By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I have always been interested in current events except when it comes to electrical work. That’s because I am afraid a current will zap me in the event I tried to perform some mundane task like replacing a fuse, in which case I would either be eulogized with the words "ashes to ashes" or, even worse, get hit with a whopper of an electric bill.
So I was pleasantly surprised – but not shocked – when I recently passed a test from an electrician who showed me how to do simple repairs without burning the house down.
I required his services because I couldn’t answer this question: How many homeowners does it take to change a light bulb? Most people would say it takes only one – unless, of course, the homeowner is yours truly. Then I would need the help of a professional.
Not only couldn’t I change the bulb in one of the two lights outside the front door, but I couldn’t replace the fixture in the hallway or figure out how to rewire the microwave without ending up like charred meatloaf.
That’s why I called Shawn Krueger, owner of Luminaire Electric on Long Island, N.Y. Krueger came over for an estimate, quickly ascertained that I’m not the brightest guy on the circuit and said he would send over one of his best men, Jose Lucero, who not only would solve my problems but would give me a crash course in Light Bulb Changing 101.
At 8 a.m. the following Saturday, Lucero was at the front door, which I didn’t realize at first because the doorbell doesn’t work.
"Basically," Lucero said as he started to replace the fixture in the hallway, "electrical work isn’t that hard."
"It is for me," I told him. "Maybe I’m not wired right."
Lucero, who kindly ignored the remark, said that the first rule is to turn off the power where you’re working.
"I’m usually asleep at the switch, but even I know that," I replied. "It’s the rest of it that has me baffled."
I explained that I was actually able to change a light bulb in the fixture but couldn’t get the cover back on because the screw wouldn’t fully attach to the threaded stem, which was loose and couldn’t be tightened. This wasn’t surprising since the fixture was old and corroded (like me) and needed (unlike me, I hope) to be replaced.
This necessitated undoing the wires, which I figured would be my undoing.
"All you have to remember," Lucero said, "is that the white wire is neutral and the black one is for the power. In the middle is the ground."
"So we’ve reached a middle ground," I said.
Lucero also ignored this remark and – after turning off the power, of course – showed me how to disconnect the old wires and connect the ones in the new fixture, which my wife bought after I couldn’t get the cover back on the old one.
She also bought new outside lights. In one of the old ones, which also were corroded, the bulb had broken off and couldn’t be removed without either a screwdriver or a pair of pliers. Owing to my fear of being electrocuted, which would have made my hair stand on end even more than it does now, I let Lucero do it.
Then I got brave and asked if I could try to connect one of the new fixtures. "Sure," Lucero said. "Just make sure you attach the right wires."
It took a while – if I had charged myself by the hour, I couldn’t have afforded it – but I finally managed to get everything hooked up. Then came the test. I flicked the switch. The light Lucero changed went on. Mine didn’t.
"You didn’t attach the wires tightly enough," Lucero said when he examined my work, "but at least you connected the right ones."
Lucero, who is only 23 but already a seasoned pro, gave me a passing grade. I didn’t want to push my luck, so I let him fix the microwave by putting a new fuse in the fuse box.
I still may be a dim bulb, but now, at least, I know how to change one.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, March 6, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
"One for the Ages"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached 55, which means I am only 10 years from retirement, although at this rate I will be working posthumously, I realize how much I have in common with the highway speed limit: Nobody obeys either one of us.
Nonetheless, I have reason to be happy, not only because I am still alive (maybe I should get a second opinion), but because, according to AARP, I am officially eligible for senior discounts.
As a baby boomer who still acts like a baby even though the boom is over, I firmly believe that people my age deserve a price break. This belief is rooted in one unshakable truth: I’m cheap.
So I recently called Luci de Haan, a spokeswoman for AARP in New York City, to find out how much I could save.
"You can get discounts from hotels, airlines and companies that are licensees of AARP," de Haan told me. "You can also go to movie theaters with your AARP card. There’s not an official arrangement between smaller vendors and AARP, but you can try."
Shortly after my birthday, I went to a CVS pharmacy on Long Island, N.Y., to buy some toiletries. But when I put a can of shaving cream, a pack of razor blades and a stick of deodorant on the counter and asked if I could get a senior discount, cashier Christina Hendrickson said, "You tried this five years ago when you turned 50. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
"But I’m officially eligible," I pleaded.
"You could have one foot in the grave and you wouldn’t get a discount," said Hendrickson, who is in her 30s. "It’s against company policy."
I paid the full price, which came to $15.72, and went to Port Jeff Beverage Center to see if I could get a senior discount on a six-pack of beer.
"You tried this five years ago when you turned 50," said manager Frank Stoutenburg, echoing Hendrickson at CVS. "It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
Stoutenburg, who recently turned 50, said that when he got his first mailing from AARP, he threw it in the garbage. "I’m in serious denial," he acknowledged.
Owner Bruce Bezner, 52, said that age is relative. "I have a grandson who’s 6 and a son who’s 5," Bezner noted. He paused and added: "Different wives."
"Besides," Stoutenburg said, "55 is the new 35, so you wouldn’t qualify for a discount anyway. You’re way too young and way too good-looking. With the exception of a few more gray hairs, which make you appear distinguished, you look the same as you did when you turned 50."
That made me feel a little better, so I paid the full $10 for my beer and headed over to Charmed Salon & Spa to see if I could get a senior discount on a haircut.
"Sure, why not?" said owner Maria Vieira, who has been cutting my hair, both gray and brown, since I was in my 40s, which is the age group she is in, although, like me, she looks a lot younger.
Maria – we’re on a first-name basis – said she would charge me the regular price for a haircut, a very reasonable $17, but would throw in a free shampoo and conditioning treatment for an overall saving of 30 percent.
That sounded good to me, so I went in the back to be worked into a lather by an assistant shampoo specialist named Luz, who declined to give her age but hinted that she, too, might be considered a boomer. She also might be considered an angel because her Angel Wash treatment was heavenly.
Afterward, I got my hair cut by Maria, who pointed out that 55 is middle age because the average life expectancy is between 90 and 100. I don’t know if those figures are accurate, but since 55 is the new 35, they must be.
"When you turn 65," Maria promised, "I’ll clip your nose hairs for free."
I can’t wait! Until then, I’ll enjoy getting older. And even if I can’t get senior discounts anywhere else, it beats the alternative.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached 55, which means I am only 10 years from retirement, although at this rate I will be working posthumously, I realize how much I have in common with the highway speed limit: Nobody obeys either one of us.
Nonetheless, I have reason to be happy, not only because I am still alive (maybe I should get a second opinion), but because, according to AARP, I am officially eligible for senior discounts.
As a baby boomer who still acts like a baby even though the boom is over, I firmly believe that people my age deserve a price break. This belief is rooted in one unshakable truth: I’m cheap.
So I recently called Luci de Haan, a spokeswoman for AARP in New York City, to find out how much I could save.
"You can get discounts from hotels, airlines and companies that are licensees of AARP," de Haan told me. "You can also go to movie theaters with your AARP card. There’s not an official arrangement between smaller vendors and AARP, but you can try."
Shortly after my birthday, I went to a CVS pharmacy on Long Island, N.Y., to buy some toiletries. But when I put a can of shaving cream, a pack of razor blades and a stick of deodorant on the counter and asked if I could get a senior discount, cashier Christina Hendrickson said, "You tried this five years ago when you turned 50. It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
"But I’m officially eligible," I pleaded.
"You could have one foot in the grave and you wouldn’t get a discount," said Hendrickson, who is in her 30s. "It’s against company policy."
I paid the full price, which came to $15.72, and went to Port Jeff Beverage Center to see if I could get a senior discount on a six-pack of beer.
"You tried this five years ago when you turned 50," said manager Frank Stoutenburg, echoing Hendrickson at CVS. "It didn’t work then and it won’t work now."
Stoutenburg, who recently turned 50, said that when he got his first mailing from AARP, he threw it in the garbage. "I’m in serious denial," he acknowledged.
Owner Bruce Bezner, 52, said that age is relative. "I have a grandson who’s 6 and a son who’s 5," Bezner noted. He paused and added: "Different wives."
"Besides," Stoutenburg said, "55 is the new 35, so you wouldn’t qualify for a discount anyway. You’re way too young and way too good-looking. With the exception of a few more gray hairs, which make you appear distinguished, you look the same as you did when you turned 50."
That made me feel a little better, so I paid the full $10 for my beer and headed over to Charmed Salon & Spa to see if I could get a senior discount on a haircut.
"Sure, why not?" said owner Maria Vieira, who has been cutting my hair, both gray and brown, since I was in my 40s, which is the age group she is in, although, like me, she looks a lot younger.
Maria – we’re on a first-name basis – said she would charge me the regular price for a haircut, a very reasonable $17, but would throw in a free shampoo and conditioning treatment for an overall saving of 30 percent.
That sounded good to me, so I went in the back to be worked into a lather by an assistant shampoo specialist named Luz, who declined to give her age but hinted that she, too, might be considered a boomer. She also might be considered an angel because her Angel Wash treatment was heavenly.
Afterward, I got my hair cut by Maria, who pointed out that 55 is middle age because the average life expectancy is between 90 and 100. I don’t know if those figures are accurate, but since 55 is the new 35, they must be.
"When you turn 65," Maria promised, "I’ll clip your nose hairs for free."
I can’t wait! Until then, I’ll enjoy getting older. And even if I can’t get senior discounts anywhere else, it beats the alternative.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, February 6, 2009
"Million Problem Password"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the sad realizations of my life, which has been complicated beyond endurance by an electronic conspiracy that threatens what little is left of my sanity, is that I will never be a winner on my favorite game show, "Million Dollar Password." Even if you paid me a million dollars, I could never remember every password I need to continue my daily existence.
Like most people who are not legally dead, I have approximately 150 passwords for virtually every aspect of my life. I can’t keep track of them all. To make matters worse, some of them change regularly.
For example, every month I have to come up with a new password for my office computer. And I can’t use any of the previous dozen. I have used various combinations of my name, my wife’s name and our two daughters’ names, along with numbers (you need them, too) based on anniversaries, birthdays, shoe size, my decreasing IQ, anything I can think of. When I run out of possibilities, I do the same with the names of our dog and four cats. Once I even used an expletive. It worked!
Why, you may wonder, don’t I write all my passwords on a piece of paper? I am not glad you asked, but I’ll answer anyway. The reason is twofold: (a) I would forget where I put the piece of paper and (b) somebody else would find it and steal my identity, though why anyone would want it is beyond me. I don’t want it myself. Nonetheless, it would further complicate things.
Recently I became so flummoxed and desperate, which I may have to use as passwords, that I sought help from Tony Dottino, a management consultant who founded the USA Memory Championship, a national brain-teasing event that will be held March 7 in New York City (more info at usamemorychampionship.com).
I was in the inaugural competition in 1997 and finished 14th in a field of 18. I came back for the 10th anniversary two years ago and, as the oldest contestant at 53, fared even worse: 38th out of 41.
"I remember you," Dottino said when I called him. "You are not easy to forget. Unfortunately, passwords are, which is why most people can’t remember them."
Even Dottino, a memory expert, said he has trouble with passwords.
"They drive me nuts," he admitted. "The whole idea of having a password for everything is just brutal."
"How can I keep track of them all?" I asked.
"It’s almost impossible," Dottino said solemnly. "The worst are the ones that have both letters and numbers and a minimum of eight characters. They’re a royal pain, especially if you have to keep changing them. I must confess that for me at times, it’s hopeless."
If this password problem can baffle a mnemonic maven like Dottino, who could possibly help me? You guessed it: Regis Philbin, host of "Million Dollar Password."
"Jerry!" Regis exclaimed when he returned my call. "This is exactly why I am computer-free and cell-phone free! I live my life without wondering what my name is! Everything you have these days has a code or a password! Then you have to punch the stupid thing in! It’s ridiculous! It’s not worth it, Jerry! You’ve got to give it all up! Live a new life, Jerry! You’re joining my computer-free club! You’re an important guy, Jerry! You don’t need people knowing your password!"
Yes, it’s true: Regis Philbin has no passwords. He has simplified his life the way I and millions of other people wish we could simplify ours, but can’t.
Still, he did help me come up with a solution to my problem. From now on, I am going to use only one word, with a series of numbers starting with 1 and going, if necessary, to infinity, for every computer, telephone and bank account in my life.
The password is: "Regis."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the sad realizations of my life, which has been complicated beyond endurance by an electronic conspiracy that threatens what little is left of my sanity, is that I will never be a winner on my favorite game show, "Million Dollar Password." Even if you paid me a million dollars, I could never remember every password I need to continue my daily existence.
Like most people who are not legally dead, I have approximately 150 passwords for virtually every aspect of my life. I can’t keep track of them all. To make matters worse, some of them change regularly.
For example, every month I have to come up with a new password for my office computer. And I can’t use any of the previous dozen. I have used various combinations of my name, my wife’s name and our two daughters’ names, along with numbers (you need them, too) based on anniversaries, birthdays, shoe size, my decreasing IQ, anything I can think of. When I run out of possibilities, I do the same with the names of our dog and four cats. Once I even used an expletive. It worked!
Why, you may wonder, don’t I write all my passwords on a piece of paper? I am not glad you asked, but I’ll answer anyway. The reason is twofold: (a) I would forget where I put the piece of paper and (b) somebody else would find it and steal my identity, though why anyone would want it is beyond me. I don’t want it myself. Nonetheless, it would further complicate things.
Recently I became so flummoxed and desperate, which I may have to use as passwords, that I sought help from Tony Dottino, a management consultant who founded the USA Memory Championship, a national brain-teasing event that will be held March 7 in New York City (more info at usamemorychampionship.com).
I was in the inaugural competition in 1997 and finished 14th in a field of 18. I came back for the 10th anniversary two years ago and, as the oldest contestant at 53, fared even worse: 38th out of 41.
"I remember you," Dottino said when I called him. "You are not easy to forget. Unfortunately, passwords are, which is why most people can’t remember them."
Even Dottino, a memory expert, said he has trouble with passwords.
"They drive me nuts," he admitted. "The whole idea of having a password for everything is just brutal."
"How can I keep track of them all?" I asked.
"It’s almost impossible," Dottino said solemnly. "The worst are the ones that have both letters and numbers and a minimum of eight characters. They’re a royal pain, especially if you have to keep changing them. I must confess that for me at times, it’s hopeless."
If this password problem can baffle a mnemonic maven like Dottino, who could possibly help me? You guessed it: Regis Philbin, host of "Million Dollar Password."
"Jerry!" Regis exclaimed when he returned my call. "This is exactly why I am computer-free and cell-phone free! I live my life without wondering what my name is! Everything you have these days has a code or a password! Then you have to punch the stupid thing in! It’s ridiculous! It’s not worth it, Jerry! You’ve got to give it all up! Live a new life, Jerry! You’re joining my computer-free club! You’re an important guy, Jerry! You don’t need people knowing your password!"
Yes, it’s true: Regis Philbin has no passwords. He has simplified his life the way I and millions of other people wish we could simplify ours, but can’t.
Still, he did help me come up with a solution to my problem. From now on, I am going to use only one word, with a series of numbers starting with 1 and going, if necessary, to infinity, for every computer, telephone and bank account in my life.
The password is: "Regis."
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, January 23, 2009
"Family Guys"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Barack Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
Washington, D.C. 20500
Dear Mr. President:
Congratulations on your inauguration. It was a defining moment in American history, but you must realize that as you enter the White House, you will be faced with many challenges, not the least of which is the puppy you promised your two young daughters.
I also am the father of two daughters, Katie and Lauren. They’re all grown up now, but when they were 9 and 7, about the same ages as Malia and Sasha, my wife and I got them a cat named Ramona. In August, Ramona will turn 20. She’ll probably outlive me. Anyway, Ramona was the first in a menagerie that includes three other cats and a dog named Lizzie.
Lizzie is a mutt like us. We got her when Lauren was 12. A woman who lived near Lauren’s friend Holly was looking to give away a 6-week-old puppy and wanted to know if Lauren would take her. Initially I said no because we lived in a condo. Still, the woman told Lauren to take the dog overnight. If we didn’t want her, we could return her. If we did want her, she was ours.
Naturally, I fell in love with the little pup, so we decided to keep her. The next morning, however, the woman called to say that she wanted the dog back. Lauren started to cry, at which point I got on the phone. Words were exchanged, threats were made, a custody battle ensued. Finally, in an effort to be fair, and mature, and reasonable, I told the woman I had veto power.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"If you won’t let us keep the dog," I said firmly, "I am going to call my Uncle Vito."
And that, Mr. President, is how Lizzie became a member of our family. She’ll be 14 in July and she’s the sweetest creature God ever made. By the way, you can use the Uncle Vito line when dealing with Congress.
You must know, of course, that once you have fulfilled your campaign promise to Malia and Sasha, you will have to walk the dog. You may be the president, but you are a father first, and that will be one of your chief duties.
Another important job will be to make sure that Malia and Sasha clean their rooms. This will be a great challenge. I found that out when Katie and Lauren were young. And it doesn’t get any easier as they get older.
When Lauren was home from college one summer, her room was so messy that my wife called it a disaster area. That gave me an idea: I phoned the White House to see if Lauren’s room could officially be declared a disaster area so we’d be eligible for federal funds to clean it up. Your predecessor was in office at the time, but I also felt a kinship with him because he has two daughters about the same ages as Katie and Lauren.
I never spoke with the president, who had his own messes to deal with, but I did speak with Noelia Rodriguez, Mrs. Bush’s press secretary. When I asked if President Bush had ever declared Jenna and Barbara’s rooms disaster areas, she said, "That would be classified information."
Speaking of rooms, you will have to keep yours clean, too. You can’t be like me and leave your dirty underwear all over the floor – unless you want them to be news briefs. After all, it’s the White House, and your wife, Michelle, will want it to look good when she gives tours.
As for the kitchen, you might want to find out what’s in your cabinets after you fill your Cabinet. Wives get miffed when their husbands don’t know where things are.
And don’t worry about unpacking everything. My wife, Sue, and I have been in our house for almost 11 years and I still haven’t unpacked some of the boxes in the garage. The longest you’ll be in the White House is eight years, so if Michelle gives you grief about this, tell her to call Sue so they can commiserate.
Can we guys do better when it comes to domestic policy? To borrow a familiar phrase: Yes, we can.
Well, Mr. President, from one family man to another, that’s all the advice I have for you. Good luck settling into your new home, give my best to your family and don’t forget to walk the dog.
Sincerely,
Jerry Zezima
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Barack Obama
The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Ave.
Washington, D.C. 20500
Dear Mr. President:
Congratulations on your inauguration. It was a defining moment in American history, but you must realize that as you enter the White House, you will be faced with many challenges, not the least of which is the puppy you promised your two young daughters.
I also am the father of two daughters, Katie and Lauren. They’re all grown up now, but when they were 9 and 7, about the same ages as Malia and Sasha, my wife and I got them a cat named Ramona. In August, Ramona will turn 20. She’ll probably outlive me. Anyway, Ramona was the first in a menagerie that includes three other cats and a dog named Lizzie.
Lizzie is a mutt like us. We got her when Lauren was 12. A woman who lived near Lauren’s friend Holly was looking to give away a 6-week-old puppy and wanted to know if Lauren would take her. Initially I said no because we lived in a condo. Still, the woman told Lauren to take the dog overnight. If we didn’t want her, we could return her. If we did want her, she was ours.
Naturally, I fell in love with the little pup, so we decided to keep her. The next morning, however, the woman called to say that she wanted the dog back. Lauren started to cry, at which point I got on the phone. Words were exchanged, threats were made, a custody battle ensued. Finally, in an effort to be fair, and mature, and reasonable, I told the woman I had veto power.
"What do you mean?" she asked.
"If you won’t let us keep the dog," I said firmly, "I am going to call my Uncle Vito."
And that, Mr. President, is how Lizzie became a member of our family. She’ll be 14 in July and she’s the sweetest creature God ever made. By the way, you can use the Uncle Vito line when dealing with Congress.
You must know, of course, that once you have fulfilled your campaign promise to Malia and Sasha, you will have to walk the dog. You may be the president, but you are a father first, and that will be one of your chief duties.
Another important job will be to make sure that Malia and Sasha clean their rooms. This will be a great challenge. I found that out when Katie and Lauren were young. And it doesn’t get any easier as they get older.
When Lauren was home from college one summer, her room was so messy that my wife called it a disaster area. That gave me an idea: I phoned the White House to see if Lauren’s room could officially be declared a disaster area so we’d be eligible for federal funds to clean it up. Your predecessor was in office at the time, but I also felt a kinship with him because he has two daughters about the same ages as Katie and Lauren.
I never spoke with the president, who had his own messes to deal with, but I did speak with Noelia Rodriguez, Mrs. Bush’s press secretary. When I asked if President Bush had ever declared Jenna and Barbara’s rooms disaster areas, she said, "That would be classified information."
Speaking of rooms, you will have to keep yours clean, too. You can’t be like me and leave your dirty underwear all over the floor – unless you want them to be news briefs. After all, it’s the White House, and your wife, Michelle, will want it to look good when she gives tours.
As for the kitchen, you might want to find out what’s in your cabinets after you fill your Cabinet. Wives get miffed when their husbands don’t know where things are.
And don’t worry about unpacking everything. My wife, Sue, and I have been in our house for almost 11 years and I still haven’t unpacked some of the boxes in the garage. The longest you’ll be in the White House is eight years, so if Michelle gives you grief about this, tell her to call Sue so they can commiserate.
Can we guys do better when it comes to domestic policy? To borrow a familiar phrase: Yes, we can.
Well, Mr. President, from one family man to another, that’s all the advice I have for you. Good luck settling into your new home, give my best to your family and don’t forget to walk the dog.
Sincerely,
Jerry Zezima
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, January 9, 2009
"Withering Heights"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the things I discovered when I bought my house is that being a homeowner is the height of folly. This was frighteningly evident the first time I went up on the roof to clean the gutters and discovered that I am petrified of heights.
It doesn’t help that I live in the Mount Everest of houses. To the untrained eye (I have two, so the house seems twice as high), it’s a two-story Colonial, but for me that’s high enough. All it took was one climb to realize I was over my head.
That’s why I recently called in a specialist to help me get over my acrophobia, a Greek word meaning "Don’t look down!" His name is Rob Disalvo. He’s not a shrink (imagine bringing a couch up there) but a roofer I had hired to fix a leak around the skylight above the family room.
Originally, my wife wanted me to go up on the roof to see if I could solve the problem. Even though the skylight is above the first-floor addition, only about 10 feet off the ground, I hate being up there. I am afraid I will slip, fly off the roof, do a triple somersault that would win me a gold medal in the Olympics and land on my head, in which case I wouldn’t get hurt. But it would be pretty embarrassing.
So you can imagine how I felt when I had to go up on the roof above the second floor, where I could practically see passengers with window seats on passing airplanes. Instead of getting used to being up there, I was more frightened every year, until I finally got smart (or, at least, less stupid) and bought gutter guards.
When my pathetic efforts to fix the skylight failed, I called Disalvo, who owns RGI Construction in Miller Place, N.Y. He came with his ace assistants, Brian Lavoie and Brian Hurst.
"We’re going to cure you of your fear of heights," Disalvo promised.
"Or die trying," Lavoie added.
"Who’s your next of kin?" Hurst asked.
"Very funny," I muttered as I slowly climbed a ladder that Lavoie held. When I got up to the low part of the roof, Disalvo explained what had to be done to the skylight. Then he said, "It’s not so bad up here, is it?"
"I guess not," I replied with a weak smile.
"Good," he said. "Now we’re going up to the highest part of the house."
This entailed climbing up to another low roof above the kitchen and the garage and, from there, making the last climb to the summit. It took me approximately as long as it would take a kindergartner to read "War and Peace."
When I was finally up there, I swore I could see the Great Wall of China, though it may just have been the fence surrounding my yard.
"We’re only 24 feet off the ground," said Disalvo, who had taken measurements.
"That’s 23 feet higher than I would like," I responded nervously.
To allay my fears, Disalvo and the two Brians told me stories of rooftop adventures, including the one about a co-worker who fell through a roof and climbed back up before anyone had noticed. Disalvo, 38, said he once walked off the back of a roof. "Accidentally," he noted. Hurst, 32, and Lavoie, 23, have had minor mishaps, too, but they haven’t been hurt because they’re careful and they use safety equipment.
"I actually like heights," said Lavoie. "There’s nobody to bother you up here."
"Except Rob," Hurst pointed out.
"See what I have to put up with?" Disalvo said.
It was great putting up with all three of them, not just because they did a good job on the skylight, but because they really did lessen my fear of heights, mainly by helping me climb down.
Now that I am back on terra firma – and the firmer the terra, the better – I can honestly say that it was one of the high points of my life. And if my wife ever wants me to go back up there, she can call the roofers.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the things I discovered when I bought my house is that being a homeowner is the height of folly. This was frighteningly evident the first time I went up on the roof to clean the gutters and discovered that I am petrified of heights.
It doesn’t help that I live in the Mount Everest of houses. To the untrained eye (I have two, so the house seems twice as high), it’s a two-story Colonial, but for me that’s high enough. All it took was one climb to realize I was over my head.
That’s why I recently called in a specialist to help me get over my acrophobia, a Greek word meaning "Don’t look down!" His name is Rob Disalvo. He’s not a shrink (imagine bringing a couch up there) but a roofer I had hired to fix a leak around the skylight above the family room.
Originally, my wife wanted me to go up on the roof to see if I could solve the problem. Even though the skylight is above the first-floor addition, only about 10 feet off the ground, I hate being up there. I am afraid I will slip, fly off the roof, do a triple somersault that would win me a gold medal in the Olympics and land on my head, in which case I wouldn’t get hurt. But it would be pretty embarrassing.
So you can imagine how I felt when I had to go up on the roof above the second floor, where I could practically see passengers with window seats on passing airplanes. Instead of getting used to being up there, I was more frightened every year, until I finally got smart (or, at least, less stupid) and bought gutter guards.
When my pathetic efforts to fix the skylight failed, I called Disalvo, who owns RGI Construction in Miller Place, N.Y. He came with his ace assistants, Brian Lavoie and Brian Hurst.
"We’re going to cure you of your fear of heights," Disalvo promised.
"Or die trying," Lavoie added.
"Who’s your next of kin?" Hurst asked.
"Very funny," I muttered as I slowly climbed a ladder that Lavoie held. When I got up to the low part of the roof, Disalvo explained what had to be done to the skylight. Then he said, "It’s not so bad up here, is it?"
"I guess not," I replied with a weak smile.
"Good," he said. "Now we’re going up to the highest part of the house."
This entailed climbing up to another low roof above the kitchen and the garage and, from there, making the last climb to the summit. It took me approximately as long as it would take a kindergartner to read "War and Peace."
When I was finally up there, I swore I could see the Great Wall of China, though it may just have been the fence surrounding my yard.
"We’re only 24 feet off the ground," said Disalvo, who had taken measurements.
"That’s 23 feet higher than I would like," I responded nervously.
To allay my fears, Disalvo and the two Brians told me stories of rooftop adventures, including the one about a co-worker who fell through a roof and climbed back up before anyone had noticed. Disalvo, 38, said he once walked off the back of a roof. "Accidentally," he noted. Hurst, 32, and Lavoie, 23, have had minor mishaps, too, but they haven’t been hurt because they’re careful and they use safety equipment.
"I actually like heights," said Lavoie. "There’s nobody to bother you up here."
"Except Rob," Hurst pointed out.
"See what I have to put up with?" Disalvo said.
It was great putting up with all three of them, not just because they did a good job on the skylight, but because they really did lessen my fear of heights, mainly by helping me climb down.
Now that I am back on terra firma – and the firmer the terra, the better – I can honestly say that it was one of the high points of my life. And if my wife ever wants me to go back up there, she can call the roofers.
Copyright 2009 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, December 26, 2008
"Crime Is Not On Their Side"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the criminal justice system, there are two separate but equally important groups: the attorneys, who prosecute or defend people accused of crimes, and the crooks themselves, some of whom are really stupid. These are their stories.
I got them from Michael D. O’Donohoe, commissioner of jurors in Suffolk County, N.Y., where I live. I met O’Donohoe in his office a few weeks ago to find out why I wasn’t selected to be on a case after receiving a summons for jury duty. After regaling me with funny juror stories, O’Donohoe said that if I wanted to make another appointment, he would tell me about some of the dimwits who have gone to court in Suffolk County.
It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, so I recently went back to see O’Donohoe for a follow-up. All of his stories are true. The names have not been used to protect the guilty.
"My favorite story involved a guy who was on trial for attempted murder," O’Donohoe told me. "The detective on the case was called to the stand and the prosecutor asked him what happened. The detective said the victim appeared to have been shot three times. The defendant, who had pleaded not guilty, turned to his attorney and, in a loud voice, said, ‘He’s lying. I only shot the guy twice.’ The attorney said, ‘Will you shut up!’ But it was too late. His client was convicted."
What did the defendant in, aside from blatant stupidity, O’Donohoe said, was that he actually did shoot the victim twice, but because of an exit wound, there were three bullet holes.
"I think the defendant had a hole in his head," O’Donohoe said.
So, apparently, did the guy who stole a car so he wouldn’t be late for court on a charge of grand auto theft.
"He pulled into the courthouse parking lot with a stolen vehicle," O’Donohoe recalled. "A check was run on the plates and it showed that the car had been reported stolen. Now this guy had stolen the car a couple of days earlier. If he had stolen it a couple of hours before he was due in court, it wouldn’t have shown up on the report yet. So when he went in front of the judge on a charge of grand auto theft, for another car he had stolen, the judge asked him why he had stolen this one. The guy said, ‘I didn’t want to be late for court.’ He was taken away in handcuffs." O’Donohoe chuckled and added, "You can’t make this stuff up."
Another strange but true case involved a thief who ought to consider another line of work.
"This guy was charged with petty larceny," O’Donohoe said. "The assistant district attorney saw the police report and asked him why he stole the merchandise. Instead of saying he was needy or it was for his family or something like that, the guy said, ‘I always steal things because I never get caught.’ He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer."
Neither was the idiot who tried to pay his bail with the money he had used to bail himself out a couple of days earlier.
"I was down in arraignments when this guy was brought before a judge," O’Donohoe remembered. "He didn’t have an attorney, so he was assigned one. The guy was charged with disorderly conduct, I think, and his attorney pleaded not guilty for him. The judge set bail at $250. Then the guy turned to his attorney and whispered something. The attorney told the judge that his client had already paid the $250. The judge said it was impossible since he had just set bail a moment ago. The attorney said his client wanted to know if he could use the $250 he paid for his bail two days before on another charge. The judge said, ‘No, you can’t use old bail money,’ and then doubled the guy’s bail to $500, which of course he couldn’t pay, so he went to jail."
O’Donohoe said that while criminal stupidity certainly isn’t limited to Suffolk County, he has enough crazy stories for a TV show.
"If the producers of ‘Law & Order’ want some funny storylines," O’Donohoe said, "they ought to come here."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the criminal justice system, there are two separate but equally important groups: the attorneys, who prosecute or defend people accused of crimes, and the crooks themselves, some of whom are really stupid. These are their stories.
I got them from Michael D. O’Donohoe, commissioner of jurors in Suffolk County, N.Y., where I live. I met O’Donohoe in his office a few weeks ago to find out why I wasn’t selected to be on a case after receiving a summons for jury duty. After regaling me with funny juror stories, O’Donohoe said that if I wanted to make another appointment, he would tell me about some of the dimwits who have gone to court in Suffolk County.
It was an offer I couldn’t refuse, so I recently went back to see O’Donohoe for a follow-up. All of his stories are true. The names have not been used to protect the guilty.
"My favorite story involved a guy who was on trial for attempted murder," O’Donohoe told me. "The detective on the case was called to the stand and the prosecutor asked him what happened. The detective said the victim appeared to have been shot three times. The defendant, who had pleaded not guilty, turned to his attorney and, in a loud voice, said, ‘He’s lying. I only shot the guy twice.’ The attorney said, ‘Will you shut up!’ But it was too late. His client was convicted."
What did the defendant in, aside from blatant stupidity, O’Donohoe said, was that he actually did shoot the victim twice, but because of an exit wound, there were three bullet holes.
"I think the defendant had a hole in his head," O’Donohoe said.
So, apparently, did the guy who stole a car so he wouldn’t be late for court on a charge of grand auto theft.
"He pulled into the courthouse parking lot with a stolen vehicle," O’Donohoe recalled. "A check was run on the plates and it showed that the car had been reported stolen. Now this guy had stolen the car a couple of days earlier. If he had stolen it a couple of hours before he was due in court, it wouldn’t have shown up on the report yet. So when he went in front of the judge on a charge of grand auto theft, for another car he had stolen, the judge asked him why he had stolen this one. The guy said, ‘I didn’t want to be late for court.’ He was taken away in handcuffs." O’Donohoe chuckled and added, "You can’t make this stuff up."
Another strange but true case involved a thief who ought to consider another line of work.
"This guy was charged with petty larceny," O’Donohoe said. "The assistant district attorney saw the police report and asked him why he stole the merchandise. Instead of saying he was needy or it was for his family or something like that, the guy said, ‘I always steal things because I never get caught.’ He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer."
Neither was the idiot who tried to pay his bail with the money he had used to bail himself out a couple of days earlier.
"I was down in arraignments when this guy was brought before a judge," O’Donohoe remembered. "He didn’t have an attorney, so he was assigned one. The guy was charged with disorderly conduct, I think, and his attorney pleaded not guilty for him. The judge set bail at $250. Then the guy turned to his attorney and whispered something. The attorney told the judge that his client had already paid the $250. The judge said it was impossible since he had just set bail a moment ago. The attorney said his client wanted to know if he could use the $250 he paid for his bail two days before on another charge. The judge said, ‘No, you can’t use old bail money,’ and then doubled the guy’s bail to $500, which of course he couldn’t pay, so he went to jail."
O’Donohoe said that while criminal stupidity certainly isn’t limited to Suffolk County, he has enough crazy stories for a TV show.
"If the producers of ‘Law & Order’ want some funny storylines," O’Donohoe said, "they ought to come here."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, December 12, 2008
"Christmas Letter 2008"
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 once again 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 2008 for the Zezimas! The highlight of the year was Jerry and Sue’s 30th wedding anniversary, which the happy couple celebrated with a trip to Barbados, their first vacation alone, to a place with postcards and palm trees, since their honeymoon in Hawaii. Jerry almost ensured that there wouldn’t be a 31st anniversary when he took a surfing lesson. Instead of "hanging 10," he couldn’t even hang one. In fact, he almost hanged himself on the tether that connected his foot to the surfboard, which caught a wave on its own and hit him in the head. Naturally, Jerry wasn’t hurt, but he was washed up.
Still, it was a memorable week that would have been even more memorable if it weren’t for all those tropical drinks. A candlelight dinner on the beach, only a few yards from Jerry’s surfing misadventure, brought the trip to a romantic (and, in Jerry’s case, gluttonous) conclusion.
Speaking of anniversaries, Jerry and Sue marked 10 years in their dream house, which gave Jerry nightmares when he tried to power wash it. Unfortunately, the rented power washer didn’t work, so Jerry had to return the stupid contraption, go back home, get a scrub brush and do the two-story Colonial by hand. It took three days. When he had finally finished, Jerry was cleaner than the house.
At least a tree didn’t fall on it, which is what happened to the house next door when a large oak in Jerry and Sue’s yard collapsed and landed on their neighbors’ garage. Nobody was hurt, thank God, who was to blame for the incident. But since God can’t be sued, insurance covered the damage.
Because Jerry took a vow of poverty when he went into journalism, the money got him thinking about a different career path, so he tried his hand at other jobs, including modeling. Yes, he was the model at a women’s jewelry show that was hosted by his sister Susan. The ladies who lunch loved Jerry, who is out to lunch, which may explain why he also was an apprentice dog groomer. He took the family pooch, Lizzie, for a day of beauty and ended up watching the fur fly when he assisted in giving her the royal treatment.
Speaking of Lizzie, she tore her anterior cruciate ligament (or, in sports terms, ACL) when she jumped out of the car at Jerry’s parents’ house right after Labor Day. At first the vet thought Lizzie would need surgery, but she has recovered nicely and is back in playing shape, which is more than can be said for New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, who tore his ACL around the same time and is out for the season. Wimp.
Jerry also was a barista for a day at the Starbucks store Lauren used to manage. Although Jerry’s coffee wasn’t bad enough to run the company into the grounds, Lauren subsequently got a new job with Apple. She also got a new car. Jerry, of course, got roped into being the co-signer.
Getting back to dogs and injuries, Lauren tore the tendons in her foot when her dog, Maggie, pulled her down the stairs outside her apartment. The mishap put Lauren on crutches and prevented her from attending the wedding of a family friend on Cape Cod. Lauren now thinks Maggie should go to obedience school.
Katie and Dave celebrated their second anniversary by going out to dinner. Over the summer, Katie’s bike was stolen by some idiot who left behind her helmet, probably because it wouldn’t do much good anyhow. In September, Katie ran in a 210-mile relay race, after which she knew the thrill of victory and the agony of the feet. Dave, being a good husband, provided moral support and, more important, beer.
Last but certainly least, Jerry got braces. You really can’t see them, so he won’t be the star of a TV show called "Ugly Jerry," but with the way things are going, the story of the Zezima family will end up being a sitcom.
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 2008 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 once again 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 2008 for the Zezimas! The highlight of the year was Jerry and Sue’s 30th wedding anniversary, which the happy couple celebrated with a trip to Barbados, their first vacation alone, to a place with postcards and palm trees, since their honeymoon in Hawaii. Jerry almost ensured that there wouldn’t be a 31st anniversary when he took a surfing lesson. Instead of "hanging 10," he couldn’t even hang one. In fact, he almost hanged himself on the tether that connected his foot to the surfboard, which caught a wave on its own and hit him in the head. Naturally, Jerry wasn’t hurt, but he was washed up.
Still, it was a memorable week that would have been even more memorable if it weren’t for all those tropical drinks. A candlelight dinner on the beach, only a few yards from Jerry’s surfing misadventure, brought the trip to a romantic (and, in Jerry’s case, gluttonous) conclusion.
Speaking of anniversaries, Jerry and Sue marked 10 years in their dream house, which gave Jerry nightmares when he tried to power wash it. Unfortunately, the rented power washer didn’t work, so Jerry had to return the stupid contraption, go back home, get a scrub brush and do the two-story Colonial by hand. It took three days. When he had finally finished, Jerry was cleaner than the house.
At least a tree didn’t fall on it, which is what happened to the house next door when a large oak in Jerry and Sue’s yard collapsed and landed on their neighbors’ garage. Nobody was hurt, thank God, who was to blame for the incident. But since God can’t be sued, insurance covered the damage.
Because Jerry took a vow of poverty when he went into journalism, the money got him thinking about a different career path, so he tried his hand at other jobs, including modeling. Yes, he was the model at a women’s jewelry show that was hosted by his sister Susan. The ladies who lunch loved Jerry, who is out to lunch, which may explain why he also was an apprentice dog groomer. He took the family pooch, Lizzie, for a day of beauty and ended up watching the fur fly when he assisted in giving her the royal treatment.
Speaking of Lizzie, she tore her anterior cruciate ligament (or, in sports terms, ACL) when she jumped out of the car at Jerry’s parents’ house right after Labor Day. At first the vet thought Lizzie would need surgery, but she has recovered nicely and is back in playing shape, which is more than can be said for New England Patriots quarterback Tom Brady, who tore his ACL around the same time and is out for the season. Wimp.
Jerry also was a barista for a day at the Starbucks store Lauren used to manage. Although Jerry’s coffee wasn’t bad enough to run the company into the grounds, Lauren subsequently got a new job with Apple. She also got a new car. Jerry, of course, got roped into being the co-signer.
Getting back to dogs and injuries, Lauren tore the tendons in her foot when her dog, Maggie, pulled her down the stairs outside her apartment. The mishap put Lauren on crutches and prevented her from attending the wedding of a family friend on Cape Cod. Lauren now thinks Maggie should go to obedience school.
Katie and Dave celebrated their second anniversary by going out to dinner. Over the summer, Katie’s bike was stolen by some idiot who left behind her helmet, probably because it wouldn’t do much good anyhow. In September, Katie ran in a 210-mile relay race, after which she knew the thrill of victory and the agony of the feet. Dave, being a good husband, provided moral support and, more important, beer.
Last but certainly least, Jerry got braces. You really can’t see them, so he won’t be the star of a TV show called "Ugly Jerry," but with the way things are going, the story of the Zezima family will end up being a sitcom.
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 2008 by Jerry Zezima
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