"Taking It to Heart"

By Jerry Zezima

It does my heart good to know that my heart is in the right place (right now it’s in my office, where I am, too) and that I don’t need open-heart surgery.

That’s why I was happy to have a heart-to-heart talk with a very nice ultrasound technician named Emily, who gave me an echocardiogram. It showed, among other things, that I am able to fire off dumb remarks in a heartbeat.

I had the test to see if my aortic aneurysm, which was discovered a year and a half ago, had grown to the size of a colorful balloon with cartoon hearts and the words “Get well soon!”

A cardiac surgeon said I needed an operation, but he called me the day before the scheduled surgery to say a scan showed the aneurysm wasn’t of sufficient size for such an invasive procedure after all. The news made my heart flutter.

“We can treat it with medication,” he said.

That includes, I like to think, red wine, which I consider over-the-counter heart medicine.

Still, I have to go for follow-up exams. The most recent one was the echocardiogram.

Accompanying me for moral support was my wife, Sue, a cardiac patient herself who has summoned the strength not only to keep me alive, but to rotate her eyeballs, multiple times a day, at my dumb remarks.

“Do you have to give me more than one cardiogram?” I asked Emily.

“No,” she replied. “Why?”

“Because,” I said, “it’s an echo.”

Both Emily and Sue rotated their eyeballs.

After I gave Emily the shirt off my back, she asked me to lie down on a padded sonography table.

“I am going to put stickers on your chest,” she said.

“Are they smiley stickers?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “Those are extra.”

The stickers were connected to wires that made me feel like a car battery in need of a jump. They would allow Emily to monitor my heart rate and rhythm.

Then she instructed me to lie on my left side with my back toward her.

“Put your right arm on your right thigh,” Emily said. “And put your left arm under your head.”

“It sounds like I’m doing the Hokey Pokey,” I said.

“Without the music,” she added.

“Maybe I’ll fall asleep,” I said.

“Don’t snore,” said Sue, who is used to my overnight rumblings.

Emily used a wand (not magic because I didn’t disappear) to go over my chest, side, throat and stomach.

The result:

1) I had a heartbeat.

2) I wasn’t pregnant.

During the procedure, in which Emily used an acoustic gel that was spread with the wand, I heard a loud squishy sound.

“Was that me?” I asked.

“Yes,” she reported.

“Sorry,” I said. “When you get to be this age, these things happen.”

Emily and Sue rotated their eyeballs again.

When Emily ran the wand over my throat, she said, “Keep your chin up.”

“I always do,” I said. “Then I walk into a wall.”

More ocular twirling.

When she was finished, Emily took my blood pressure and pronounced it “perfect.” Then she said I could put my shirt back on.

“How is my aneurysm?” I asked.

“You’ll have to ask the cardiologist,” she said.

So I did.

“It’s about the same,” said Dr. Rohit Maini. “You have good numbers, so you still don’t need surgery.”

He walked me and Sue to the front desk.

“Are you checking out?” the receptionist asked me.

“Not for a long time,” I answered.

“Six months,” Dr. Maini said.

“You’re giving me six months?” I spluttered. “I want a second opinion.”

“No,” he said with a smile. “I’ll see you again in six months.”

“Thanks, doc,” I said. “It does my heart, but not Sue’s eyeballs, a world of good.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

 

"A Real Eye-Opener"

By Jerry Zezima

I am a man of vision — 20/30, to be exact. And my wife, Sue, is a woman of vision — also 20/30.

So why can’t we find our glasses? Or keep track of how many pairs we have? Or use the right ones when we want to read, drive or watch TV?

Those were the eye-opening questions we had for a certified optician who gave each of us a free vision screening at a local library.

“When you go to an eye doctor, you should always be late,” I told Andy Torres, who sat behind a table with a screening machine.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because,” I replied triumphantly, “then you can say, ‘I couldn’t find you.’ ”

Andy laughed and said, “I could see that one coming.”

“You could SEE it coming?” I chirped. “I am so proud of you!”

Sue rolled her bespectacled eyes. Andy’s eyes twinkled behind his specs.

“Speaking of which,” I went on, “is it some sort of rule that all eye specialists have to wear glasses?”

“I don’t know,” said Andy. “I’ve been wearing them since I was 11. I’m one year away from 30, so I guess I fit the stereotype.”

“I guess Sue and I fit a stereotype, too,” I said.

“Which one is that?” Andy inquired.

“Senior citizens,” I said, “who have glasses all around the house, which they can’t find. I mean the glasses, not the house, in which case they’d need a stronger prescription.”

“I have an older patient who told me she has glasses in every room,” Andy said.

“Sue says she has 90 pairs,” I said.

“Only 90?” he asked Sue.

“Some are for reading, some are for watching TV and some are for driving,” she said. “I don’t like bifocals, so I have to keep changing glasses.”

Sue added that some are prescription glasses and others are Peepers, a brand of nonprescription glasses called readers.

“I have readers,” I told Andy. “They’re for looking at the moon.”

“Really?” he wondered.

“No,” I admitted. “They’re for reading.”

Just for that, Andy let Sue go first for the vision screening.

She looked into the machine while wearing reading glasses and read lines on a chart. Then she put on her driving glasses and did the same.

“You have 20/30 vision with both pairs,” Andy told her.

Then it was my turn.

“I don’t wear glasses except to read, which I only started to do recently,” I said.

“You only recently started to read?” Andy asked.

“No, I could always read,” I said. “The problem is that I can’t write. But that’s another matter.”

I explained that I got readers a few months ago. I brought a pair with me. I also brought a pair of glasses my now-retired optometrist prescribed for me. I’m supposed to use them for driving at night when it’s raining, but I really don’t need them.

“Put on your readers and look into the machine,” Andy instructed.

I easily read the first four of six lines of letters. The fifth line was a bit more difficult.

“C,” I began hesitantly. “R. Z. H. And the chemical symbol for boron.”

I did the same with my distance glasses. I also read without glasses.

“You have 20/30 vision, too,” Andy told me.

“My former optometrist said I had 20/40 vision,” I said. “My new optometrist said I have 20/30 vision. I think my vision is improving.”

“Some people see better as they get older,” Andy said.

“Could I end up with X-ray vision?” I asked.

“Not unless you eat carrots,” he said.

“We had carrots last night,” I said.

“Keep eating them,” Andy said.

“At least I don’t have cataracts,” I said.

“Did you know dogs can get cataracts?” he said.

“Does that mean cats can get dogaracts?” I wondered.

Andy laughed and said, “I could see that one coming, too.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"My Big 5-Oh"

By Jerry Zezima

1976 was a spectacular year in the United States, with fireworks, parades and a nationwide celebration to mark a momentous event in American history.

I refer, of course, to my unlikely start in journalism.

There was also, on a much smaller scale, the Bicentennial, the 200th anniversary of our nation’s independence.

Now, 50 years after I got a job at my hometown paper, the Stamford Advocate in Connecticut, it is time to reflect on a career that has somehow failed to ruin the entire newspaper industry.

Of course, the business is in enough trouble as it is, but at least I can also say that I have not yet, for the alleged crime of being a journalist, been arrested.

It’s a good thing, too, because my lawyer is in jail.

I entered the Fourth Estate, which I still can’t afford, when I walked into the offices of the Stamford Advocate and, with absolutely no experience, announced that I wanted to work there.

Instead of throwing me out, the editor, Roland Blais, a kindly gentleman and a true newspaperman, gave me a test that included grammar, current events and history.

I did well enough because I was hired, but there were some questions to which I didn’t know the answers, so instead of leaving them blank or taking half-hearted guesses, I put down the dumbest, funniest, most outrageous stuff I could think of.

Later, in his office, Mr. Blais said, “That’s what got you the job. It showed signs of creativity.”

I was going to say that I didn’t think you were supposed to make stuff up in a newspaper, but for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut.

I started as a copyboy, but I was quickly promoted to police reporter and sat next to Tony Dolan, who smoked cigars in the newsroom and, in 1978, won the Pulitzer Prize for local investigative reporting.

I like to think my mere presence inspired his award and propelled him to become the chief speechwriter for President Ronald Reagan, but if I ever win a Pulitzer, it would indeed be the end of American journalism.

I failed spectacularly in a succession of other jobs — sportswriter, assistant metro editor, assistant features editor and feature writer — until there was nothing left to do but be a humor columnist.

I got that job in 1985 and have been writing stuff that has no redeeming social value ever since.

In 1997, I left the Advocate to work at Newsday, on Long Island, New York, as a copy editor. I was in charge of inserting typographical errors and libelous mistakes into feature stories, but I must not have done a very good job because I was never sued.

In 2019, I was offered a buyout, which was better than a get-out because it involved a generous lump sum, so I took the money and ran, nearly spraining an ankle that wouldn’t have been covered under my medical plan.

Since then, I have continued to write my nationally syndicated column for Tribune News Service about such important topics as taking my wife to the dump on our anniversary, having my fingernails painted by two of my granddaughters and buying an air horn to deter telephone scammers.

Much has changed in the newspaper industry since I started half a century ago. I have gone from writing on manual typewriters to sophisticated computers, which has made things easier, although no one ever ran through a newsroom shouting, “The typewriters are down!”

Journalists aren’t held in high regard by the public these days, even though the public, thanks to the First Amendment of the Constitution, benefits from our work. The guys whose work was celebrated in 1976 saw to that.

I’ll celebrate my 50th year in the newspaper business by raising a glass to Roland Blais, who gave me a chance when I bluffed my way into the profession I love.

I might even write a column about it.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

 

"Trash Talk"

By Jerry Zezima

Garbage in, garbage out has been my motto through almost five decades of marriage. It’s only fair since I am the one who creates most of the trash in our humble household. So I have to take it out or I will be kicked to the curb, too.

That’s why my wife, Sue, who would be doing the kicking, is happy that I have been curbed of a messy habit since we got a brand-new stainless steel garbage can.

The gleaming receptacle, which sits a few feet from the kitchen table, has a lid that can only be lifted by stepping on a pedal. This means I can’t sit at the table and shoot napkin balls from three-point range, something I did with our old garbage can, whose lid broke and was permanently open.

Unfortunately, my shooting percentage was about the same as 1% milk, the empty bottles of which went in the garbage can more often than my napkin balls. The crumpled wads littered the floor, much to the dismay of Sue, who found them under the butcher’s block, the radiators, the cabinets, the counters, the chairs and, most often, the table, which is where I should have been.

Sadly, I won’t be an all-star in the NBA (Napkin Ball Association), even though I am at an age when I have become proficient, especially after meals, at dribbling.

Our new garbage can is larger than the old one, but it’s pretty basic, like a late-model car with standard equipment (doors, brakes, tires) but not fancy options like seat warmers, a sunroof and a dashboard that looks like it belongs on the Starship Enterprise.

Our old garbage can had a sensor that enabled me to put my hand over it and lift the lid automatically. It conked out months ago, so I had to lift the lid manually, which was hard to do because I risked breaking a fingernail every time I wanted to throw something out.

Then the metal ring that secured the top fell into the garbage and was thrown out, something I didn’t notice until the next day, although I did wonder how all those napkin balls that Sue picked up off the floor became so heavy.

As a result, the top sat precariously on the rim of the can. Finally, the lid became unhinged, much like me, and could not be closed by any means other than dropping an anvil on it.

Our old garbage can was — you guessed it — garbage. Which is why we got a new one.

We should also get new wastebaskets, which are in each of the three bathrooms, in one of the bedrooms and in my office.

I dutifully dump the contents — Q-tips, Post-it Notes, used tissues, empty shampoo bottles, candy wrappers, post office receipts — in the garbage can in the kitchen. Then I tie up the top of the trash bag, lift it out of the can, hoping it doesn’t break and mess up the floor even more, and carry it to one of the big plastic cans outside.

Twice a week, I lug one or two of them to the curb, where the contents are tossed into a garbage truck by the sanitation guys, who are probably glad they didn’t become newspaper columnists.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a garbageman. I even told my parents about this exciting career goal, but they said it was hard labor and — the clincher — that I would have to get up even earlier than I did when I went to school. So I abandoned my grand plan and instead went into a profession that doesn’t require me to do any real work.

Now my work entails not only producing garbage, but throwing it out. Thanks to our shiny new garbage can, which prevents me from littering the kitchen floor with napkin balls, Sue won’t kick me to the curb.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"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