"Stairway to Houseplant Heaven"

By Jerry Zezima

Now that my office has new flooring and is finally so clean that it could win an award from Good Housekeeping, I am turning over a new leaf.

Actually, 17 new leaves, which belong to a houseplant that my wife, Sue, gave to me so I could have someone (or something) to talk to when I am lonely or need inspiration so I can write drivel like this.

The plant is, fittingly, a dumb cane, which now has a dumb owner. It is known by the scientific name of Dieffenbachia, although I have named it Robert, after Robert Plant, the lead singer of the classic rock group Led Zeppelin.

I am calling our dynamic duo Led Zezima.

That’s why, according to Sue, I have to give Robert a whole lotta love. This includes watering him, talking to him and tending to his every need, which wouldn’t seem to be too extensive for a brainless creature that doesn’t do much.

Same goes for the plant.

Robert is one of 25 potted pals scattered around the house. The other 24 don’t have names because, let’s face it, they wouldn’t answer if you called them anyway.

But Robert is special. He’s my responsibility and I will do everything in my power to help him thrive except — this is where I draw the line — put him through college.

Sue is responsible for all the other houseplants because she has a green thumb. I think she should see a dermatologist.

They include seven Christmas cactuses that Sue said don’t know it’s not Christmas. And I thought my plant was dumb.

Nonetheless, the cactuses (didn’t the plural used to be cacti?) are downstairs in the living room and are blooming.

“They enjoy being by the triple window,” said Sue, adding that they are on the west side of the house.

Across the room, on the east side, are four plants of undetermined identity. They seem to be doing well, too.

“These guys,” I said, pointing to three small plants on the TV console, “look great.”

Sue sighed and said, “Those are fake!”

In the family room, also on the east side, are several plants, including one that Sue got at a high school reunion dinner and another she got when she had a heart attack.

Nearby, facing the south side, are an African violet and a purple plant that Sue calls “the purple plant.”

“They like it here,” she said.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“They told me,” Sue answered.

In the kitchen, on either side of my chair at the table, are a poinsettia and a citronella that menace me when I am eating. It’s a good thing there isn’t a Venus flytrap or I would be dinner.

Speaking of which, in the dining room, facing the west side, are two unidentified plants, one of which Sue got a few years ago from a student at a school where she was a teacher’s assistant.

Sue put an ice cube in its pot. When it melts (the cube, not the pot), the plant can drink.

“Won’t it catch cold?” I wondered.

“Of course not,” she replied.

“I guess you’re right,” I said. “I’ve never heard a plant sneeze.”

My plant, the only one that lives upstairs, is nothing to sneeze at. He’s healthy and handsome, he gets watered every Saturday and he sits by a window facing east, where the sun rises (last I checked) every morning.

“You’re doing a good job,” said Sue. “Robert seems very happy.”

“That’s because I talk to him,” I said.

“Does he answer?” Sue wanted to know.

“No,” I replied.

“Do you sing Led Zeppelin songs to him?” she asked.

“He doesn’t seem interested,” I answered.

“Maybe,” said Sue, “he’s not so dumb after all.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"The Dream Team"

By Jerry Zezima

As a newspaper columnist whose specialty is doing nothing and writing about it, I thought I had a dream job.

Then I met Raminder, a technician whose job was to watch me dream and record what I did in bed — it was nothing to write home about — during a sleep study.

I participated in this diagnostic test, which required me to stay in a hospital overnight, because my wife, Sue, says that when I’m in bed at home, I snore — this is an exact quote — “like Mount Vesuvius.”

That means I not only am loud, but also 2,000 years old.

The study was scheduled after consultations with my primary care physician, a nurse practitioner, a doctor of audiology, a sleep specialist and, of course, Sue, who all agreed that snoring can be bad for a marriage.

In extreme cases, it can result in the most worrisome line of the wedding vows: “Till death do us part.”

Before I reported to the hospital at 8 p.m., I was given instructions, which said: “Bring something to sleep in (preferably two-piece pajamas with buttons in the front or a T-shirt and shorts), slippers, toiletries, reading materials, medications or any snacks that you need.”

I packed a bag with snazzy PJs I got from my granddaughters’ school fundraiser. For reading, I brought one of my own books, just in case I couldn’t get to sleep.

“If you have a favorite sleeping item, such as a pillow, feel free to bring it with you,” the instructions went on.

My favorite sleeping item is Sue, but she wisely insisted on staying home.

“If one of us is going to get a good night’s sleep,” she said, “it will be me.”

When I arrived at the Sleep Center, I met the youngest of the five participants in that night’s study: Graham, 3, who chirped, “This will be fun!” His mother hoped he was right.

The oldest participant was Maria, 81, who said, “I did this once before at a different location, but I couldn’t get to sleep. Maybe the second time will be the charm.”

Then I was escorted to a private room by Raminder, one of the two sleep technicians working that night.

“Do you sleep on the job?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she answered. “I have to stay awake all night. You’re the one who’s supposed to be sleeping.”

After I watched TV for a while, Raminder said I should get into my jammies.

When she came back into the room, she asked me to sit in a chair while she hooked me up with enough wires to electrocute an elephant.

“They’re safe,” Raminder assured me. “They will monitor your lungs, heart and brain.”

“I don’t have much activity from the neck up,” I said.

“And,” Raminder added as she placed electrodes on my scalp, my forehead, the sides of my face, under my chin and behind my ears, “they’ll tell us if you snore.”

I also had electrodes on my chest, sensors on my legs, bands on my chest and abdomen, a flow sensor on my upper lip and a plastic sensor on my left index finger.

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?” I wondered.

“Press this button,” Raminder said, “and I’ll give you a box you can carry to the toilet.”

“I hope I don’t drop it in there,” I said.

“You’ll be fine,” replied Raminder, who said the room was outfitted with cameras to record my sleeping positions.

After I climbed into bed, she turned off the light and said, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Nighty-night!” I responded.

I got up twice to use the porcelain convenience: at 11:20 and 2:10. Other than that, I slept soundly but not, according to Raminder, soundlessly.

“You snored on and off, but it wasn’t too bad,” she said after waking me up at 5:38 a.m. “Overall, you did very well. We’ll have the final results in two or three weeks.”

“My wife will be impressed,” I said.

“Tell her to come in for a sleep study, too,” Raminder said.

“I know what she’ll say,” I predicted. “In your dreams.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima