"Something to Sneeze At"

By Jerry Zezima

As the very model of the modern medical marvel, I have survived an aortic aneurysm, a terrible bout of COVID-19 and. worst of all, a nasty paper cut.

Not to be outdone, my wife, Sue, lived through a heart attack, came down with COVID, too, and underwent painful hand surgery.

But we recently had to deal with the most daunting of medical challenges: We both had a cold. At the same time. So we blamed each other.

Still, I’m not ashamed to admit that, like the vast majority of men would be in similar circumstances, I was the bigger baby.

This wasn’t a surprise to my favorite pharmacist, Ralph Zammillo, who regularly sees guys who are desperately seeking relief and sympathy because they have the sniffles.

“Without a doubt, men are crybabies,” Ralph said. “Women don’t complain. That’s because they’re tougher. They have to be. They give birth. If men had to give birth, there’d be nobody here.”

That extends to getting vaccines.

“I see these big burly guys, covered in tattoos, which are applied with needles, and they cower in fear when I give them a flu shot,” Ralph said.

“You’ve given me more shots than any bartender,” I told him, noting that he’s administered vaccines for flu, coronavirus, pneumonia, RSV and shingles.

“And they haven’t hurt, right?” he said.

“Not at all,” I replied.

“That’s because I don’t jam the needle in,” Ralph said. “Have you ever had any side effects?”

“Just lightheadedness,” I said. “But I was born that way.”

“Flu and COVID can be bad if you’re not inoculated,” Ralph said. “But shingles is the most painful.”

“Do you know what’s worse than shingles?” I said.

“What?” Ralph replied.

“Aluminum siding,” I said. “It hurts like hell.”

“We don’t have a vaccine for that yet,” said Ralph.

“Do people get confused when you ask which arm they want to get a shot in?” I wondered.

“All the time,” Ralph said. “Especially when they’re getting more than one shot. They can’t decide if they should get two shots in one arm or one shot in each.”

“I’m the same way,” I said. “It’s a good thing I’m not an octopus. Then you’d have to give me a shot underwater.”

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?” Ralph asked.

“I’m ambidextrous,” I responded. “I’m incompetent with both.”

“You haven’t gotten the flu, have you?” he inquired.

“No,” I said. “The vaccine worked. But I have a cold. I’m in here to get medicine, but I don’t know what works.”

“Hot tea with honey and lemon is best,” Ralph said.

“I usually take the stuff for both daytime and nighttime relief,” I said, “but I still feel lousy. I told my wife I was going to take a nap.”

“Did she call you a baby?” Ralph asked.

“Yes,” I said. “A big one.”

“Does she have a cold?” he wondered.

“Yes,” I said.

“Did she say you gave it to her?”

“How did you know?”

“We always get blamed,” said Ralph, adding that his wife, Linda, is a hospital nurse. “She sees plenty of sick people, but she can’t afford to be sick herself. Neither can I. If I have a cold, I can’t call in sick. I come in to work. When I get home, I go to bed early. Sleep is the best way to get better.”

“How long have you been married?” I asked Ralph, who is 70.

“Two years,” he said. “Linda and I dated for 32 years, but she works for the federal government and I needed the health insurance, so we got married.”

“My wife and I have been married for 46 years,” I said. “We share everything. Even colds.”

“You’ll both get better,” Ralph promised. “In the meantime, get some rest. And remember, it could be worse. At least you’re not pregnant.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Where the Magic Happens"

By Jerry Zezima

Being a grandfather can be magical — as long as you don’t end up in jail.

That’s the lesson I learned recently when my wife, Sue, and I got together with our five grandchildren and their parents for a week in which I assisted in science experiments performed with a magic wand, was nearly bitten by a king cobra and trampled by a hippopotamus, ran around a playground to the point of collapse, was served a delicious dinner of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, engaged in battles with a kung fu master and was arrested multiple times by the world’s youngest cop.

It’s a wonder I wasn’t rushed to the hospital.

But the real wonder came when my 7-year-old grandson wowed me with his science magic kit. His most impressive feat involved bending a paperclip out of proportion, dropping it in a bowl of hot water, waving his magic wand and making the clip bend back — by itself! — to its original shape.

“That’s amazing!” I gushed. “How did you do it?”

“It’s magic,” my grandson replied.

“I can do magic,” I told him.

“How?” he wanted to know.

“Whenever your grandmother wants me to do something around the house,” I said, “I disappear.”

“You’re silly,” my grandson said.

“It’s magic,” I replied.

His younger brother, who’s 5, also wowed me with his knowledge of the animal kingdom.

“Did you know,” he asked me, “that a hippopotamus can kill a crocodile with its big mouth?”

“No,” I said. “Maybe I could do that, too. I have a big mouth.”

“I know you do,” the little boy replied. “But you don’t have tusks. And by the way, ‘hippopotamus’ is a really long word.”

“That’s why his friends call him ‘Hippo.’ It’s his nickname,” I said.

“And did you know,” my little grandson went on, “that a cheetah can run 70 miles an hour?”

“That’s over the speed limit,” I said. “He could get a ticket.”

“I’m gonna give you a ticket!” my grandson said. “You’re going to jail!”

Then he assumed a karate pose, yelled “Hi-ya!” and gave me a chop to my left arm, followed by one to my right arm and ended with a kick that would have landed on my left knee if I hadn’t jumped out of the way and bumped into a chair.

After that, he went on his device and showed me various creatures, including the fox, his new favorite animal (for a while, he was enthralled with African wild dogs and wanted to be one).

“I like the black fox,” he said. “What fox do you like?”

“Megan Fox,” I responded.

“And I like the king cobra,” he added. “Watch out! If you get bit, you could die. But what’s that thing on his head?”

“A hood,” I said.

“Why does he have a hood?” my grandson inquired.

“In case it rains,” I said.

“Hi-ya!” the boy yelled in another flurry of karate chops. “You’re going to jail!”

Meanwhile, my three granddaughters, ages 11, 8 and 5, introduced me to their stuffed toys, which they brought to the playground, where I was in charge of coordinating activities that included catching them as they flew down the slide with llamas and unicorns.

I also helped all five kids on the jungle gym, ran around until my lungs almost exploded and, of course, engaged in further karate fights with the young kung fu master.

That evening, the children set up a restaurant downstairs at the kids’ table, with small chairs that Sue and I sat on, a little uncomfortably, while we perused menus written in crayon.

I chose an entree of popcorn and Honey Nut Cheerios, which was served in a plastic bowl.

“This is scrumptious!” I said as I munched away.

Sue, who had a bowl of chips, agreed.

For dessert, we had marshmallows from a box of Lucky Charms.

All in all, it was a magical week. And the best part is that somehow I didn’t end up in jail.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"She's Got My Number"

By Jerry Zezima

According to statistics that must be true or I wouldn’t have made them up, 87 percent of grandfathers couldn’t pass a third-grade math test.

This is shocking because it represents almost half the grandpa population.

Unfortunately, I am in this group because I recently got taken to school by my 8-year-old granddaughter, who is in third grade, has an A average in math and gave me a lesson in basic arithmetic by showing me that what I learned when I was a third-grader no longer adds up.

“Math is my favorite subject,” my granddaughter said. “On my last test, I got 100.”

“You answered all the questions correctly?” I said.

“That’s what 100 means, Poppie,” she informed me.

Then my granddaughter played teacher, with me as the student, by giving me a division problem.

“What’s 35 divided by 7?” she asked.

As I began to calculate it in the recesses of my brain, which was active only during recess when I was in school, my granddaughter said, “There’s a strategy.”

“You mean I should use a calculator?” I said.

My granddaughter sighed and said, “Seven times blank equals 35. You go by fives: 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35. That’s 7 fives. Five times 7 equals 35.”

“I used to just memorize the times tables,” I said.

“That’s not the right way to do it,” my granddaughter said. “You have to show how you got the answer.”

“Even if the answer is wrong?” I wondered.

She sighed again and gave me another one.

“Nine times 3 equals blank,” she said. “You have to use your hands. Two fingers on your left hand and seven on the rest of your two hands: two on the left and five on the right. The answer is 27.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Two and seven,” my granddaughter said. “Twenty-seven.”

“I can just imagine if I tried to pull this on the IRS,” I responded.

“Now you ask me a question,” she said.

“OK,” I said, figuring I’d really stump her. “What’s 75 divided by 15?”

“You skip count by 5,” my granddaughter said. “The answer is 5. The number you skip count by, that’s your answer.”

“I must have skipped that one in class,” I said.

“Is that why you became a writer, Poppie?” she asked. “Because you can’t do math?”

“I can’t do the new math,” I told her. “But my decision to become a writer could be encapsulated in one word: algebra.”

“Dad asked me an algebra question once and I got it right,” my granddaughter said.

“See if you can figure this one out,” I said, giving her the typical algebra problem. “The Smiths are leaving New York for Boston at 9 a.m. averaging 55 miles per hour.”

“I’ve been to both New York and Boston,” my granddaughter chirped.

“I know, but this isn’t a geography question,” I said, continuing: “And the Joneses are leaving Boston for New York at 10 a.m. averaging 50 miles per hour. At what point in the 200-mile journey will they pass each other?”

“Who cares?” my granddaughter said.

“Exactly!” I replied.

I pulled out an old book I found in my office, “Beginning and Intermediate Algebra,” and opened to Chapter 1, Example 1: “Insert (less-than symbol), (greater-than symbol) or (the equal sign) in the space between the paired numbers to make each statement true.”

Statement: “2 (blank) 3”

Solution: “2 (less-than symbol) 3 since 2 is to the left of 3 on the number line.”

“That’s easy,” my granddaughter said. “The less-than symbol looks like an alligator. And an alligator will always eat the bigger number. My first-grade teacher told us that. I’m in third grade now.”

“This is why I let your grandmother balance our checkbook,” I said.

“You should go back to school, Poppie,” my granddaughter said. “But I don’t think you’d get an A.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima