"No Snooze Is Bad News"

By Jerry Zezima

To sleep — perchance to snore. Ay, there’s the rib, which my wife, Sue, pokes every time I snore while she’s trying to sleep.

My unconscious imitation of a buzzsaw, which I allegedly do often enough that Sue has to go into another room to get a good night’s slumber, is the reason I have been signed up to participate in a sleep study, which presumably will determine if my overnight rumblings can be measured on the Richter scale.

This scientific research, which also will record brainwave activity, if indeed there is any, was recommended by my primary care physician, as well as by a nurse practitioner and a doctor of audiology at an ear, nose and throat practice where I went for a consultation.

“Snoring can lead to divorce if you don’t fix it,” Dr. Sanjay Sangwan said during a telemedicine visit.

“Do you snore?” I asked.

“My wife says I do, but I won’t admit it,” the good doctor replied.

“Sometimes my wife snores, but she won’t admit, either,” I said.

“It’s always the other person,” Dr. Sangwan noted, adding that people snore for different reasons, including age, weight and sleep apnea. “Another cause can be adenoids,” he said.

“Aren’t they in outer space?” I wondered.

“I think you mean asteroids,” said the doctor, who suggested I participate in a sleep study.

ToniAnn Savage agreed.

“I hear the snoring complaint all the time,” the personable nurse practitioner told me during an office visit.

“I’m the person closest to myself, so how come I don’t hear my own snoring?” I asked.

ToniAnn’s simple answer: “You’re asleep.”

“My wife sleeps on the other side of the bed and she can hear me,” I said.

“What side of the bed do you sleep on?” ToniAnn inquired.

“The top,” I answered.

ToniAnn asked me to open my mouth, very likely to prevent me from making another stupid joke, and peered inside.

“You have a narrow oral pharynx,” she informed me.

“Is there a cure?” I gulped.

“That means you don’t have a big mouth,” ToniAnn said.

“My wife will never believe it,” I said.

“It could be the reason for your snoring,” said ToniAnn. “So could the uvula.”

I was afraid to ask.

“The little punching bag in the back of your throat,” she explained.

“I hope my wife won’t use me as a uvula when I snore,” I said.

Next I saw Dr. Deena Palumbo, who gave me a hearing test. I did well because ToniAnn had removed the wax from my ears.

“Do you get snoring complaints from patients?” I inquired.

“Every day,” said Dr. Palumbo. “I am going to add marriage counselor to my resume.”

“Do you snore?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“How about your husband?” I wondered.

“Hell, yes!” Dr. Palumbo replied, adding that snoring and hearing loss are the two biggest marital complaints.

“If you can’t hear, wouldn’t it solve the snoring problem?” I asked.

“You’d think,” she said. “But it doesn’t. That’s why you should take that sleep study.”

A few days later, I had a telemedicine visit with Dr. Mohammad Amin, a sleep specialist.

“How do you sleep?” he asked.

“I’d say I sleep like a baby, but babies don’t always sleep, so I’ll say I sleep like a log,” I responded.

“When you snore, does your wife notice if you’ve stopped breathing?” Dr. Amin asked.

“No,” I said. “She either turns over or goes to another room.”

“The new generation of wives will kick their husbands out of the room,” he told me.

“I’m lucky she hasn’t banished me to the shed,” I said.

“Does your wife know that for the study, you will be staying in the hospital overnight?” he inquired.

“She can’t wait,” I replied.

“Tell her the sleep doctor said you are going to sleep quietly when you get home,” he promised, adding that the study will be scheduled soon.

“If this works,” I told him, “she’ll say it’s a dream come true.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Puppy Love"

By Jerry Zezima

When you’re a grandparent, you want only the best for the newest addition to the family. That’s why my wife, Sue, and I went shopping in anticipation of baby’s first visit and came home with everything the little one needs, including a bowl for food, one for water, a stick for teething, a bag of treats for snacks, toys for playing, a leash for walking and, for cleanup duty, a pooper scooper.

As you can tell, we would spare no expense for our beautiful, loving and exuberant granddog, Opal.

She’s a rescue, a tan-and-white dynamo, a Chihuahua who is about seven months old, tips the scales at nine pounds and has brightened the lives of our younger daughter, our son-in-law and two of our granddaughters, who have fallen under the spell of puppy love and readily acknowledge that Opal is almost as much fun as their grandfather.

The main difference is that it took me a lot longer to be housebroken.

Opal is the third pooch our daughter has brought into the family.

The first was Lizzie, who came into our lives when our daughter, who was then 12, brought home a little black-and-white puppy that a friend’s neighbor had given to her. The woman told our daughter that if we didn’t want the dog, she would take her back. Otherwise, she was ours.

We fell in love with the pup, took her to the vet for an exam and adopted her.

Two weeks later, the woman called to say she wanted the dog back. Our daughter was in tears. I got on the phone. Words were exchanged. Threats were made. A custody battle ensued.

Finally, in an effort to be fair, and mature, and reasonable, I told the woman I had veto power.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“If you don’t let us keep the dog,” I replied very calmly, “I am going to call my Uncle Vito.”

And that is how Lizzie became a beloved member of our family.

She also was this man’s best friend. Our adventures were legendary.

Lizzie, a mix of Lab, border collie and terrier, first gained fame as the winner of the Pooch Who Can Smooch contest at Puttin’ on the Dog, the annual fundraiser for Adopt-a-Dog in Greenwich, Connecticut. 

Then there was the time I had to brush Lizzie’s teeth. (Her breath smelled like a bean supper with the windows closed.) And the time, after reading about Sonya Fitzpatrick, TV’s “Pet Psychic,” I tried to determine if Lizzie had extrasensory powers. (Sue thought I was “The Pet Psycho.”) And the time Lizzie actually beat me in a blackjack tournament. (I’m not playing with a full deck.) And the time I took her to New York City to meet Lassie. (The canine superstars got along famously.)

Lizzie, who lived to be almost 15, proved that the best things in life are free.

After she got her own place, our daughter adopted our first granddog, a puppy rescue she named Maggie, a black-and-white whippet mix who was energetic, affectionate and hungry. Always, always hungry. She wolfed down food (dog and human) faster than any wolf, but she kept, for the most part, her girlish figure.

When our daughter’s first baby was born, Maggie took on the role of proud big sister. She also was very protective. God help any repair person who came over. I should mention that Maggie was loud, too.

If any dog had a literal appetite for life, it was Maggie, who, like Lizzie, was deeply loved and lived to be a canine senior citizen.

Now there’s Opal, a youngster who is sweet, smart and another beloved member of the family.

One of these days, when we’re out for a walk, I’ll tell her all about Uncle Vito.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Don't Sweat the Style Stuff"

By Jerry Zezima

Row, row, row my seat swiftly down the track.

Warily, warily, warily, warily, my body’s out of whack.

That’s the tune I sang to myself — because I didn’t want to scare everyone else at the gym — as I rocked and rolled on a rowing machine under the expert guidance of my very own personal trainer.

I decided to go back to the gym because I have a heart condition and my cardiologist recommended it (going back to the gym, not having heart condition).

I met assistant manager Antwone Bowen and said I hadn’t been there in a while.

“How come?” he asked.

“I just got out of jail,” I told him. “I was in for sticking up a gym.”

Antwone smiled nervously.

“Not really,” I admitted. “I was diagnosed with an aortic aneurysm and was scheduled for open-heart surgery, so I stopped coming.”

“How did the surgery go?” Antwone asked.

“I didn’t need it,” I replied. “The doctor said I have to do cardio exercises, so I’m back.”

When I told Antwone I’m 71, he exclaimed, “Wow! You don’t look it.”

“How’s your eyesight?” I wondered.

“Not good,” said Antwone, who’s 26 and wears glasses. “But I can see that you’re in excellent shape.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said. “That’s why I’d like to get a personal trainer.”

Antwone put me in touch with Shae Ayyildiz, who’s 24 and has been training people, young and old, for two years.

“I could start you on the three-pound dumbbells,” Shae said during my introductory meeting.

“I’m a 185-pound dumbbell,” I said. “Besides, I’m not supposed to do any heavy lifting.”

“In that case, rowing is very good,” Shae said. “You can do that, the high bike and the treadmill.”

When I showed up a few days later for my first training session, Shae said I should warm up on the treadmill for 15 minutes.

I breezed through it without having to call an ambulance.

“You’re starting off well,” said Shae. “But you shouldn’t be wearing jeans. Why aren’t you wearing sweatpants?”

“I have to run errands after this and I need the pockets for all my stuff,” I explained.

“I hope you won’t be too uncomfortable on the rowing machine,” said Shae, who took me over to one, got me seated and told me what to do: “Pull on the handle and push with your legs.”

I instantly got into a good rhythm.

“You’re going at the speed of light!” Shae chirped.

“That’s because I’m lightheaded,” I said. “Could I be on the Olympic rowing team?”

“Sure,” she answered. “You might even win a gold medal.”

“Not bad for a guy who doesn’t have all his oars in the water,” I noted.

Then Shae took me over to a high stationary bike, which looked like the kind used by racers in the Tour de France.

“I’ll always have Paris, even though I’m not going anywhere,” I said.

“You’re pedaling like a champ,” said Shae.

“Do you have any clients who are my age?” I asked.

“Yes,” Shae said. “But you’re doing much better than they do. And you’re more active.”

From the bike it was back to the treadmill to cool down.

“The treadmill helped me warm up before and now it’s helping me cool down,” I pointed out. “How does it know?”

“It’s smart,” answered Shae, who was impressed that I did 15 minutes on the treadmill, seven on the rowing machine, seven on the bike and another 10 on the treadmill. “And it was only your first session.”

“If you were to give me a grade, what would it be?” I asked.

“I’d give you an 8.5 out of 10,” Shae said. “But that’s only because of your clothes.”

“You deducted a point and a half for style?” I said incredulously.

“You need to dress properly for training,” she replied.

“I barely broke a sweat,” I said. “That’s because I’m not wearing sweats.”

“If you wear them next time,” Shae promised, “I’ll give you a perfect 10.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima