"Take Two Pills and Keep Smiling"

By Jerry Zezima

Medicine commercials give me a headache. Unfortunately, I have to pay attention to them because their products can either: (a) relieve my headache or (b) kill me.

So I strike a compromise: Whenever one of these pitches comes on the TV screen, which happens approximately once a minute, I turn down the sound.

I can’t bear to listen as the announcer announces that the side effects for the prescription medication in question can include gastric distress, swelling of the earlobes, neck pain, body odor, dandruff or bad breath.

After that, I am warned not to operate heavy machinery, which puts the kibosh on my plans to buy a steamroller.

And that’s all before I lapse into a coma.

Then the announcer says, “Ask your doctor.”

So I did.

“Do patients ask you about the medications in those TV commercials?” I asked Dr. Sanjay Sangwan, my primary care physician.

“Yes,” he answered. “With 90% of them, there’s a mutual understanding about what’s right for them. But 10% tell me what they want.”

“What do you tell them if the medicine they want isn’t right for them?” I wondered.

“Find another doctor,” said Dr. Sangwan.

“You have me on baby aspirin because I’m a big baby, right?” I said.

“You said it, not me,” the doctor said.

“And I’m on blood pressure medication and a statin, but they won’t give me hives or ingrown toenails, will they?” I inquired.

“No,” Dr. Sangwan assured me.

“But I still shouldn’t operate heavy machinery, correct?” I said.

“You can operate it,” Dr. Sangwan said. “But don’t try to lift it.”

He added that what’s really confusing about the medications in TV commercials are their names.

“I don’t know where the drug companies come up with them,” Dr. Sangwan said.

“They have a lot of Q’s, X’s and Z’s, but not many vowels,” I noted, suggesting that a couple of them could be named after me: Jerryflu (“It’s something to sneeze at”) and Zezempic (“For people with fat heads”).

The medications I take helped me achieve perfect scores for blood pressure, blood oxygen, heart rate and temperature.

“I have vital vitals,” I pointed out.

“That’s vital,” Dr. Sangwan agreed.

“How come I don’t have to take my clothes off?” I asked. “I used to strip down to my skivvies during a physical.”

“Who wants to see your flowered underwear?” Dr. Sangwan said. “Maybe your wife does.”

“Not really,” I said. “She has to wash them.”

“You don’t have to undress anymore because bloodwork can give a lot of information,” explained Dr. Sangwan, who asked me to lift my shirt so he could listen to my heart and lungs with a stethoscope. He also looked in my mouth and asked me to say, “Ah!”

“There’s one word I’m glad I no longer have to hear,” I said.

“What’s that?” the doctor asked.

“Cough,” I replied.

“You’re in excellent shape, especially for a guy who’s 72,” said Dr. Sangwan, who not only is excellent himself but, at 54, is the first doctor I have ever had who’s younger than I am.

I told him about my mother, who’s 101 and still going strong.

“Most old people are women,” he said. “I had a female patient who was 99. I said, ‘I hope to see you next year.’ She said, ‘You look pretty healthy. I bet you’ll make it.’ I hope she’s right. Men don’t live that long.”

When we talked about my job as a newspaper columnist, Dr. Sangwan said, “You’re a dying breed.”

“Dying?” I spluttered.

“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “You’re doing very well.”

“So I don’t have to take any of those medications that can kill me?” I asked.

“No,” Dr. Sangwan said with a smile. “Keep your sense of humor. And remember that laughter is the best medicine.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"Game of Groans"

By Jerry Zezima

With apologies to Frank Sinatra, who is dead and can’t sue me, I am the chairman of the board. And I’m not just singing my own praises.

After decades of failing miserably at board games, one of which had such a monopoly on me that I went directly to jail, I am game to announce that I recently emerged triumphant in not one but two exciting games of bingo.

Best of all, I dethroned my mother, Rosina, who at 101 years old is a bona fide bingo champion.

Mom doesn’t employ gamesmanship, or even gameswomanship, but she did use talent, experience and a bit of luck to win so many bingo games when she was in a rehab facility that she was asked to give everyone else a chance.

“In other words,” explained Mom, “they didn’t want me to play anymore.”

Now she is back home, where I found myself competing with her in a big bingo bash.

The odds were against me, even though I am very odd, because of my inglorious history of losing at board and card games.

Over the years, I have suffered defeat at the hands of friends, neighbors, children and grandchildren, as well as my wife, Sue, and, of course, my mother.

Sue’s late grandmother regularly beat me in Scrabble, but only because she was still alive at the time. When my two daughters were in grade school, they beat me, too.

When I played Sue, I cheated by making up words. And I still lost.

I have been crushed in Candy Land by my grandchildren, which was sweet justice. They have also trounced me in Monopoly, thus accounting for my status as a jailbird.

Because I have a checkered past, I have lost in — you guessed it! — chess.

No, sorry, I mean checkers. That other board game has given me chess pains.

I suffered my greatest humiliation when I was beaten in a blackjack tournament by my dog.

In each game, I dealt Lizzie two cards, one up, the other down, and asked, “Hit?” or “Stay?” She gave me her paw to indicate which one she wanted.

To make a long story even more pathetic, we won nine games each. In the deciding game, Lizzie stayed at 20. I had 17. I took a card. It was a jack. I busted. Lizzie won.

After that, I refused to play her in Scrabble.

I even tried to get on “Wheel of Fortune” but bombed on the test, thus saving letter-perfect Vanna White and then-host Pat Sajak the shame of having me on the show.

But this latest competition, with defending champ Mom in bingo, broke my losing streak.

Also playing were Marilyn, one of my mother’s caring and giving caregivers, and my sister Susan.

Each of us got a card with “BINGO” across the top and 25 numbers, five across and down. We also got a bunch of colored chips. Mom was the caller.

She spun the roller cage containing the bingo balls and called out, “B-6.”

I had it.

“Do you know what comes before B-5?” I asked.

“What?” Mom wondered.

“B-4,” I announced.

Everyone groaned.

It went on like this for the entire game, until Mom called, “I-16.”

“Bingo!” I shouted, completing my diagonal sweep.

I was the new champ.

“Let’s play another game,” Mom said, looking to take back her crown.

“You’re on,” I responded, rising (or, rather, sitting) to the challenge.

We all got new cards, but I won again when Mom called, “G-53.”

“Bingo!” I shouted.

I was close to winning the third game, needing just one more letter-and-number combo, but Susan shouted, “Bingo!”

Just like that, my winning streak was over.

“I hope,” Mom said, “you don’t have to wait until you’re 101 to be a bingo champ again.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"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