"If Looks Could Grill"

By Jerry Zezima

Whenever I’m cooking with gas, which causes people who eat what I cook to have the same thing, I’m afraid I will not only burn the burgers but be blown to smithereens, after which I will rest in pieces.

That’s why I feel much safer now that I have a new grill, even though I had to reassemble part of it and ended up with a couple of screws left over. I put them in a container with my other loose screws.

My wife, Sue, who does the inside cooking, agreed that we needed a new grill so I could do the outside cooking, which doesn’t measure up to hers because it’s rare when anything I cook is well done.

So we went to a home improvement store and bought a shiny appliance to replace the rusty contraption we had for years.

To get the grill home, Sue and I would have to put it in the back of my car. Since I am a cardiac patient who shouldn’t lift anything heavier than a plate of hot dogs, and Sue is a cardiac patient who can lift two plates but shouldn’t overdo it, we enlisted the help of Kyle, a young and personable store employee who looked strong enough to lift not only the grill but my entire car.

Unfortunately, the grill wouldn’t fit. The hatch of my SUV (senior utility vehicle) was all the way up, but the cargo area wasn’t wide enough for Kyle — despite myriad maneuverings and much muttering — to jam the grill in.

“We didn’t have this trouble with our old grill,” I said. “And this one isn’t any bigger.”

“No,” said Sue. “But your car was.”

She solved the mystery by noting that my new car is smaller than the one I had when we got our previous grill.

“I’m going to get a screwdriver,” Kyle said.

“If you mean the kind with vodka and orange juice, get me one, too,” I said.

Kyle came back with the tool — solid, not liquid — that enabled him to disassemble one side of the grill so the whole thing could be slipped into the back of the car.

“You will have to put it back together,” said Kyle, who handed me the screws that needed to be screwed back in when I reattached the side of the grill.

I told him the story of our very first grill, which we bought during the Carter administration.

“It didn’t come preassembled,” I said. “I had to put it together myself. Because I am the least handy man in America, it took me about a week and a half. When I was finished, I had not only screws but several other parts left over. I was too scared to start the grill, so I asked Sue to do it. I felt like a mobster who makes his wife start his car. I know it was shameful, but what could I do?”

Kyle looked at Sue with sympathy and wished us luck.

I managed, with Sue’s help, to reassemble the side of the grill. But the grease cup, which collects drippings, wouldn’t fit onto the bottom of the assembly tray, which I brought back to the store.

“The holder is on backward,” said Kyle, who fixed the problem and sent me on my way.

The next issue was the igniter battery, which I put in backward before correcting my mistake. It didn’t matter because the tank, which I used on our old grill, was out of gas.

Back I went to the store, where Kyle got me a new full tank.

“Now you’re all set,” he said. “Happy grilling.”

“For all your help, you’re invited to come over for a barbecue,” I said. “And I’ll give you a screwdriver, easy on the orange juice.”

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"A Farewell to My Arm"

By Jerry Zezima

You know you’re old and washed up as an athlete when you hurt your arm playing Wiffle ball.

That’s what happened when I was the pitcher in a spirited game with my grandchildren, who not only hit home runs off me but ran so fast around the nonexistent bases in my backyard that when I tried to throw them out at home plate, I threw out my arm instead.

Now you can call me Lefty. But I’m still ambidextrous — incompetent with both hands.

Also playing were my younger daughter, a star athlete as a kid who now has knee problems, and one of my sons-in-law, who once threw a baseball through a window in our shed.

An enthusiastic fan was the family dog, a spunky Chihuahua who couldn’t hold a bat or she would have hit home runs off me, too.

I have not been modest in telling my grandkids that I was a pretty fair athlete in my day.

“I think it was a Tuesday,” I added.

What I haven’t told them is that I was the worst player on the worst team in Little League.

In my last season, I got one hit, a double that amazed the umpire, who said, “You’re hitting this year.” 

“I closed my eyes,” I told him.

He laughed and called me out when I got picked off second base.

That’s why I love Wiffle ball, which doesn’t require any real athletic talent aside from the demanding ability, in a close game, to stay awake.

That’s also why it has become our family pastime.

When I was a kid, I played Wiffle ball with my mother, father and sisters. I had approximately the same success I did in Little League.

When my kids were kids, I took them to my parents’ house so my mother could strike me out. She was the MVP (Mom Valuable Player).

The pitching prowess has obviously skipped a generation because I have played Wiffle ball with two of my granddaughters, who are sisters, and they’ve belted my pitches all over the yard, even though the younger one held the bat the wrong way.

This time, the slugger was my older grandson, who is 9, plays organized baseball and enjoys it because he’s something I never was — good.

I should have used analytics when preparing to face him, but I didn’t have the time or the mathematical acumen to calculate release angle, spin rate or whatever statistic can help you gain an advantage over an opposing batter.

I was, however, able to determine the exit velocity of the balls my grandson hit: FAST!

Some of them were launched so far that they hit the roof of the house, rolled off and landed in the bushes, which I had to chop through to retrieve the ball without, I fervently hoped, disturbing a hornets’ nest.

Other shots sailed over my head, requiring me — also the infielder, outfielder and bat boy — to turn around, run like a wounded sloth after the ball, pick it up and throw it to the catcher, my younger grandson, who’s 6 and is the slugger’s brother.

The ball typically arrived about 10 feet short, the same distance wide and a good half-minute after the batter crossed the imaginary plate.

On one such throw, I felt something pop in my arm.

I felt like a major leaguer who is put on the injured list for flank tightness or toe tenderness. What’s next, a tweaked pinkie?

I didn’t do myself any favors by continuing to serve up gopher balls that I had to chase down and throw, tenderly, back to the catcher.

I was, of course, the losing pitcher. And I’ve been sent down to the minors, sore arm and all, by a team of minors.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima

"No Ignoring All My Snoring"

By Jerry Zezima

As a man who can’t stay awake for the 11 o’clock news, which isn’t worth watching anyway, I tire easily. Then I fall asleep. And I snore with enough force to wake up not only the dead, who sleep pretty soundly, but also my wife, who would like to kill me.

So I got a CPAP machine, which was supposed to cure my sleep apnea. Stupidly, which is how I do almost everything, I used it only a few times and put it in my closet.

After the machine sat there for several weeks, I had to return it to the diagnostics company. That’s because the insurance company, whose rates keep me awake at night, would no longer pay for a contraption that got more rest than I did.

I stopped using the sleep machine because — spoiler alert — I couldn’t sleep.

Also, I had to take off the mask that shot air up my nose if I needed to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. This happens so frequently that it should be called the Geezer 5K.

According to my doctors — primary care physician, cardiologist, cardiac surgeon and, of course, sleep specialist — the machine was good for my heart, an organ that works tirelessly and is kept going, in my case, with medication and red wine.

The machine also provided much-needed air to my brain, an irony not lost on me because I am, medically speaking, an airhead.

Realizing I had made a colossally dumb mistake, I called the sleep center for another CPAP machine. To get one, I had to participate in a second sleep study, which entailed staying overnight in a hospital.

So a technician could monitor my brain and cardiac activity, I was hooked up with more wires than the electrical grid of New Zealand.

The results were sent to Dr. Mohammad Amin, the specialist who ordered my first CPAP machine.

“The second time will be the charm,” he said. “But make sure you use it. Your wife will appreciate it. Wives are more sensitive to snoring than men.”

That statement was confirmed by Devin Moncayo, the respiratory technician who gave me my first CPAP machine.

“My mom was really tired of my dad’s snoring, so he got a machine a few years ago,” he said.

“How is it working out?” I asked.

“Great,” Devin replied. “They both sleep very well.”

“Do you see a lot of people like me who come back to get another machine because they stopped using it the first time?” I wondered.

“Not too many,” he said. “But I do see people who left their machine in a cab or forgot to bring it back from a trip.”

“Maybe they were sleepwalking,” I suggested.

Devin said the people at the diagnostics company aren’t sleeping on the job because they can monitor the operation of a CPAP machine.

“There’s a built-in modem that tells them if you are using it,” he said.

“If I don’t, the machine falls asleep, right?” I wondered.

“Yes,” said Devin. “And it doesn’t snore.”

He gave me a second machine along with a nasal pillow, which sends air into my nostrils, and a full mask, which covers my nose and mouth.

“Good luck this time,” he said. “I hope you and your wife sleep well.”

Neither Sue nor I got much rest the first night because I used the mask, a clear plastic face covering that was connected to the machine with a long tube. I looked like a deep-sea diver.

“It sounded like you were drowning,” Sue said the next morning.

That night, I used the nasal pillow.

“You didn’t snore at all,” she reported.

Since no noise is good news, I have used it ever since. And the extra air to my brain has helped me realize that the machine works like a dream.

Copyright 2026 by Jerry Zezima