"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

"Color Me Beautiful"

By Jerry Zezima

Sometimes a boy just likes to feel pretty. That’s why two of my granddaughters recently gave me a beauty treatment at their very own spa and salon.

And I can count on the fingers of two hands how much it cost to be the envy of everyone at an evening gathering where my bright red nails made me the life of the party.

My day of geezer pulchritude began when the girls, cousins 9 and 6 years old, asked if they could paint my nails.

I knew they would do an excellent job because they had just painted their own nails, which made them feel good and look good. In fact, the name of their establishment is Feel Good, Look Good Spa and Salon.

It was founded at my house by the 9-year-old and her sister, 12. But we were at the 6-year-old’s house, where the cousins had set up shop.

“We’re going to make you beautiful, Poppie,” the younger one promised.

Hoping the girls could accomplish the impossible, I eagerly agreed.

“You have to pick a color,” the older one said.

My choices: red, pink and rainbow sparkles.

The younger girl had rainbow sparkles on her nails, so I chose that one.

“It wouldn’t look good on you,” she said.

“How about pink?” I wondered.

“Not that one, either,” said the older one, whose nails were shiny pink. “Red is your color.”

“Will it match my eyes?” I asked.

The girls rolled their eyes and got down to work.

The older one, who is right-handed, painted the nails on my right hand. The younger one, who is left-handed, painted the nails on my left hand.

Aside from a couple of smudges — one on my right thumb, the other on my left ring finger — I was, indeed, beautiful. Or at least my nails were.

Then came this announcement by the 9-year-old: “You owe us money.”

I was flabbergasted.

“A legitimate business announces a price before a service is rendered,” I said. “Besides, don’t I get a family discount?”

“No,” said the 9-year-old, a born entrepreneur.

The 6-year-old said I should pay five cents a nail. Her older brother, who is 8, said 25 cents. His younger brother, the 6-year-old’s twin, just laughed. So did my 12-year-old granddaughter.

The 9-year-old set the rate at a dollar a nail. That meant I owed the girls $10.

My younger daughter, the older girl’s mother, helpfully pointed out that I should also pay a 20-percent tip.

Total cost: $12.

“Would you take a credit card?” I asked.

“No!” the younger girl responded. “We’re 6 and 9. We don’t have a bank account.”

I didn’t have a pair of fives, one for each girl, so I asked my 8-year-old grandson, who has a piggy bank, if he could break a 10.

“I’m not giving you money,” he stated flatly. When I explained, he said, “Now I get it.”

He opened the bank, which has a combination lock, and peeled off 10 ones. I gave him the sawbuck. Then I paid the girls.

“Ten bucks is a good price for a manicure,” said the boy’s mother, who’s also my older daughter.

“Plus tip,” added my younger daughter.

That night at the party, which was attended by adults and kids, I got raves for my red nails.

“You’re very stylish,” said one woman. “I wish my nails looked that good.”

Another woman said, “My daughter painted my nails blue, but they didn’t come out too well. Yours are better.”

Even the guys were impressed.

“I don’t know if I would do that,” one of them said.

Just then, my granddaughters came by and, in unison, chirped, “Nice nails, Poppie!”

“Thanks,” I replied, holding them up for all to see. “Being beautiful is worth the price.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Mission: Implausible"

By Jerry Zezima

TOP SECRET

To: Tom Cruise

From: Jerry Zezima

Re: “Mission: Implausible”

Dear Mr. Cruise:

I am a dashing, heroic and admittedly aging spy cleverly disguised as a syndicated newspaper columnist whose work is highly suspect. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to let me star in the next installment of your fabulously successful film series.

My qualifications are impeccable — or maybe, more fittingly, they’re impossible — because I recently went on a dangerous and sometimes embarrassing mission at the International Spy Museum in Washington, D.C.

I can’t say I sneaked into the museum, which a professional spy would have done, but I did have a ticket, so they let me in. Accompanying me were my wife, our two daughters, one of our sons-in-law and our five grandchildren, all of whom, if my information is correct, were better spies than I was.

Nonetheless, I wasn’t captured by a foreign power and imprisoned in a dingy jail cell, only to escape using my wits, or at least half of them, and save the world from evil.

But I did have a good time.

Don’t tell anyone, as you are sworn to secrecy, but in order to begin my mission, I was given a new identity.

My name was Drew Smith. I was from Athens (Greece, not Georgia), my occupation was as an artist, despite the fact that I can’t even draw a good salary, and my code name was Rattler. The comparison to a poisonous snake was insulting, but I’ve been called worse.

Still, it was especially dangerous because I would be — you guessed it — unarmed.

I also, unofficially, gave myself the code name 0072, because that’s my age. I didn’t walk up to other visitors and identify myself by saying, “Zezima, Jerry Zezima,” but I did ask someone on staff if the museum served martinis — shaken, not stirred.

I’m surprised I wasn’t thrown out.

My adventure began when I went to the first of several touchscreens I would have to navigate and signed in as Rattler. Then I got these instructions:

“We believe a cybercriminal has their base of operations in Moscow. YOUR MISSION: Determine the location of their secret headquarters. Continue to your next Undercover Mission stop.”

At my next stop, I had to identify myself again (spies can never be too careful, I guess) and got these further instructions:

“You’ve received a secret message from headquarters. Assignment: Crack the coded message to figure out the next steps for your mission.”

It turned out that I wasn’t too smart — I was more like Maxwell Smart, the bumbling Agent 86 on the 1960s TV spy spoof “Get Smart” — so I needed help. Here’s what I got: “Ops cracked the message for you. Your mission is a go!”

I went to the Gadget Lab to design the right tool for the job. I picked a lock pick kit, which I’m glad I didn’t have to say five times fast.

“Good work!” it said on the screen.

From there I went to the Disguise Screen, where I chose a photo of myself with a trench coat and a fedora, and then to the Briefing Station to assume my cover on a Stealth Mission, which entailed crawling through an overhead vent while my grandchildren, giggling behind me, played Follow the Geezer.

I somehow made it through the Operational Zone in Moscow even though I blew most of the questions about security threats.

At the end, I got this message: “Intel received. Nice work, agent. This is the key piece of intel that we were looking for. We will take it from here.”

I had completed my mission. Now I am a certified secret agent.

Your assignment, Mr. Cruise, is to cast me in your next “Mission” movie. My new code name: Poppie. It’s what my grandchildren call me.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima