"The Inside Story"

By Jerry Zezima

Every 10 years, my internal clock, which I inadvertently swallowed while eating Jell-O, reminds me to have a colonoscopy.

Unfortunately, the sulfate solution I took to wash down the Jell-O and everything else I ingested on my one-day liquid preparation diet would have lost to sewer sludge in a blind taste test.

That’s the sacrifice I made to keep the situation fluid for a doctor to explore my innards and ensure everything was clear except, of course, for my internal clock, which read 11:15 a.m., the time I had the procedure.

The day before, I had to prepare. This entailed following a menu composed entirely of liquids that did not, regrettably, include beer or red wine.

“Drink at least 8 glasses of clear liquids,” said the instructions from my gastroenterologist. “Examples include: apple juice, water, clear broth or bouillon, Gatorade, Snapple, carbonated soda, Jell-O, ice popsicles, black coffee, black tea. … You cannot have orange juice or other liquids you cannot see through.”

For breakfast, I had black coffee. I wasn’t allowed to put milk in it because you can’t see through milk, especially if it’s still in a cow. And a cow is considered solid food, which I couldn’t have, either.

For lunch, I had chicken broth, minus the chicken (see above). For dessert, I had a cup of Italian ice, a box of which my wife, Sue, bought so I could stay hydrated but still feel like I was actually eating something.

Throughout the day, I drank enough water to drown a walrus. That’s why I used a pedometer (or, more appropriately, a pee-dometer) to count the number of steps (2,765) I took to the bathroom. Since we have two and a half bathrooms, I visited all of them. I must confess that using the half-bathroom confused me. Was I supposed to finish in another bathroom or just  use a full one?

At cocktail time, I had Gatorade in a wineglass.

“Cheers!” I said to myself.

For dinner, there was the piece de resistance, a French phrase meaning, in this case, “resist a piece of anything that tastes good.”

So Sue made me a large bowl of green Jell-O.

I sat at the kitchen table, a tablespoon in hand, and dug in.

“You outdid yourself!” I told her.

“Sorry you have to watch me eat,” said Sue, who had a plate of chicken parmigiana.

At 6 p.m., it was time for the first of two doses of the sulfate solution, six ounces of which I poured into a 16-ounce mixing container. I added enough water to fill the plastic cup, stirred the concoction and took a sip.

My throat constricted, my spine shuddered and my nose hairs quivered.

“How does it taste?” Sue asked.

“Like it was run through a dead weasel,” I spluttered.

When I finished, I had to drink two more 16-ounce cups of water within an hour.

At 10 p.m., I repeated the process.

Shortly thereafter, all hell broke loose. It was like a geyser through a geezer.

The next morning, I went for my colonoscopy.

I told a nurse anesthetist named Dave that the first time I had a colonoscopy, I was given a local anesthetic that kept me awake for the procedure, which I watched on a screen.

“It was like driving through the Lincoln Tunnel on the off-hours,” I said.

“Don’t worry,” said Dave. “This time you’ll be knocked out.”

Half an hour later, it was all over.

“You did great,” Dr. Emily Glazer told me in the recovery area.

“So did you,” I said. “At least I don’t have to do this again for another 10 years.”

“Maybe by then that awful sulfate solution will taste better,” Dr. Glazer said.

I toasted the sentiment with a small bottle of apple juice, which a nurse had given to me.

“Thanks, doc,” I said. “Bottoms up!”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"The Fab Floor"

By Jerry Zezima

You can make book on the fact that I’m not a guy to sweep things under the rug. But you may be floored to know that I brought the hammer down on our latest home improvement project.

That’s why I had to clean my office of enough books to bury Moby-Dick so new flooring could be installed with the help of yours truly and my trusty hammer.

Actually, the hammer belonged to our contractor, Anthony Amini, who let me use it to pop a pair of planks in place.

It wasn’t the least I could do, but it was close.

The bulk of the work, which took a week, was done by Anthony, who owns Performance Contracting and Management on Long Island, New York, and his hard-working helpers, Victor and Narlin.

They ripped up the ratty old carpeting in four upstairs rooms — three bedrooms and the office — and replaced it with vinyl floors that are fresh, clean and, thanks to my hammering, which somehow didn’t result in pain or bloodshed, beautiful.

“I’m going to put you to work,” Anthony told me when the guys started their work in my office.

Little did he know how much work I had already done in finally cleaning the office of so much stuff — papers, pictures, CDs, DVDs, plaques, clothes, mugs, cards, envelopes, receipts and, of course, books — that I’m surprised I didn’t find the remains of Jimmy Hoffa in there.

A lot of it was on the floor, which was covered by a carpet so worn and frayed that it must have been installed when the house was built during the administration of Gerald R. Ford. Since the carpet just turned 50, I wanted to donate it to AARP, but I was afraid the organization would revoke my membership.

I had been cleaning the office in fits and starts — every time I started, I had a fit — for months. This was at the behest of my wife, Sue, who is neat, in both cleanliness and excellence, whereas I, to put it charitably, am not. If we ever won the lottery, we’d never collect the money because Sue would inadvertently throw out the ticket or I would put it somewhere in the house, probably my office, and never find it again.

The room had four large, overflowing bookcases, plus countless books lying around, just waiting for me to trip over them and hit my head on the floor, which needed to be replaced anyway (the floor, not my head, though Sue would opt for that, too).

I donated many of the books to my local public library. The vintage books, not including “Moby-Dick” (see above), were donated to an independent bookstore.

All told, I wanted to find good homes for my tomes, which not only is true but also rhymes.

With the office at long last clean, Victor and Narlin began moving furniture — a large desk, two filing cabinets, three chairs and two remaining bookcases — and ripping up the carpet. Then they started to install the flooring, which came in long planks that had to be hammered snugly against each other.

“Mr. Jerry,” Victor said, “would you like to try?”

“Of course,” I replied. “I’ll show you guys how it’s done.”

Victor handed me a large hammer with a head almost as hard as my own. I knelt down over a plank and gave it a couple of swift hits. When Victor put down another plank, I hammered it next to the first one.

“Good job!” Victor exclaimed.

Narlin agreed.

I let the guys finish the office and do the flooring in the three bedrooms, which now sport area rugs that I can sweep things under.

“You should write a book about this,” Anthony suggested.

“If you do,” Sue chimed in, “don’t put it in your office.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Thinking Outside the Cookie Box"

By Jerry Zezima

I like to think I’m a tough cookie, but my sweet tooth, which may have a cavity, can’t resist the treats sold every year by the Girl Scouts.

That’s why I have bought two boxes of cookies from my 8-year-old granddaughter, who represents the third generation of Girl Scouts in our family.

They include my wife, Sue, and our two daughters, one of whom is the current Scout’s mother.

To this impressive list you can add yours truly. I may not be a girl, and was never even a Boy Scout, but I once dressed up as a giant Samoa to help a Girl Scout troop ring up impressive cookie sales.

When I told this to my granddaughter, she said, “Samoas are my favorites!” Then she paused and said, “Wait a minute. You dressed up like a cookie?”

“Yes,” I acknowledged. “It was about 20 years ago.”

“Was Mommy a Girl Scout then?” my granddaughter wanted to know.

“No, she was all grown up,” I replied. “And she wouldn’t have wanted to be seen with me.”

“Like she didn’t want to be seen with you when she was my age?” my granddaughter asked.

“That’s right,” I said. “But I still had to help her sell Girl Scout cookies.”

Then I told my granddaughter how I took the order form to work to guilt colleagues into buying cookies that they said would add unwanted pounds.

I countered by convincing them that they would make me a hero in the eyes of my daughter. Not only that, but it wouldn’t be right to disappoint a little girl whose entire troop was counting on her to bring in wads of cash so the Girl Scouts of the USA could stay solvent with enough dough to pay for the dough it took to make — you guessed it — rum balls.

Sorry, I mean Thin Mints.

Unfortunately, some of my co-workers also were the parents of Girl Scouts and were selling cookies, too, so I invariably ended up with a net loss and, of course, unwanted pounds.

It was the same with my older daughter, who also expected me to dragoon relatives, friends, neighbors and office mates into buying baked goods with a sales pitch that was half-baked.

My shining moment as a cookie entrepreneur came when I teamed up with the girls of Troop 2240 in Suffolk County, New York, to help sell boxes of Tagalongs, Trefoils, Thin Mints and, yes, Samoas in the lobby of a municipal building that teemed with a bewildered lunchtime crowd.

The girls wore their classic green Girl Scout uniforms. I was shamelessly decked out in a costume whose front featured big cartoon eyes and a smiley face, with a brown and yellow background that made me look like a crazed cookie.

The Scouts thought I was cool. If I had done this when my daughters were young, they would have died of embarrassment.

“Did you sell a lot of cookies?” my granddaughter wondered.

“Yes,” I recalled proudly.

“Did people think you were crazy?” she inquired.

“Yes,” I answered honestly. “But it was fun. And I helped the girls raise money for their troop.”

I did the same this time around by succumbing to the sales pitch of my daughter, the former Scout, who also convinced my wife, the family’s original member, to order cookies. My mother bought some, too.

My granddaughter thanked me for buying a box of Do-si-dos, peanut butter sandwich cookies that are my favorite, and a box of Lemon-Ups, crispy lemon cookies baked with inspiring messages like “I am a leader.”

I’m surprised mine didn’t say, “I am a dweeb.”

“If you want,” I told my granddaughter, “I’ll dress up like a giant Samoa again to help your troop sell cookies.”

“That’s OK,” she said. “I don’t want to die of embarrassment.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

 

"My Week"

By Jerry Zezima

When you’re retired, you don’t live in the fast lane. In fact, my wife, Sue, and I are on the side of the road with a flat tire. The tradeoff is that you can’t get fired from a job you don’t have.

Still, there has been great concern by a certain prominent person about how certain subordinate but no less important people spend their time. So, in case anyone asks, here is what Sue and I did last week.

MONDAY

The highlight of the day is going to the pharmacy to pick up a refill of my cholesterol medication. Fortunately, it’s not one of those prescription drugs with side effects that include hives, itchy scalp and, in severe cases, death. I pray insurance will continue to cover it or I will have to give up Twinkies and Slim Jims and subsist on cabbage and celery for the rest of my life.

TUESDAY

I’m up at 4:30 a.m. to drive to an area theater where Steven Spielberg is shooting a scene for his new movie. I hope to begin my Hollywood career as an extra in the film, but I can’t get in because it’s a closed set. Looks like I will have to wait a while for my Oscar.

I go to an office supply store to order business cards. They read:

Jerry Zezima

Humorist

Author

Public nuisance

A very nice staffer named Alexandra helps me design them on a computer screen. I make sure “Public” is spelled correctly.

In the evening, Sue and I watch a televised speech. Appearing on the screen is the aforementioned prominent person, who is, for once, wearing a tie. He probably doesn’t want to get fired for violating the dress code.

WEDNESDAY

I go back to the office supply store to pick up my business cards. Fortunately, there are no typos.

Then I go to the gas station to put $15 of regular into my car, but the pump isn’t working, so I have to use another one. The money doesn’t go far. I hope gas prices don’t go up.

THURSDAY

I get a morning call from my son-in-law asking if I can watch my granddaughter, who is home sick from school. I spend the day with the adorable 8-year-old, who, between sniffles, shows me a fashion show on her phone.

“I won first place!” she gushes.

I also play with the family pooch, who is frisky and very interested in another game on my granddaughter’s phone that stars dogs dressed as frogs and princesses.

“Woof!” the puppy barks.

FRIDAY

Sue and I go to Costco. When we were younger, we took trips to exotic places like Hawaii, Barbados and France. Now we take trips to mundane places like Target, Home Depot and, yes, Costco.

In exchange for my services as the designated cart driver, Sue buys me a hot dog and a soft drink for lunch. Total: $1.50. She spares no expense for me. And I’m worth every penny.

Afterward, we buy wine for afternoon cocktails.

SATURDAY

A good food day: eggs (Sue spares no expense for them, either) and sausage links for breakfast, pizza for lunch and Chinese food for dinner. That evening, I have popcorn while watching a movie with Sue from the comfort of our family room because, when you’re our age, this is the new “Saturday Night Fever.”

SUNDAY

It’s the first day of daylight saving time. Spring ahead, fall back. We technically lose an hour’s sleep, but I really don’t lose any sleep because I am happy to do my part in documenting our week.

I trust this will help that certain prominent person who wants to know what others are doing. After all, it would be a shame if he loses his job.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima