"You Axed for It"

By Jerry Zezima

In my hands, which are big and clumsy, tools are dangerous weapons, which is why I generally avoid using saws, hammers, drills and other menacing objects that could slice off a finger, crush a thumb, pummel a palm or otherwise destroy my hands.

So imagine my surprise and delight to find out that — in my right hand, at least — I am a natural with an axe.

I don’t mean using one to chop wood (not a good idea since I don’t have a fireplace and the house might burn down), but rather throwing one at a target.

And I consistently hit the bull’s-eye, which is no bull, by displaying a good eye at the New York Axe Throwing Range, where I didn’t need beginner’s luck to show that I am a champ at burying the hatchet.

My axe-ploits (more axe puns coming up!) impressed coach Liz Vanek and manager Kaitlyn Lombardi, who agreed that I have an inherent talent at an activity that was popular during the Middle Ages. I considered it good timing since I will be the big 7-Oh on my next birthday and, unless I live to be 140, am a bit past middle age.

“Am I the oldest axe thrower you’ve ever met?” I asked.

“No,” said Liz. “We had a sweet little old lady in her 80s who was really good. She said, ‘I’ve never thrown axes before.’ But she wanted to try. And she killed it.”

“Killed?” I stammered.

“Not literally,” Liz assured me.

Before I tried my hand at throwing caution to the wind, I said to Liz and Kaitlyn, “Let’s get the wordplay out of the way. Do you hear a lot of axe puns, like ‘You axed for it’ and ‘It’s a hatchet job’?”

“All the time,” Liz quickly acknowledged. “The puns make me groan internally.”

“We’ve even come up with our own,” said Kaitlyn, who told me about the names of teams that customers could use.

They included VIP Axe-cess, Axe-cent, Axe-ident, My Axe Husband, My Axe Wife and, the best one, Pain in the Axe.

“We already did the work for you,” Kaitlyn noted.

“Thank you,” I said. “I’m happy to axe-cept your help.”

And I couldn’t have been in better — or younger — hands.

Liz is 18 and became a certified axe-throwing coach after going through a rigorous training program that involved learning safety measures, becoming proficient at consistently hitting the target and — this is very important — not maiming anybody.

“No missing limbs,” she said.

Kaitlyn is 21 and used to work as a clown at birthday parties.

“I’m a pretty good axe thrower,” said Kaitlyn, who started in the entertainment industry. “But Liz is better. After all, she’s a coach.”

“Let’s see how you do,” Liz said as she brought me to the first of the range’s 14 lanes.

“Are you right-handed or left-handed?” she asked.

“I’m ambidextrous,” I replied. “I’m incompetent with both hands.”

“Some people use both to throw axes,” Liz said. “But which hand is more dominant?”

“My right one,” I answered.

“That’s important to know because of leg placement,” she said. “You have to put your best foot forward.”

“Another pun!” I exclaimed.

“Sorry,” Liz said softly.

But first, I had to choose one of two kinds of axes: a smaller one, which resembled a hatchet, and a larger one that was a genuine axe.

I chose the smaller one because, as I told Liz, “I don’t have an axe to grind.”

She groaned internally and handed it to me.

“Bring it back like this,” she said, helping me hold the axe next to my head and parallel to the floor while standing a dozen feet from the large wooden target. “Step into your throw and follow through. The axe should rotate once before hitting the target. Ready?”

“Ready!” I said. Then I let the axe fly.

It landed squarely in the middle of the target.

“Bull’s-eye!” Liz chirped as she rang a bell.

“Great shot!” added Kaitlyn.

I had several more throws, the majority of which were bull’s-eyes.

Then I switched to the larger axe, for which I had to stand a couple of feet farther from the target. It didn’t matter. I scored one bull’s-eye after another.

This continued for an hour (the price for which is $39). I could have gone for an hour and a half ($55), but I had already proved my point.

“You are very good at throwing axes,” said Liz.

“Did you have fun?” asked Kaitlyn.

I smiled proudly and said, “I had an axe-cellent time.”

Copyright 2023 by Jerry Zezima

"I Married a Cover Girl"

By Jerry Zezima

I am not one to make blanket statements, but I will make one now: We have enough blankets in our house to cover the Green Bay Packers.

At last count, which entailed going to every room with a calculator (I could have used a pedometer, too), there were 17 blankets scattered about the place. And that doesn’t include the one in my car. Or the many that are hiding in closets. Or in drawers. Or even in bins I haven’t looked in yet.

I did look inside an ottoman in the family room, where there are half a dozen blankets.

Then, of course, there are the bedroom blankets, but they don’t count. Beds are supposed to have blankets. Rocking chairs aren’t.

The only places in the house that don’t have blankets are the three bathrooms. But that’s only because they would end up clogging the toilets.

And I just remembered all the beach blankets we have. Frankie Avalon and Annette Funicello would be impressed.

Our house has to be the blanket capital of the United States because my wife, Sue, is a bona fide cover girl.

“I like blankets,” she explained.

It was the understatement of the century.

Sue not only buys blankets (“Is there a cover charge?” I once asked), she also makes them. And I must admit they’re beautiful.

She gives some of them to our grandchildren, who order blankets from her like they were shopping on Amazon, except the kids get them for free.

Sue hasn’t made a blanket for me, but if I keep complaining about all the ones that are taking over the house, I might be suffocated with — you guessed it — a blanket. But it won’t be one that Sue made because she’s too smart to leave evidence.

I can just envision the crime scene.

Cop (to Sue): “You say your husband smothered himself with a blanket last night?”

Sue: “Yes, officer. It must have ridden up over his face while he was sleeping.”

Cop: “Why do you have extra blankets on the bed?”

Sue: “It was cold. And we like to save energy, so I got a second blanket for each of us.”

Cop: “The one on your side is nice.”

Sue (proudly): “I made it myself.”

Cop: “Did your husband ever complain about all the blankets in the house?”

Sue (hesitating): “Uh, not that I can recall.”

Cop (to first responders): “All right, let’s get this guy out of here. Cover him up.”

Sue: “Don’t use a blanket. I’ll have to wash it.”

Keith Morrison would have a field day with this on “Dateline NBC,” which Sue and I sometimes watch, although we regularly watch the various “FBI,” “Chicago” and “Law & Order” shows, as well as movies and streaming series.

We do so while sitting in comfy chairs with our feet up and our legs covered by soft, cozy blankets.

I will concede that they serve a purpose, which is to help me fall asleep before the closing credits, although if I have popcorn, Sue will warn me not to get buttery kernels on my blanket.

At least that won’t happen with the blanket in the back seat of my car, which Sue put there in case we break down.

“It will keep us warm while we’re waiting for a tow truck,” she reasoned.

I haven’t looked in Sue’s car, but I bet there’s a blanket in there, too.

We also have a lot of pillows, but not as many as our friends Hank and Angela Richert, who must have more pillows than any couple in America.

Sue and I recently told them about all our blankets.

“You’ve got us beat,” Angela said. “I may have to start a new collection.”

Hank sighed and said, “Oh, no.”

“Don’t complain,” I told him. “And be sure to sleep with one eye open.”

Copyright 2023 by Jerry Zezima

"Three Cheers for Two Crews"

By Jerry Zezima

I am frequently in the dark, so I don’t have to go out on a limb to say that the limb that recently fell on our power lines left me in a scary place:

The bathroom.

Which was dark.

That’s because the power had gone out.

It happened at 3 a.m. I got out of bed and stumbled to the porcelain convenience, which I visit a couple of times a night as part of a strict exercise regimen, and flipped the switch. The light didn’t go on.

As winds raged (outside, not in the bathroom), I cleverly deduced that a storm had knocked out our power. Little did I know until later that morning what had happened.

“Hurry downstairs!” shrieked my wife, Sue. “A huge tree limb fell on the lines in the back.”

Sure enough, I saw that the top of a big oak had been sheared off and had snapped the wires attached to a pole in a corner of the yard.

But the biggest surprise came when Sue pointed out that a couple of lines that stretched across the yard to the house had almost ripped off the electric meter. Wires and a broken conduit littered the patio.

“Are the wires live?” Sue inquired nervously.

“I’d be shocked — shocked! — if they were,” I replied. “But I don’t want to go outside to find out.”

Fortunately, a crew from the power company wasn’t powerless to do anything about it. Neither was a crew from a tree company that opened a branch office in our backyard.

“We have to wait for the line guys to shut off the power,” said Brendan, the tree company crew chief.

“It’s already off,” I informed him.

“Not completely,” Brendan said. “We don’t want to get zapped before we can remove the limb from the wires. Have you ever gotten an electrical charge?”

“Every month,” I said. “And how do you think my hair got like this?”

To compound matters, rain was falling, the temperature was dropping and nothing in the house worked.

“I can’t even offer you coffee,” Sue told the guys.

Instead, she brought out a plate of homemade cookies.

“Can I have one?” I asked.

“No!” Sue said. “They’re working. You’re not doing anything.”

So I had a bowl of cereal.

“And don’t keep the refrigerator door open,” I was told. “The milk will go bad.”

Sparked by Sue’s sweet sustenance, the guys swung — literally — into action.

One of them, Omar, was like Tarzan, using ropes to swing from an adjacent tree to a position where he could wield a chainsaw to cut the limb on the wires. When he had finished and was back on terra firma, Omar got an ovation from the tree and power crews.

“I almost fainted while watching you up there,” I told him. “I’m afraid of being any higher off the ground than the top of my head.”

“It’s fun,” Omar said. “And I get paid for it.”

“You mean money actually grows on trees?” I asked.

As Omar and his co-workers cut up the huge limb on the ground, the power guys worked to restore electricity to our house and the other 65 homes affected by the outage.

“Have you ever had an outage at your house?” I asked Dave, the power company foreman.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“How many times have you flipped a light switch and remembered that you have no power?” I wondered.

“Every time until the power comes back on,” he answered.

In our house, where Sue had put on a coat because it felt like a meat locker and had started lighting candles because the sun had gone down, the power came back on at 5:30 p.m., more than 14 hours after it went out. Of course, this was nothing compared to what people in California have been going through.

Still, the crews from the power and tree companies were superb, even if not all the neighbors thought so.

“You and your wife are the only nice ones,” said a power company worker named Gabe. “I got yelled at by a woman and an old guy down the street. At least you were hospitable. Thanks for having us.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “Thanks for all your great work.”

“Now you can go back in the house and see what you’re doing,” Gabe said.

“It won’t help,” I replied. “Even when the lights are on, I’m still in the dark.”

Copyright 2023 by Jerry Zezima

"You've Still Got Mail"

By Jerry Zezima

I like to think outside the box, mainly because I can’t fit inside the box. And even if I could, I would suffocate.

That’s why I have never believed that the check is in the mail — unless it’s one of the checks I have to write so I can pay all the bills that are delivered to my mailbox.

But I recently saved myself $80 — the price of a new mailbox, which would have contained a bill for that amount from a home improvement store — by fixing a broken door on the decrepit mailbox my wife, Sue, and I have had since we moved into our house almost a quarter of a century ago.

For several months, the door had been unhinged, not unlike a certain homeowner. Every time I opened it, the stupid thing came off in my hands. I closed it by lining up the magnet on the door with the magnet on the frame.

One day the door blew off in a high wind. I found it down the street.

The mail was still in the box, but I couldn’t take the chance that something important — a supermarket circular with coupons for beer — would blow away, too.

“I think we need a new mailbox,” I told Sue.

“Can’t you just fix the door?” she asked.

It was a good question with a bad answer: No.

So I sought advice from our mailman, Arnie.

“Bore a hole in the side of the mailbox and put a screw through until it attaches to the door,” he suggested. “Do you have a screwdriver?”

“There’s vodka and orange juice in the house,” I replied.

“It might help,” Arnie said.

“If I fix the door, will you stop delivering bills?” I wondered.

“Only if you put a lock on it,” Arnie said.

Sue and I went to a home improvement store to look for screws — I couldn’t find a lock — and went to an aisle with mailboxes.

“They cost 80 bucks!” Sue shrieked. “That’s too expensive. We can save a lot of money if you do it yourself.”

So I spoke with a helpful hardware man named Brian.

“Get screws that are an inch and a half long,” he suggested after I showed him a photo of our mailbox. “If they’re too short, bring them back.”

Naturally, the screws were too short.

“Bring them back,” said Sue.

That’s when I met Chris, a hardware guy who had better advice.

“Get a threaded metal bar and a hacksaw,” he said. “Measure the bar and cut it to the right length. Leave a little bit sticking out of the side of the mailbox, then put a washer and a nut on the end.”

“It sounds too complicated just to get bills and junk mail,” I said.

“You can do it,” Chris assured me.

I bought a threaded metal bar, a packet of washers and one of nuts, and brought the whole kit and caboodle home.

I found a hacksaw in a toolbox in the shed, went to the garage to get a hammer and a nail, and walked outside to the mailbox.

When I tried to drive the nail through the side of the thick plastic box, the hammer ricocheted out of my hand and landed on the curb.

As this pathetic scene was unfolding, drivers were actually slowing down — some even stopped at the stop sign — to witness the witless.

Undeterred, I went back into the garage and found a drill. I put in a bit, got an extension cord, trudged outside again and, like a dentist working on a stubborn molar, drilled a hole through the side of the box.

I slipped the bar through, attached it to the door, used the hacksaw to cut off the excess metal, and put on a washer and a nut.

It worked!

Sue was astonished.

“It’s unbelievable!” she exclaimed. “You saved us $80.”

Arnie the mailman was impressed, too.

“You did a good job,” he told me. “Now I can’t bring you a bill for a new mailbox.”

Copyright 2023 by Jerry Zezima

"All Aboard the Polar Express"

By Jerry Zezima

On a December eve, very recently, I stood outside in the cold darkness dressed in my pajamas — and not for the first time, for I frequently go out in my PJs, much to the consternation of neighbors, shopkeepers and, not least of all, the police.

Anyway, there I waited, amid a gathering crowd on a train platform, when I heard a conductor cry out, “All aboard!”

I ran up to him.

“Well,” he said, “are you coming?”

“Where?” I asked.

“Why, to the North Pole, of course,” was his answer. “This is the Polar Express.”

And so it was. I was among countless excited ticket holders, young and old, who boarded the train in Kingston, New York, for a trip to the home of Santa and his elves. They would also be on board and, unbeknownst to them, would have to listen to my silly wisecracks as they mingled with the passengers. I’m lucky I didn’t end up on the bad-boy list.

Accompanying me were my wife, Sue; our younger daughter, Lauren; her husband, Guillaume; and their daughters, Chloe, 9, and Lilly, 6, who are most definitely on the good-girl list.

The train was filled with other children, their parents and, on this special trip, their grandparents, all in their pajamas.

Chloe also wore a Santa hat and Lilly wore a conductor’s cap.

When the real conductor, Jay, came by to punch our golden tickets, he noticed Lilly and allowed her to punch her own ticket because, of course, she was a conductor, too.

“I don’t have a ticket,” I confessed. “I snuck on the train.”

Jay knew it was a fib, so he smiled and said, “I could throw you off, but I won’t.”

Then he punched my ticket and, with a hearty chuckle, added a smiley face.

Hero Boy, one of the characters in the famous book by Chris Van Allsburg, came by in a bathrobe with a hole in the pocket.

“I have a hole in my head,” I told him. “And I go out in my pajamas all the time.”

Hero Boy smiled weakly and said, “Merry Christmas!”

Then, wisely, he moved on down the aisle.

Next came a character from the film version of the book, the Hobo, who asked, “Do you believe in Santa Claus?”

“Of course!” I exclaimed. “In fact, I’m almost as old as he is. We hung out together as kids.”

The Hobo chuckled and moved on, too.

A guy named Justin, dressed in a white chef’s outfit, walked up with “The Polar Express” in his hands and asked me to turn the page as the story was being read over the loudspeaker.

“I write books, too,” I told Justin. “Maybe my next one should be ‘The Geezer Express.’ ”

An elf named Camilla stopped by with hot cocoa, which I slurped, and cookies, which I munched.

“Did you bake these cookies yourself?” I asked.

“Yes, I did,” Camilla responded with a sly smile. “Honest!”

When she came back with bells for the passengers, I shook mine and said, “Camilla, your name rings a bell.”

Just then, the jolly old elf himself, Santa Claus, made an appearance, which thrilled Chloe and Lilly, who told him what they wanted for Christmas. They also posed for a picture with him.

When Santa got to Sue and me, he asked, “And what do you want for Christmas?”

Sue said, “How would you like to pay off our mortgage?”

“Ho, ho, ho!” the big guy boomed.

“I’ll take a bottle of brandy to celebrate getting out of debt,” I told him.

Then I posed for a picture with Santa, too.

A little while later, the Polar Express pulled back into the station. It was a magical ride.

“Thanks for not throwing me off the train,” I told the conductor on the way out.

“It’s my Christmas present to you,” he said. “And by the way, nice pajamas.”

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"The 2022 Zezima Family Christmas Letter"

By Jerry Zezima

Since I am in the holiday spirit (and, having just consumed a mug of hot toddy, a glass of eggnog and a nip of cheer, the holiday spirits are in me), I have decided to follow in that great tradition of boring everyone silly by writing a Christmas letter.

That is why I am pleased as punch (which I also drank) to present the following chronicle of the Zezima family, which includes Jerry, the patriarch, and Sue, the matriarch, as well as two daughtersiarch, two sons-in-lawiarch, five grandchildreniarch and a partridge in a pear tree.

Dear friends:

It sure has been an eventful year for the Zezimas!

The highlight was a family reunion that included Jerry’s mother, Rosina, who at 97 was the life of the party. She was thrilled to be with all three of her children, all five of her grandchildren and all five of her great-grandchildren for the first time.

It also was the first time that all of Jerry and Sue’s grandchildren had seen each other in person. The kids, who range in age from 9 to 3, had a ball, especially with Jerry, who splashed at the beach, bounced on a trampoline, acted silly at an aquarium and rode on a carousel. He was more fun and less mature than any of them.

The good times continued when granddaughters Chloe and Lilly set up a lemonade stand on Sue and Jerry’s front lawn. The girls netted $45 in 45 minutes, which made Jerry wonder if he picked the wrong profession.

In automotive news, Jerry got a new car. His old car wasn’t that old (two years, 17,000 miles), but the trade-in deal was too good to pass up. Jerry even has seat warmers, which he previously called pants. Unfortunately, he is still getting calls about his extended warranty.

On the domestic front, Sue and Jerry got new garage doors. It was about time because one of the old doors had a gap that allowed snow and leaves to accumulate in the garage. To Jerry’s dismay, the place is so cluttered with junk that he can’t fit his new car in there.

Sue and Jerry also got a new dishwasher. It replaced the world’s worst appliance, which leaked so much that it threatened to turn the kitchen into a swimming pool. Now Jerry won’t have to do the dinner dishes in his bathing suit.

An alarming development occurred when Sue went out of town for five days and left Jerry home alone. In a blunder that would have impressed Macaulay Culkin, Jerry set off the house alarm and had to convince a nice person at the alarm company not to send the cops. As Sue said when she returned, “At least I didn’t have to bail you out of jail.”

Sue and Jerry had a tarot card reading at a wine bar, where they really got into the spirit. The reader couldn’t give Jerry the winning Powerball numbers, but she did tell him that he was already rich because he had Sue. Jerry drank to that.

Jerry came out of retirement to work as a brand ambassador at Costco, giving out samples of peppermint pretzels and mint truffles. He proved to be a super salesman but retired again after only two days. For some unfair reason, he can’t collect a pension.

In medical news, Sue and Jerry both went to an ENT specialist to get their ears cleaned out because they couldn’t hear each other. Jerry still has a tough time making out what people are saying on TV, but Sue, regrettably, can clearly hear all of his stupid jokes.

Jerry also got a new primary care physician because his old doctor, who is 81, finally retired. Jerry likes his new doctor, who at 51 is the first physician Jerry has ever had who is younger than he is.

In a frightening coincidence, the day after Jerry updated his will, which could have been written on an index card, he received a brochure in the mail from a cemetery. He did not, thank God, keel over.

In sad news, Sue’s mother, Josephine Pikero, passed away at age 92. A career woman in the days when such a thing wasn’t common, she had three children, seven grandchildren and seven great-grandchildren. She also was an excellent cook — Italian dishes were her specialty — but she never understood why Jerry doesn’t like anchovies. “Because,” he explained, “I draw the line at fish with hair.”

Last but certainly least, Jerry’s sixth book, “One for the Ageless: How to Stay Young and Immature Even If You’re Really Old,” was published. Like all his other books, it’s a crime against literature. It also comes in handy for propping up a wobbly table leg. And if you suffer from insomnia, you might even want to read it. Tell Santa that it’s better than coal.

Merry Christmas with love and laughter from the Zezimas.

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima

"Hack to the Future"

By Jerry Zezima

At the risk of plagiarizing Popeye, who is a cartoon character and can’t sue me, I am what I am. I can’t say what I am in polite company, but I can say who I am: a guy nobody should want to be because, on most days, I don’t want to be myself.

But that hasn’t stopped some people — I don’t know who they are — from wanting to be me and trying to accomplish such a dubious feat by stealing my identity.

I may be a mild-mannered reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper, but I don’t have a secret identity for the following reasons:

(a) I can’t fly, which is a good thing because I’m afraid of heights.

(b) I’m not faster than a speeding bullet, except when I’m rushing to the refrigerator for a beer.

(c) I don’t wear tights and a cape. Well, at least not during the week. What I do on weekends is nobody’s business.

My real identity is so pathetic that no one in his right mind should want to steal it. And if the perpetrator is caught, he could avoid conviction by pleading insanity.

Still, I have been the subject of some recent hack attempts on social media by individuals I can only describe as — that’s right! — hacks.

One claiming to be me asked my friends to become his friends, which prompted me to issue the following warning: “I’ve been hacked. Why anybody would want to be me is an enduring mystery. I don’t want to be myself, but it’s too late to do anything about it. Anyway, do not accept a friend request from anyone purporting to be yours truly. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

My sister Elizabeth responded: “I’m anxious to see if the new Jerry Z is going to pay your bills and take care of your yard. In which case stolen identity pays!”

Daniel wrote: “That wasn't you naked with a bowl of fruit on your head?”

I replied: “I ate the fruit. The rest is true.”

Rick A. wrote: “You mean I should disregard the message that you're holding $1,432,679 for me and all I have to do is send you $2,000 as a good faith measure???”

Rick L. wrote: “Can’t imagine you had that many friends to begin with.”

More recently, there was another attempt to bamboozle friends who were already my friends into becoming my friends again. The message read: “Jerry Xezima sent you a friend request.”

I immediately posted this warning: “X marks the spot where I have been hacked by someone claiming to be Jerry Xezima. It’s not me (why anyone would want to be, I don’t know), so please do not accept the friend request.”

This sparked a volley of responses.

Jim: “I think Jerry Zezima has been hacked, or else he’s the new premier of China.”

Dan: “I got that, and one from Jerry Eczema, but I think a cream makes that one go away.”

Robin L.: “That wasn’t you messaging me about my car insurance?”

The worst part of this whole thing has been trying to prove I’m me. That’s what I had to do for the IRS on a website called ID.me, an online identity network that allows people to prove they are who they say they are.

I needed my Social Security card, my driver’s license and my cable bill. Then I had to choose a new password because I forgot my old password, one of approximately 150 passwords I have just so I can prove I am, for better or for worse, Jerry Zezima.

Next I had to go on a video call and be interviewed by a “conference host” who was not, of course, identified. After that, I had to take a selfie for facial recognition.

Finally, I needed a “verification partner.” I chose my wife, Sue, who verified my identity and added, “Believe me, there’s no one else like him.”

Remember that the next time you get a friend request.

Copyright 2022 by Jerry Zezima