By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If I ever star in my own sequel to "Father of the Bride," in which I had the title role in 2006 when my older daughter, Katie, got married, I may have to put paramedics on the guest list. That’s because my younger daughter, Lauren, has literally fallen into the bad habit of needing emergency medical care whenever she is invited to a wedding.
And it’s all because of my granddaughter, Maggie.
Lauren is a single mother and Maggie is her baby, a playful little pup of whippet and various other breeds who will be 3 in October. To say Maggie is in the terrible 2s would be barking up the right tree.
This is why she may have to go to obedience school.
The trouble began about a week before Katie and Dave’s wedding. I was sitting in the office, trying to figure out how I was going to pay for everything without having to continue working even after I am dead, when the phone rang. It was Lauren.
"Dad," she moaned, "I think I broke my face."
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"No," Lauren said, sobbing.
"What happened?"
"I was walking Maggie, and she pulled me, and I fell face first into the bricks on the outside of my apartment. I might have a concussion and a broken nose."
It turned out that Lauren, who was the maid of honor, had neither, although she did have bumps and bruises that healed enough to be covered by makeup on the wedding day.
Fast forward to this past May, when my wife, Sue, and I, as well as Katie, Dave and Lauren, were invited to the wedding of Amy and Mel. Amy is the daughter of Jane and Tim, who in 2003 became the first couple in our circle of friends to marry off a child. It was their older son, Marshall, who married Sara, who last year gave birth to Anna, making Jane and Tim the first couple in our circle of friends to be grandparents (of a human, not a dog).
I was the first guy in the group to be father of the bride, the role Tim played in Amy’s wedding. The night before, Sue and I got a call from Lauren.
"Dad," she moaned, "I think I broke my ankle."
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"No," Lauren said, sobbing.
"What happened?"
"I was walking Maggie, and she pulled me, and I fell down the stairs outside my apartment."
To make a long story even longer, Lauren tore the tendons in her right foot and ankle and couldn’t drive to Cape Cod for the wedding. She ended up in a cast and had to use crutches to get around. Her ankle still bothers her.
Maggie is taking the rap for both incidents. She’s really very sweet, in a slobbering sort of way, but she’s also – I say this with great affection because Maggie is, after all, my own fur and blood – insane.
Whenever she visits Nini and Poppie, as she did last weekend, when Sue and I doggie-sat because Lauren went to Boston to see Katie and Dave, she runs around like a madwoman, terrorizes our four cats, chases squirrels and completely dominates our dog, Lizzie, who just became a teenager and is a bit long in the fang.
Maggie doesn’t have a job, but she ought to be on an excavation crew because she’s such a proficient digger that she could have tunneled her way to China for the Olympics.
She also is a miniature cyclone when being walked, which is why Lauren thinks she should enroll Maggie in obedience school.
I don’t know if Maggie will pass with flying colors or, more likely, flunk out, but I do know that when Lauren gets married, the dog’s not invited.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, August 22, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
"Baby Face Zezima"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Baby face, I’ve got the cutest little baby face.
Those are the lyrics I am singing to myself these days, not just because I smell like a baby, but because I look like one.
That is what I was told when I went to the makeup counter at a department store after finding out that wearing makeup is the latest fashion trend among men.
I had heard about it when I went to that same store with my wife, Sue, to buy cologne.
According to a recent story by The Associated Press, baby powder scent is popular in women’s perfumes. As a man who not only has been called a big baby but is often told to take a powder, I wondered if the same were true for men’s cologne.
"It’s true that baby powder scent is popular with women because they love that new baby smell," said a fragrance specialist named Phyllis. "I imagine men feel the same way."
"I have two daughters who are all grown up, but I can still remember what they smelled like when they were babies," I said. "I don’t think I want to smell like that."
"He never wanted to change their diapers," Sue explained.
Phyllis nodded knowingly and introduced me to Michael, the fragrance manager, who took me to the men’s counter to see if there was anything that would make me smell like a freshly changed infant. After being sprayed with an array of colognes, I picked Touch by Burberry, which is aptly named because it has a touch of baby powder.
"Baby powder is good," Michael said, "but the real trend among men these days is makeup. A lot of guys are buying it. It’s not for me, but if you want to look better, go for it."
That’s what I did a few days later, when I went back to the store, this time without Sue, and headed for the makeup counter, where I met Jenna, a makeup artist, and Keri, a beauty analyst.
"I sell a lot of self-tanners to guys," Keri said. "One application lasts for a week and makes you look bronzed."
"It also covers up acne," Jenna noted.
"My zits cleared up a long time ago," I said. Then I added, "I’m 54."
"Wow, you sure don’t look it," exclaimed Jenna, who is 19.
"You mean I look even older?" I wondered.
"Not at all," said Jenna. "You look very young – you know, for your age."
"You have very healthy-looking skin," said Keri, who is 23. "And no wrinkles."
"Except for these crow’s-feet around my eyes," I remarked. "It looks like a flock of birds landed on my face."
"Those aren’t crow’s-feet," Keri assured me. "They’re smile lines."
I smiled. "I guess I don’t need plastic surgery," I said, "although I ought to cut up my credit cards. That would really be plastic surgery."
Keri and Jenna smiled. They didn’t have crow’s-feet. But they did have a color chart they used as a guide to determine my skin tone.
"On this spectrum," Keri pointed out, "you are in the red and orange range. They’re warm colors, which means you would look good wearing brown, green or gold."
I was wearing blue, but I guess it didn’t matter.
Keri then dipped a buff brush into a small jar of powdery makeup and started applying it to my face. "This helps cover pores and blemishes," she said, "but you really don’t have any. Your face is very clear. And very smooth."
"Like a baby’s?" I asked.
"Yes," said Keri, adding that some guys buy makeup to cover blotches and even use eyeliner. "They want to hide their imperfections," she said.
"It’s probably a clever rouge to attract women," I guessed.
"I think that’s the reason," said Keri, who handed me a mirror.
"I don’t notice any difference," I said.
"You don’t need makeup," said Jenna, who saved me a lot of money because the stuff that Keri applied costs $32.50 per 0.31-ounce jar.
When I got home, I told Sue about my makeup session. "I look like a baby and I smell like a baby," I said.
Sue nodded and replied, "So when are you going to grow up?"
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Baby face, I’ve got the cutest little baby face.
Those are the lyrics I am singing to myself these days, not just because I smell like a baby, but because I look like one.
That is what I was told when I went to the makeup counter at a department store after finding out that wearing makeup is the latest fashion trend among men.
I had heard about it when I went to that same store with my wife, Sue, to buy cologne.
According to a recent story by The Associated Press, baby powder scent is popular in women’s perfumes. As a man who not only has been called a big baby but is often told to take a powder, I wondered if the same were true for men’s cologne.
"It’s true that baby powder scent is popular with women because they love that new baby smell," said a fragrance specialist named Phyllis. "I imagine men feel the same way."
"I have two daughters who are all grown up, but I can still remember what they smelled like when they were babies," I said. "I don’t think I want to smell like that."
"He never wanted to change their diapers," Sue explained.
Phyllis nodded knowingly and introduced me to Michael, the fragrance manager, who took me to the men’s counter to see if there was anything that would make me smell like a freshly changed infant. After being sprayed with an array of colognes, I picked Touch by Burberry, which is aptly named because it has a touch of baby powder.
"Baby powder is good," Michael said, "but the real trend among men these days is makeup. A lot of guys are buying it. It’s not for me, but if you want to look better, go for it."
That’s what I did a few days later, when I went back to the store, this time without Sue, and headed for the makeup counter, where I met Jenna, a makeup artist, and Keri, a beauty analyst.
"I sell a lot of self-tanners to guys," Keri said. "One application lasts for a week and makes you look bronzed."
"It also covers up acne," Jenna noted.
"My zits cleared up a long time ago," I said. Then I added, "I’m 54."
"Wow, you sure don’t look it," exclaimed Jenna, who is 19.
"You mean I look even older?" I wondered.
"Not at all," said Jenna. "You look very young – you know, for your age."
"You have very healthy-looking skin," said Keri, who is 23. "And no wrinkles."
"Except for these crow’s-feet around my eyes," I remarked. "It looks like a flock of birds landed on my face."
"Those aren’t crow’s-feet," Keri assured me. "They’re smile lines."
I smiled. "I guess I don’t need plastic surgery," I said, "although I ought to cut up my credit cards. That would really be plastic surgery."
Keri and Jenna smiled. They didn’t have crow’s-feet. But they did have a color chart they used as a guide to determine my skin tone.
"On this spectrum," Keri pointed out, "you are in the red and orange range. They’re warm colors, which means you would look good wearing brown, green or gold."
I was wearing blue, but I guess it didn’t matter.
Keri then dipped a buff brush into a small jar of powdery makeup and started applying it to my face. "This helps cover pores and blemishes," she said, "but you really don’t have any. Your face is very clear. And very smooth."
"Like a baby’s?" I asked.
"Yes," said Keri, adding that some guys buy makeup to cover blotches and even use eyeliner. "They want to hide their imperfections," she said.
"It’s probably a clever rouge to attract women," I guessed.
"I think that’s the reason," said Keri, who handed me a mirror.
"I don’t notice any difference," I said.
"You don’t need makeup," said Jenna, who saved me a lot of money because the stuff that Keri applied costs $32.50 per 0.31-ounce jar.
When I got home, I told Sue about my makeup session. "I look like a baby and I smell like a baby," I said.
Sue nodded and replied, "So when are you going to grow up?"
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, July 25, 2008
"Move Over, Don Juan"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In my dreams, which occur every night and even during the day while I am at work, I often picture myself as a hot-blooded Latin lover. I have hesitated to admit this publicly because I am afraid not only that Antonio Banderas will sue me, but that my wife will laugh and say, "In your dreams."
Now I know I am a regular Don Juan. That’s because I have been classified as "the universal romantic" in a recent study on Mexican food.
The study, which was conducted by my favorite mad scientist, Dr. Alan Hirsch, director of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago, explored the relationship between Mexican food preference, personality and romantic capability.
According to the methodology, "2,621 literate, English-speaking adults in the U.S. were queried regarding basic demographic as well as Mexican food hedonics." Among the participants, 71 percent were women and 29 percent were men. Seventy-three percent were married.
The food preferences were as follows: tacos, 31 percent; quesadillas, 26 percent; burritos, 22 percent; taco salad, 9 percent; chips and salsa, 8 percent; and nachos, 4 percent.
I may not be in the most popular group, but I am in the best because burritos are my favorite Mexican food and, according to the study, people who prefer burritos are "dramatic, they love being the center of attention. Craving novelty, excitement and stimulation, they are seductive and flirtatious in romance and gregarious, witty and charming in social situations." They also are described as "the universal romantic, compatible with everyone."
"This is great news for your love life," Hirsch said when I called him to discuss the study. "You are such a romantic that your wife will never leave you."
I decided to put our compatibility to the test when I took Sue to a Mexican restaurant called Cinco de Mayo, which means either "sink full of mayonnaise" or "the fifth of May," I am not sure which because in high school and college I took ocho anos de Espanol and I still can’t hold a decent conversation.
The only phrases I know are "Cerveza fria, por favor" ("Cold beer, please") and "Donde es el bano?" ("Where is the bathroom?").
Fortunately, there was no communication problem with our waiter, Marcel Salazar, 40, a handsome charmer who was born in Acapulco, Mexico.
"What can I get for you, mi amigo?" he asked me after Sue and I had studied the menu.
"I’ll have the burrito supreme because I am the universal romantic," I said. Marcel smiled and replied, "I can tell." Then he asked Sue, "What will you have, senora?"
Sue ordered a chicken quesadilla. According to the Mexican food study, people who prefer quesadillas are "dependable and true friends" and "the rock and driving force in the relationship." As for romance, "Quesadilla lovers are most compatible with those who prefer tacos."
When I explained the Mexican food study to Marcel, he smiled at Sue and said, "I like tacos."
I thought, "Uh-oh."
Luckily for me, Marcel, a divorced father of two, has a girlfriend. Besides, he said, "I prefer fajitas," which weren’t in the food study.
I don’t know if he was looking for a big tip or what, but Marcel said he could see why I am the universal romantic. "You are very charming and easygoing and you have a good sense of humor, which women like," he said.
As for Sue, Marcel said, "She is muy bonita – very beautiful." Sue blushed.
"Food preference doesn’t really matter because you two are already compatible," Marcel said. "I can see that you are very happy together, which is muy importante."
"Si," I said.
It turned out to be a very romantic dinner. The food was delicious and the service was fabulous. The margaritas helped, too.
Unfortunately, I was a little short of cash, so Sue paid the bill and left Marcel a nice tip. But I did go outside in the rain to get the car, which I drove to the front of the restaurant so Sue wouldn’t get wet.
When it comes to love, just call me Senor Romance.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In my dreams, which occur every night and even during the day while I am at work, I often picture myself as a hot-blooded Latin lover. I have hesitated to admit this publicly because I am afraid not only that Antonio Banderas will sue me, but that my wife will laugh and say, "In your dreams."
Now I know I am a regular Don Juan. That’s because I have been classified as "the universal romantic" in a recent study on Mexican food.
The study, which was conducted by my favorite mad scientist, Dr. Alan Hirsch, director of the Smell & Taste Treatment and Research Foundation in Chicago, explored the relationship between Mexican food preference, personality and romantic capability.
According to the methodology, "2,621 literate, English-speaking adults in the U.S. were queried regarding basic demographic as well as Mexican food hedonics." Among the participants, 71 percent were women and 29 percent were men. Seventy-three percent were married.
The food preferences were as follows: tacos, 31 percent; quesadillas, 26 percent; burritos, 22 percent; taco salad, 9 percent; chips and salsa, 8 percent; and nachos, 4 percent.
I may not be in the most popular group, but I am in the best because burritos are my favorite Mexican food and, according to the study, people who prefer burritos are "dramatic, they love being the center of attention. Craving novelty, excitement and stimulation, they are seductive and flirtatious in romance and gregarious, witty and charming in social situations." They also are described as "the universal romantic, compatible with everyone."
"This is great news for your love life," Hirsch said when I called him to discuss the study. "You are such a romantic that your wife will never leave you."
I decided to put our compatibility to the test when I took Sue to a Mexican restaurant called Cinco de Mayo, which means either "sink full of mayonnaise" or "the fifth of May," I am not sure which because in high school and college I took ocho anos de Espanol and I still can’t hold a decent conversation.
The only phrases I know are "Cerveza fria, por favor" ("Cold beer, please") and "Donde es el bano?" ("Where is the bathroom?").
Fortunately, there was no communication problem with our waiter, Marcel Salazar, 40, a handsome charmer who was born in Acapulco, Mexico.
"What can I get for you, mi amigo?" he asked me after Sue and I had studied the menu.
"I’ll have the burrito supreme because I am the universal romantic," I said. Marcel smiled and replied, "I can tell." Then he asked Sue, "What will you have, senora?"
Sue ordered a chicken quesadilla. According to the Mexican food study, people who prefer quesadillas are "dependable and true friends" and "the rock and driving force in the relationship." As for romance, "Quesadilla lovers are most compatible with those who prefer tacos."
When I explained the Mexican food study to Marcel, he smiled at Sue and said, "I like tacos."
I thought, "Uh-oh."
Luckily for me, Marcel, a divorced father of two, has a girlfriend. Besides, he said, "I prefer fajitas," which weren’t in the food study.
I don’t know if he was looking for a big tip or what, but Marcel said he could see why I am the universal romantic. "You are very charming and easygoing and you have a good sense of humor, which women like," he said.
As for Sue, Marcel said, "She is muy bonita – very beautiful." Sue blushed.
"Food preference doesn’t really matter because you two are already compatible," Marcel said. "I can see that you are very happy together, which is muy importante."
"Si," I said.
It turned out to be a very romantic dinner. The food was delicious and the service was fabulous. The margaritas helped, too.
Unfortunately, I was a little short of cash, so Sue paid the bill and left Marcel a nice tip. But I did go outside in the rain to get the car, which I drove to the front of the restaurant so Sue wouldn’t get wet.
When it comes to love, just call me Senor Romance.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, July 11, 2008
"Lost and Found"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I believe I can speak for most men when I say that most women not only want us to get lost most of the time, but that most of us actually do, which is why most women become so annoyed at our stubborn refusal to ask for directions that they have to tell us where to go, after which they want us to get lost again.
It’s a never-ending cycle, even though men generally don’t ride cycles because there is no room for their wives. That’s why they drive cars.
But now that we are in the summer vacation season, and it’s too expensive to fly anywhere, and with gas prices so high it’s unlikely anyone wants to drive cross-country, people will be forced to make trips to places that are close to home yet far enough away for the driver to get lost.
And the driver will invariably be a man, who will be sitting behind the wheel with a woman in the passenger seat, pointing to a map that clearly shows he is headed in the wrong direction.
Is this an accurate description of a situation that women have been complaining about since the days of Henry Ford, who of course was a guy, or is it a stereotype that, if you will pardon the expression, drives men mad?
To find out, I called Peter Hans, who not only is president of Resort Maps, a Vermont-based company that helps people stay on the beaten path across the United States and in Great Britain, and will soon do so in Puerto Rico, but who also happens to be a man.
In addition to the masculine connection, Hans has a lot in common with me: He went to Saint Michael’s College in Vermont (he graduated in 1983, I got out in ’75), he has a wife named Sue and he has two daughters. He also has been known to get lost.
"The stereotype is absolutely true and fair," said Hans, who has traveled extensively and lived in Europe for 12 years. "Guys are guilty as charged. I have a good sense of direction, but when I get lost, I don’t like to ask for directions."
Once, right after college, Hans got hopelessly lost – and he wasn’t even driving.
"Some buddies and I were headed from St. Mike’s to Boston, but the guy who was driving got on the wrong highway and we ended up in western Massachusetts," Hans recalled. "Nobody noticed because we were, after all, guys."
Now Hans owns a map company. That’s like a guy who flunked math owning an accounting firm. Still, his business is booming. In fact, on the company’s Web site (resortmaps.com), there is this testimonial from a man who was visiting Monterey, Calif.: "That’s great! Oh, I love Monterey! Now I have a great map of Monterey!" – Barack Obama, United States senator.
"Sen. Obama liked our product, although I’m sure he wasn’t driving," Hans said.
"As you know," I pointed out, "if another guy were behind the wheel, he could still get lost."
"True, but I’d like to think a map would help," said Hans, who added that he is not taking sides in the presidential election. "We’d like to sell a map to John McCain, too," he said.
I told Hans the story of the guy whose car collided with mine at an intersection last year because he was lost and his GPS told him to turn left going the wrong way down a one-way street.
"I think GPS stands for Guy Positioning System," I said.
"The technology is good," Hans said, "but sometimes the users aren’t."
Interestingly, Hans’ wife thinks that when it comes to navigation, women are even worse than men.
"Most people think men are bad, but I think it’s the opposite," said Sue Hans. "I’m terrible with directions. In fact, I have to look to Peter for help."
"You’re in big trouble," I noted.
"I could have used him a couple of weeks ago," said Sue, explaining that she and a girlfriend were driving around Montreal, terribly lost, when they stopped to ask directions of a man walking down the street. "He told us to take three rights and we ended up back in the same place," Sue recalled. "We kept going in circles."
"Don’t feel bad," I said. "Remember, it was a guy who gave you the directions."
"That’s right!" Sue chirped. "It was his fault!"
The lesson, according to Peter Hans, is that guys should always ask for directions but should never give them. In lieu of a map, he added, and despite the misadventure in Montreal, it also helps to have a wife named Sue. As my wife likes to say, "You’d be lost without me."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I believe I can speak for most men when I say that most women not only want us to get lost most of the time, but that most of us actually do, which is why most women become so annoyed at our stubborn refusal to ask for directions that they have to tell us where to go, after which they want us to get lost again.
It’s a never-ending cycle, even though men generally don’t ride cycles because there is no room for their wives. That’s why they drive cars.
But now that we are in the summer vacation season, and it’s too expensive to fly anywhere, and with gas prices so high it’s unlikely anyone wants to drive cross-country, people will be forced to make trips to places that are close to home yet far enough away for the driver to get lost.
And the driver will invariably be a man, who will be sitting behind the wheel with a woman in the passenger seat, pointing to a map that clearly shows he is headed in the wrong direction.
Is this an accurate description of a situation that women have been complaining about since the days of Henry Ford, who of course was a guy, or is it a stereotype that, if you will pardon the expression, drives men mad?
To find out, I called Peter Hans, who not only is president of Resort Maps, a Vermont-based company that helps people stay on the beaten path across the United States and in Great Britain, and will soon do so in Puerto Rico, but who also happens to be a man.
In addition to the masculine connection, Hans has a lot in common with me: He went to Saint Michael’s College in Vermont (he graduated in 1983, I got out in ’75), he has a wife named Sue and he has two daughters. He also has been known to get lost.
"The stereotype is absolutely true and fair," said Hans, who has traveled extensively and lived in Europe for 12 years. "Guys are guilty as charged. I have a good sense of direction, but when I get lost, I don’t like to ask for directions."
Once, right after college, Hans got hopelessly lost – and he wasn’t even driving.
"Some buddies and I were headed from St. Mike’s to Boston, but the guy who was driving got on the wrong highway and we ended up in western Massachusetts," Hans recalled. "Nobody noticed because we were, after all, guys."
Now Hans owns a map company. That’s like a guy who flunked math owning an accounting firm. Still, his business is booming. In fact, on the company’s Web site (resortmaps.com), there is this testimonial from a man who was visiting Monterey, Calif.: "That’s great! Oh, I love Monterey! Now I have a great map of Monterey!" – Barack Obama, United States senator.
"Sen. Obama liked our product, although I’m sure he wasn’t driving," Hans said.
"As you know," I pointed out, "if another guy were behind the wheel, he could still get lost."
"True, but I’d like to think a map would help," said Hans, who added that he is not taking sides in the presidential election. "We’d like to sell a map to John McCain, too," he said.
I told Hans the story of the guy whose car collided with mine at an intersection last year because he was lost and his GPS told him to turn left going the wrong way down a one-way street.
"I think GPS stands for Guy Positioning System," I said.
"The technology is good," Hans said, "but sometimes the users aren’t."
Interestingly, Hans’ wife thinks that when it comes to navigation, women are even worse than men.
"Most people think men are bad, but I think it’s the opposite," said Sue Hans. "I’m terrible with directions. In fact, I have to look to Peter for help."
"You’re in big trouble," I noted.
"I could have used him a couple of weeks ago," said Sue, explaining that she and a girlfriend were driving around Montreal, terribly lost, when they stopped to ask directions of a man walking down the street. "He told us to take three rights and we ended up back in the same place," Sue recalled. "We kept going in circles."
"Don’t feel bad," I said. "Remember, it was a guy who gave you the directions."
"That’s right!" Sue chirped. "It was his fault!"
The lesson, according to Peter Hans, is that guys should always ask for directions but should never give them. In lieu of a map, he added, and despite the misadventure in Montreal, it also helps to have a wife named Sue. As my wife likes to say, "You’d be lost without me."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, June 27, 2008
"Horsing Around"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a man who is often compared to the back end of a horse – which a reliable source does not endorse because it would force remorse for the horse, of course – I am proud to announce that I have come up with the solution to America’s gas crisis.
I am not suggesting that we stop eating baked beans, although that might help. Instead, I think we should all ditch our fuel-guzzling automobiles and, as the old saying goes, get a horse.
That’s what I did last weekend when I got in my SUV and drove all the way out to Montauk, N.Y., home of Deep Hollow Ranch, which not only is billed as "America’s Oldest Cattle Ranch (est. 1658)," but also is eastern Long Island’s only horse dealership.
"What make and model are you looking for?" asked Rusty Leaver, who runs Deep Hollow Ranch and is the firm’s top salesman.
"Nothing fancy," I said. "Something that gets good mileage and doesn’t cost a lot to run."
Rusty (all salesmen like to be called by their first names) sat me down to crunch numbers.
"Would you like to buy or lease?" he asked.
"What’s the better deal?" I replied.
"Leasing is an option," Rusty said, "but it’s more economical to buy. You can get a good horse – not a 2008 model and not with a full warranty, but something very reliable – for $2,000 to $3,000."
I was almost sold right there because a good car costs 10 times that much. I was even more enthusiastic when Rusty told me that it costs only $150 a month to feed a horse.
"I spend about $80 a week on gas," I said.
"So you’d be cutting your fuel outlay by more than half," Rusty pointed out.
Considering that gas is $4.29 a gallon for regular where I live on Long Island, I could save thousands of dollars a year. I could save even more, Rusty said, if I didn’t board my horse, which costs about $500 a month.
"I have a garage, so the horse could stay in there," I said. "Or it could stay in the back yard. In fact, the horse could cut my grass."
"That way," Rusty said, "you’d save on gas for your power mower."
I could also save on service costs because the annual veterinary bill for a horse is about $500. With tuneups, inspections and other regular maintenance, I spend more than that on my car.
Insurance is another saving. According to Rusty, it costs only $200 a year to insure a horse. Insurance on my car is more than $1,500 annually.
True, it costs about $50 a month (or $600 a year) to shoe a horse, which is more than I pay for tires, but I’d still be way ahead if I made the switch.
As for going to work, a horse is much slower than a car, even though, of course, it has more horsepower. But a commuter can make the ride easier, Rusty said, by getting a carriage. "Here," he added, "is where the Amish are way ahead of us."
Rusty’s sales pitch was great, but I wanted to go out for a test drive, so I went to the showroom to look over the inventory. Rusty’s wife, Diane, whose family has owned Deep Hollow Ranch for six generations (more info at deephollowranch.com), said I could take Junior for a spin.
Junior, "a pre-owned vehicle with a lot of mileage," according to Diane, is 15 years old, but he is in "excellent condition." Then she added, "And he starts right up."
Junior was everything a middle-age guy could want: a convertible with bucket seating and, with a mere flick of the reins, power steering. Granted, he couldn’t go from 0 to 60 in three seconds, but he offered a smooth, comfortable ride. A driver’s-side hair bag, which makes use of his mane in case of a collision, is standard equipment.
Accompanying me on the test drive was trail guide Kalila Fahey, 14, who was riding Zip, 8, one of about 120 horses at Deep Hollow Ranch. Kalila, who doesn’t have her driver’s license yet, said, "You don’t need a license to ride a horse."
Half an hour later, we were back in the showroom.
"How did you like Junior?" Diane asked.
"I’ll take him," I said.
Now all I have to do is go to the bank for a horse loan.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a man who is often compared to the back end of a horse – which a reliable source does not endorse because it would force remorse for the horse, of course – I am proud to announce that I have come up with the solution to America’s gas crisis.
I am not suggesting that we stop eating baked beans, although that might help. Instead, I think we should all ditch our fuel-guzzling automobiles and, as the old saying goes, get a horse.
That’s what I did last weekend when I got in my SUV and drove all the way out to Montauk, N.Y., home of Deep Hollow Ranch, which not only is billed as "America’s Oldest Cattle Ranch (est. 1658)," but also is eastern Long Island’s only horse dealership.
"What make and model are you looking for?" asked Rusty Leaver, who runs Deep Hollow Ranch and is the firm’s top salesman.
"Nothing fancy," I said. "Something that gets good mileage and doesn’t cost a lot to run."
Rusty (all salesmen like to be called by their first names) sat me down to crunch numbers.
"Would you like to buy or lease?" he asked.
"What’s the better deal?" I replied.
"Leasing is an option," Rusty said, "but it’s more economical to buy. You can get a good horse – not a 2008 model and not with a full warranty, but something very reliable – for $2,000 to $3,000."
I was almost sold right there because a good car costs 10 times that much. I was even more enthusiastic when Rusty told me that it costs only $150 a month to feed a horse.
"I spend about $80 a week on gas," I said.
"So you’d be cutting your fuel outlay by more than half," Rusty pointed out.
Considering that gas is $4.29 a gallon for regular where I live on Long Island, I could save thousands of dollars a year. I could save even more, Rusty said, if I didn’t board my horse, which costs about $500 a month.
"I have a garage, so the horse could stay in there," I said. "Or it could stay in the back yard. In fact, the horse could cut my grass."
"That way," Rusty said, "you’d save on gas for your power mower."
I could also save on service costs because the annual veterinary bill for a horse is about $500. With tuneups, inspections and other regular maintenance, I spend more than that on my car.
Insurance is another saving. According to Rusty, it costs only $200 a year to insure a horse. Insurance on my car is more than $1,500 annually.
True, it costs about $50 a month (or $600 a year) to shoe a horse, which is more than I pay for tires, but I’d still be way ahead if I made the switch.
As for going to work, a horse is much slower than a car, even though, of course, it has more horsepower. But a commuter can make the ride easier, Rusty said, by getting a carriage. "Here," he added, "is where the Amish are way ahead of us."
Rusty’s sales pitch was great, but I wanted to go out for a test drive, so I went to the showroom to look over the inventory. Rusty’s wife, Diane, whose family has owned Deep Hollow Ranch for six generations (more info at deephollowranch.com), said I could take Junior for a spin.
Junior, "a pre-owned vehicle with a lot of mileage," according to Diane, is 15 years old, but he is in "excellent condition." Then she added, "And he starts right up."
Junior was everything a middle-age guy could want: a convertible with bucket seating and, with a mere flick of the reins, power steering. Granted, he couldn’t go from 0 to 60 in three seconds, but he offered a smooth, comfortable ride. A driver’s-side hair bag, which makes use of his mane in case of a collision, is standard equipment.
Accompanying me on the test drive was trail guide Kalila Fahey, 14, who was riding Zip, 8, one of about 120 horses at Deep Hollow Ranch. Kalila, who doesn’t have her driver’s license yet, said, "You don’t need a license to ride a horse."
Half an hour later, we were back in the showroom.
"How did you like Junior?" Diane asked.
"I’ll take him," I said.
Now all I have to do is go to the bank for a horse loan.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, June 13, 2008
"Home, Sweat Home"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the 10 years since my wife and I bought our house, which the bank actually owns but kindly allows us to pay for, I have come to realize that home is where the heartburn is.
In fact, I am having chest pains just thinking about all the work I have done around the house over the past decade.
Because Sue and I spent the first 20 years of our marriage in either an apartment or a condominium, I was pathetically ill-equipped to be a homeowner. I had such limited knowledge of tools that I thought a screwdriver was vodka and orange juice. I don’t even want to tell you what I thought a hoe was.
"But now," Sue said the other evening at dinner, as we marked a decade in our dream house, which occasionally gives me nightmares, "you’re getting better, although you still have a lot to learn. Like how to use a power washer."
She was referring, unfortunately, to my latest failed project, which began that morning when I went to a home improvement center to rent a machine that a sales associate named Fred started on the first try.
When I got the thing home, of course, it wouldn’t start, which was all right with me because I would have had to climb a ladder to wash the upper part of the house. We have a Colonial that is high enough to give a mountain goat nosebleeds and I am afraid of being any higher off the ground than the top of my head.
So I brought the power washer back. Fred easily started it again.
If I am good at anything, Sue said, it’s mowing the lawn. "You do that well," she acknowledged. "It’s one job you have perfected. At least you don’t get frustrated and swear and throw things like you used to."
That’s because it’s hard to throw a lawn mower. But I do like to cut the grass because it gives me an excuse not to go inside to paint.
Every painting project has been a brush with disaster. Since we moved in, I have painted 20 times, which amounts to two projects per year. The worst was when I painted the living room for the second time. I had to pull down three huge ceiling beams that Sue said, after I had painted the room the first time, she didn’t like.
One beam almost came crashing down on my head, which would have shattered it (the beam, not my head). All three left holes that I had to plug up before I painted. Fortunately, Sue is only 5-foot-1, so she thinks the ceiling looks good.
Last year, after I painted our bedroom for the second time, I announced my retirement from painting. "You’re not retired," Sue said the other evening. "You’re just on hiatus."
Great. She probably wants me to paint the downstairs bathroom again. I have already painted it three times.
Speaking of bathrooms, we once had to hire a contractor to gut and refurbish all of them, including the two full baths upstairs. When they were finished, of course, I had to paint them.
Two years ago, when our older daughter was engaged to be married, Sue suggested we have the bridal shower at our house because, she reasoned, "We’ll save money." Then she announced that the kitchen had to be redone. We hired another contractor. We didn’t save money.
To make matters worse, our underground oil tank ruptured a week before the shower. The side yard had to be dug up and an old, rusty, above-ground tank was temporarily placed on the lawn in full sight of the guests. The tank was festooned with balloons and a sign that read: "Congratulations!"
The kitchen was finished the day before the shower. We had it wallpapered, so at least I didn’t have to paint again.
In the last 10 years, I have learned that a house is not a home unless there is something to do. And there always is. In fact, my next project is cleaning out the garage, which is filled with boxes that haven’t been opened since we moved in.
Frankly, I’d rather power wash the house.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the 10 years since my wife and I bought our house, which the bank actually owns but kindly allows us to pay for, I have come to realize that home is where the heartburn is.
In fact, I am having chest pains just thinking about all the work I have done around the house over the past decade.
Because Sue and I spent the first 20 years of our marriage in either an apartment or a condominium, I was pathetically ill-equipped to be a homeowner. I had such limited knowledge of tools that I thought a screwdriver was vodka and orange juice. I don’t even want to tell you what I thought a hoe was.
"But now," Sue said the other evening at dinner, as we marked a decade in our dream house, which occasionally gives me nightmares, "you’re getting better, although you still have a lot to learn. Like how to use a power washer."
She was referring, unfortunately, to my latest failed project, which began that morning when I went to a home improvement center to rent a machine that a sales associate named Fred started on the first try.
When I got the thing home, of course, it wouldn’t start, which was all right with me because I would have had to climb a ladder to wash the upper part of the house. We have a Colonial that is high enough to give a mountain goat nosebleeds and I am afraid of being any higher off the ground than the top of my head.
So I brought the power washer back. Fred easily started it again.
If I am good at anything, Sue said, it’s mowing the lawn. "You do that well," she acknowledged. "It’s one job you have perfected. At least you don’t get frustrated and swear and throw things like you used to."
That’s because it’s hard to throw a lawn mower. But I do like to cut the grass because it gives me an excuse not to go inside to paint.
Every painting project has been a brush with disaster. Since we moved in, I have painted 20 times, which amounts to two projects per year. The worst was when I painted the living room for the second time. I had to pull down three huge ceiling beams that Sue said, after I had painted the room the first time, she didn’t like.
One beam almost came crashing down on my head, which would have shattered it (the beam, not my head). All three left holes that I had to plug up before I painted. Fortunately, Sue is only 5-foot-1, so she thinks the ceiling looks good.
Last year, after I painted our bedroom for the second time, I announced my retirement from painting. "You’re not retired," Sue said the other evening. "You’re just on hiatus."
Great. She probably wants me to paint the downstairs bathroom again. I have already painted it three times.
Speaking of bathrooms, we once had to hire a contractor to gut and refurbish all of them, including the two full baths upstairs. When they were finished, of course, I had to paint them.
Two years ago, when our older daughter was engaged to be married, Sue suggested we have the bridal shower at our house because, she reasoned, "We’ll save money." Then she announced that the kitchen had to be redone. We hired another contractor. We didn’t save money.
To make matters worse, our underground oil tank ruptured a week before the shower. The side yard had to be dug up and an old, rusty, above-ground tank was temporarily placed on the lawn in full sight of the guests. The tank was festooned with balloons and a sign that read: "Congratulations!"
The kitchen was finished the day before the shower. We had it wallpapered, so at least I didn’t have to paint again.
In the last 10 years, I have learned that a house is not a home unless there is something to do. And there always is. In fact, my next project is cleaning out the garage, which is filled with boxes that haven’t been opened since we moved in.
Frankly, I’d rather power wash the house.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, May 30, 2008
"The Honeymooners"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Every three decades, like clockwork, my wife and I drop whatever we are doing and go on a trip. Call us impulsive, but we hadn’t been away together, just the two of us, to a place with postcards and palm trees, since our honeymoon in Hawaii in 1978. So we celebrated our 30th anniversary with a week in Barbados.
Sue and I decided not to go to Europe because the dollar is even weaker than I am and the only foreign language I speak is Pig Latin. With the help of a travel agent named Lisa, who suggested Barbados because it offers both fun and relaxation, Sue booked us at the Turtle Beach Resort in Christ Church.
Turtle Beach, so named because it is on a beach and has turtles, though not actually in the hotel itself, which would really slow up room service, is an "all-inclusive" resort. This means you pay a very reasonable price (in our case, about $3,500) for all your food, cocktails and hotel-sponsored activities for the week, in addition to your room and airfare. The deal enables you to eat, drink and be merry for what seems like nothing. Ever since we got back, I have had the uneasy feeling that somebody is going to show up at our house and demand more money.
That won’t happen because American currency is worth half of its Barbadian counterpart, so why would anyone want it?
The first thing Sue and I discovered about Barbados is that the residents, called Bajans, pride themselves on two things: Rihanna, the Grammy Award-winning singer, and being the nicest people in the world. They are, in fact, so nice that if you challenge them on this, they will be too nice to argue the point. Except if you challenge them on Rihanna.
The second thing we discovered is that because of the heavy British influence (Barbados is a former British colony and most of the tourists are British), the people drive on the wrong side of the road. They make up for it by politely obeying the rules. This includes going the speed limit and yielding to other drivers at roundabouts, or rotaries, which are so prevalent that the roads must be maintained by the Rotary Club.
That was evident on a shopping excursion to Bridgetown, the capital, which is composed primarily of banks and, to the dismay of visiting husbands, jewelry stores.
The van from the hotel was packed, so I sat next to the driver, Martin Grimes, a 41-year-old family man who is studying to be a minister at Barbados Bible College and has been driving professionally for 20 years.
"I’ll drive," I suggested.
"Where are you from?" Grimes asked.
"I was born and raised in Stamford, Conn.," I said, "but I now live on Long Island, N.Y."
"You’re from New York?" he shrieked. "You people are crazy. You drive on the wrong side of the road. You’ll get us all killed."
During the ride, I found out that, like every Bajan I spoke with, Grimes has relatives in the tri-state area.
"Where do people from Barbados go on vacation?" I inquired.
Grimes said, "New York."
Speaking of getting killed, I nearly ended up in Davy Jones’ locker, which would have ruined his gym clothes, when I took a surfing lesson. This was not the fault of my instructor, Amra McDowall, who has been surfing for half his life. He is 17.
"I usually teach little kids and teenagers, so you are definitely the oldest student I have ever had," Amra said when I told him I am 54. "But I know you can do it."
I got a similar vote of confidence from two of Amra’s other students, Jamie Tarallo, 16, and his brother, Cory, 14, who were vacationing with their parents, Dawn and Nick Tarallo of Bedford, N.Y.
"Take your time and don’t stand up too fast," Cory said.
Jamie added, "And don’t get sand up your nose."
That would have been the least of my problems. I was so bad that I couldn’t even stay on the board while paddling out.
"You’re wearing too much sunscreen. It’s making you slide off," said Amra, who suggested I put on a T-shirt. It didn’t work.
Finally, after I made it out a fair distance, Amra had me turn around and try to catch a wave. I remembered Cory’s advice about not standing up too fast, except I couldn’t stand up at all. The board flipped and hit me on the head. Fortunately, I didn’t break it (the board, that is; my head is too thick to be damaged).
This continued for half an hour, after which I trudged back to the beach.
"Don’t worry," Amra said consolingly. "Sometimes it takes older people a lot of years to learn."
"I don’t have a lot of years left," I said as I thanked him for trying to make a surfer out of me.
I wanted to be the epitome of the surfing mantra "hang 10, dude." Sadly, I couldn’t even hang one. I went from dude to dud. At least I didn’t get sand up my nose.
Since I had water on the brain, I signed up to go snorkeling with sea turtles, even though turtles don’t need snorkels.
Sue and I boarded a catamaran called the Wildcat 1, which was captained by Michael Fedee, 35, who had stocked plenty of rum, the national drink of Barbados, for the dozen guests on board. Fedee and Rico Blackman, 18, the first mate, drank soda.
We anchored in Payne’s Bay and slipped into the warm water, which was so clear you could easily see 15 feet to the bottom. Immediately, we were surrounded by greenback turtles, the largest of which, named George, was 4 feet long and weighed about 400 pounds. He introduced himself by letting me shake his flipper. In Barbados, even the turtles are nice.
The highlight of the week came on the last night, when Sue and I had dinner at our own private table on the beach. It was arranged for our anniversary by Sherrie-Ann Waldron, the hotel’s guest relations officer.
In fact, everyone at Turtle Beach – including Charles, Racquel, Hermanius, Kim, Wayde, Beyanker, Melissa and Petra – was wonderful.
Sue and I had such a good time that we may go back next year instead of waiting another three decades. At this rate, it will take that long for me to learn how to surf.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Every three decades, like clockwork, my wife and I drop whatever we are doing and go on a trip. Call us impulsive, but we hadn’t been away together, just the two of us, to a place with postcards and palm trees, since our honeymoon in Hawaii in 1978. So we celebrated our 30th anniversary with a week in Barbados.
Sue and I decided not to go to Europe because the dollar is even weaker than I am and the only foreign language I speak is Pig Latin. With the help of a travel agent named Lisa, who suggested Barbados because it offers both fun and relaxation, Sue booked us at the Turtle Beach Resort in Christ Church.
Turtle Beach, so named because it is on a beach and has turtles, though not actually in the hotel itself, which would really slow up room service, is an "all-inclusive" resort. This means you pay a very reasonable price (in our case, about $3,500) for all your food, cocktails and hotel-sponsored activities for the week, in addition to your room and airfare. The deal enables you to eat, drink and be merry for what seems like nothing. Ever since we got back, I have had the uneasy feeling that somebody is going to show up at our house and demand more money.
That won’t happen because American currency is worth half of its Barbadian counterpart, so why would anyone want it?
The first thing Sue and I discovered about Barbados is that the residents, called Bajans, pride themselves on two things: Rihanna, the Grammy Award-winning singer, and being the nicest people in the world. They are, in fact, so nice that if you challenge them on this, they will be too nice to argue the point. Except if you challenge them on Rihanna.
The second thing we discovered is that because of the heavy British influence (Barbados is a former British colony and most of the tourists are British), the people drive on the wrong side of the road. They make up for it by politely obeying the rules. This includes going the speed limit and yielding to other drivers at roundabouts, or rotaries, which are so prevalent that the roads must be maintained by the Rotary Club.
That was evident on a shopping excursion to Bridgetown, the capital, which is composed primarily of banks and, to the dismay of visiting husbands, jewelry stores.
The van from the hotel was packed, so I sat next to the driver, Martin Grimes, a 41-year-old family man who is studying to be a minister at Barbados Bible College and has been driving professionally for 20 years.
"I’ll drive," I suggested.
"Where are you from?" Grimes asked.
"I was born and raised in Stamford, Conn.," I said, "but I now live on Long Island, N.Y."
"You’re from New York?" he shrieked. "You people are crazy. You drive on the wrong side of the road. You’ll get us all killed."
During the ride, I found out that, like every Bajan I spoke with, Grimes has relatives in the tri-state area.
"Where do people from Barbados go on vacation?" I inquired.
Grimes said, "New York."
Speaking of getting killed, I nearly ended up in Davy Jones’ locker, which would have ruined his gym clothes, when I took a surfing lesson. This was not the fault of my instructor, Amra McDowall, who has been surfing for half his life. He is 17.
"I usually teach little kids and teenagers, so you are definitely the oldest student I have ever had," Amra said when I told him I am 54. "But I know you can do it."
I got a similar vote of confidence from two of Amra’s other students, Jamie Tarallo, 16, and his brother, Cory, 14, who were vacationing with their parents, Dawn and Nick Tarallo of Bedford, N.Y.
"Take your time and don’t stand up too fast," Cory said.
Jamie added, "And don’t get sand up your nose."
That would have been the least of my problems. I was so bad that I couldn’t even stay on the board while paddling out.
"You’re wearing too much sunscreen. It’s making you slide off," said Amra, who suggested I put on a T-shirt. It didn’t work.
Finally, after I made it out a fair distance, Amra had me turn around and try to catch a wave. I remembered Cory’s advice about not standing up too fast, except I couldn’t stand up at all. The board flipped and hit me on the head. Fortunately, I didn’t break it (the board, that is; my head is too thick to be damaged).
This continued for half an hour, after which I trudged back to the beach.
"Don’t worry," Amra said consolingly. "Sometimes it takes older people a lot of years to learn."
"I don’t have a lot of years left," I said as I thanked him for trying to make a surfer out of me.
I wanted to be the epitome of the surfing mantra "hang 10, dude." Sadly, I couldn’t even hang one. I went from dude to dud. At least I didn’t get sand up my nose.
Since I had water on the brain, I signed up to go snorkeling with sea turtles, even though turtles don’t need snorkels.
Sue and I boarded a catamaran called the Wildcat 1, which was captained by Michael Fedee, 35, who had stocked plenty of rum, the national drink of Barbados, for the dozen guests on board. Fedee and Rico Blackman, 18, the first mate, drank soda.
We anchored in Payne’s Bay and slipped into the warm water, which was so clear you could easily see 15 feet to the bottom. Immediately, we were surrounded by greenback turtles, the largest of which, named George, was 4 feet long and weighed about 400 pounds. He introduced himself by letting me shake his flipper. In Barbados, even the turtles are nice.
The highlight of the week came on the last night, when Sue and I had dinner at our own private table on the beach. It was arranged for our anniversary by Sherrie-Ann Waldron, the hotel’s guest relations officer.
In fact, everyone at Turtle Beach – including Charles, Racquel, Hermanius, Kim, Wayde, Beyanker, Melissa and Petra – was wonderful.
Sue and I had such a good time that we may go back next year instead of waiting another three decades. At this rate, it will take that long for me to learn how to surf.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
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