrial-grade power washers.

When the job was done, the house was fresh and fungus-free; the windows and doors gleamed; the walks and the driveway were spotless; so were the wall, the fence and the patio; the Belgian blocks sparkled; and the mailbox was letter-perfect.

“What do you think?” asked Benedetto.

“The house is cleaner than I am,” I replied.

“We could power-wash you,” he said.

“I’d have to take off my clothes,” I pointed out. “And the neighbors might call the cops. Thanks, but I’ll just go upstairs and take a shower.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"If Looks Could Grill"

By Jerry Zezima

Whenever I’m cooking with gas, which causes people who eat what I cook to have the same thing, I’m afraid I will not only burn the burgers but be blown to smithereens, after which I will rest in pieces.

That’s why I feel much safer now that I have a new grill, even though I had to reassemble part of it and ended up with a couple of screws left over. I put them in a container with my other loose screws.

My wife, Sue, who does the inside cooking, agreed that we needed a new grill so I could do the outside cooking, which doesn’t measure up to hers because it’s rare when anything I cook is well done.

So we went to a home improvement store and bought a shiny appliance to replace the rusty contraption we had for years.

To get the grill home, Sue and I would have to put it in the back of my car. Since I am a cardiac patient who shouldn’t lift anything heavier than a plate of hot dogs, and Sue is a cardiac patient who can lift two plates but shouldn’t overdo it, we enlisted the help of Kyle, a young and personable store employee who looked strong enough to lift not only the grill but my entire car.

Unfortunately, the grill wouldn’t fit. The hatch of my SUV (senior utility vehicle) was all the way up, but the cargo area wasn’t wide enough for Kyle — despite myriad maneuverings and much muttering — to jam the grill in.

“We didn’t have this trouble with our old grill,” I said. “And this one isn’t any bigger.”

“No,” said Sue. “But your car was.”

She solved the mystery by noting that my new car is smaller than the one I had when we got our previous grill.

“I’m going to get a screwdriver,” Kyle said.

“If you mean the kind with vodka and orange juice, get me one, too,” I said.

Kyle came back with the tool — solid, not liquid — that enabled him to disassemble one side of the grill so the whole thing could be slipped into the back of the car.

“You will have to put it back together,” said Kyle, who handed me the screws that needed to be screwed back in when I reattached the side of the grill.

I told him the story of our very first grill, which we bought during the Carter administration.

“It didn’t come preassembled,” I said. “I had to put it together myself. Because I am the least handy man in America, it took me about a week and a half. When I was finished, I had not only screws but several other parts left over. I was too scared to start the grill, so I asked Sue to do it. I felt like a mobster who makes his wife start his car. I know it was shameful, but what could I do?”

Kyle looked at Sue with sympathy and wished us luck.

I managed, with Sue’s help, to reassemble the side of the grill. But the grease cup, which collects drippings, wouldn’t fit onto the bottom of the assembly tray, which I brought back to the store.

“The holder is on backward,” said Kyle, who fixed the problem and sent me on my way.

The next issue was the igniter battery, which I put in backward before correcting my mistake. It didn’t matter because the tank, which I used on our old grill, was out of gas.

Back I went to the store, where Kyle got me a new full tank.

“Now you’re all set,” he said. “Happy grilling.”

“For all your help, you’re invited to come over for a barbecue,” I said. “And I’ll give you a screwdriver, easy on the orange juice.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"A Farewell to My Arm"

By Jerry Zezima

You know you’re old and washed up as an athlete when you hurt your arm playing Wiffle ball.

That’s what happened when I was the pitcher in a spirited game with my grandchildren, who not only hit home runs off me but ran so fast around the nonexistent bases in my backyard that when I tried to throw them out at home plate, I threw out my arm instead.

Now you can call me Lefty. But I’m still ambidextrous — incompetent with both hands.

Also playing were my younger daughter, a star athlete as a kid who now has knee problems, and one of my sons-in-law, who once threw a baseball through a window in our shed.

An enthusiastic fan was the family dog, a spunky Chihuahua who couldn’t hold a bat or she would have hit home runs off me, too.

I have not been modest in telling my grandkids that I was a pretty fair athlete in my day.

“I think it was a Tuesday,” I added.

What I haven’t told them is that I was the worst player on the worst team in Little League.

In my last season, I got one hit, a double that amazed the umpire, who said, “You’re hitting this year.” 

“I closed my eyes,” I told him.

He laughed and called me out when I got picked off second base.

That’s why I love Wiffle ball, which doesn’t require any real athletic talent aside from the demanding ability, in a close game, to stay awake.

That’s also why it has become our family pastime.

When I was a kid, I played Wiffle ball with my mother, father and sisters. I had approximately the same success I did in Little League.

When my kids were kids, I took them to my parents’ house so my mother could strike me out. She was the MVP (Mom Valuable Player).

The pitching prowess has obviously skipped a generation because I have played Wiffle ball with two of my granddaughters, who are sisters, and they’ve belted my pitches all over the yard, even though the younger one held the bat the wrong way.

This time, the slugger was my older grandson, who is 9, plays organized baseball and enjoys it because he’s something I never was — good.

I should have used analytics when preparing to face him, but I didn’t have the time or the mathematical acumen to calculate release angle, spin rate or whatever statistic can help you gain an advantage over an opposing batter.

I was, however, able to determine the exit velocity of the balls my grandson hit: FAST!

Some of them were launched so far that they hit the roof of the house, rolled off and landed in the bushes, which I had to chop through to retrieve the ball without, I fervently hoped, disturbing a hornets’ nest.

Other shots sailed over my head, requiring me — also the infielder, outfielder and bat boy — to turn around, run like a wounded sloth after the ball, pick it up and throw it to the catcher, my younger grandson, who’s 6 and is the slugger’s brother.

The ball typically arrived about 10 feet short, the same distance wide and a good half-minute after the batter crossed the imaginary plate.

On one such throw, I felt something pop in my arm.

I felt like a major leaguer who is put on the injured list for flank tightness or toe tenderness. What’s next, a tweaked pinkie?

I didn’t do myself any favors by continuing to serve up gopher balls that I had to chase down and throw, tenderly, back to the catcher.

I was, of course, the losing pitcher. And I’ve been sent down to the minors, sore arm and all, by a team of minors.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"No Ignoring All My Snoring"

By Jerry Zezima

As a man who can’t stay awake for the 11 o’clock news, which isn’t worth watching anyway, I tire easily. Then I fall asleep. And I snore with enough force to wake up not only the dead, who sleep pretty soundly, but also my wife, who would like to kill me.

So I got a CPAP machine, which was supposed to cure my sleep apnea. Stupidly, which is how I do almost everything, I used it only a few times and put it in my closet.

After the machine sat there for several weeks, I had to return it to the diagnostics company. That’s because the insurance company, whose rates keep me awake at night, would no longer pay for a contraption that got more rest than I did.

I stopped using the sleep machine because — spoiler alert — I couldn’t sleep.

Also, I had to take off the mask that shot air up my nose if I needed to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. This happens so frequently that it should be called the Geezer 5K.

According to my doctors — primary care physician, cardiologist, cardiac surgeon and, of course, sleep specialist — the machine was good for my heart, an organ that works tirelessly and is kept going, in my case, with medication and red wine.

The machine also provided much-needed air to my brain, an irony not lost on me because I am, medically speaking, an airhead.

Realizing I had made a colossally dumb mistake, I called the sleep center for another CPAP machine. To get one, I had to participate in a second sleep study, which entailed staying overnight in a hospital.

So a technician could monitor my brain and cardiac activity, I was hooked up with more wires than the electrical grid of New Zealand.

The results were sent to Dr. Mohammad Amin, the specialist who ordered my first CPAP machine.

“The second time will be the charm,” he said. “But make sure you use it. Your wife will appreciate it. Wives are more sensitive to snoring than men.”

That statement was confirmed by Devin Moncayo, the respiratory technician who gave me my first CPAP machine.

“My mom was really tired of my dad’s snoring, so he got a machine a few years ago,” he said.

“How is it working out?” I asked.

“Great,” Devin replied. “They both sleep very well.”

“Do you see a lot of people like me who come back to get another machine because they stopped using it the first time?” I wondered.

“Not too many,” he said. “But I do see people who left their machine in a cab or forgot to bring it back from a trip.”

“Maybe they were sleepwalking,” I suggested.

Devin said the people at the diagnostics company aren’t sleeping on the job because they can monitor the operation of a CPAP machine.

“There’s a built-in modem that tells them if you are using it,” he said.

“If I don’t, the machine falls asleep, right?” I wondered.

“Yes,” said Devin. “And it doesn’t snore.”

He gave me a second machine along with a nasal pillow, which sends air into my nostrils, and a full mask, which covers my nose and mouth.

“Good luck this time,” he said. “I hope you and your wife sleep well.”

Neither Sue nor I got much rest the first night because I used the mask, a clear plastic face covering that was connected to the machine with a long tube. I looked like a deep-sea diver.

“It sounded like you were drowning,” Sue said the next morning.

That night, I used the nasal pillow.

“You didn’t snore at all,” she reported.

Since no noise is good news, I have used it ever since. And the extra air to my brain has helped me realize that the machine works like a dream.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Take Two Pills and Keep Smiling"

By Jerry Zezima

Medicine commercials give me a headache. Unfortunately, I have to pay attention to them because their products can either: (a) relieve my headache or (b) kill me.

So I strike a compromise: Whenever one of these pitches comes on the TV screen, which happens approximately once a minute, I turn down the sound.

I can’t bear to listen as the announcer announces that the side effects for the prescription medication in question can include gastric distress, swelling of the earlobes, neck pain, body odor, dandruff or bad breath.

After that, I am warned not to operate heavy machinery, which puts the kibosh on my plans to buy a steamroller.

And that’s all before I lapse into a coma.

Then the announcer says, “Ask your doctor.”

So I did.

“Do patients ask you about the medications in those TV commercials?” I asked Dr. Sanjay Sangwan, my primary care physician.

“Yes,” he answered. “With 90% of them, there’s a mutual understanding about what’s right for them. But 10% tell me what they want.”

“What do you tell them if the medicine they want isn’t right for them?” I wondered.

“Find another doctor,” said Dr. Sangwan.

“You have me on baby aspirin because I’m a big baby, right?” I said.

“You said it, not me,” the doctor said.

“And I’m on blood pressure medication and a statin, but they won’t give me hives or ingrown toenails, will they?” I inquired.

“No,” Dr. Sangwan assured me.

“But I still shouldn’t operate heavy machinery, correct?” I said.

“You can operate it,” Dr. Sangwan said. “But don’t try to lift it.”

He added that what’s really confusing about the medications in TV commercials are their names.

“I don’t know where the drug companies come up with them,” Dr. Sangwan said.

“They have a lot of Q’s, X’s and Z’s, but not many vowels,” I noted, suggesting that a couple of them could be named after me: Jerryflu (“It’s something to sneeze at”) and Zezempic (“For people with fat heads”).

The medications I take helped me achieve perfect scores for blood pressure, blood oxygen, heart rate and temperature.

“I have vital vitals,” I pointed out.

“That’s vital,” Dr. Sangwan agreed.

“How come I don’t have to take my clothes off?” I asked. “I used to strip down to my skivvies during a physical.”

“Who wants to see your flowered underwear?” Dr. Sangwan said. “Maybe your wife does.”

“Not really,” I said. “She has to wash them.”

“You don’t have to undress anymore because bloodwork can give a lot of information,” explained Dr. Sangwan, who asked me to lift my shirt so he could listen to my heart and lungs with a stethoscope. He also looked in my mouth and asked me to say, “Ah!”

“There’s one word I’m glad I no longer have to hear,” I said.

“What’s that?” the doctor asked.

“Cough,” I replied.

“You’re in excellent shape, especially for a guy who’s 72,” said Dr. Sangwan, who not only is excellent himself but, at 54, is the first doctor I have ever had who’s younger than I am.

I told him about my mother, who’s 101 and still going strong.

“Most old people are women,” he said. “I had a female patient who was 99. I said, ‘I hope to see you next year.’ She said, ‘You look pretty healthy. I bet you’ll make it.’ I hope she’s right. Men don’t live that long.”

When we talked about my job as a newspaper columnist, Dr. Sangwan said, “You’re a dying breed.”

“Dying?” I spluttered.

“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “You’re doing very well.”

“So I don’t have to take any of those medications that can kill me?” I asked.

“No,” Dr. Sangwan said with a smile. “Keep your sense of humor. And remember that laughter is the best medicine.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima