"A Cut Above"

By Jerry Zezima

Blood, goes a familiar idiom, which can now be applied to this familiar idiot, is thicker than water.

That’s why I needed approximately a gallon of water — as well as a box of Kleenex, two Band-Aids and a styptic pencil — to stanch the flow of blood that reddened my face after I cut myself shaving.

The slice of life occurred when I attempted to remove the three-day bristle that made me look like I was turning into a werewolf.

I lathered my visage with shaving cream and used a two-bladed razor to smooth out the situation. I have always been afraid to buy one of those razors with five blades, which would more than double the chances I’d slit my throat.

And it happened anyway.

Actually, the unkindest cut of all was cheek by jowl on my left jawline. I carefully ran the razor over my chops and neck until I nicked one tiny spot that immediately began to bubble on the stubble.

I didn’t think much of it — I nick myself with alarming regularity — so I got a tissue, wet it and put it on the cut while applying pressure. Pretty soon, the whole tissue was red. I got another one, wet it and put it on the cut while applying more pressure.

I rinsed and repeated about a dozen times before I began to worry that: (a) I would run out of tissues, (b) our water bill would go through the roof or (c) I’d need a transfusion.

So I put a Band-Aid on the cut. Blood went with the flow and trickled down my neck. I tore off the soggy crimson covering and put on another one with the same frightening result. At least I didn’t faint at the sight of my own blood.

Fast-forward two hours. I was still bleeding. Now I was thinking: Should I go to a walk-in clinic? How about calling an ambulance? Would I need to be stitched up like the Frankenstein monster?

Even worse, I imagined the headline on my obituary:

Man Bleeds to Death While Shaving

Widow says he was a pain in his own neck

Then I began to feel lightheaded. Of course, it’s how I always feel. But now there was a medical reason.

So I called the best medical person I know: my mother, a retired nurse who is 101 years old and still as sharp as — that’s right! — a razor blade.

Mom was getting her hair done. I told her that I cut myself shaving.

“What did you use?” she asked.

“A regular razor,” I told her.

“Don’t you have an electric razor?” she said.

“Yes,” I answered. “But my stubble was too thick and I worried I would either clog it up or get electrocuted.”

When I told Mom about my failed efforts to clog the cut, she said, “You have to figure out what the bleeding time is.”

“It’s about 2 o’clock,” I said.

My mother sighed and said, “You have to apply pressure.”

“I’ve done that,” I said. “What else can I do?”

“You might have to go to the emergency room,” she suggested.

Instead, I drove to a pharmacy for a styptic pencil, a stick of a medicated styptic substance that is used to stop the bleeding from small cuts.

“We have one more left,” said a helpful staffer.

“Do a lot of guys come in for styptic pencils because they cut themselves shaving?” I asked.

“Yes,” she replied as she eyed the Band-Aid on my jaw.

“I guess we should be more careful,” I said.

I paid $4.29 for the styptic pencil, took it home and put it on my cut. The bleeding finally stopped.

“I saved my life,” I told my wife. “And just in the nick of time.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

 

"Retaining a Perfect Smile"

By Jerry Zezima

Word of mouth has it that my mouth isn’t as big as everyone thinks and that my foot (size 11 wide) isn’t stuck in it.

But the really good news is that an orthodontic resident said my teeth are in great shape because the retainers I use to keep my teeth in great shape are in — you guessed it — deplorable condition.

Sorry, I mean great shape.

That was the assessment by Dr. Eric Zhang, who is in his last year of residency at the Stony Brook University School of Dental Medicine on Long Island, New York.

I didn’t see Dr. Zhang last year for what was supposed to be my annual visit because my head is filled with teeth but not brains, so I forgot to make an appointment.

“You are still keeping your teeth in great shape,” he said after checking out my pearly whites, two of which are why I began treatment at Stony Brook.

My right upper lateral incisor and my left central lower incisor were crooked and needed to be rotated back to their original positions with invisible braces, which weren’t actually invisible because otherwise, let’s face it, how could I find them?

Once my wayward ivories were realigned, which saved me the trouble of going to a mechanic, I got retainers.

“You’re keeping them in great shape, too,” said Dr. Zhang, adding that they fit snugly over my upper and lower teeth, all of which are my own.

“Not bad for a geezer,” I said.

“At least you don’t need dentures,” Dr. Zhang commented.

“If I did,” I told him, “I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.”

When I asked the young doctor, who is 28, if he ever had braces, he said, “Yes, the metal kind. I was in middle school and it seemed like I had to wear them forever, even though it was maybe two and a half years. But the braces worked.”

To prove it, Dr. Zhang took off the mask that had covered his nose and mouth and flashed a perfect smile.

“Did you wear that mask because you thought I’d have bad breath?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t have been the first patient who’s had it,” he said.

“I brushed my teeth and used mouthwash,” I said. “I didn’t want you to faint.”

“That’s very considerate,” Dr. Zhang said. “But even worse than bad breath is gleeping.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a twitch in the muscles of the salivary glands,” he explained. “A thin stream of saliva shoots out.”

“Maybe you should wear a raincoat,” I suggested.

“Or scuba gear,” he said.

“Am I the oldest patient in the program?” I asked after saying that I’m 72.

“I can’t say because of privacy,” Dr. Zhang said.

“You can tell me,” I said. “I’ll probably forget anyway.”

“OK,” he said. “You’re not the oldest.”

“But I’m close, right?” I inquired.

The doctor flashed another perfect smile. He said I had one, too, because I brush and floss regularly.

He also complimented me on how good my retainers looked.

“How do you keep them so clean?” he asked.

“I used to use toothpaste, although not while I was wearing them,” I said. “Then I heard that dishwashing liquid works pretty well, but I figured the retainers would melt in the dishwasher. Now I put them in an ultrasonic cleaner. I could use it to clean my wife’s jewelry, too, but she doesn’t trust me.”

“You don’t want to have to buy her another wedding ring,” Dr. Zhang said.

“You took the words right out of my mouth,” I replied.

The doctor asked if I had any more questions.

“I had a crown put on my back left lower molar last year,” I said. “The bottom retainer fits over it, but it’s starting to get worn down. Do I need to replace it?”

“You won’t need a new one until next year,” Dr. Zhang said. “Just don’t forget to make an appointment.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"No Money Down the Drain"

By Jerry Zezima

If I started my own plumbing business, I would be like the Three Stooges, who played plumbers in one of their classic movie shorts and ended up flooding a house.

But if the drain in your shower ever gets clogged, I’m the guy to call.

Unlike Moe, Larry and Curly, I somehow solved that plumbing problem without turning our humble abode into SeaWorld.

My aquatic adventure began one recent morning when, in accordance with the strict guidelines set by the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, I took a shower.

While working myself into a lather, I noticed that water was pooling around my feet instead of going down the drain (I refer to the water, not my feet, which could barely fit down a manhole).

I reported the issue to my wife, Sue, who thought the pipe was frozen.

“So how come all the other pipes in the house aren’t frozen?” I asked.

Sue sighed and said, “I guess we should call a plumber.”

“Water won’t go down the drain, but our money will,” I pointed out.

In a pathetic effort to save big bucks, I got a wire and tried to dislodge the clog. I might as well have used a strand of boiled spaghetti.

Next I got a screwdriver, but Sue thought I was screwy.

“I think there’s a hairball in there,” I told her. “It must be yours.”

I had an appointment that morning with my barber, Maria, an expert on hair.

“It can build up in the drain when you wash it,” she said. “But it’s conditioner that can really cause trouble because it mixes with the hair and gets all gunky.”

Maria’s husband, Carlos, a contractor, kindly gave me a Drain Weasel, a plastic contraption with a spinning handle and a long rod, at the end of which is a hook that locks onto hair clogs.

“Stick it down the drain and pull up the hair,” he said.

“In case it doesn’t work,” Maria said, “buy a liquid drain opener.”

I went home and tried the Drain Weasel. It got some of the hair up, but the clog was too thick to yank out, so I went to a home improvement store for the drain opener and spoke with a personable young staffer named Paul.

I told him about my dilemma and recounted other plumbing problems I have had.

“One time,” I said, “I dropped a small plastic plant down the toilet. It got stuck there and we had to call a plumber. He used a snake to dislodge it. Fortunately,” I added, “it wasn’t a poisonous snake.”

Then I told Paul about the time there was a clog in the slop sink in the laundry room.

“I called my mother, who doesn’t charge, and she suggested I remove the elbow,” I said. “I asked if that meant I’d need surgery. Anyway, I turned off the water, removed the elbow of the pipe under the sink and pulled out this disgusting ball of lint.”

“Your mom sounds handy,” Paul said. “My mother recently put together a storage cabinet. But I do the plumbing in the house.”

Paul said I should get the drain opener, pour 16 ounces down the shower drain and wait overnight for it to work.

I brought a bottle home, used the suggested amount and expected to wait hours for a satisfactory result.

Ten minutes later, I heard a gurgling sound. I thought it was indigestion. But it was the drain opener, which had dislodged the hairball and opened the drain.

That night, Sue took a shower and washed her hair. The water, shampoo and conditioner went straight down the drain.

“You saved us a lot of money,” she said. “You could be a master plumber.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said modestly. “But at least I’m better than the Three Stooges. Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"From Russia, With Cable"

By Jerry Zezima

If I had my own TV show, a sitcom like “Everybody Loves Raymond” that I would call “Some People Seem to Like Jerry,” the first episode would be about how I can’t work my own TV.

That was the sad situation when I had so much trouble with a faulty cable box that I wanted to fix it with a screwdriver. Unfortunately, vodka and orange juice would have dulled my senses even more.

So I called the cable company after my wife, Sue, who is more technologically advanced than I am, and that’s only because she knows how to change the batteries in the remote, couldn’t figure it out, either.

At least she doesn’t try to reason with inanimate objects by using language that can’t be printed in a family newspaper.

I used very polite language when I spoke on the phone with Ileana, a nice support person who said, “I will walk you through this.”

It was an apt term since I had to walk up and down the stairs to follow her instructions.

After trying unsuccessfully to reboot the TV (my idea of rebooting is to put my foot through the screen), I trudged upstairs to my office, where I had to press the WPS button on the modem.

Phone in hand, with Ileana on the other end, I went back downstairs and saw that the cable box was pressing my buttons because the screen had gone blank, a condition not unlike the one inside my head.

After I turned the TV off and then back on, and Sue unplugged it and plugged it in again, Ileana came to the sensible conclusion that we needed a new cable box.

“You can have a technician come to your house or you can return the box at the company store and get a new one,” she suggested.

“The store is right around the corner,” I said. “We’ll get a new one.”

I thanked Ileana and hung up.

Sue, always the voice of reason, said, “Won’t we have to program the new box?”

“Yes,” I said. “And we don’t know what we’re doing.”

So I made an appointment for a technician to come over.

The following afternoon, we met Deni, who came all the way from Siberia to save the day.

“I’ll fix the problem,” he promised in a charming Russian accent.

He asked me to turn on the TV and saw there was no connection.

“Why,” I asked, “do we need three remotes?”

“One is for the TV,” Deni explained, “one is for the cable box and the third one is the FireStick.”

“One of our granddaughters, who was then 6, came over one day and asked me to find her favorite cartoon,” I told Deni. “As I was fumbling with the three remotes, she stood in front of me with her hands on her hips and said, ‘You don’t know how to work your own TV?’ Then she grabbed the right remote and found the cartoon herself.”

Deni, who’s 35 but looks a lot younger, laughed and said, “Kids are smart.” He also said he just bought a PlayStation.

When I told Deni, who came to the U.S. two years ago, that I’m a newspaper columnist, he said, “I used to work as a press secretary for the Ministry of Natural Resources and Environment in Russia.”

I asked how he was enduring our sub-freezing temperatures.

“One time in Siberia, where I grew up, it was 80 below zero Fahrenheit,” he said. “This is nothing.”

But I got a warm feeling when Deni said we didn’t need a new cable box.

“It’s outdated,” he said.

“So am I,” I noted.

“But you can still use it,” Deni said after making sure the TV worked again. “Just don’t get the remotes mixed up.”

“It’s a remote possibility,” I told him. “And if I have my own show, I’ll put you in the first episode.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Let's Get Elliptical"

By Jerry Zezima

According to an old saying, which must have been said by somebody old, muscles have memory. I forget who said it because my muscles are soaking in milk of amnesia.

Still, I thought I was the oldest member of my gym until I met a guy who was born during the Roosevelt administration (Franklin, not Teddy) and won’t let my muscles forget it.

At almost 82, Atilla Gerpanur is a decade older than I am, but his muscles are in better shape because he belongs to two gyms, used to go to at least one of them every day and now goes five days a week.

I belong to one gym, have never gone every day and now go five days a month.

“You have to put in the time if you want to stay healthy,” said Atilla, who had just finished his rigorous routine of two and a half hours, including 35 minutes on a stationary bike, half an hour on a treadmill, one hour lifting weights and 25 minutes on an elliptical bike.

“If I put in that much time, I’d have to call 911,” I said after finishing my routine, which added up to a mere 15 minutes on a treadmill and 25 minutes on a stationary bike.

“You’re a baby,” Atilla said when I told him I’m 72. “And you look great. But you can do better than that.”

“What’s your secret?” I asked.

“I don’t drink or smoke,” he replied.

“That’s a little extreme,” I said.

“But,” added Atilla, “I like to eat. That’s why I come here.”

“Is your wife a member?” I wondered.

“No, she doesn’t go to the gym,” Atilla said, adding that his wife is 69.

“You robbed the cradle,” I noted. “My wife is my age, but she goes to the gym twice a day.”

“She’s showing you up,” said Atilla. “You have to get on the stick.”

“Is that next to the treadmill?” I said.

After Atilla left, probably to go to his second gym, I saw another senior member, Bob Smosky, who’s 80, lives in my neighborhood and admitted that he ran into the back of a bus one summer day while he was riding his bike.

“I heard about you from Arnie the mailman,” I told him.

“Yeah, that was me,” said Bob. “Sometimes I just don’t pay attention.”

“You can’t do that in here because the bikes are stationary,” I pointed out.

“And there are no buses,” said Bob, a retired schoolteacher who had just done half an hour on an elliptical bike. “It’s too cold to ride outside,” added Bob, who’s fit and trim. “That’s why I’m here.”

Another retired teacher, Joe D’Iorio, goes to the gym for a reason that’s close to his heart.

“I had triple bypass surgery last August,” he said. “After 12 weeks of cardio rehab, I started coming here. Now I go five times a week.”

Joe, 71, has a side gig that’s also good for the heart.

“I buy and sell wine,” he said.

“Red wine is over-the-counter heart medicine,” I said.

“Except you can’t drink it here,” said Joe, who told me his routine: “I do a five-minute warmup on a treadmill at 2.5 miles per hour and 1% elevation, then 15 minutes at 3.7 miles per hour and 3% elevation. After that, I ride an elliptical bike for 15 minutes at level 5. And I finish up with a five-minute cool-down.”

“I’m exhausted just listening to you,” I said.

“I also do tai chi for seniors,” said Joe. “I have a bad back.”

“How’d you get that?” I asked.

“Lifting cases of wine,” he said. “My chiropractor said seven ounces of red wine relaxes the muscles.”

“I’m going home for a glass right now,” I said. “It will give my muscles something to remember.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima