"Bowled Over"

By Jerry Zezima

Something fishy is going on in my family. And it involves, for approximately the hundredth time, a dead fish.

The latest fine finny friend to go belly-up was Igor, a blue boy betta who belonged to two of my granddaughters, which made him, I guess, my grandfish.

But not to worry: There’s a replacement Igor swimming in the tiny bowl on the kitchen counter in the house where the girls (and their parents) reside.

And the girls (but not their parents) are none the wiser.

That’s because my younger daughter, the girls’ mommy, told me to check on Igor when my wife, Sue, and I brought our granddaughters back home after a sleepover at our house.

“Igor is on his last legs,” my daughter said in a phone call.

“You mean his last fins,” I replied, correcting her.

“Whatever,” my daughter said. “If Igor is dead, dump him in the toilet and replace him with the fish that’s in the laundry room. Make sure the girls don’t find out.”

Sure enough, Igor had breathed (or gulped) his last, so I flushed him to kingdom come and replaced him with the blue boy betta that swam jauntily in a clear plastic container from the pet store.

The girls, as they had so many times before, never knew the difference.

According to my daughter, the present Igor is number eight or nine or maybe even 10. She’s lost count.

Not long ago, my daughter saw one of the previous Igors lying motionless at the bottom of his bowl. She removed him and told the girls he had to go to the hospital for surgery, which gave her time to get a replacement fish. It’s the one I found resting lifelessly on the colorful pebbles in his watery domain.

Duping young children into believing that their fish will live forever, when in reality most of them last about as long as the Super Bowl halftime show, began when my daughter and her older sister were little.

Of the dozens of goldfish that resided in our humble home during my daughters’ early years, the most beloved — and tragic — was Curly.

I kept Curly alive for weeks after the sudden deaths of his bowl mates, Moe and Larry, who had died within minutes of each other, probably in a suicide pact.

I fed Curly daily, changed his water religiously and greeted him every morning with a cheery “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!”

One evening, I opened the door of a kitchen cabinet, directly above Curly’s bowl on the counter, only to see a bottle of vitamins fall out, in slow motion, and conk the little fish on the head.

By the next morning, Curly was deader than vaudeville.

“You killed our fish!” the girls wailed.

I tried to lessen their pain with words of comfort: “They were Mommy’s vitamins.”

Fast forward a generation to our younger daughter’s daughters, who talked their mother into getting the original Igor.

They also talked me and Sue into getting Camilla, a pink girl betta who would be Igor’s cousin. She lived on the liquor cabinet in the dining room in what I dubbed the Camilla Parker Bowl.

Forty-eight hours later, Camilla needed a royal flush. My granddaughters were on their way over, so I hightailed it to the pet store and got another Camilla, a lookalike in every way except he was a boy. It gave new meaning to the term gender-fluid.

The girls never knew the difference.

We have since had a half-dozen Camillas, all pink males who just like to feel pretty. The current one is about a year old and is starting to go gray around the gills.

The current Igor is young and healthy and lives in a little bowl on a counter in my granddaughters’ kitchen. So far, things are going swimmingly. I just hope he doesn’t get conked on the head by a bottle of vitamins.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Look Who's Walking"

By Jerry Zezima

I’m the very model of the modern marching man. And I am determined to put one foot in front of the other until I walk headlong into a wall.

But I can’t say the same for the vast majority of walkers who don’t seem to know where they are going, usually while wandering aimlessly in front of me.

That is why I think people should be given walker’s licenses after passing a rigorous test to determine if they are fit to navigate sidewalks, malls or supermarkets without creating a human traffic jam that frazzles nerves and ends up in a walk-by shouting.

Walker’s licenses would be like driver’s licenses and require applicants to enroll in a walker’s education class, where they would learn to move along without bumping into other walkers, cutting them off or stopping dead in their tracks, which could lead to a rear-end collision and higher insurance premiums.

I recently spent a week in New York City, proud home of the world’s worst walkers. The sidewalks and crosswalks teemed with exasperating pedestrians, some on their phones, others ambling three abreast so I couldn’t get around them without being flattened by Olympic wannabes rushing through in the opposite direction.

But this isn’t just a big-city problem. The suburbs are also plagued by people who don’t know how to keep moving without getting in your way.

Here, then, is a test to see if you qualify for a walker’s license, issued by the DMV (Department of Meandering Violations).

QUESTION NO. 1

You are pushing a baby stroller on a busy street and come to a crosswalk. Do you:

(a) Stay alert and stop until it is safe to cross.

(b) Wear headphones so you can’t hear car horns blasting as you saunter through the intersection.

(c) Push the stroller with one hand and text with the other as you veer into the roadway.

ANSWER: (a) You are entrusted with the care of an infant, you idiot! Watch where you’re going.

QUESTION NO. 2

You are in a mall looking for a fancy water bottle or a handbag you can’t afford. It is only natural to window shop, but walking etiquette says you should:

(a) Drift from left to right and back again so you can hold up shoppers who are there because their favorite store is running a sale.

(b) Be courteous and stay to the right while you slowly pass Victoria’s Secret and pretend not to notice the lingerie in the window.

(c) Be the first one on an escalator and stop at the bottom, causing a pileup.

ANSWER: (b) Opt for the nightgown.

QUESTION NO. 3

You are on a sidewalk in New York City and are stuck behind a mass of humanity. Do you:

(a) Use an app on your phone that sounds like a police siren.

(b) Attempt to pass on the right, which would be illegal if you were in a car, and risk getting knocked off the curb and run over by a bus.

(c) Try to push your way through without being trampled to death.

ANSWER: None of the above. Next time, take an Uber.

QUESTION NO. 4

While shopping in a supermarket, you encounter the following people:

(a) The oblivious guy who blocks the delicatessen with his cart so he can call his wife to ask where the bananas are.

(b) The indecisive woman who pops up in every aisle.

(c) The little old lady at the checkout who can’t find her credit card.

What do you do?

ANSWER: Buy a six-pack of beer. You’ll need it.

QUESTION NO. 5

True or false: You are the best walker in the world because you never get in anyone’s way while shopping, sightseeing or even going to the refrigerator in your own home.

ANSWER: False. You’re as bad as all the others. And your shoe’s untied.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Between a Rock and a Good Place"

By Jerry Zezima

With apologies to Mick Jagger, my kidneys have produced more rolling stones than he’s ever had. That’s why I got satisfaction from a radiology report showing that my career as a rock star could mercifully be over.

On orders from my urologist, who must feel like a miner because he has excavated more than half a dozen stones from my kidneys over the years, I had to get X-rays to see if a suspected boulder was about to begin another excruciating rockslide.

To set up an appointment, I called a nearby radiology center and spoke with a very nice staffer named Anna.

“Have you been here before?” she asked pleasantly.

“I’ve been there so many times that I should have my own parking space,” I responded. “I’ve had X-rays, Y-rays, Z-rays, CAT scans, DOG scans, you name it, I’ve had it. I’m surprised I don’t glow in the dark.”

“You could save on your electric bill,” Anna suggested.

“It would help,” I said, “because otherwise, I’m not very bright.”

“What are you coming for this time?” Anna inquired.

“X-rays,” I answered. “My urologist wants to see if I have another kidney stone.”

“How many have you had?” Anna wanted to know.

“So many that I’ve had to number them like the Super Bowl,” I replied. “I’ve lost count, but I think I have had seven or eight.”

“I hear they’re pretty painful,” Anna said.

“When I had my first one, a nurse told me it was the male equivalent of childbirth,” I said. “I told her that at least I wouldn’t have to put the stone through college.”

“How were your kidney stones treated?” Anna asked.

“Not too well,” I said. “They didn’t treat me too well, so why should I be nice to them?”

“No, I mean, did you have surgery?” she wondered.

“Yes, a couple of times I needed the services of Roto-Rooter,” I said. “Some of the other stones were blasted to smithereens and one was like the old phrase: ‘This, too, shall pass.’ Fortunately, it did.”

When Anna asked for my insurance information, she couldn’t put it in the system.

“It’s slow today,” she explained. “So is my brain.”

“Mine is slow every day,” I said. “That is, when it’s working at all. If you took an X-ray of my head, there would be nothing there.”

When Anna finally got the system up and running, she said, “You’re all set. You have an appointment for 11 a.m. today. Good luck! I hope you don’t have any more kidney stones.”

“Me, too,” I said. “I don’t want to take another trip down the rocky road to recovery.”

I showed up at the appointed time and checked in at the front desk with Kristen, who asked why I was there. I told her I needed X-rays and gave her a quick history lesson about my kidney stones.

“Did you have surgery in the area?” Kristen asked.

“You mean at the hospital up the street?” I replied.

“No,” she said with a laugh, “I mean in that area of your body.”

“Yes,” I said. “Thankfully, I didn’t come out sounding like Frankie Valli.”

About five minutes later, a radiologist named Jennifer called me in to the X-ray room.

“Do I need to put on one of those silly paper gowns?” I asked.

“No,” said Jennifer.

“Not even a lead-lined apron?” I wondered.

“How could the X-rays penetrate it?” Jennifer said before going behind a wall and giving me the following instructions: “Deep breath. Exhale and hold it.” She asked me to repeat it. Then I was done.

“You’re good to go,” she said.

That afternoon, the results were in: “No abnormal masses or calcifications.”

In other words, no more stones.

Sorry, Mick Jagger. You’ll just have to rock and roll without me.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima