"They've Got My Number"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Not many people know this, because I just made it up, but when Alexander Graham Bell made the first telephone call, to his assistant, Thomas Watson, and said, “Watson, come here, I want you,” he heard a voice on the other end say, “This isn’t Watson. You have the wrong number.”

Thus began a long, irritating chapter in telephonic history involving millions of clueless people who wrongly call other people who often respond in such an unmannerly fashion that the caller has no choice but to unwittingly call back in a futile attempt to reach a third party who, by this time, could well be dead.

I recently received wrong-number calls from three people who were not only apologetic but so pleasant that our conversations could have been (if the callers hadn’t sensed that they were talking to an idiot) the beginning of beautiful friendships.

The first call was from a woman named Carol. After I said, “Hello,” she said, “How are you, Mitch?”

“I’m fine, thanks,” I replied. “There’s just one problem.”

“What’s that?” Carol said tentatively.

“This isn’t Mitch.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Carol exclaimed, adding that she was actually calling her friend Fran, who is married to Mitch. “I don’t have Fran’s cellphone number, so I called Mitch,” Carol said.

“I’m Jerry,” I said.

“Nice to meet you,” said Carol, a retired nurse who lives in New York. “Mitch and Fran live in Florida,” she told me.

“What’s their number?” I asked.

“I wish I knew,” said Carol, who noted that she sometimes gets calls from people who have the wrong number. “I try to be nice about it,” she said.

“Me, too,” I said, relating the story of how we used to get calls for a pizzeria. “This went on for months. Finally, I started taking orders. I don’t know if they’re still in business.”

Carol laughed. “Nice talking to you,” she said.

“You, too,” I replied. “Give my best to Mitch.”

A couple of days later, I got a call from a guy named Frank, who was trying to reach his son, also named Frank, who, like Mitch and Fran, lives in Florida.

“Maybe it’s a Florida thing,” I told Frank, who apologized when he realized he had misdialed.

“It happens,” I said, introducing myself.

“I should know my son’s phone number,” Frank said. “I guess I got the area code mixed up.”

“I’m frequently mixed up,” I said, “even when I’m not making phone calls.”

“I know how you feel,” said Frank. “Thanks for the chat.”

“You’re welcome,” I responded. “Good luck reaching your son.”

A few minutes later, the phone rang again.

“Frank?” said the familiar voice on the other end.

“Frank?” I replied.

“Jerry?”

“Yes.”

“I did it again!” Frank cried. “I don’t know what to do, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this.”

He must have because he didn’t call back.

The next day I got a call from a woman named Anita, who asked if I wanted to be an altar boy at a nearby church.

“I’m a kid at heart, but I’m probably a little too old to be an altar boy,” I said.

“My goodness, I must have the wrong number,” said Anita, adding that she’s a secretary at the church and was calling families in the parish to recruit altar boys.

“I wouldn’t want the church to get hit by lightning,” I said.

“I don’t think that would happen,” Anita said.

“I wasn’t exactly an altar boy when I was young enough to be an altar boy,” I confessed.

“You sound like a good person,” said Anita. “And we’re always looking for new parishioners. We’d love to have you.”

“If I decide to become an altar boy,” I said, “I’ll call you.”

“OK,” said Anita. “Just make sure you don’t dial the wrong number.”

Copyright 2014 by Jerry Zezima

"Breakfast at Zezima's"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Beer: It’s not just for breakfast anymore. But the greatest beverage in the history of mankind, which guys often use to hook up with womankind, is the perfect accompaniment to the first meal of the day.

I found this out after making a recipe for Scotch Egg, which I got from “The American Craft Beer Cookbook,” the fabulous new culinary and libational bible by a guy with the best job on the planet, beer writer John Holl.

For strictly journalistic purposes, I decided to talk with Holl about his laudable purpose in life, which is to spread the gospel of beer. So I met him at Alewife, an estimable establishment in Long Island City, N.Y., that serves vast varieties of the aforementioned brew.

“Millions of guys would give their right arms to have your job,” I told Holl, adding that they’d then have to drink beer with their left hands.

“It’s not as glamorous as you might think,” he replied. “I don’t go out carousing. In fact, sometimes I’m in bed at 10 or 10:30 at night. In Seattle, on my book tour, I was sitting in a hotel room with the curtains closed, eating olives out of a box. Still,” Holl added with a smile, “it’s not a bad gig.”

The dedicated journalist showed that he has a nose for brews by sniffing a Riprap Baltic Porter and commenting on its nutty aroma. I proved to be a little nutty myself by emulating Holl and ending up with a schnoz full of foam.

Next we tried a Medula, an English Imperial IPA, which like the first beer is made by the Barrier Brewing Co. of Oceanside, N.Y.

“It smells like Juicy Fruit gum,” said Holl.

“Except you can’t chew it,” I noted.

What we could chew was dinner, which we ate at the bar. Holl ordered a salad (fewer calories, less filling) and I had a burger (just the opposite). Holl suggested another Barrier beer, Rembrandt Porter. Like the painter, it was a Dutch treat.

“It goes well with meat,” said Holl, who had a lighter brew with his salad.

“I once made my own beer,” I told him. “Jerry’s Nasty Ale.”

“How was it?” Holl asked.

“It didn’t kill me,” I replied proudly. “It had a smoky flavor. I don’t know why. I didn’t put cigar ashes in it. But it was pretty good.”

As responsible beer drinkers should always do, we paced ourselves and didn’t overindulge. At the end of the evening, I told Holl I had decided to make Scotch Egg, mainly because the recipe came from Half Full Brewery in my hometown of Stamford, Conn.

“Besides,” I added, “I’ve never had beer for breakfast before.”

“An Irish stout goes well with eggs,” said Holl, 33, a warm, funny guy who has tried all the recipes in the colorful, 343-page book and is anything but a beer snob. “Let me know how it turns out.”

A couple of days later, I bought a four-pack of Murphy’s, an Irish stout that is imported by United States Beverage, also in Stamford. The next morning, I opened “The American Craft Beer Cookbook” to page 10, laid it on the kitchen counter and commenced to make Scotch Egg.

“Please don’t burn the house down,” said my wife, Sue.

Easier said than done because somewhere around step 3, as I was heating oil in a deep fryer and had turned my attention to removing pork sausage from its casing and simultaneously boiling eggs, the smoke alarm went off.

The phone rang. It was a nice woman from the home security company, calling to ask if I had burned the house down.

“No,” I explained. “I’m just making breakfast. Want to come over for eggs and beer?”

“I’d love to,” she said, “but I have to work.”

Sue opened the windows to get the smoke out and I finished making breakfast. I put the spiced, sausage-wrapped eggs on a plate and dug in. They were delicious.

I washed them down with an Irish stout. After a cooking experience like that, I really needed it.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Christmas Letter 2013"

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; Dave and Guillaume, the sons-in-lawiarch, and Chloe, the granddaughteriarch.

Dear friends:

It sure has been an exciting 2013 for the Zezimas!

Jerry has had a particularly active year. Because he is often compared to the back end of a horse, he covered a polo match and actually got to mount one of the ponies. A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse, of course. Except, of course, Jerry, who got an exclusive interview with the MVP (most valuable pony). Did the horse want to talk to Jerry? Nay.

Since Jerry has a feminine side, he tried out to be a roller derby queen. He didn’t make the team because that’s the side he frequently fell on.

Jerry took a class for kids on how to be a detective. He was guilty of arrested development. He also took a driver’s education refresher class that was taught by an instructor who has a speeding ticket on his record. For the record, Jerry has two. And Jerry took a class on how to make ravioli. He brought his culinary creations home and fed one to Sue. Fortunately, she didn’t have to be hospitalized.

Jerry also competed in a garlic-eating contest. He gobbled 13 cloves but didn’t win. When he got home and tried to kiss Sue, she raised quite a stink.

Speaking of stinking, Jerry published his second book, “The Empty Nest Chronicles,” an account of life in the Zezima household since Katie and Lauren left the nest but left a lot of their stuff behind. The book is, Jerry is proud to say, a crime against literature. It also comes in handy for propping up a wobbly table leg. You might even want to read it.

And because Jerry has been known to sleep on the job, he applied to be the new snooze director at Sleepy’s, the mattress company. Out of 70 applicants, Jerry was one of five finalists. Unfortunately, he didn’t get the position, which is horizontal.

He did, however, stay awake long enough to help paint a bedroom in Lauren and Guillaume’s house. Jerry, who told Sue years ago that he had hung up his paintbrush, didn’t bristle when asked to come out of retirement and assist Guillaume in painting the room pink.

They did it for a baby girl, which leads us to the best news of the year: the birth of Chloe, Sue and Jerry’s adorable first grandchild. Proud mommy Lauren and proud daddy Guillaume are wonderful parents. Katie and Dave were Chloe’s godparents at the christening and are a loving aunt and uncle to their little niece.

Jerry wrote a letter to Prince Charles to congratulate him on being a new grandfather, too, and received a postcard with a picture of the prince and his lovely wife Camilla. It will be hung above the throne in Sue and Jerry’s bathroom.

Jerry loves to play with Chloe, who not only is the most beautiful baby in the world but is already more mature than her Poppie. Whenever Jerry tells Chloe a joke, she smiles. The first time it happened, Lauren said, “Dad, that’s just gas.”

We hope your family has been similarly blessed and has had a memorable year, too.

Merry Christmas with love and laughter from the Zezimas.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Hit Me With Your Best Shot"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am a geezer who believes that being healthy is nothing to sneeze at. I also believe that preventive medicine can be a real shot in the arm. That’s why I recently got a flu vaccine.

Yes, it took a little needling, but it didn’t hurt at all. Full credit goes to Carol Nelson, who administered the vaccine. Not only is she a fellow baby boomer who went into nursing after a long corporate career, but she’s a brave soul who, on a separate occasion, gave herself a shot in the arm.

“I didn’t want to wait in a doctor’s office,” explained Nelson, a nurse educator for Horizon Wellness, a division of Horizon Healthcare. “So I just rolled up my sleeve and gave myself a shot.”

“Did it hurt?” I asked.

“Of course not,” Nelson replied. “I wasn’t even scared.”

That’s more than she could say for a lot of people, like the guy who insisted that a secretary in the office hold his hand while he got his flu shot.

“And he was a big man,” Nelson said. “He looked like a teddy bear.”

Then there was the guy who tried to back out.

“He said, ‘Never mind! Never mind!’ I could see the apprehension in him,” Nelson recalled. “I got him to calm down. Afterward, I asked him to stick around for a few minutes to make sure he was OK. Half an hour later, he poked his head back in the door and said, ‘I’m fine.’ ”

Men, it goes without saying, but Nelson said it anyway, are the biggest babies.

“They say they don’t like needles,” she said, “but when some of them roll up their sleeves, I see these elaborate tattoos. I’ll say, ‘A needle was used to make them, right?’ They’ll nod and wince and I’ll give them a shot. Then they’ll smile and admit that it didn’t hurt after all.”

One young man who wasn’t afraid of needles also wasn’t afraid to get friendly with Nelson.

“He was batting his eyelids and flirting with me,” she remembered. “I said he should know that I’m probably older than his mother.”

Nelson, who just turned 64 but looks a lot younger, is the mother of two grown children who, along with Nelson’s husband, were very supportive of her decision to go to nursing school after she retired from the corporate world.

“They said, ‘Go for it!’ I’m glad I did because I like to help people,” recalled Nelson, adding that a lot of math was involved in figuring out medicine doses. “I’m bad at math, but I got through it,” she said.

“I’m bad at math, too,” I said. “Could I be a nurse?”

“Go for it!” said Nelson. “You could even give yourself a flu shot.”

“I’m a guy,” I said. “And a big baby.”

So I let Nelson do it.

“Which arm would you like me to give you a shot in?” Nelson asked when I sat down in a small office at work, where employees got free vaccines.

“I have it narrowed down to two,” I said. “Good thing I’m not an octopus. Do you know why there are so many octopuses in the ocean?”

“Why?” Nelson responded.

“Because,” I said, “there’s a sucker born every minute.”

Nelson chuckled, which came as a great relief since she was, after all, holding a syringe that could have pierced an elephant’s epidermis. Still, I thought it was best not to tell her any elephant jokes.

I extended my left arm. “I’m ready,” I said, wincing.

“It’s already over,” Nelson informed me.

“That didn’t hurt at all,” I said.

“Of course not,” she said. “When it comes to protecting yourself against the flu, a little needle is nothing to be afraid of.”

It was, of course, a point well taken.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Do the Right Bling"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a guy whose only piece of jewelry is a wedding ring that I got 35 years ago and who thinks karats are what rabbits eat, I have never believed that it don’t mean a thing if you ain’t got that bling.

Now, however, I have a band of gold that even my wife would like.

Unfortunately, neither she nor anyone else can see it.

That’s because it’s in my mouth.

This exquisite piece is a fixed mandibular retainer, which was recently affixed to the back of my bottom teeth by Dr. Stephanie Shinmachi, an orthodontic resident at the Dental Care Center at Stony Brook University on Long Island, N.Y.

I got it at the end of my five-year treatment at Stony Brook, where I had gone because two of my teeth — one on the top, the other on the bottom — had been pushed out of alignment. To straighten things out, I got braces.

This is not uncommon among baby boomers who, like me, did not have braces when they were young. How well I remember my unfortunate classmates who answered to the name “metal-mouth” and were warned, by sympathetic friends such as myself, to watch out for flying magnets.

I didn’t have to worry about such calamities because I got invisible braces, which go by the brand name Invisalign and are made of clear plastic, unlike traditional braces that look like tracks on Metro-North or the Long Island Rail Road.

During my time at Stony Brook, I was in the capable and always gloved hands of three orthodontic residents: Dr. Ben Murray, Dr. Michael Sheinis and, of course, Dr. Shinmachi. All of them deserve to win the Nobel Prize, not just for being able to shut me up for extended periods, but also for being brave enough to work in a vast and forbidding place that resembles the Grand Canyon with molars.

Dr. Murray, who was originally assigned to my case, graduated after two years of working on me. He was replaced by Dr. Sheinis, who also graduated after a couple of years of treating me.

Dr. Shinmachi took over for the final year of my treatment and finished what turned out to be a beautiful job.

“I’m like the last runner in a relay race,” she told me during my final appointment. “Dr. Sheinis handed me the baton and I took it over the finish line.”

“It’s a good thing you didn’t put the baton in my mouth,” I said. “There’s plenty of room for one.”

Dr. Shinmachi was far too kind to agree, so she smiled (showing off perfect teeth) and said, “I’m going to give you a retainer.”

“I’m not a lawyer,” I said, “but I’ve been admitted to many bars. And I could use the extra money.”

Dr. Shinmachi was talking about the clear, braces-like trays that would hold my teeth in place now that I was done with my Invisalign treatment.

“You can wear them at night while you’re sleeping,” she said.

“During the day I like to sleep at my desk,” I replied. “Can I wear them at work?”

“Sure,” said Dr. Shinmachi, adding that my other retainer, the mandibular one, will prevent my bottom teeth from relapsing.

“I call it gold bling,” she said.

“Should I go to a jewelry store to have it appraised?” I asked.

“You could,” she said. “Just don’t try to hock it.”

“Do you think my wife would like it?” I wondered.

“Yes,” Dr. Shinmachi answered. “But it’s not the kind of thing you’d want to get her for her birthday.”

“I’ll buy her a piece of jewelry that people can see,” I said with my nice new smile. “And I’ll put my money where my mouth is.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Princely Postcard"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

It would not be classic British understatement to say that Prince Charles and I have a lot in common.

For one thing, as my wife, Sue, would attest, we both spend an inordinate amount of time on the throne.

For another, Charles and I are first-time grandfathers.

And now, it seems, we are pen pals.

That is why I was not surprised recently to receive a reply to the missive I sent to Charles earlier this year to congratulate him on being a new grandpa.

I said, in part, that our families have some amazing similarities, including the fact that his older son, William, and daughter-in-law, Kate, were married in England the day before my younger daughter, Lauren, and son-in-law Guillaume were married in France in 2011. And that my granddaughter, Chloe, and his grandson, George, while not born on the same day, each arrived at exactly 4:24 p.m., which means they are likely destined for each other. I even envisioned a royal wedding. I closed by saying that Charles will enjoy being a grandfather as much as I do and that we should set up a play date for the kids.

Imagine my delight when I received an envelope by royal mail with a return address of Buckingham Palace.

I opened it to find a postcard with a photo of Charles and his lovely wife Camilla. The caption read: “The Prince of Wales and The Duchess of Cornwall leaving St. Mary’s Hospital after meeting Prince George for the first time.”

The message, in serif italic typeface, read:

“The Prince of Wales was most touched that you took the trouble to write as you did on the birth of His Royal Highness’s first grandchild, Prince George.

“His Royal Highness appreciated your kind words and sends you his warmest thanks and best wishes.”

Frankly, I was a little disappointed. Since Charles and I are so close, I expected a handwritten note, or at least a personalized response, like the letter I received after I wrote to William and Kate to congratulate them on their wedding. The reply was written by Mrs. Claudia Holloway, head of correspondence for the royal family. She opened with “Dear Mr. Zezima,” and wrote, in part, “The Duke and Duchess of Cambridge have asked me to send you their warmest thanks together with their belated congratulations to Lauren and Guillaume.” She signed the letter with a distinctive flourish in royal blue ink.

I was, to use Prince Charles’ words, most touched.

Not this time. I was, to put it mildly, most peeved.

But then I realized that the Prince of Wales must be too busy being a grandfather to send out handwritten notes or personalized responses.

If Charles is like me, he has been doing a lot of baby-sitting. This would entail holding his grandchild on his knee while watching sports (polo or cricket matches or maybe even soccer games) on TV. It would also entail the grand British tradition of doing your duty for God, country and, yes, baby. As I am sure Charles has found out, the changing of the guard takes on a whole new meaning when you’re a grandfather.

Then there are projects such as the one I undertook the other night. I may be the least handy man in America (I don’t imagine Charles is Mr. Fixit across the pond), but I did manage to put together a highchair without incident or bloodshed. I would advise Charles to follow the instructions carefully and not use language that would be considered a departure from the King’s English.

So, no, I am not miffed at the Prince of Wales. In fact, I understand his time constraints completely. Still, if he wants more advice on how to be a good grandfather, all he has to do is write me a letter.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Scents and Sensibility"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

For nearly three decades, my loyal, intelligent and, let’s face it, masochistic readers have said that I stink. This time, they’re right.

That’s because, in a display of gluttony that did not, unfortunately, take my breath away, I participated in a garlic-eating contest.

This pungent event was the highlight of the Long Island Garlic Festival, which was held recently at Garden of Eve Organic Farm and Market in Riverhead, N.Y.

As about 100 people crammed into a tent to get a whiff of the competition, which should have put the smell of fear in them but instead produced an air redolent with excitement, I stood at a long table with seven other contestants, all of whom could sniff victory and, more important from a dollars-and-scents perspective, the $100 grand prize.

“Did you practice?” asked Vanessa Hagerbaumer, an event planner who was the MC for the contest.

“No,” I said. “I figured nobody would want to come near me. Then again, if I started training this morning, I might have won by default.”

“That would have been a good strategy,” said Vanessa, who introduced the contestants and explained the rules: We would have two minutes to chew and swallow as many cloves of garlic as we could stomach. We could drink water to wash down what we ate. No spitting out or regurgitating garlic during the competition. A clove in the mouth as time ran out would be counted. Garden of Eve would not be responsible if we repulsed loved ones when we got home.

“Ready?” Vanessa said.

The crowd was breathless.

“Set.”

For the last time that day, so was I.

“Go!”

I popped a clove of garlic in my mouth and started chomping. I decided not to waste time by peeling off the husk, part of which got stuck in my teeth. The rest, along with the masticated clove, went down my gullet.

A split second later, I felt like a fire extinguisher had been set off in my mouth. The intense sensation blasted out my nose, eyes and ears. Undeterred, I ate another clove. Then another.

The onlookers, who probably could have used gas masks, were going wild.

Suddenly, it was over. I had inhaled 13 cloves of garlic.

I didn’t even come close to winning. That honor went to defending champion Mark Lucas, a high school art teacher and drama director who gobbled 22 cloves. His secret: “I used the palm of my hand to smash them on the table, then I just swallowed them.”

“I bet your students will pay attention to you tomorrow,” I said.

“If they don’t go home sick,” Mark replied.

His victory last year was not without consequence.

“I went to a party afterward,” Mark said. “A pregnant woman got nauseous, so I had to leave.”

A similar fate awaited me when I got home.

“Whew!” my wife, Sue, exclaimed when I walked in the door. “I could smell you coming.”

She had anticipated my odoriferous condition and bought a lemon, which I sliced and sucked on.

“Any better?” I asked, exhaling toward Sue.

“No!” she cried. “It’s coming out your pores.”

I chewed on some mint from Sue’s garden.

“You still leave a backdraft when you walk by,” she said, fanning her nose with her hand.

Finally, I tried a tomato.

“Tomato juice is used on dogs when they get sprayed by skunks,” I noted.

“Even a skunk would smell better than you do,” said Sue.

The tomato didn’t do the trick, either. What might have helped was $100 worth of breath mints, but since I didn’t win, I couldn’t afford them.

My only consolation was that I got an “I Love Garlic” T-shirt. It was the only thing about me that didn’t stink.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima