By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I am fit to be tied. Or, I should say, unfit to be tied. That’s because neckties, the bane of baby boomer men who had to wear them if they wanted to dress for success (this actually had the opposite effect because food stains on ties exposed most of us as real slobs), are back in style among guys who are too young to know better.
According to a recent New York Times story, which ran under the headline "After Years of Being Out, the Necktie Is In," sales of ties to men 18 to 34 were up more than 13 percent from March 2006 to March 2007.
"Necktie sales may have foundered in the decade or more since the words ‘casual Friday’ entered men’s vocabularies," the story said, "but in the last year or two, stylish men in their 20s and early 30s have embraced the old four-in-hand as a style statement."
Maybe it’s because I have a fashion plate in my head, but I was appalled to read this. Granted, a necktie can make a man look respectable (unless, of course, he’s not wearing anything else), and I enjoy getting dressed up once in a while, except if I am going to the funeral of a guy who was strangled by a Windsor knot. But one of the reasons I became a writer, aside from the fact that I am spectacularly unqualified to do anything else, is that I wouldn’t have to wear a tie every day.
The new popularity of neckties is, according to the Times story, "a news flash that will either amuse or dismay men in their 40s and 50s, who, after years of wearing a tie to work, finally won the right to hang up the old choke chain."
I am dismayed because, let’s face it, neckties not only are the stupidest fashion items ever invented, they are the cause of most of the world’s problems. Think about it. What is a necktie? It is a strip of cloth that a man must knot around his neck, effectively cutting off the air supply to his brain. I believe I can speak for most men when I say that we can’t afford this.
Over the past several decades, women have made tremendous strides. They have achieved positions of power and authority. And that’s just in the home. Nonetheless, most of the key decisions in this world are still made by men. And that is why the world is so messed up. All of these horrible decisions are being made by oxygen-deprived men wearing neckties.
My solution: Either ban neckties or let women run the world. We men should be left alone to do what we do best, which is to drink beer and watch football.
Several years ago, I showed up at a fancy restaurant in New York City wearing a sport jacket and an open-collar shirt. The maitre d’ stopped me at the door and said, "You’re not wearing a tie."
"You’re lucky I wore pants," I replied.
He wasn’t amused. Instead, he fetched me a necktie that I had to wear in the restaurant. I got food stains all over it. I was going to ask if he had an extra pair of underwear, but I thought better of it.
Speaking of skivvies, there is good news on the fashion front. And it involves young men. Actually, it involves 8-year-old twin brothers from Columbus, Ohio. According to a recent story from The Associated Press, Jared and Justin Serovich have invented what is being billed as "wedgie-proof underwear."
Using rigged boxers and fabric fasteners to hold together some seams, the boys came up with the "Rip Away 1000."
"When the person tries to grab you – the bully or the person who tries to give you a wedgie – they just rip away," Justin explained.
I once interviewed Diane Peoples, an underwear inspector for Hanes, about wedgie prevention. She told me that snug leg holes are the key to avoiding this other bane of men’s existence. I am sure she would applaud the Serovich brothers for their revolutionary new design.
In fact, I predict that Jared and Justin will grow up to make good decisions that will benefit mankind and ultimately make the world a better place. As long, of course, as they don’t wear neckties.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, December 28, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
"Christmas Letter"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Since I am in the holiday spirit (and, having just consumed a mug of hot toddy, a glass of eggnog and a nip of cheer, the holiday spirits are in me), I have decided to follow in that great tradition of boring everyone silly by writing a Christmas letter.
That is why I am pleased as punch (which I also drank) to present the following chronicle of the Zezima family, which includes Jerry, the patriarch; Sue, the matriarch; Katie and Lauren, the childriarchs; and Katie’s husband, Dave, the son-in-lawiarch. Happy reading!
Dear friend(s):
It sure has been an exciting 2007 for the Zezimas! The most memorable event occurred when Jerry competed in the 10th annual USA Memory Championship in New York City. He remembers it well because he couldn’t remember anything during the competition. Not only was Jerry the sole returning player from the inaugural event in 1997, but at the advanced age of 53, he also was the oldest one this year. Maybe that’s why he finished 38th in a field of 41. He was further humiliated when his dismal performance was mentioned in a Wall Street Journal story. A national TV audience also got to see how pathetically Jerry did when he was interviewed on "CBS News Sunday Morning." Looking on the bright side, Jerry knows that pretty soon he will forget all about it.
Lizzie, the family dog, fared much better when she competed in a prestigious national event. She won a regional championship in the Petco Stars Search for America’s Most Talented Pet Contest. Lizzie blew away the field, which included two other dogs, when she beat Jerry in a game of blackjack; demonstrated her mathematical ability by counting treats; showed her skill as a ventriloquist (Jerry was the dummy); imitated a mime; and convinced the judges that she is the world’s kissingest canine by planting smooches all over Jerry’s face. A video of Lizzie’s dazzling performance was even posted on YouTube. Unfortunately, she didn’t win the national title, but at least she proved that she has more talent than Jerry.
And, it might be argued, more brains. Jerry proved that he is (cue the theme from "Jaws") dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb by going on a shark dive. This thrilling adventure occurred in a 12-foot-deep, 120,000-gallon tank at Atlantis Marine World Aquarium in Riverhead, N.Y., where Jerry had close encounters with six sand tiger sharks, the largest of which measured 7 feet long, weighed 300 pounds and was named Bertha. Fortunately, Jerry was locked in a cage so he wouldn’t end up as dinner for Bertha, who added insult to what could have been injury by finding Jerry extremely unappetizing.
Jerry had another thrilling adventure when he took a ride in a hot-air balloon and set the record for the shortest flight since the Wright brothers barely got off the ground in the first airplane more than a century ago. His ride lasted five minutes. In case you are wondering, the hot air was provided by propane tanks, not Jerry.
On the domestic front, Jerry and Sue helped Lauren move into a new apartment. While lugging several heavy items, Jerry banged his knee, which bled through his jeans, and sliced his finger, which had to be bandaged with one of Lauren’s Hello Kitty Band-Aids. He’s lucky he didn’t end up in the hospital.
That is more than Sue could say. A few weeks earlier, she went to the emergency room with a rash that covered practically her entire body. She had to wait almost three and a half hours for a doctor to tell her that she’d had an allergic reaction to a prescription medication and not, as originally thought, Jerry.
Jerry went to the emergency room recently after he got into a car accident that was caused by a guy who suddenly turned left in front of him at an intersection. The clueless idiot (the guy, not Jerry) went the wrong way down a one-way street because, as he explained later, his GPS told him to. Jerry was unhurt because the airbag deployed against his skull.
The highlight of the year was a trip to Mohegan Sun to celebrate Sue’s birthday and the birthday of Jerry’s mother, Rosina, which both fall on the same day; the 90th birthday of Jerry’s father, Jerry Sr.; Lauren’s birthday; Katie and Dave’s first anniversary; and the fact that Jerry wasn’t killed in the car accident. It was Jerry’s first visit to a casino and he had what appeared to be beginner’s luck by winning $11.50 on a slot machine. Then Sue pointed out that he had spent $25 and actually lost $13.50. Now Jerry doesn’t have any money for Christmas presents.
Well, that’s the news from here. We hope your family has also been blessed with unusual events and is in better shape than we are.
Merry Christmas with love and confusion from the Zezimas.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Since I am in the holiday spirit (and, having just consumed a mug of hot toddy, a glass of eggnog and a nip of cheer, the holiday spirits are in me), I have decided to follow in that great tradition of boring everyone silly by writing a Christmas letter.
That is why I am pleased as punch (which I also drank) to present the following chronicle of the Zezima family, which includes Jerry, the patriarch; Sue, the matriarch; Katie and Lauren, the childriarchs; and Katie’s husband, Dave, the son-in-lawiarch. Happy reading!
Dear friend(s):
It sure has been an exciting 2007 for the Zezimas! The most memorable event occurred when Jerry competed in the 10th annual USA Memory Championship in New York City. He remembers it well because he couldn’t remember anything during the competition. Not only was Jerry the sole returning player from the inaugural event in 1997, but at the advanced age of 53, he also was the oldest one this year. Maybe that’s why he finished 38th in a field of 41. He was further humiliated when his dismal performance was mentioned in a Wall Street Journal story. A national TV audience also got to see how pathetically Jerry did when he was interviewed on "CBS News Sunday Morning." Looking on the bright side, Jerry knows that pretty soon he will forget all about it.
Lizzie, the family dog, fared much better when she competed in a prestigious national event. She won a regional championship in the Petco Stars Search for America’s Most Talented Pet Contest. Lizzie blew away the field, which included two other dogs, when she beat Jerry in a game of blackjack; demonstrated her mathematical ability by counting treats; showed her skill as a ventriloquist (Jerry was the dummy); imitated a mime; and convinced the judges that she is the world’s kissingest canine by planting smooches all over Jerry’s face. A video of Lizzie’s dazzling performance was even posted on YouTube. Unfortunately, she didn’t win the national title, but at least she proved that she has more talent than Jerry.
And, it might be argued, more brains. Jerry proved that he is (cue the theme from "Jaws") dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb, dumb-dumb-dumb-dumb by going on a shark dive. This thrilling adventure occurred in a 12-foot-deep, 120,000-gallon tank at Atlantis Marine World Aquarium in Riverhead, N.Y., where Jerry had close encounters with six sand tiger sharks, the largest of which measured 7 feet long, weighed 300 pounds and was named Bertha. Fortunately, Jerry was locked in a cage so he wouldn’t end up as dinner for Bertha, who added insult to what could have been injury by finding Jerry extremely unappetizing.
Jerry had another thrilling adventure when he took a ride in a hot-air balloon and set the record for the shortest flight since the Wright brothers barely got off the ground in the first airplane more than a century ago. His ride lasted five minutes. In case you are wondering, the hot air was provided by propane tanks, not Jerry.
On the domestic front, Jerry and Sue helped Lauren move into a new apartment. While lugging several heavy items, Jerry banged his knee, which bled through his jeans, and sliced his finger, which had to be bandaged with one of Lauren’s Hello Kitty Band-Aids. He’s lucky he didn’t end up in the hospital.
That is more than Sue could say. A few weeks earlier, she went to the emergency room with a rash that covered practically her entire body. She had to wait almost three and a half hours for a doctor to tell her that she’d had an allergic reaction to a prescription medication and not, as originally thought, Jerry.
Jerry went to the emergency room recently after he got into a car accident that was caused by a guy who suddenly turned left in front of him at an intersection. The clueless idiot (the guy, not Jerry) went the wrong way down a one-way street because, as he explained later, his GPS told him to. Jerry was unhurt because the airbag deployed against his skull.
The highlight of the year was a trip to Mohegan Sun to celebrate Sue’s birthday and the birthday of Jerry’s mother, Rosina, which both fall on the same day; the 90th birthday of Jerry’s father, Jerry Sr.; Lauren’s birthday; Katie and Dave’s first anniversary; and the fact that Jerry wasn’t killed in the car accident. It was Jerry’s first visit to a casino and he had what appeared to be beginner’s luck by winning $11.50 on a slot machine. Then Sue pointed out that he had spent $25 and actually lost $13.50. Now Jerry doesn’t have any money for Christmas presents.
Well, that’s the news from here. We hope your family has also been blessed with unusual events and is in better shape than we are.
Merry Christmas with love and confusion from the Zezimas.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, November 30, 2007
"High Roller"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a man who is so bad at games of chance that I was once beaten in blackjack by my dog, I never thought I would be a high roller at a casino. That is why I had never been to a casino until I recently visited Mohegan Sun in Uncasville, where I defied the odds, despite being a bit odd myself, by hitting the jackpot on a slot machine and pocketing a grand total of $11.50.
My bonanza was the icing on the cake of my wife, Sue, and my mother, Rosina, whose shared birthday was being celebrated with a trip to the aforementioned gaming emporium. The party included my father, Jerry Sr.; my older daughter, Katie, and her husband, Dave; my younger daughter, Lauren; and my sisters, Elizabeth and Susan, all of whom had been there before but did not, in case the IRS is reading this, come home in a higher tax bracket.
The first thing I noticed about Mohegan Sun was that it is approximately the size of Rhode Island, which it is near and might invade after a planned expansion. The main differences between the two places are that the casino has: (a) a surplus and (b) a roof.
So it was not surprising that I did what a great many people (including some of those I was with) have been telling me to do for years: I got lost. I must have spent half the day wandering aimlessly, calling or receiving cell-phone calls from everyone except my father, who wisely doesn’t have a cell phone. They were all wondering where the hell I was. One time I said: "Rhode Island." It didn’t help.
Shortly after we arrived, I spotted a pleasant-looking, grandmotherly lady sitting at a slot machine. She looked like she knew what she was doing, so I went over and sat down next to her, hoping some of her expertise would translate into beginner’s luck for me.
"I just hit the jackpot for $750!" she announced excitedly before identifying herself as Frances Ruzzi of Poughkeepsie, N.Y. Not only was she indeed a pleasant grandmother, but she was celebrating her 86th birthday with her family, including her daughter, Donna Yantorno of Danbury, who noted that her mom is a casino veteran.
"We’re celebrating my wife’s and my mother’s birthday," I said. "Maybe it’s a good omen." Then I asked Frances, as she kindly allowed me to call her, about her secret of gambling success. She smiled and said, "I have no idea."
"Neither do I," I said. "It’s my first time in a casino."
"I bet you’ll win," Frances said. "Good luck."
I got up and, as visions of moneybags danced in my head, promptly got lost.
Eventually I met up with everyone for a late lunch, followed by a round of cocktails to toast the birthday girls. Then it was time to see if I could break the bank.
I accompanied Dave, the best gambler in the family, to a craps table and, as I watched him lose $80, found out how the game got its name. Figuring I would lose my shirt, not to mention my pants, in which I had only $25, I didn’t even bother playing and instead went over to the blackjack tables. Two things prevented me from getting into a game:
1. Most of the tables had a minimum opening wager of $25.
2. My dog, Lizzie, defeated me in a tournament we played at home one night a couple of years ago. It’s too humiliating to explain how she did it, but I will say that it’s a good thing we weren’t playing for money.
So I went over to a roulette wheel with Dave and won the first game before losing the next two. The only thing left to try was a slot machine. I found one next to Catherine Mitchell, a retiree from Warwick, R.I. Like me, she was making her casino debut. "I just lost $200," said the mother of 10 and grandmother of 13. "I’m never coming back."
This did not bode well. Neither did the fact that Sue and Lauren, whom I found at another bank of machines, hadn’t won anything. I put some money in the one-armed bandit and used one arm of my own to pull the lever. Then I pulled it again. And again. By the time I was done, I had won $11.50.
I took my ticket to the redemption window and handed it to a cashier named Dora. "Do you have a wheelbarrow so I can cart away all this money?" I asked. Dora didn’t even smile. She handed me two fives, a one and a couple of quarters. Then she put a sign on the counter that said: "NEXT WINDOW, PLEASE."
I felt like a high roller until Sue pointed out that I had spent $25 to make $11.50, which means I actually lost $13.50. I’d love to go back to the casino, but maybe I should quit while I’m behind.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a man who is so bad at games of chance that I was once beaten in blackjack by my dog, I never thought I would be a high roller at a casino. That is why I had never been to a casino until I recently visited Mohegan Sun in Uncasville, where I defied the odds, despite being a bit odd myself, by hitting the jackpot on a slot machine and pocketing a grand total of $11.50.
My bonanza was the icing on the cake of my wife, Sue, and my mother, Rosina, whose shared birthday was being celebrated with a trip to the aforementioned gaming emporium. The party included my father, Jerry Sr.; my older daughter, Katie, and her husband, Dave; my younger daughter, Lauren; and my sisters, Elizabeth and Susan, all of whom had been there before but did not, in case the IRS is reading this, come home in a higher tax bracket.
The first thing I noticed about Mohegan Sun was that it is approximately the size of Rhode Island, which it is near and might invade after a planned expansion. The main differences between the two places are that the casino has: (a) a surplus and (b) a roof.
So it was not surprising that I did what a great many people (including some of those I was with) have been telling me to do for years: I got lost. I must have spent half the day wandering aimlessly, calling or receiving cell-phone calls from everyone except my father, who wisely doesn’t have a cell phone. They were all wondering where the hell I was. One time I said: "Rhode Island." It didn’t help.
Shortly after we arrived, I spotted a pleasant-looking, grandmotherly lady sitting at a slot machine. She looked like she knew what she was doing, so I went over and sat down next to her, hoping some of her expertise would translate into beginner’s luck for me.
"I just hit the jackpot for $750!" she announced excitedly before identifying herself as Frances Ruzzi of Poughkeepsie, N.Y. Not only was she indeed a pleasant grandmother, but she was celebrating her 86th birthday with her family, including her daughter, Donna Yantorno of Danbury, who noted that her mom is a casino veteran.
"We’re celebrating my wife’s and my mother’s birthday," I said. "Maybe it’s a good omen." Then I asked Frances, as she kindly allowed me to call her, about her secret of gambling success. She smiled and said, "I have no idea."
"Neither do I," I said. "It’s my first time in a casino."
"I bet you’ll win," Frances said. "Good luck."
I got up and, as visions of moneybags danced in my head, promptly got lost.
Eventually I met up with everyone for a late lunch, followed by a round of cocktails to toast the birthday girls. Then it was time to see if I could break the bank.
I accompanied Dave, the best gambler in the family, to a craps table and, as I watched him lose $80, found out how the game got its name. Figuring I would lose my shirt, not to mention my pants, in which I had only $25, I didn’t even bother playing and instead went over to the blackjack tables. Two things prevented me from getting into a game:
1. Most of the tables had a minimum opening wager of $25.
2. My dog, Lizzie, defeated me in a tournament we played at home one night a couple of years ago. It’s too humiliating to explain how she did it, but I will say that it’s a good thing we weren’t playing for money.
So I went over to a roulette wheel with Dave and won the first game before losing the next two. The only thing left to try was a slot machine. I found one next to Catherine Mitchell, a retiree from Warwick, R.I. Like me, she was making her casino debut. "I just lost $200," said the mother of 10 and grandmother of 13. "I’m never coming back."
This did not bode well. Neither did the fact that Sue and Lauren, whom I found at another bank of machines, hadn’t won anything. I put some money in the one-armed bandit and used one arm of my own to pull the lever. Then I pulled it again. And again. By the time I was done, I had won $11.50.
I took my ticket to the redemption window and handed it to a cashier named Dora. "Do you have a wheelbarrow so I can cart away all this money?" I asked. Dora didn’t even smile. She handed me two fives, a one and a couple of quarters. Then she put a sign on the counter that said: "NEXT WINDOW, PLEASE."
I felt like a high roller until Sue pointed out that I had spent $25 to make $11.50, which means I actually lost $13.50. I’d love to go back to the casino, but maybe I should quit while I’m behind.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, November 16, 2007
"Bumper Cars"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the nearly four decades since I got my driver’s license, during which time I’ve compiled an excellent record of driving people crazy, I have learned that men are prohibited by law from asking for directions. That is why navigation systems were invented.
Unfortunately, there are some men for whom this sophisticated technology doesn’t work. I know because I recently ran into one.
At an intersection.
In my car.
I took this crash course in masculine geography when I crashed into a car that cut in front of me. As I was cruising through a green light, traveling well under the speed limit, the driver of the other car suddenly turned left because, as he explained later, his GPS told him to.
His GPS must have stood for Guy Positioning System, designed to help guys who don’t know where the hell they are going, but like most guys it had a poor sense of direction. I say so because it told the other driver, whom I will call "John" because that is his real name, to go the wrong way down a one-way street.
In that one terrible instant, my life flashed before my eyes. I am sorry to admit that it was pretty dull. Then, BAM! It was like playing bumper cars at an amusement park except that it wasn’t so amusing because my car was parked in the left lane with me inside, an airbag spewing acrid smoke directly into my nostrils after deploying against my head.
Later on, after family, friends and co-workers had been told of this little mishap, my two sisters showed great sympathy for my plight with words of comfort. "I always wondered what would happen if an airbag deployed against an airhead," Susan said. To which Elizabeth added, "You mean an airbag against a windbag."
Obviously nothing happened because I was able to walk away without a scratch. I wish I could say the same for my car, the right front side of which looked even worse than I did the morning after my older daughter’s wedding last year.
Amid the mayhem of honking horns and rubbernecking motorists, I looked around for the other car and found it across the street, sitting in front of a truck at the corner. The impact had spun the car around so it was, unlike its original direction, facing the right way.
"I’m sorry," John blurted after he rolled down the window. "It’s all my fault."
"Are you OK?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Are you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I don’t know what happened," John moaned. "I was looking at my GPS and it told me to turn left."
I helpfully pointed out to John that if he had been looking at the road instead of his GPS, he would have seen two things: (a) an arrow indicating he was going the wrong way and (b) me.
The crash occurred at 11:05 a.m. I am supposed to be to work by 11, but I was born more than three weeks past my due date and haven’t been on time for anything since. This all happened about half a mile from my office in Melville, N.Y., which also is home to the Long Island National Cemetery. This means Melville is not a one-hearse town, as I found out when I got back in my car and attempted to pull out of the left lane and onto the right shoulder. I couldn’t do so right away because there was a line of cars coming through. It was, incredibly, a funeral procession.
The guy driving the lead car, with the deceased in the back, rolled down his window and said, "Can I do anything for you?"
"Not today," I responded. "You’ll have to wait before you get any business from me."
He smiled, rolled up the window and drove through. What he didn’t know was that I was the late Jerry Zezima even before the accident.
When I went back to John’s car, I noticed it had Connecticut plates. I asked him where he was from. "North Haven," he replied.
"Howdy, neighbor!" I said. "I’m originally from Stamford."
"Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances," said John, who told me that even though he lives in Connecticut, he works for a company that is headquartered in Canada but that his car is registered to another company in New Jersey.
"No wonder you need a GPS," I said.
Pretty soon a cop showed up and took statements from me and John, who admitted he was at fault and said his insurance company would take care of everything. But I still had to call mine to report the accident. Thank God my wife, Sue, came to help me take care of everything.
Here’s a tip for anyone with a driver’s license: Never get into an accident because it is a pain, both figuratively and literally, in a lower portion of the anatomy. Even though my insurance company has been very good, I was at the accident scene for more than two hours, about half of which was spent on the phone talking with various claims people, not to mention the tow truck operator, who took my car to a garage where it is scheduled to undergo open-hood surgery. It has been estimated that there is a lot of damage but not enough to declare the vehicle totaled. Just my luck.
Speaking of a lower portion of the anatomy, mine was sore as a result of the accident, so that evening I went to the hospital as a precaution and had X-rays taken. Fortunately, I remembered my mother’s words of wisdom, "Always wear clean underwear in case you are in an accident," and was wearing a pair of freshly laundered "I (Heart) Dad" boxer shorts. The X-rays, by the way, were negative.
Now that I have been in an accident and lived to tell about it, I have my own words of wisdom for all you guys out there: Never trust a GPS. If you don’t know where you are going, break the law once in a while and ask for directions. Or, if at all possible, move over and let your wife drive.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the nearly four decades since I got my driver’s license, during which time I’ve compiled an excellent record of driving people crazy, I have learned that men are prohibited by law from asking for directions. That is why navigation systems were invented.
Unfortunately, there are some men for whom this sophisticated technology doesn’t work. I know because I recently ran into one.
At an intersection.
In my car.
I took this crash course in masculine geography when I crashed into a car that cut in front of me. As I was cruising through a green light, traveling well under the speed limit, the driver of the other car suddenly turned left because, as he explained later, his GPS told him to.
His GPS must have stood for Guy Positioning System, designed to help guys who don’t know where the hell they are going, but like most guys it had a poor sense of direction. I say so because it told the other driver, whom I will call "John" because that is his real name, to go the wrong way down a one-way street.
In that one terrible instant, my life flashed before my eyes. I am sorry to admit that it was pretty dull. Then, BAM! It was like playing bumper cars at an amusement park except that it wasn’t so amusing because my car was parked in the left lane with me inside, an airbag spewing acrid smoke directly into my nostrils after deploying against my head.
Later on, after family, friends and co-workers had been told of this little mishap, my two sisters showed great sympathy for my plight with words of comfort. "I always wondered what would happen if an airbag deployed against an airhead," Susan said. To which Elizabeth added, "You mean an airbag against a windbag."
Obviously nothing happened because I was able to walk away without a scratch. I wish I could say the same for my car, the right front side of which looked even worse than I did the morning after my older daughter’s wedding last year.
Amid the mayhem of honking horns and rubbernecking motorists, I looked around for the other car and found it across the street, sitting in front of a truck at the corner. The impact had spun the car around so it was, unlike its original direction, facing the right way.
"I’m sorry," John blurted after he rolled down the window. "It’s all my fault."
"Are you OK?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Are you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I don’t know what happened," John moaned. "I was looking at my GPS and it told me to turn left."
I helpfully pointed out to John that if he had been looking at the road instead of his GPS, he would have seen two things: (a) an arrow indicating he was going the wrong way and (b) me.
The crash occurred at 11:05 a.m. I am supposed to be to work by 11, but I was born more than three weeks past my due date and haven’t been on time for anything since. This all happened about half a mile from my office in Melville, N.Y., which also is home to the Long Island National Cemetery. This means Melville is not a one-hearse town, as I found out when I got back in my car and attempted to pull out of the left lane and onto the right shoulder. I couldn’t do so right away because there was a line of cars coming through. It was, incredibly, a funeral procession.
The guy driving the lead car, with the deceased in the back, rolled down his window and said, "Can I do anything for you?"
"Not today," I responded. "You’ll have to wait before you get any business from me."
He smiled, rolled up the window and drove through. What he didn’t know was that I was the late Jerry Zezima even before the accident.
When I went back to John’s car, I noticed it had Connecticut plates. I asked him where he was from. "North Haven," he replied.
"Howdy, neighbor!" I said. "I’m originally from Stamford."
"Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances," said John, who told me that even though he lives in Connecticut, he works for a company that is headquartered in Canada but that his car is registered to another company in New Jersey.
"No wonder you need a GPS," I said.
Pretty soon a cop showed up and took statements from me and John, who admitted he was at fault and said his insurance company would take care of everything. But I still had to call mine to report the accident. Thank God my wife, Sue, came to help me take care of everything.
Here’s a tip for anyone with a driver’s license: Never get into an accident because it is a pain, both figuratively and literally, in a lower portion of the anatomy. Even though my insurance company has been very good, I was at the accident scene for more than two hours, about half of which was spent on the phone talking with various claims people, not to mention the tow truck operator, who took my car to a garage where it is scheduled to undergo open-hood surgery. It has been estimated that there is a lot of damage but not enough to declare the vehicle totaled. Just my luck.
Speaking of a lower portion of the anatomy, mine was sore as a result of the accident, so that evening I went to the hospital as a precaution and had X-rays taken. Fortunately, I remembered my mother’s words of wisdom, "Always wear clean underwear in case you are in an accident," and was wearing a pair of freshly laundered "I (Heart) Dad" boxer shorts. The X-rays, by the way, were negative.
Now that I have been in an accident and lived to tell about it, I have my own words of wisdom for all you guys out there: Never trust a GPS. If you don’t know where you are going, break the law once in a while and ask for directions. Or, if at all possible, move over and let your wife drive.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, November 2, 2007
"A Healthy Outlook"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
There is good news and bad news on the medical front. The good news (for me) is that I probably will live to be 100. The bad news (for my family and friends) is that I probably will live to be 100.
I came to this healthy conclusion recently while attending an event at work called a "wellness fair," where I was diagnosed as being (at least from the neck down) well.
I was not surprised because my father, the original and by far the best Jerry Zezima, recently turned 90 and is still going strong. His only concessions to age are that he doesn’t drive anymore and he has stopped climbing ladders. That’s because he fell off of one earlier this year. He escaped with barely a scratch, much to the relief of my mother, Rosina, aka Foxy Roxy, who is almost 83 and is still going strong herself. In fact, they’re both sharper than I am, which admittedly isn’t saying much but is nonetheless impressive.
So I have genetics on my side. This has given me a great excuse – as if I needed one – to be lazy.
Three years ago, when I turned 50, I went for a checkup with Dr. Leonard Vinnick, a physician with a practice in Stamford. "You’re in great shape," he said. "What do you do for exercise?"
"I get up once a night to go to the bathroom," I answered.
Vinnick remembered this when I went back recently for my annual physical, which I again passed with the proverbial flying colors. "Still on the same exercise program?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I’m as active as a sedentary person could be."
My philosophy: Why start exercising now? It would only be a shock to my system and I’d drop dead. I figure I’m saving my own life by not doing anything. Besides, I drink red wine, which is essentially over-the-counter heart medicine. If my liver holds out, I’ll be fine.
Speaking of hearts, which are worth more than diamonds, except to my wife, Sue, who doesn’t play cards, I recently read about a study in which British scientists found that a bad marriage can damage your heart. Speaking of Sue, I am in a great marriage, which so far has lasted almost 30 years and, at this rate, will continue for at least another 40. This may not, unfortunately, be good for Sue’s heart.
Anyway, I had all of this going for me when I went to the wellness fair. First, I got a massage from Alan End, a massage therapist from Plainview, N.Y. "I’m not a dead end," said End, who added that he has heard all the jokes about his last name but that, "in the end, they don’t bother me."
"I guess they don’t rub you the wrong way," I said.
"I’ve heard all the massage jokes, too," End said as he helped me into a special chair in which I sat backward with my head in a circular opening so I was facing the floor. Then he went to work, deftly using his fingers, palms and elbows to invigorate the seldom-utilized muscles in my shoulders, ribs and back.
"You’re nice and loose," End said. "You have no stress."
"That’s because everything rolls off my back," I told him.
"I haven’t heard that one before," he noted, adding that I was in fantastic shape. "Keep doing what you’re doing," End said.
"I don’t do anything," I replied.
"Keep doing it," he suggested.
Next I got a posture and spinal exam from Dr. Michael Berlin, a holistic chiropractor and wellness coach who also is based in Plainview. After filling out a stress survey in which I indicated that I have no stress, I sat down with Berlin, who asked me to turn my head as far as I could both ways. I felt like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." He detected a little crick ("I’m a pain my own neck," I told him) but otherwise said I was in fine form.
So did Esther Morrissey, a health care enrollment specialist who examined me with a fat-loss monitor and said that my body mass was perfect. "That’s because most of the fat is in my head," I said.
All in all, the wellness fair went well.
Afterward, I said to Sue, "It looks like you’re stuck with me for another 40 years." She started having heart palpitations. I don’t know if it was love or stress. Maybe I should give her some of my red wine.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
There is good news and bad news on the medical front. The good news (for me) is that I probably will live to be 100. The bad news (for my family and friends) is that I probably will live to be 100.
I came to this healthy conclusion recently while attending an event at work called a "wellness fair," where I was diagnosed as being (at least from the neck down) well.
I was not surprised because my father, the original and by far the best Jerry Zezima, recently turned 90 and is still going strong. His only concessions to age are that he doesn’t drive anymore and he has stopped climbing ladders. That’s because he fell off of one earlier this year. He escaped with barely a scratch, much to the relief of my mother, Rosina, aka Foxy Roxy, who is almost 83 and is still going strong herself. In fact, they’re both sharper than I am, which admittedly isn’t saying much but is nonetheless impressive.
So I have genetics on my side. This has given me a great excuse – as if I needed one – to be lazy.
Three years ago, when I turned 50, I went for a checkup with Dr. Leonard Vinnick, a physician with a practice in Stamford. "You’re in great shape," he said. "What do you do for exercise?"
"I get up once a night to go to the bathroom," I answered.
Vinnick remembered this when I went back recently for my annual physical, which I again passed with the proverbial flying colors. "Still on the same exercise program?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I’m as active as a sedentary person could be."
My philosophy: Why start exercising now? It would only be a shock to my system and I’d drop dead. I figure I’m saving my own life by not doing anything. Besides, I drink red wine, which is essentially over-the-counter heart medicine. If my liver holds out, I’ll be fine.
Speaking of hearts, which are worth more than diamonds, except to my wife, Sue, who doesn’t play cards, I recently read about a study in which British scientists found that a bad marriage can damage your heart. Speaking of Sue, I am in a great marriage, which so far has lasted almost 30 years and, at this rate, will continue for at least another 40. This may not, unfortunately, be good for Sue’s heart.
Anyway, I had all of this going for me when I went to the wellness fair. First, I got a massage from Alan End, a massage therapist from Plainview, N.Y. "I’m not a dead end," said End, who added that he has heard all the jokes about his last name but that, "in the end, they don’t bother me."
"I guess they don’t rub you the wrong way," I said.
"I’ve heard all the massage jokes, too," End said as he helped me into a special chair in which I sat backward with my head in a circular opening so I was facing the floor. Then he went to work, deftly using his fingers, palms and elbows to invigorate the seldom-utilized muscles in my shoulders, ribs and back.
"You’re nice and loose," End said. "You have no stress."
"That’s because everything rolls off my back," I told him.
"I haven’t heard that one before," he noted, adding that I was in fantastic shape. "Keep doing what you’re doing," End said.
"I don’t do anything," I replied.
"Keep doing it," he suggested.
Next I got a posture and spinal exam from Dr. Michael Berlin, a holistic chiropractor and wellness coach who also is based in Plainview. After filling out a stress survey in which I indicated that I have no stress, I sat down with Berlin, who asked me to turn my head as far as I could both ways. I felt like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." He detected a little crick ("I’m a pain my own neck," I told him) but otherwise said I was in fine form.
So did Esther Morrissey, a health care enrollment specialist who examined me with a fat-loss monitor and said that my body mass was perfect. "That’s because most of the fat is in my head," I said.
All in all, the wellness fair went well.
Afterward, I said to Sue, "It looks like you’re stuck with me for another 40 years." She started having heart palpitations. I don’t know if it was love or stress. Maybe I should give her some of my red wine.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, October 19, 2007
"The Not-So-Great Pumpkin Carver"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the most hallowed of Halloween traditions – the one that makes mere mortals susceptible to vampires because it involves not fake blood but the real stuff – is the carving of the pumpkin.
When my two daughters were young, I would take my life in my hands by taking my knife in my hands and attempting to carve a pumpkin without either: (a) severing a major artery or (b) doing such a horrible job on the face that the girls would giggle and say, "That pumpkin looks just like Dad!"
These cherished memories came flooding back recently when I read a story in the 2007 edition of the Old Farmer’s Almanac about Michael Valladao, a jack-o’-lantern of all trades from San Jose, Calif. Under the headline "Carving Cues from a Pumpkin Pro," the story tells how "Farmer Mike" has become famous not only for growing a specimen of pumpkin known as the Atlantic Giant, which can weigh up to 1,000 pounds, but for being the official carver at the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival in Half Moon Bay, Calif.
"The whole concept here is to have fun," Farmer Mike said. "The only thing that you really need to carve a pumpkin is imagination."
It also helps, Farmer Mike added, to have tools. His favorite: a pocketknife. I’m not sure how you can carve a half-ton pumpkin with such a puny blade, unless you are a fanatic with lots of free time, in which case you probably shouldn’t have access to sharp implements anyway, but a paring knife or a steak knife also works.
Among Farmer Mike’s other tips: "Use a water-based marker to outline the face that you want to carve" and, of course, "Carve with care."
I hate to argue with Farmer Mike, especially since he is handy with knives, but I have more practical tips for carving a pumpkin. Here, as I recall from my days of performing reconstructive surgery on gourds, which made me, in my daughters’ eyes, out of my gourd, are the five things you need for a successful job:
1. A chain saw.
2. A gas mask.
3. A tourniquet.
4. A transfusion.
5. A priest.
Because your spouse is not likely to let you use a chain saw in the house, except maybe to slice meat loaf, you will have to settle for a steak knife. You will notice that the top of the pumpkin doesn’t come off easily. That’s because it is attached to the disgustingly pulpy interior mass, which smells bad enough to curl the wallpaper. Here is where the gas mask comes in handy.
Once you have scooped out the seeds, you should place them on a piece of newspaper (ideally, this column, which is about all it’s good for). Then you are required by federal law to knock the seeds all over the floor.
Now you are ready for the actual carving. See Nos. 3-5.
In a fit of nostalgia, my wife and I recently went pumpkin picking. The girls weren’t with us because they are all grown up and out of the house and wouldn’t want to relive the nightmare of being seen in a pumpkin patch with me.
Our journey took us to Lewin Farms in Wading River, N.Y. We were growing pumpkins in our yard (not Atlantic Giants, but another species, Long Island Midgets), but I mowed over the vines while cutting the grass.
So we picked a pair of perfect pumpkins and paid a pittance. Actually, it cost $7 for the healthy specimens, which weighed 9 pounds each. While wandering through the patch, my wife and I came upon a shoe that apparently belonged to someone who never made it out.
"We’ll send in a search party," said Bob Mudaro, who was manning the stand with Megan Donahue, whose family owns the third-generation farm.
When Mudaro mentioned that he has a 4-year-old daughter, I asked him for pumpkin-carving tips. "Let your wife do it," he said. "That’s what I did last night. My wife carved the pumpkin with our daughter and I watched." Mudaro held up his hands and added, "I still have all my fingers."
I guess it’s up to my wife to carve our pumpkin this year. Unless, of course, Farmer Mike wants to come over and do it.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the most hallowed of Halloween traditions – the one that makes mere mortals susceptible to vampires because it involves not fake blood but the real stuff – is the carving of the pumpkin.
When my two daughters were young, I would take my life in my hands by taking my knife in my hands and attempting to carve a pumpkin without either: (a) severing a major artery or (b) doing such a horrible job on the face that the girls would giggle and say, "That pumpkin looks just like Dad!"
These cherished memories came flooding back recently when I read a story in the 2007 edition of the Old Farmer’s Almanac about Michael Valladao, a jack-o’-lantern of all trades from San Jose, Calif. Under the headline "Carving Cues from a Pumpkin Pro," the story tells how "Farmer Mike" has become famous not only for growing a specimen of pumpkin known as the Atlantic Giant, which can weigh up to 1,000 pounds, but for being the official carver at the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival in Half Moon Bay, Calif.
"The whole concept here is to have fun," Farmer Mike said. "The only thing that you really need to carve a pumpkin is imagination."
It also helps, Farmer Mike added, to have tools. His favorite: a pocketknife. I’m not sure how you can carve a half-ton pumpkin with such a puny blade, unless you are a fanatic with lots of free time, in which case you probably shouldn’t have access to sharp implements anyway, but a paring knife or a steak knife also works.
Among Farmer Mike’s other tips: "Use a water-based marker to outline the face that you want to carve" and, of course, "Carve with care."
I hate to argue with Farmer Mike, especially since he is handy with knives, but I have more practical tips for carving a pumpkin. Here, as I recall from my days of performing reconstructive surgery on gourds, which made me, in my daughters’ eyes, out of my gourd, are the five things you need for a successful job:
1. A chain saw.
2. A gas mask.
3. A tourniquet.
4. A transfusion.
5. A priest.
Because your spouse is not likely to let you use a chain saw in the house, except maybe to slice meat loaf, you will have to settle for a steak knife. You will notice that the top of the pumpkin doesn’t come off easily. That’s because it is attached to the disgustingly pulpy interior mass, which smells bad enough to curl the wallpaper. Here is where the gas mask comes in handy.
Once you have scooped out the seeds, you should place them on a piece of newspaper (ideally, this column, which is about all it’s good for). Then you are required by federal law to knock the seeds all over the floor.
Now you are ready for the actual carving. See Nos. 3-5.
In a fit of nostalgia, my wife and I recently went pumpkin picking. The girls weren’t with us because they are all grown up and out of the house and wouldn’t want to relive the nightmare of being seen in a pumpkin patch with me.
Our journey took us to Lewin Farms in Wading River, N.Y. We were growing pumpkins in our yard (not Atlantic Giants, but another species, Long Island Midgets), but I mowed over the vines while cutting the grass.
So we picked a pair of perfect pumpkins and paid a pittance. Actually, it cost $7 for the healthy specimens, which weighed 9 pounds each. While wandering through the patch, my wife and I came upon a shoe that apparently belonged to someone who never made it out.
"We’ll send in a search party," said Bob Mudaro, who was manning the stand with Megan Donahue, whose family owns the third-generation farm.
When Mudaro mentioned that he has a 4-year-old daughter, I asked him for pumpkin-carving tips. "Let your wife do it," he said. "That’s what I did last night. My wife carved the pumpkin with our daughter and I watched." Mudaro held up his hands and added, "I still have all my fingers."
I guess it’s up to my wife to carve our pumpkin this year. Unless, of course, Farmer Mike wants to come over and do it.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, October 5, 2007
"Big Daddies"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached middle age, that wonderful stage of life between changing your kids’ diapers and needing them yourself, I have begun to grow a bit more reflective. This isn’t easy to take, especially in the morning, when my reflection in the bathroom mirror tells me that I am getting old.
The passage of time really hit home when I found out that the first guy in my circle of friends (at our age, it’s too difficult to form a trapezoid) became a grandfather.
My wife, Sue, and I went to college with Tim Lovelette, who with his wife, Jane, are now grandparents of Anna Grace Lovelette, daughter of Tim and Jane’s older son, Marshall, and his wife, Sara, if you are scoring at home.
Last year, our older daughter, Katie, married her husband, Dave, which made me the first person in our obtuse triangle of friends to be father of the bride. Now it is Tim’s turn because his and Jane’s daughter, Amy, is getting married next year to her fiancé, Mel, which will make him (Tim, not Mel) father of the bride.
This recently allowed Tim and me to give each other unsolicited advice, which, if we are smart, and there is ample evidence to the contrary, we won’t take.
The meeting of the minds, or what passed for them, since cocktails were involved, occurred when Sue and I visited Tim and Jane at their home on Cape Cod. Tim reminisced fondly about the moment when he found out he was a grandfather. "I demanded a paternity test for Marshall," he said. "I’m still not a grandfather. In the absence of the test, I’m not sure the whole thing is going to stick."
According to an official source (Jane), it will, so Tim picked the name he wants Anna, who is 5 months old, to call him when she learns to talk. His choice: Big Daddy. "Not for any other reason than that Jane will have to be known as Big Mama," said Tim, who acknowledged that he has to lose a few pounds for Amy’s wedding. Jane, a marathon runner, is anything but big.
Then, inevitably, the subject of changing diapers came up. Will Tim do it? "Not at all," he said firmly. "I’m world-famous for not performing my fatherly duties, so it’s advancing one generation."
What about bottle feeding? "I’ll bring a quart of liquor and a nipple," Tim said. "I’ll outdrink the baby."
And what words of wisdom did Tim give to Marshall? "Hide. Get out of the house. Pretend you have to go to work. Your qualities as a father will be pretty limited, so take up fishing, boating, get a second job if you have to."
Speaking of jobs, Marshall works for Tim at Lovelette Insurance, a third-generation agency on the Cape, and recently brought Anna to the office. "Every woman in the place had to hold her," Tim recalled. "There was zero production. It set business back three years in one trip. She’s the most expensive baby ever born."
Tim, of course, said all of this with tongue in cheek, which made him pretty hard to understand, and even though he thinks he’s better-looking than the baby (sorry, Tim, but no one else does), he’s thrilled to be a grandfather, which was obvious when Sue and I met Anna. She is, without question, the best-behaved baby in the world. She developed a regular sleeping pattern her second night home, although, Marshall said, "That first night was tough. I’ve been recovering ever since." A chip off the old block!
Also, Anna didn’t scream or cry when she saw me. In fact, she cooed and laughed and let me hold her while Marshall snapped a picture of us and e-mailed it to Katie, who drove out with Dave the next day and met Anna.
When, the question was asked, will Jerry be a grandfather? Immediate answer: Not just yet.
Besides, the next big event will be Amy and Mel’s wedding. "Your chief role as father of the bride," I informed Tim, "is to be like a bobblehead doll: Just keep nodding and sign everything that is put in front of you. Otherwise, stay the hell out of the way."
"I’ve already done my part," Tim said. "I’ve agreed to show up."
What more could you ask of two guys who not only love their growing families, but who have promised to be burdens to everyone in their old age? Then again, that’s what everyone says about us now.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached middle age, that wonderful stage of life between changing your kids’ diapers and needing them yourself, I have begun to grow a bit more reflective. This isn’t easy to take, especially in the morning, when my reflection in the bathroom mirror tells me that I am getting old.
The passage of time really hit home when I found out that the first guy in my circle of friends (at our age, it’s too difficult to form a trapezoid) became a grandfather.
My wife, Sue, and I went to college with Tim Lovelette, who with his wife, Jane, are now grandparents of Anna Grace Lovelette, daughter of Tim and Jane’s older son, Marshall, and his wife, Sara, if you are scoring at home.
Last year, our older daughter, Katie, married her husband, Dave, which made me the first person in our obtuse triangle of friends to be father of the bride. Now it is Tim’s turn because his and Jane’s daughter, Amy, is getting married next year to her fiancé, Mel, which will make him (Tim, not Mel) father of the bride.
This recently allowed Tim and me to give each other unsolicited advice, which, if we are smart, and there is ample evidence to the contrary, we won’t take.
The meeting of the minds, or what passed for them, since cocktails were involved, occurred when Sue and I visited Tim and Jane at their home on Cape Cod. Tim reminisced fondly about the moment when he found out he was a grandfather. "I demanded a paternity test for Marshall," he said. "I’m still not a grandfather. In the absence of the test, I’m not sure the whole thing is going to stick."
According to an official source (Jane), it will, so Tim picked the name he wants Anna, who is 5 months old, to call him when she learns to talk. His choice: Big Daddy. "Not for any other reason than that Jane will have to be known as Big Mama," said Tim, who acknowledged that he has to lose a few pounds for Amy’s wedding. Jane, a marathon runner, is anything but big.
Then, inevitably, the subject of changing diapers came up. Will Tim do it? "Not at all," he said firmly. "I’m world-famous for not performing my fatherly duties, so it’s advancing one generation."
What about bottle feeding? "I’ll bring a quart of liquor and a nipple," Tim said. "I’ll outdrink the baby."
And what words of wisdom did Tim give to Marshall? "Hide. Get out of the house. Pretend you have to go to work. Your qualities as a father will be pretty limited, so take up fishing, boating, get a second job if you have to."
Speaking of jobs, Marshall works for Tim at Lovelette Insurance, a third-generation agency on the Cape, and recently brought Anna to the office. "Every woman in the place had to hold her," Tim recalled. "There was zero production. It set business back three years in one trip. She’s the most expensive baby ever born."
Tim, of course, said all of this with tongue in cheek, which made him pretty hard to understand, and even though he thinks he’s better-looking than the baby (sorry, Tim, but no one else does), he’s thrilled to be a grandfather, which was obvious when Sue and I met Anna. She is, without question, the best-behaved baby in the world. She developed a regular sleeping pattern her second night home, although, Marshall said, "That first night was tough. I’ve been recovering ever since." A chip off the old block!
Also, Anna didn’t scream or cry when she saw me. In fact, she cooed and laughed and let me hold her while Marshall snapped a picture of us and e-mailed it to Katie, who drove out with Dave the next day and met Anna.
When, the question was asked, will Jerry be a grandfather? Immediate answer: Not just yet.
Besides, the next big event will be Amy and Mel’s wedding. "Your chief role as father of the bride," I informed Tim, "is to be like a bobblehead doll: Just keep nodding and sign everything that is put in front of you. Otherwise, stay the hell out of the way."
"I’ve already done my part," Tim said. "I’ve agreed to show up."
What more could you ask of two guys who not only love their growing families, but who have promised to be burdens to everyone in their old age? Then again, that’s what everyone says about us now.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
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