"A Tale of Two Fridges"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

One man’s junk, as the saying goes, is not his wife’s treasure. That’s why she will tell him to haul it to the dump so there will be room for not one but two new refrigerators, which will keep his beer cold so he’ll have the strength to get rid of all that junk.

That was the messy situation in which I found myself after our 19-year-old kitchen refrigerator conked out. The auxiliary fridge, which was in the garage and was 21, making it legally old enough to consume my beer, was on life support. It was only a matter of time before it pulled the plug on itself.

So my wife, Sue, and I had to purchase a pair of fridges and clear space for their delivery. This meant getting rid of the junk that had accumulated in the garage since we moved into our house in 1998.

It included boxes of old newspapers and other stuff belonging to me, boxes of old ornaments and other stuff belonging to Sue, and boxes of old clothes and other stuff belonging to our adult daughters, Katie and Lauren, who moved out of the house during the administration of George W. Bush.

I loaded my SUV (shambles utility vehicle) and made three trips to the dump, where I met Chris, who manned the attendant booth.

“You have a lot of junk,” he said.

“I also have gas,” I told him through the open driver’s-side window.

“You should take something for it,” Chris said as he stepped back. “This place smells bad enough.”

“No, I mean I have cans of old gasoline,” I replied. “Where do they go?”

Chris pointed to a section behind the booth, then told me where to put my other stuff, such as paper, glass, paint, recyclables, clothing, metal, wood and household garbage.

“I’m getting rid of all this junk to make room for two new refrigerators,” I said. “My beer got warm, so I had to take drastic action.”

Chris sympathized because he owned a bar for 15 years and knows the importance of cold beer.

“My customers loved it,” said Chris, adding that he used to feed them Spam fries, which were made with the maligned luncheon meat. “My customers didn’t love them.”

Chris told me that Spam is popular in Hawaii because GIs brought cans of it there during World War II.

“My wife and I honeymooned in Hawaii,” I said.

“Did you have Spam?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “But I did have poi, which I washed down with Hawaiian beer.”

In a box of random junk, I found a Spam can that had been turned into a piggy bank. It contained 39 cents.

“Now my wife and I can afford to go back,” I told Chris.

But first I had to return home and await delivery of the refrigerators.

Jose and Mario took out the old kitchen fridge and replaced it with the new one. They did the same with the old and new ones in the garage, which had been cleared for passage.

“Do these refrigerators come with beer?” I asked.

“No, but it would be a good idea,” said Jose. “Sales would increase if refrigerators came with beer.”

“I’d offer you some,” I said, “but it’s warm.”

After Jose and Mario left, Sue stocked our two new fridges with food and I put in the beer, which was soon cold again.

I opened one and made a toast: “To running refrigerators and a clean garage. And a second honeymoon in Hawaii.”

“First,” Sue said, “we have to pay for the appliances.”

“I have 39 cents,” I told her.

“Good,” said Sue. “Buy yourself a can of Spam. It’ll go great with your beer.”

Copyright 2019 by Jerry Zezima

"My Four Decades of Lip Shtick"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

As a man who has sported a mustache for the past 40 years, following in the grand tradition of such hirsute heroes as Mark Twain, Groucho Marx and my late grandmother, it gives me great pleasure and a persistent itching sensation to announce that I was recently named Mustached American of the Day.

This honor was bestowed upon me by the American Mustache Institute, an esteemed organization that not only is dedicated to fighting discrimination against people with facial hair, but does not, technically, exist anymore.

“Congratulations on the 40th anniversary of your mustache!” AMI president Adam Causgrove said when I called to thank him for lowering the otherwise high standards of the institute, which ceased formal operations late last year but “will live forever in our hearts and on the internet.”

AMI, which Causgrove said is headquartered “in my bedroom” in Pittsburgh, will next year resurrect the International Mustache Hall of Fame, whose members include Theodore Roosevelt, Salvador Dali and Burt Reynolds.

“You could be eligible,” he told me, adding: “You don’t have to be dead to get in.”

But AMI no longer bestows the Robert Goulet Memorial Mustached American of the Year Award, which Causgrove won in 2012 and I came close to winning in 2010.

“That was an impressive showing,” said Causgrove, referring to my second-place finish, in which I received 80,000 votes, presumably from people who now suffer from RSI (Repetitive ’Stache Injury).

I lost by a whisker to a Florida firefighter named Brian Sheets but beat out such alleged celebrities as then-major league pitcher Carl Pavano, Washington Post columnist Gene Weingarten and entertainer Brandon Wardell, who was endorsed by model and actress Brooke Shields.

I was endorsed by my even more beautiful wife, Sue, who is the reason I have a mustache.

In 1979, a year after we were married, I had surgery for a deviated septum and afterward was swathed in bandages that covered my tender nose and naked upper lip. I bore a frightening resemblance to Boris Karloff in “The Mummy,” mainly because I was not yet “The Daddy.”

When the bandages came off, I had a chevron mustache, which does not, unfortunately, get me a discount at Chevron gas stations.

“I like it!” Sue exclaimed, politely not mentioning the rest of my face.

So I kept the lip rug, which I have been told by people with astigmatism makes me look like Tom Selleck, minus the talent, charisma and money.

“What a heartwarming story!” said Causgrove, 35, who works in corporate relations at Carnegie Mellon University and who for the past eight years has sported his award-winning handlebar mustache, which has the endorsement of his wife, Chelsea, whom he lovingly calls “the first lady of mustachery.”

In recognition of my four decades of mustachery, Causgrove issued a proclamation that read, in part:

“Jerry Zezima Ruby Anniversary of Acclaimed Mouthbrow

“WHEREAS, In the year 1979, a young Jerry Zezima embarked on a brave and noble journey into the sexually dynamic Mustached American lifestyle.

“WHEREAS, By embracing his facial foliage … Jerry has risen to the peaks of his profession in the Stamford, Connecticut-based humor columnist community …

“NOW, THEREFORE, I, Chief Executive of the American Mustache Institute, Dr. Adam Paul Causgrove, declare that through a rigorous review process, steeped in the science of nuclear mustacheology and augmented with fine American bourbon … the Honorable Mr. Jerry Zezima … is to be saluted, ogled, venerated and praised — in that particular order.”

“Thank you from the bottom of my mustache,” I told Causgrove. “For once in my life, I’m speechless.”

“I’m sure your wife would endorse that, too,” he said. “And she would agree that it’s not just lip service.”

Copyright 2019 by Jerry Zezima

"Date Night at the Diner"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

When it comes to life in the fast lane, my wife, Sue, and I are on the side of the road with a flat tire. That’s why we can’t make it to the airport to fly to some exotic locale like the Greek islands.

But on a recent Saturday night, we did the next best thing and drove to the hottest spot in a city that never wakes: the diner.

This one is owned by a very nice guy named Gus, who was born in Greece.

“Tell me when you want to go and I’ll tell you where to go,” Gus said.

“People are always telling me where to go,” I responded.

“I mean,” Gus clarified, “I’ll suggest the best places to visit when you and your wife go to Greece.”

“Greece is the word,” I said, doing him and everyone else in the place a big favor by not singing for my supper.

Instead, Sue and I ordered it from a menu with enough delicious selections to turn me into Zezima the Greek, even though I’m Italian and, according to a DNA test, Martian.

“Would you like anything to drink?” our waiter, Michael, asked pleasantly.

“I’ll have a Corona,” Sue replied.

“There’s no smoking in here,” I told her.

“Not a cigar,” Sue said with a sigh. “A beer.”

Michael dutifully wrote it down, then asked me, “And you, sir?”

“I’ll have a Blue Moon,” I said.

When Michael returned with our brews, I said, “We don’t go out too often. In fact,” I added, holding up my bottle, “it’s only once in a …”

“Blue moon!” Michael exclaimed with a laugh. “I got it!”

“Please,” Sue said. “Don’t encourage him.”

I couldn’t be discouraged from ordering a jumbo burger with bacon, fries, onion rings, lettuce, tomato, cole slaw and, the piece de resistance (I speak fluent Greek), a pickle.

“I’m really in a pickle now,” I told Michael, who laughed again (I think he wanted a generous tip, which he deserved) and took Sue’s order, which was the same as mine, minus the bacon.

“Date night at the diner,” she said with a smile after the burgers arrived. “Isn’t it romantic?”

“Umph, umph, umph,” I replied with a mouthful of food.

The burgers were cooked to perfection by Carlo, whom I later visited in the kitchen.

“My wife doesn’t like the way I cook burgers because they end up like hockey pucks,” I said.

“I don’t play hockey,” said Carlo, who added that his wife likes the way he cooks everything.

“Customers like it, too,” said a waitress named Margaret. “I’ve worked in places where I didn’t eat. The food here is fresh and delicious.”

That was evident by the gluttony of the family sitting next to us. Some of them ordered porterhouse steaks the size of anvils.

“That’s my favorite item on the menu,” Gus told me. “I could eat one every day.”

“So could I,” I said, “but I want to keep my boyish figure.”

When Sue and I were done, Michael, who is Gus’ nephew, returned and asked Sue if she wanted a doggy bag for the half-burger she couldn’t finish.

“Yes, please,” she said.

I had only a leaf of iceberg lettuce left.

“I don’t think I’ll take it home,” I said. “It could be dangerous.”

“Why?” asked Michael.

“Because,” I explained, “an iceberg sank the Titanic.”

He laughed again, earning a $10 tip for a meal that came to $32.

“You spare no expense for me, dear,” Sue said sweetly after I also paid for a baklava for her to take home.

“Let me know when you want to go to Greece,” Gus said.

“I will,” I replied. “And the next time we go out on a hot date, we’re coming back to the diner.”

Copyright 2019 by Jerry Zezima

"Bellying Up to the Genius Bar"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

If this column is being read by Apple CEO Tim Cook, known to a certain ubiquitous Twitter user as Tim Apple, it means two things:

1. He has way too much time on his hands.

2. He should acknowledge that I am a genius.

I attained this lofty status after I bought a new iMac and enlisted the services of Yash Sharma, who works in a nearby Apple store.

I went there because my previous iMac was 10 years old, slower than a tortoise with a broken leg and the technological equivalent of me: a geezer.

I took the new computer home and called Apple Support for help in setting it up because I was afraid I would plug it into the wrong outlet, hit “Control-Alt-Delete” and bring down the nation’s power grid.

Everything was fine except for the unfortunate fact that I couldn’t transfer data from my old computer to my new one. So I had to take both machines to the store.

“Are you backed up?” Yash asked.

“I had an upset stomach after dinner last night, but I’m feeling much better now,” I replied. “You’re getting a little personal, don’t you think?”

“No,” Yash said, very patiently. “I mean, do you have an external hard drive?”

“I have a hard drive, but it’s not external,” I said. “I didn’t want to put it outside. What if it rains?”

This, of course, was before I became a genius.

At 21, Yash has already achieved that designation, which qualifies him to help customers like me who otherwise would have to rely on their grandchildren for technical assistance.

“Sometimes with older computers, you have to reboot,” said Yash.

“My definition of rebooting,” I told him, “is to put your foot through the screen. We have a new computer system at work and the best thing I can say about it is that it makes the old one look good. Still,” I added, “I don’t think anybody ever ran through an office yelling, ‘The typewriters are down!’ ”

“Probably not,” Yash said. “So it’s a good thing you came to the Genius Bar.”

“Do you serve beer at this bar?” I asked.

“We don’t have a liquor license,” Yash replied.

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Since you’re 21, you could have a cold one with me.”

“After your computer problem is fixed,” he said, “you could go to another bar and celebrate.”

That was easier said than done because even Yash had trouble transferring the data, so he had to bypass the hard drive and hook both computers to each other so my information could go directly from the old one to the new one.

“This could take a while,” he told me.

The estimated time for completion was 8 hours and 49 minutes. The store closed in about an hour.

“You’ll have to leave them here overnight,” Yash said.

“It’ll be like a hospital stay,” I noted. “My machines will have a double room in the ICU: Intensive Computer Unit.”

“It usually costs $99 for this,” Yash said, “but we won’t charge you because you’ve already done $99 worth of work yourself.”

“I’m 65 years old and I haven’t done $99 worth of work in my whole life,” I said. “But thanks.”

I received a call the next morning to say that the operation was a success. When I picked up the computers after work, I said to Yash, “I’ve learned a lot from you. In fact, I feel like a genius.”

“Maybe you could work here,” he suggested.

“Tell that to Tim Cook,” I said. “And tell him to start serving beer at the Genius Bar. The first round is on him.”

Copyright 2019 by Jerry Zezima

"Mr. Poppie Goes to Washington"

By Jerry Zezima

Hearst Connecticut Media Group

After returning from Washington, D.C., where I spent a lot of time coloring with crayons, playing with blocks and going down slides, making me more productive than anyone else there, I can say with great pride and total accuracy that my grandson, Xavier, who just turned 2, is the smartest and most mature person in the nation’s capital.

And it turned out that I was the most influential. That’s because my lobbying efforts to have fun paid dividends not only with Xavier, but with his friends Hayden and Walter, also 2.

My influence even extended to grown-ups such as the woman who carded me when I bought wine in a grocery store and the bartender who didn’t card me when I ordered a beer but did say that Washington is undergoing a booze renaissance.

I was happy to contribute to this encouraging development during the five days that my wife, Sue, and I, known to our grandchildren as Nini and Poppie, visited Xavier, who lives with his mommy, Katie, and daddy, Dave.

And I built up quite a thirst playing with Xavier, who has an impressive collection of coloring books and approximately a thousand crayons, as well as a boxful of blocks that we used to build planes, trains and automobiles. It gave me hope that he will grow up to be either a great artist or secretary of transportation.

But I really exerted myself at the playground, where Xavier met up with his buddy Hayden, who took an instant liking to me, probably because he sensed that I was on his intellectual level, and wanted me to take him down each of the park’s several slides several times each.

This presented a daunting challenge to a geezer whose pathetic inability to climb stairs, crawl through child-size tunnels and whoosh down twisting plastic surfaces with a squirming toddler on his lap nearly resulted in an ambulance ride to the emergency room.

Naturally, Xavier wanted me to do the same with him.

“Follow me,” I said to the two boys. “I’m the Pied Poppie.”

Later, it was my turn to follow our little family band when we went to a grocery store to buy ingredients for dinner (Dave is a marvelous cook) and purchase some wine: a bottle of red and a bottle of white, with no apologies to Billy Joel.

“May I please see your ID?” asked a very nice cashier named Laura, who appeared to be about 40 years younger than I am.

“Really?!” I squealed. “You’re actually carding me? Do I look that young?”

Laura smiled and said, “I have to do this to everyone.”

“Do you want to see my AARP card?” I asked disappointedly.

“Your driver’s license will do,” said Laura.

From there, we went to a market that had a bakery, a bar and a community library.

I bellied up to the libation portion of the establishment and ordered a beer from Vince, who said he also works at a distillery that makes whiskey, gin and vodka.

“Washington is having a booze renaissance,” he told me.

“That explains things,” I replied.

Before I could finish my beer, Xavier and his BFF, Walter, who was there with his parents, wanted me to sit down with them and read the children’s book “What Do People Do All Day?” by Richard Scarry.

“Poppie doesn’t do a heck of a lot,” I said before launching into the delightful text, which the boys loved.

All in all, I had a wonderful time in the nation’s capital, and my faith was restored in a city where a trio of 2-year-olds showed that people could actually get along with each other.

It’s what I would call a kid renaissance.

Copyright 2019 by Jerry Zezima