"See You Later, Refrigerator"

By Jerry Zezima

The only thing that left me cold when my wife and I got a new refrigerator is that it didn’t come stocked with beer.

But the cool part is that it doesn’t freeze food, as our old fridge did. And it is designed in such a convenient way that I can now find what I am looking for — pickles, mustard or, yes, beer — which I could never do before, even when it was staring me in the face.

Sue and I realized we needed a new fridge when we discovered ice chunks in the milk. Also, the water in a plastic bottle was frozen solid. If there was something in the back of the refrigerator, especially on the top shelf, it likely looked like it had spent a year in a meat locker, even if it wasn’t meat.

The real problem was that the fridge was only seven years old. And it didn’t have a warranty, which was, of course, chilling.

So we called a technician named Nadir, who checked the thermostat and said, “It’s 26 degrees. The temperature should be 34.”

“The thermostat was replaced four years ago, when the refrigerator was three years old,” Sue said.

“And,” I added unhelpfully, “we had to pay cold cash.”

Nadir figured out that fixing the problem, which would involve replacing the thermostat and the compressor, wouldn’t be worth the expense.

“You should just buy a new refrigerator,” he said.

“Would it help me find things in there?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” replied Nadir. “My wife complains that I can’t find anything in our refrigerator. I guess it’s a guy thing.”

“It sure is,” said Sue. “Jerry can’t even find the pickles.”

“That’s why I’m always in a pickle,” I acknowledged. “At least I can find the beer.”

What I had to find next was a new fridge. So Sue and I went to an appliance store and met a super salesman named Tevin Quirk.

“We must be related,” I told him. “I have a lot of quirks.”

In a moving display of devotion, Sue did not disagree. She also said that because of an overhead cabinet, the fridge couldn’t be taller than 66 inches.

“And I want handles on the doors,” she said.

“If we can’t open them, we’ll starve to death,” I noted.

“The refrigerator has to be stainless steel,” said Sue, who gave me credit for the brilliant deduction that it would match our stainless steel sink and dishwasher.

“Can you find anything in your refrigerator?” I asked Tevin.

“No,” he confessed. “My girlfriend is always on me about it.”

“How about beer?” I wondered.

“I can definitely find that,” he said.

Tevin scheduled the new fridge, along with the air conditioner and mattress he also sold to us, to be delivered a few days later.

That’s when Giorgi and Zura drove up in a truck containing the brand-new appliance, the sight of which shocked me because it looked green.

“It’s stainless steel,” Sue said.

“It’s green,” I insisted.

“That’s the plastic covering,” Sue said with a sigh. “When it’s peeled off, you’ll see that the refrigerator is stainless steel.”

But something else was wrong.

“I thought this refrigerator came with beer in it,” I said.

“It’ll be delivered later,” Giorgi deadpanned.

“Can you guys find anything in your refrigerators?” I asked. “My wife says I can’t.”

“Neither one of us is married,” Zura said.

“When we are, I guess we’ll find out,” Giorgi added.

After they left, Sue stocked the new fridge. The shelves are neatly arranged with fresh food and liquids such as milk and juice, as well as leftovers. Condiments are on the side of the door.

“It’s a different setup, so you can find things more easily,” she told me. “And now they’re not frozen.”

I celebrated with a beer, which I found right away.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Betta Watch Out"

By Jerry Zezima

If Steven Spielberg made a movie about the killer fish that lives in my house, he’d have to call it “Gums.”

That’s because the aggressive little betta that swims in a plastic bowl on the liquor cabinet, which leads me to believe that it drinks like a fish, has no teeth but still wants to devour me.

Every morning, when I drop a food pellet into its watery confines, the fish leaps up and grabs my index finger. Maybe I should give it the adjacent finger.

Anyway, I was recently told by a pleasant “animal specialist” named Alisha, who works at the pet store where I bought the fish, that bettas “don’t have much of a brain.”

John Williams’ memorable score for “Jaws” — dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb — ran through my brain.

I went to the store to find out two things: (a) if I actually have a toothless piranha and (b) how old it is.

Camilla, the fish’s name, even though it is a male (more on this in a moment), has probably set the Zezima family record as the oldest fish.

As I dimly recall, which is how I recall most things these days because I’m no spring betta, we got Camilla three years ago.

There is no adoption date in the store’s records because they go back only 30 days, which is the average life span of the dozens of fish we have had since my two adult daughters were kids.

The standouts were Moe and Larry, who died within minutes of each other, probably in a suicide pact, and their surviving bowl mate, Curly, who lived for months afterward but was tragically killed by a bottle of vitamins that fell into the water from a kitchen cabinet and conked him on the noggin, but without the Three Stooges sound effects.

“You killed our fish!” my then-young daughters wailed.

As a concerned and loving father, I tried to console them with words of comfort: “They were Mommy’s vitamins.”

Fast-forward one generation: My two oldest grandchildren, who are sisters with a fish of their own, wanted me and my wife, Sue, to get a fine finny friend for our house.

Thus did we buy the original Camilla, a female we placed in what I called the Camilla Parker Bowl.

The girls didn’t get it.

The fish lasted 48 hours, so I got another Camilla that was a look-alike male, proving that some fish are gender-fluid. He lived for about six months and was very friendly, by which I mean he didn’t try to have me for breakfast.

We have had a succession of equally nice if somewhat dim Camillas, all males.

This one is the exception. He has lasted the longest. He’s also the meanest.

“Maybe he’s trying to kiss you,” suggested Alisha, adding that alpha male bettas try to act tough but often just want to play.

Alisha, who is 22, has three cats, a guinea pig, a bearded dragon and a dog but no fish.

“I had eels when I was younger,” she said, adding that Camilla isn’t particularly old for a betta. “He could last for another five years,” she said. “I know people who have had fish for 10 or 11 years.”

William, a sales associate at the store, is 18 and has had fish since he was 6.

“Right now I have two clownfish and a cleaner shrimp,” he said.

“Cleaner than what, the clownfish?” I asked.

“And,” William added, “I have a tank with one betta fish and a couple of Neocaridina shrimp.”

Bettas, he said, are an aggressive type of fish.

“Yours could think you’re food,” William said.

“You mean like the shark in ‘Jaws’?” I wondered nervously.

“Yes,” he answered.

“Uh-oh,” I said. “I’m gonna need a bigger bowl.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Narcissism 101"

By Jerry Zezima

Because my column is the greatest thing since sliced bread, which still is not as great as cold beer, I have as my special guest today Dr. Sigmund Fritz, bestselling author of the classic, iconic and highly questionable book “On the Fritz: How to Spot a Narcissist by the Greatest Psychoanalyst of All Time (and Don’t You Forget It).”

JZ: Welcome, Dr. Fritz.

SF: Thank you, Mr. Zezima. It is your honor and privilege to have me.

JZ: Your book, which has been praised by leading physicians as a cure for insomnia, focuses on narcissists. How do you spot one?

SF: Hit him with paintballs.

JZ: Huh?

SF: Just a little psycho humor there.

JZ: Very little.

SF: Seriously, a narcissist thinks he is better than everyone else.

JZ: Is he?

SF: No. Unless, of course, he’s me.

JZ: That goes without saying.

SF: Then don’t say it.

JZ: Can only men be narcissists?

SF: Certainly not. Women can be just as insufferable, although their hair is usually longer.

JZ: Are narcissists commonly found in positions of power?

SF: They often are, if you care to find them at all, but they also can be ordinary people with delusions of superiority. The list includes co-workers, neighbors, even family members.

JZ: It seems like narcissists are everywhere.

SF: Yes, thank goodness, or I’d be out of a job.

JZ: Why do narcissists think they’re so great?

SF: Because they are insecure. They put others down to build themselves up. Let’s say that another writer criticizes your column as being a blight on American journalism.

JZ: Is it?

SF: I wouldn’t go that far, but I’m sure it is appreciated by dog owners trying to housebreak their puppies.

JZ: More psycho humor?

SF: Sorry, I couldn’t help it. But back to the critic. He will put down your column to make his writing look better and more important, even if it is just as bad as yours.

JZ: That’s reassuring.

SF: And narcissists think they know more than anyone else.

JZ: You mean like all those annoying people who act like doctors, except they don’t have medical degrees, and tell you what’s good for you and what’s bad for you, even if they only see it online and end up being completely wrong?

SF: Right. Some of them think that just because they were psychology majors in college, they’re better than I am. Of course, no one is. That’s how delusional these people are.

JZ: How about people who like to give orders even if they’re not actually in charge of anything?

SF: There’s a specific and widely accepted psychological term for that kind of person.

JZ: What is it?

SF: Control freak.

JZ: How about people who really are in charge of things?

SF: You mean like captains of industry?

JZ: Yes. Or heads of state and other public officials.

SF: They bully others to feed their inflated but fragile egos.

JZ: What’s good ego food?

SF: Butter.

JZ: Why butter?

SF: So they can be buttered up. Get it?

JZ: I bet you drive your patients crazy.

SF: I do my best.

JZ: One last thing, Dr. Fritz, because I know you have to teach a class in Narcissism 101. What’s the best way to deal with narcissists?

SF: Ignore them. Worse than being rejected is being ignored. Say something profound, like: “I’d love to listen to more of your bloviating, but it’s time to clip my toenails.” Then walk away. It burns them up every time.

JZ: Thank you so much for your valuable time today, Dr. Fritz. You are, indeed, the greatest psychoanalyst of all time and the world’s foremost expert in narcissism.

SF: You’re very welcome, Mr. Zezima. I must modestly admit that I agree with everything you just said.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Ottomans Are a Real Trip"

By Jerry Zezima

There is an ottoman empire in our house. That’s because my wife, Sue, ordered yet another ottoman.

It was recently delivered and put in the family room to replace the old ottoman, which was not discarded but instead was pushed against the wall, making three ottomans (ottomen?) in the same room.

There’s another one in the living room.

And I have a footstool in my office.

I’m surprised there isn’t something I can rest my feet on in the bathroom.

If that weren’t enough, two of the four ottomans have storage areas where we keep approximately 150 blankets and, in the old unit, doggy toys.

A deep search might well uncover the remains of Jimmy Hoffa.

Ottomans should not be confused with hassocks, even though both have only added to my confusion.

The difference between an ottoman and a hassock is, of course, the spelling. And the fact that hassocks don’t have storage areas. Or legs.

Which makes them useless for anything except tripping over, as Dick Van Dyke famously did in the opening credits of his classic 1960s sitcom, although the one he had looks more like an ottoman. I told you I was confused.

At any rate, I replicated the feat — or, in my case, feet — when I regularly tripped over a hassock we used to have but mercifully got rid of years ago.

It was replaced by an ottoman. Then another. Then another. And now a fourth.

It’s enough to make me want a fifth, which would really have me tripping.

The old ottoman is the new repository of toys for our granddog, Opal, who knows her playthings are in there and wants me to get them out when she visits so I can chase her around the house and, ideally, do a Dick Van Dyke impersonation.

Also in there are old blankets that Sue would never think to throw out. She and I use newer blankets to cover our legs and feet when we put them up on our respective ottomans to watch TV.

The old ottoman was in front of Sue’s chair, which used to be my chair until she took it over and relegated me to the other family room chair, which is older than her chair and, naturally, not as nice.

There is an ottoman in front of my chair, but it doesn’t have a storage compartment, so I can’t stock it with beer when I watch sports.

It’s too bad because my chair is so deep and sunken and I am so old and decrepit that I can barely get out of it without rupturing a vital organ.

The new ottoman is in front of Sue’s chair and has a lovely green and white plaid pattern.

When it arrived in a large box that I had to lug inside, Sue and I took it out and screwed on the legs. The ottoman’s dimensions are 18 by 24 inches. It’s 17 inches deep with enough storage space for Opal, a Chihuahua, to use as a doghouse, a place I often figuratively find myself.

Instead, it’s stuffed with — you guessed it — blankets.

The only accessories in our house that outnumber blankets are pillows, which are scattered on chairs, couches and beds.

Some of them are on blankets that can’t, unfortunately, fit in either Sue’s or Opal’s ottoman.

I bet Sue will get a bright idea for pillow storage: another ottoman!

After that, she’ll buy two more to replace mine and the one in the living room. They don’t have room for blankets, pillows and doggy toys.

Inevitably, I’m afraid, Sue will purchase the largest ottoman she can find and put me in it. Then she’ll be the ruler of our ottoman empire.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima