"The Prince and the Poppie"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Prince Charles

Clarence House

London SW1A 1BA

United Kingdom

Sir:

From one new grandpa to another, I am writing to congratulate you on the birth of your first grandchild. I know he is a prince of a boy because my granddaughter, who was born in March, is my little princess. I guess that makes us a couple of lucky guys who will always give our grandchildren, if you will pardon the expression, the royal treatment.

Despite our differences (you have a real job, whereas I am a public nuisance), we have much in common, even though I am a commoner who has very little common sense, which is commoner these days than you might think.

Anyway, my younger daughter and her husband (the proud new parents) were married in France the day after your older son and his wife (ditto) were married in England in 2011.

I wrote the duke and duchess a letter to congratulate them on their nuptials and to thank them for being the opening act for the wedding of the century, in which I was, of course, the father of the bride. I also noted that our happy couple had a second ceremony here in the United States, which was one more than the duke and duchess had, but who’s counting?

I received a lovely reply from Mrs. Claudia Holloway, who as you know is the head of correspondence for the royal family. She wrote on behalf of the duke and duchess to extend their thanks for my good wishes and their congratulations to their fellow newlyweds.

It showed the class for which your family (and everyone in mine except, unfortunately, yours truly) is known.

In that spirit, I will not get into one-upmanship by saying that in addition to having two weddings, my daughter had a baby before your daughter-in-law did. I will say, however, that they are wonderful young women (and their husbands are wonderful young men) and that their babies — our grandchildren — are beautiful.

Now here is the most amazing thing we have in common: Both babies were born at 4:24 p.m.

It seems like they were made for each other. This, I believe, is more than just a coincidence. There must be some cosmic or divine plan at work here. Since your grandson is a prince and my granddaughter is a princess, their lives seem destined to intertwine.

Could there be a wedding (or two) in our future?

You never know. But here at the Zezimanse, as we call our family home, we are very excited at the prospect.

First, though, your grandson will have to prove himself worthy of my granddaughter, which, considering his lineage, I have no doubt he will do.

When he gets a bit older, he will have to hold his bottle (ba-ba in baby talk) the proper way, with his pinkies up. And he will have to know which plastic fork to use when he begins eating solid food, which initially will consist of mashed peas and carrots. I hear they are better than a lot of British meals, but I don’t want to be a culinary critic.

I merely want to say that this could be the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

I also want to say that we should enjoy being grandfathers. There is, as I am sure you have already found out, nothing like it. I’m also sure that you have pampered your grandson, though I don’t know if you have Pampered him. If not, you really should lend a hand. In fact, two hands. Just make sure you are not wearing white gloves.

Again, Charles, congratulations. Please give our best to your family. And let’s set up a play date.

Sincerely,

Jerry Zezima

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Sleeping My Way to the Top"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a dedicated employee who has often been accused of sleeping on the job (I seldom hear the accusations because I am, of course, asleep), I knew it was a dream come true when I found a job on which I would actually be required to sleep.

I refer to a position (horizontal) with the impressive title of snooze director, which opened up recently at Sleepy’s, the mattress company that doesn’t rest on its laurels when it comes to giving people a good night’s sleep.

Emily Barrett, 25, was hired in 2011 as Sleepy’s first snooze director but left the company a couple of months ago to become a production assistant for MTV. When I read that the job was open, I applied. Then I took a nap so I would be refreshed and coherent enough to make a good impression.

I did just that when I went to Sleepy’s headquarters in Hicksville, N.Y., for an interview with marketing manager Andrew Jedlicka, who asked why I thought I was qualified to be the new snooze director.

“I was born for this job,” I told him. “In fact, I was born more than three weeks past my due date. My mother later said that I was sleeping happily and didn’t want to come out. Also, I have a lot of experience because I’m a geezer who has been sleeping for decades. And I’m a newspaper columnist whose work frequently puts people to sleep.”

Then I told Jedlicka about the message on my answering machine at work: “Hi, this is Jerry Zezima. I’m either away from my desk or at my desk but fast asleep. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

“Those are excellent qualifications,” Jedlicka acknowledged. “What if we made you an offer?”

I yawned and replied, “I’d have to sleep on it.”

The interview went so well that I was called back for the decisive round at the Sleepy’s store in New York City, where I learned that I was one of five finalists out of 70 applicants.

The other four finalists were women in their 20s.

Unlike the first interview, this one was recorded by a camera crew. I repeated my spiel (now it can be used as a cure for insomnia) and emphasized the health benefits of a good night’s sleep — especially, I added with a wink, on a quality mattress. And I said I knew that the job of snooze director entailed more than snoozing. I would have to stay awake long enough to make appearances at Sleepy’s stores and talk to the public about the restorative effects of sleep.

I also performed the “pillow test,” in which I explained how to tell if you have a good pillow (it should snap back to its original position after being folded in half, preferably not with your head on it); demonstrated my nightly sleeping positions (none vertical); and stressed the importance of lying on the proper side of the mattress (the top).

Though I performed well, I lost out to Elizabeth Murphy, 25, of Floral Park, N.Y., Sleepy’s smart and personable new snooze director.

“I’m very excited,” Murphy told me over the phone after the decision had been announced a week later. “I think my ability to talk to people helped. It’s also a good thing I’m a morning person, since the interview was before lunch.”

Murphy added that she sleeps with Daisy, her 50-lb. beagle, who is an even better sleeper than she is. “It’s conceivable that Daisy could have gotten the job,” said Murphy.

“We loved Elizabeth’s energy,” explained Jeff Lobb, chief marketing officer for Sleepy’s. “But we loved you, too. You made a compelling case, with all your sleeping experience and the fact that you’re a writer who helps others fall asleep. Still, we felt that Elizabeth was the right choice. I hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I won’t lose any sleep over it.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"The Polo Pony Whisperer"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

A horse is a horse, of course, of course, and no one can talk to a horse, of course — unless, of course, you’re a newspaper columnist who gets an exclusive interview with a champion polo pony.

That’s what I did recently when I hoofed it out to Riverhead, N.Y., for the Sandy Relief Charity Polo Match at the Dorothy P. Flint Camp. The match drew about 400 people and raised more than $10,000 for the 4-H program at the camp, which is run by the Cornell Cooperative Extension of Nassau County.

The first thing I noticed was that Prince Harry wasn’t there. Harry recently played in a charity polo match in Greenwich, Conn., but was conspicuously absent from the Long Island event.

“He’s missing a good time,” said Nick Aliano, owner of Aliano Real Estate, which sponsored the match.

The sport of kings would have liked to have the prince, but it got several of the next best things in players who are rated as high or higher than Harry by the United States Polo Association.

That includes Aliano, 57, who took up the sport 13 years ago and is rated at 1 goal. Ratings go from minus-2 to 10, with 97 percent of players being rated at zero goals or fewer.

“You’re as good as Harry,” I said after finding out that the prince also is rated at 1 goal.

“I guess that makes me a prince of a guy,” said Aliano, who showed me some of his horses, all Thoroughbreds that are the real athletes in the sport.

“Ninety percent of the game is the horse,” said Alberto Bengolea, a player and trainer who has a reputation as a horse whisperer.

“I whisper, but the horses don’t listen,” said Bengolea, 61, who has worked with the animals for most of his life.

When I introduced myself to Catherine, one of Aliano’s horses, she looked at me and sighed. Then she looked away.

“She’s saying, ‘I don’t care about you. Let’s just get this over with.’ Right now, she’s napping,” Bengolea told me.

“I put her to sleep?” I said. “I have that effect on people. I had no idea I could do it to horses, too.”

Fortunately, the other horses I spoke with (or whispered to) didn’t doze off. But I had to wait until halftime of the match, a spirited affair between Aliano Real Estate and the 4-H Crusaders.

At the intermission, I had the honor of interviewing Pinton, on whom Aliano was riding when he scored a goal to help give his team a 4-1 lead.

“He scored the goal,” Aliano said of Pinton, who actually nodded when I asked him if it felt good to help his club.

“He’s a team player,” said Aliano, who allowed me to mount a horse named 69, a gentle veteran that graciously stood still while Bengolea handed me a polo mallet. He showed me the proper way to hold it and how to swing it should I ever find myself playing in a polo match, in which case I would surely be rated minus-2.

“Or maybe I’d be off the charts,” I suggested.

69 nodded, too.

The second half was even more exciting than the first, as the Crusaders rallied to tie the match, 7-7. But Aliano, who had three goals and was named best player, scored the decisive tally in a 9-7 victory.

As his team was awarded the Cornell Cup, the players sprayed each other with Champagne, some of which got on Pistola, who was named best playing pony.

“She doesn’t drink Champagne, but she likes the spray,” said her owner, Lobo Fernandez, 35, who scored three goals atop the 12-year-old gray speckled champion. “She’s a really great horse.”

“Congratulations, champ,” I said to Pistola. “How does it feel?”

Pistola looked at me and lowered her head in modesty.

“She doesn’t like to brag,” Fernandez said. “But she feels good. She had a terrific match.”

And it was all for a good cause. Too bad Prince Harry missed it.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Grumpy's Guide to Grandparenting"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Ever since my adorable little granddaughter was born in March, I thought I knew everything there was to know about being a grandfather but was afraid to ask.

Then, flush with triumph after changing a diaper, I got over my fear and asked for pearls of wisdom from my college buddy and longtime friend Tim Lovelette, who has three granddaughters.

“One of the most important things you can do when you have granddaughters,” said Tim, who lives on Cape Cod, Mass., “is to get them to watch the Three Stooges. This is the difference between being a grandfather and being a grandmother. Men love the Stooges and women hate them. Women are missing out on a huge piece of culture. So it’s crucial that we get the next generation of women — our granddaughters — to watch the Stooges. Have a Stooge marathon. Your granddaughter will love it. Then she’ll be hooked. And it will be too late for her grandmother to do anything about it.”

Tim added that his wife, Jane, is the best grandmother in the world, despite not being a Three Stooges fan.

“I’ll put my wife up against any other grandmother,” he said proudly. “We’ll have a competition. They can duke it out and Jane will win.”

I told Tim that my wife, Sue, is a wonderful grandmother.

“I don’t doubt that,” he said. “But Jane has a height advantage. And Sue doesn’t have Jane’s experience.”

That’s because Tim and Jane’s oldest granddaughter is 6 years old, the middle one is a year old and the youngest is 8 months.

“Jane watches one on Mondays and another one on Thursdays,” Tim said. “She’ll take the bus into Boston to baby-sit the youngest one and come back at night. And Jane watched the oldest one before the little girl got big enough to go to school. The most impressive thing is that Jane has to baby-sit me. I’m less mature than any of them.”

As a result, Tim said, very little is expected of him.

“Jane assumes all the grandparenting responsibilities,” he noted. “Nobody expects me to do anything. I’m not responsible by design. It’s a conscious irresponsibility. I run a successful insurance business, I keep out of jail, I’m the same guy you met in college — a little heavier but even more handsome — but I’ve developed this aura of irresponsibility. If you start out with low expectations, you can’t go wrong. That way, if you do something good, like go for a walk with your granddaughter, you can be a real hero.”

“My granddaughter is too young to walk,” I said, “but I’ve put her in the stroller and taken her for a spin around the patio.”

“You’re a good grandfather,” said Tim. “I’m impressed. I’m in awe. I mean, you even change diapers.”

“I guess I’m a late bloomer,” I said, “because I didn’t change a lot of diapers when my two daughters were babies.”

“I’ve changed one diaper in my life,” Tim acknowledged. “You’re willing to do things that I won’t do. I love being a grandfather, and I love my granddaughters, but there’s a limit to everything.”

Tim does take credit for being diplomatic.

“You have to be very judicious when you have more than one granddaughter,” said Tim, whose daughter-in-law is the mom of the oldest two and whose daughter is the mom of the youngest. “If one mother senses a child is getting more praise than another, it’s Armageddon.”

Tim said choosing the name you want your grandchildren to call you also is important.

“I like the names you and Sue picked out: Nini and Poppie,” said Tim. “I’ve always been Big Daddy and Jane has been Go-Go. But when the youngest one was born, my daughter said she didn’t like those names and wanted us to change them. So now we’re Grammy and Grumpy.”

Tim paused and added: “I’m Grumpy. And pretty soon, I’m going to introduce her to the Three Stooges.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"My Mother, the Plumber"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a man who has regularly plumbed the depths for column material but doesn’t know how to plumb a sink to get rid of even worse material, I recently faced a flood of problems that threatened to turn the laundry room into a scene from “Titanic.”

So I called Rosina the Plumber.

Rosina, in case you need her services, is my mother.

Momz, as she is lovingly known in our family, isn’t a plumber by trade. She had a long and rewarding career as a registered nurse, so she knows about human plumbing. Now that she’s retired, she has been taking care of the plumbing in her house, the difference being that she doesn’t have to take its blood pressure, dispense medication or put up with complaints.

“One time,” Momz recalled, “I dropped an earring down the sink.”

My father, the original and best Jerry Zezima, who passed away a couple of years ago, was the handiest guy I ever knew. He could have solved the problem, but he was at work, so my mother had to fish the earring out herself.

“I took off the elbow of the pipe under the sink,” she said. “And there was the earring. It wasn’t expensive, but I didn’t want to lose it.”

“If you had,” I told her, “you could have said it was from the van Gogh collection.”

“Another time,” said Momz, politely ignoring the remark, “the bathtub got clogged up with soap and bath oil. I wasn’t sure if I needed a snake or a plunger, but the guy at the hardware store said to pour this stuff down the drain. It didn’t work. So I got a long brush with black bristles. I threaded it down the drain and — bingo! — the clog was gone.”

I told her about the problem I was having with the sink in the laundry room.

“A hose from the washing machine empties water into the sink, but the sink is clogged and today it overflowed,” I said. “I thought we were going to have an indoor swimming pool.”

“Did you put on your bathing suit?” my mother asked.

“No,” I replied. “But I did stick a piece of wire down the drain. It didn’t work.”

“Do you have a snake?” Momz wondered.

“Yes,” I said. “Fortunately, it’s not the poisonous kind or I’d need COBRA health insurance.”

Momz politely ignored that remark, too, and said, “Stick it down the drain.”

“I tried,” I said, “but it won’t fit.”

“Take the elbow off the pipe under the sink,” she advised, “and run the snake through from there.”

“You don’t make house calls, do you?” I asked.

My mother, who lives in my hometown of Stamford, Conn., two hours from my house on Long Island, N.Y., said, “Yes. And, unlike other plumbers, I wouldn’t charge you. But you should take care of this right away. I know you can do it.”

I was skeptical, so I drove to a nearby Home Depot store and went to the plumbing department, where I spoke with an associate named Charlie, who said, “Your mother is absolutely right.”

“Could she work here?” I asked.

“We’d love to have her,” Charlie responded.

I went back home and took the elbow off the pipe under the sink. Then I ran the snake through and pulled out about half a ton of wet lint and soapy residue.

When I had finished, my wife, Sue, did a load of wash. The water went down the drain perfectly.

I called my mother to tell her the good news and to say that Home Depot could use her services.

“I’m going to stay retired,” she said. “But maybe I could be a consultant. Who says you can’t get a good plumber anymore?”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Grandfather Knows Best"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Now that I am a grandfather, many people whose children have recently had children have asked for my brilliant advice on how to be a good grandparent. As a world-renowned expert whose granddaughter is not even 2 months old but is already more mature than I am, I’d be happy to comply.

For new grandparents, changing diapers is the No. 1 concern. It’s also, of course, the No. 2 concern. But more on that later.

First, you should know that my precious little pumpkin is the most beautiful grandbaby ever born. It is important to acknowledge this and to stop thinking that your grandchild is more adorable than mine. He or she may have been the most beautiful before my granddaughter made her grand entrance into the world, but not anymore. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.

With that settled, here is a vital grandparenting tip: Don’t brag. Nobody wants to listen to you babble on about how alert, wonderful and beautiful your grandchild is while looking at 100 photos you have just taken of the little cutie. Fifty photos are more than enough.

Yes, you are proud to be a grandparent, but a little humility goes a long way. You might say something like, “My grandbaby isn’t as alert, wonderful and beautiful as Jerry Zezima’s, but then, whose grandchild is?”

This brings me to your interaction with the baby. As a grandparent, you will have a profound influence on your grandchild, for better (as in the case of my wife, Sue, also known as Nini) or for worse (as in the case of yours truly, also known as Poppie).

As evidence of this, I have already baby-sat for my granddaughter a few times. I fed her, changed her and played with her. I also watched baseball and hockey games with her. I even told her jokes while I held her. She looked up at me and smiled. When her mommy heard this, she said, “That was just gas.”

Now we come to the crucial part: Caring for the baby. It may have been 30 years since you were last entrusted with an infant, but it will all come back to you in pungent waves of nostalgia.

As you will recall, babies do three things: sleep, eat and poop. Nice work if you can get it.

The main difference between babies and adults is that babies not only can get away with it but are actually praised for their efforts.

“Yay!” is the typical reaction when the baby polishes off a bottle faster than you have ever chugged a beer.

“Good job!” everyone says when the baby burps.

“Way to go!” they all exclaim, coughing slightly, when the baby does his or her business.

Speaking of which, being on diaper duty is not nearly as bad as it seemed when your kids were babies. In fact, it’s a refreshing change. Well, maybe not refreshing, but it’s breathtakingly simple, even if it’s not a good idea to breathe while cleaning up.

This helps you bond with your grandchild and is the ultimate proof of your love and devotion to the little darling.

There you have it, new grandparents. This is just a primer, and I will impart more wisdom to you as your grandchild gets older, but at least now you have the basics.

So go ahead and enjoy being a Nini or a Poppie. There’s nothing like it. You can even brag a little. You can also feel free to show unsuspecting people all those pictures you just took because I know that the new addition to your family really is beautiful.

And don’t forget the most important thing: Despite what anyone says, when your adorable little grandbaby smiles at you, it’s not necessarily gas.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"It's About Crime"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a private eye (my other eye, I figured, would be public), but I never pursued it because I was sure I’d end up investigating myself.

Now that I am an adult who does not (as yet) have a criminal record, I thought it would finally be a good time to take a class on how to be a detective.

So I signed up at the Center Moriches Library on Long Island, N.Y., for “Jr. Crime Investigators,” a four-session course that teaches kids how to investigate crimes like those seen on the TV show “CSI.”

The instructor was Larissa Froeschl, a forensic science teacher who has worked with law-enforcement officials and has a master’s degree in biology.

The class was composed of about 10 kids, all of whom were 12, and one geezer, who was almost five times as old but only half as mature.

The first session, which like the others lasted an hour and a half, was a fingerprinting workshop.

“Your prints are hard to read,” Larissa told me as she looked at them on my personal identification sheet. “Maybe you would be a good criminal.”

Then, while wearing rubber gloves, the kids and I used ostrich-feather brushes and nontoxic powders to dust for fingerprints we put on items such as a glass tube, a soap dish, a butter knife, a hair clip and, the one I used, a fake jewel.

“I could bring it home to my wife and tell her it’s real,” I said to Larissa.

“I can see your thumb print on it,” she replied as she inspected the item with a magnifying glass. “Even though your fingerprints aren’t too distinct, with modern forensics, you’d get caught.”

“There goes my criminal career,” I lamented.

I went from crook to kidnapping victim in the next class, which focused on ransom notes.

“You have to give handwriting samples,” said Larissa, who instructed each of us to write the following sentence three times on a sheet of paper: “The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.”

Then she divided the class into two groups. A member of each group had to write a ransom note for the other group to solve. The note our group had to solve read: “We have your mustache! Give us two million dollars or we will sell it on eBay.”

“It looks like you’ve been kidnapped,” Larissa said.

“Who would want me?” I responded.

Possibly the cops, as I found out in the third session, for which Larissa had created a crime scene that was cordoned off with yellow police tape. Scattered over the floor were pieces of evidence, including a purse, a key and a knife with ketchup on it.

“It could be the murder weapon,” Larissa said.

“Or maybe somebody was making a sandwich with it,” a student named Jack theorized.

After we all gave hair samples and looked at them under microscopes, Larissa said to me, “You have a nice medulla. Your hair has a very distinctive structure.”

“I thought only my hairdresser knew for sure,” I replied.

I escaped the hairy situation (Larissa was the guilty party), but I was a suspect in a jewel heist in the final class.

Actually, I was two suspects because I played dual roles: the husband of the princess whose jewels were stolen and a long-lost friend of hers. Larissa played the princess, her maid and her secretary.

The kids had to use the skills they learned in the previous three classes to deduce the identity of the thief. They correctly collared the secretary.

“At least I’m not going to jail,” I told Larissa at the end of the class.

“No,” she said. “But maybe you can be a detective and get your own show.”

I can see it now: “CSI: Column Stupidity Investigation.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima