By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a man who is so bad at games of chance that I was once beaten in blackjack by my dog, I never thought I would be a high roller at a casino. That is why I had never been to a casino until I recently visited Mohegan Sun in Uncasville, where I defied the odds, despite being a bit odd myself, by hitting the jackpot on a slot machine and pocketing a grand total of $11.50.
My bonanza was the icing on the cake of my wife, Sue, and my mother, Rosina, whose shared birthday was being celebrated with a trip to the aforementioned gaming emporium. The party included my father, Jerry Sr.; my older daughter, Katie, and her husband, Dave; my younger daughter, Lauren; and my sisters, Elizabeth and Susan, all of whom had been there before but did not, in case the IRS is reading this, come home in a higher tax bracket.
The first thing I noticed about Mohegan Sun was that it is approximately the size of Rhode Island, which it is near and might invade after a planned expansion. The main differences between the two places are that the casino has: (a) a surplus and (b) a roof.
So it was not surprising that I did what a great many people (including some of those I was with) have been telling me to do for years: I got lost. I must have spent half the day wandering aimlessly, calling or receiving cell-phone calls from everyone except my father, who wisely doesn’t have a cell phone. They were all wondering where the hell I was. One time I said: "Rhode Island." It didn’t help.
Shortly after we arrived, I spotted a pleasant-looking, grandmotherly lady sitting at a slot machine. She looked like she knew what she was doing, so I went over and sat down next to her, hoping some of her expertise would translate into beginner’s luck for me.
"I just hit the jackpot for $750!" she announced excitedly before identifying herself as Frances Ruzzi of Poughkeepsie, N.Y. Not only was she indeed a pleasant grandmother, but she was celebrating her 86th birthday with her family, including her daughter, Donna Yantorno of Danbury, who noted that her mom is a casino veteran.
"We’re celebrating my wife’s and my mother’s birthday," I said. "Maybe it’s a good omen." Then I asked Frances, as she kindly allowed me to call her, about her secret of gambling success. She smiled and said, "I have no idea."
"Neither do I," I said. "It’s my first time in a casino."
"I bet you’ll win," Frances said. "Good luck."
I got up and, as visions of moneybags danced in my head, promptly got lost.
Eventually I met up with everyone for a late lunch, followed by a round of cocktails to toast the birthday girls. Then it was time to see if I could break the bank.
I accompanied Dave, the best gambler in the family, to a craps table and, as I watched him lose $80, found out how the game got its name. Figuring I would lose my shirt, not to mention my pants, in which I had only $25, I didn’t even bother playing and instead went over to the blackjack tables. Two things prevented me from getting into a game:
1. Most of the tables had a minimum opening wager of $25.
2. My dog, Lizzie, defeated me in a tournament we played at home one night a couple of years ago. It’s too humiliating to explain how she did it, but I will say that it’s a good thing we weren’t playing for money.
So I went over to a roulette wheel with Dave and won the first game before losing the next two. The only thing left to try was a slot machine. I found one next to Catherine Mitchell, a retiree from Warwick, R.I. Like me, she was making her casino debut. "I just lost $200," said the mother of 10 and grandmother of 13. "I’m never coming back."
This did not bode well. Neither did the fact that Sue and Lauren, whom I found at another bank of machines, hadn’t won anything. I put some money in the one-armed bandit and used one arm of my own to pull the lever. Then I pulled it again. And again. By the time I was done, I had won $11.50.
I took my ticket to the redemption window and handed it to a cashier named Dora. "Do you have a wheelbarrow so I can cart away all this money?" I asked. Dora didn’t even smile. She handed me two fives, a one and a couple of quarters. Then she put a sign on the counter that said: "NEXT WINDOW, PLEASE."
I felt like a high roller until Sue pointed out that I had spent $25 to make $11.50, which means I actually lost $13.50. I’d love to go back to the casino, but maybe I should quit while I’m behind.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, November 30, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
"Bumper Cars"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the nearly four decades since I got my driver’s license, during which time I’ve compiled an excellent record of driving people crazy, I have learned that men are prohibited by law from asking for directions. That is why navigation systems were invented.
Unfortunately, there are some men for whom this sophisticated technology doesn’t work. I know because I recently ran into one.
At an intersection.
In my car.
I took this crash course in masculine geography when I crashed into a car that cut in front of me. As I was cruising through a green light, traveling well under the speed limit, the driver of the other car suddenly turned left because, as he explained later, his GPS told him to.
His GPS must have stood for Guy Positioning System, designed to help guys who don’t know where the hell they are going, but like most guys it had a poor sense of direction. I say so because it told the other driver, whom I will call "John" because that is his real name, to go the wrong way down a one-way street.
In that one terrible instant, my life flashed before my eyes. I am sorry to admit that it was pretty dull. Then, BAM! It was like playing bumper cars at an amusement park except that it wasn’t so amusing because my car was parked in the left lane with me inside, an airbag spewing acrid smoke directly into my nostrils after deploying against my head.
Later on, after family, friends and co-workers had been told of this little mishap, my two sisters showed great sympathy for my plight with words of comfort. "I always wondered what would happen if an airbag deployed against an airhead," Susan said. To which Elizabeth added, "You mean an airbag against a windbag."
Obviously nothing happened because I was able to walk away without a scratch. I wish I could say the same for my car, the right front side of which looked even worse than I did the morning after my older daughter’s wedding last year.
Amid the mayhem of honking horns and rubbernecking motorists, I looked around for the other car and found it across the street, sitting in front of a truck at the corner. The impact had spun the car around so it was, unlike its original direction, facing the right way.
"I’m sorry," John blurted after he rolled down the window. "It’s all my fault."
"Are you OK?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Are you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I don’t know what happened," John moaned. "I was looking at my GPS and it told me to turn left."
I helpfully pointed out to John that if he had been looking at the road instead of his GPS, he would have seen two things: (a) an arrow indicating he was going the wrong way and (b) me.
The crash occurred at 11:05 a.m. I am supposed to be to work by 11, but I was born more than three weeks past my due date and haven’t been on time for anything since. This all happened about half a mile from my office in Melville, N.Y., which also is home to the Long Island National Cemetery. This means Melville is not a one-hearse town, as I found out when I got back in my car and attempted to pull out of the left lane and onto the right shoulder. I couldn’t do so right away because there was a line of cars coming through. It was, incredibly, a funeral procession.
The guy driving the lead car, with the deceased in the back, rolled down his window and said, "Can I do anything for you?"
"Not today," I responded. "You’ll have to wait before you get any business from me."
He smiled, rolled up the window and drove through. What he didn’t know was that I was the late Jerry Zezima even before the accident.
When I went back to John’s car, I noticed it had Connecticut plates. I asked him where he was from. "North Haven," he replied.
"Howdy, neighbor!" I said. "I’m originally from Stamford."
"Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances," said John, who told me that even though he lives in Connecticut, he works for a company that is headquartered in Canada but that his car is registered to another company in New Jersey.
"No wonder you need a GPS," I said.
Pretty soon a cop showed up and took statements from me and John, who admitted he was at fault and said his insurance company would take care of everything. But I still had to call mine to report the accident. Thank God my wife, Sue, came to help me take care of everything.
Here’s a tip for anyone with a driver’s license: Never get into an accident because it is a pain, both figuratively and literally, in a lower portion of the anatomy. Even though my insurance company has been very good, I was at the accident scene for more than two hours, about half of which was spent on the phone talking with various claims people, not to mention the tow truck operator, who took my car to a garage where it is scheduled to undergo open-hood surgery. It has been estimated that there is a lot of damage but not enough to declare the vehicle totaled. Just my luck.
Speaking of a lower portion of the anatomy, mine was sore as a result of the accident, so that evening I went to the hospital as a precaution and had X-rays taken. Fortunately, I remembered my mother’s words of wisdom, "Always wear clean underwear in case you are in an accident," and was wearing a pair of freshly laundered "I (Heart) Dad" boxer shorts. The X-rays, by the way, were negative.
Now that I have been in an accident and lived to tell about it, I have my own words of wisdom for all you guys out there: Never trust a GPS. If you don’t know where you are going, break the law once in a while and ask for directions. Or, if at all possible, move over and let your wife drive.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
In the nearly four decades since I got my driver’s license, during which time I’ve compiled an excellent record of driving people crazy, I have learned that men are prohibited by law from asking for directions. That is why navigation systems were invented.
Unfortunately, there are some men for whom this sophisticated technology doesn’t work. I know because I recently ran into one.
At an intersection.
In my car.
I took this crash course in masculine geography when I crashed into a car that cut in front of me. As I was cruising through a green light, traveling well under the speed limit, the driver of the other car suddenly turned left because, as he explained later, his GPS told him to.
His GPS must have stood for Guy Positioning System, designed to help guys who don’t know where the hell they are going, but like most guys it had a poor sense of direction. I say so because it told the other driver, whom I will call "John" because that is his real name, to go the wrong way down a one-way street.
In that one terrible instant, my life flashed before my eyes. I am sorry to admit that it was pretty dull. Then, BAM! It was like playing bumper cars at an amusement park except that it wasn’t so amusing because my car was parked in the left lane with me inside, an airbag spewing acrid smoke directly into my nostrils after deploying against my head.
Later on, after family, friends and co-workers had been told of this little mishap, my two sisters showed great sympathy for my plight with words of comfort. "I always wondered what would happen if an airbag deployed against an airhead," Susan said. To which Elizabeth added, "You mean an airbag against a windbag."
Obviously nothing happened because I was able to walk away without a scratch. I wish I could say the same for my car, the right front side of which looked even worse than I did the morning after my older daughter’s wedding last year.
Amid the mayhem of honking horns and rubbernecking motorists, I looked around for the other car and found it across the street, sitting in front of a truck at the corner. The impact had spun the car around so it was, unlike its original direction, facing the right way.
"I’m sorry," John blurted after he rolled down the window. "It’s all my fault."
"Are you OK?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. "Are you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I don’t know what happened," John moaned. "I was looking at my GPS and it told me to turn left."
I helpfully pointed out to John that if he had been looking at the road instead of his GPS, he would have seen two things: (a) an arrow indicating he was going the wrong way and (b) me.
The crash occurred at 11:05 a.m. I am supposed to be to work by 11, but I was born more than three weeks past my due date and haven’t been on time for anything since. This all happened about half a mile from my office in Melville, N.Y., which also is home to the Long Island National Cemetery. This means Melville is not a one-hearse town, as I found out when I got back in my car and attempted to pull out of the left lane and onto the right shoulder. I couldn’t do so right away because there was a line of cars coming through. It was, incredibly, a funeral procession.
The guy driving the lead car, with the deceased in the back, rolled down his window and said, "Can I do anything for you?"
"Not today," I responded. "You’ll have to wait before you get any business from me."
He smiled, rolled up the window and drove through. What he didn’t know was that I was the late Jerry Zezima even before the accident.
When I went back to John’s car, I noticed it had Connecticut plates. I asked him where he was from. "North Haven," he replied.
"Howdy, neighbor!" I said. "I’m originally from Stamford."
"Sorry we had to meet under these circumstances," said John, who told me that even though he lives in Connecticut, he works for a company that is headquartered in Canada but that his car is registered to another company in New Jersey.
"No wonder you need a GPS," I said.
Pretty soon a cop showed up and took statements from me and John, who admitted he was at fault and said his insurance company would take care of everything. But I still had to call mine to report the accident. Thank God my wife, Sue, came to help me take care of everything.
Here’s a tip for anyone with a driver’s license: Never get into an accident because it is a pain, both figuratively and literally, in a lower portion of the anatomy. Even though my insurance company has been very good, I was at the accident scene for more than two hours, about half of which was spent on the phone talking with various claims people, not to mention the tow truck operator, who took my car to a garage where it is scheduled to undergo open-hood surgery. It has been estimated that there is a lot of damage but not enough to declare the vehicle totaled. Just my luck.
Speaking of a lower portion of the anatomy, mine was sore as a result of the accident, so that evening I went to the hospital as a precaution and had X-rays taken. Fortunately, I remembered my mother’s words of wisdom, "Always wear clean underwear in case you are in an accident," and was wearing a pair of freshly laundered "I (Heart) Dad" boxer shorts. The X-rays, by the way, were negative.
Now that I have been in an accident and lived to tell about it, I have my own words of wisdom for all you guys out there: Never trust a GPS. If you don’t know where you are going, break the law once in a while and ask for directions. Or, if at all possible, move over and let your wife drive.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, November 2, 2007
"A Healthy Outlook"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
There is good news and bad news on the medical front. The good news (for me) is that I probably will live to be 100. The bad news (for my family and friends) is that I probably will live to be 100.
I came to this healthy conclusion recently while attending an event at work called a "wellness fair," where I was diagnosed as being (at least from the neck down) well.
I was not surprised because my father, the original and by far the best Jerry Zezima, recently turned 90 and is still going strong. His only concessions to age are that he doesn’t drive anymore and he has stopped climbing ladders. That’s because he fell off of one earlier this year. He escaped with barely a scratch, much to the relief of my mother, Rosina, aka Foxy Roxy, who is almost 83 and is still going strong herself. In fact, they’re both sharper than I am, which admittedly isn’t saying much but is nonetheless impressive.
So I have genetics on my side. This has given me a great excuse – as if I needed one – to be lazy.
Three years ago, when I turned 50, I went for a checkup with Dr. Leonard Vinnick, a physician with a practice in Stamford. "You’re in great shape," he said. "What do you do for exercise?"
"I get up once a night to go to the bathroom," I answered.
Vinnick remembered this when I went back recently for my annual physical, which I again passed with the proverbial flying colors. "Still on the same exercise program?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I’m as active as a sedentary person could be."
My philosophy: Why start exercising now? It would only be a shock to my system and I’d drop dead. I figure I’m saving my own life by not doing anything. Besides, I drink red wine, which is essentially over-the-counter heart medicine. If my liver holds out, I’ll be fine.
Speaking of hearts, which are worth more than diamonds, except to my wife, Sue, who doesn’t play cards, I recently read about a study in which British scientists found that a bad marriage can damage your heart. Speaking of Sue, I am in a great marriage, which so far has lasted almost 30 years and, at this rate, will continue for at least another 40. This may not, unfortunately, be good for Sue’s heart.
Anyway, I had all of this going for me when I went to the wellness fair. First, I got a massage from Alan End, a massage therapist from Plainview, N.Y. "I’m not a dead end," said End, who added that he has heard all the jokes about his last name but that, "in the end, they don’t bother me."
"I guess they don’t rub you the wrong way," I said.
"I’ve heard all the massage jokes, too," End said as he helped me into a special chair in which I sat backward with my head in a circular opening so I was facing the floor. Then he went to work, deftly using his fingers, palms and elbows to invigorate the seldom-utilized muscles in my shoulders, ribs and back.
"You’re nice and loose," End said. "You have no stress."
"That’s because everything rolls off my back," I told him.
"I haven’t heard that one before," he noted, adding that I was in fantastic shape. "Keep doing what you’re doing," End said.
"I don’t do anything," I replied.
"Keep doing it," he suggested.
Next I got a posture and spinal exam from Dr. Michael Berlin, a holistic chiropractor and wellness coach who also is based in Plainview. After filling out a stress survey in which I indicated that I have no stress, I sat down with Berlin, who asked me to turn my head as far as I could both ways. I felt like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." He detected a little crick ("I’m a pain my own neck," I told him) but otherwise said I was in fine form.
So did Esther Morrissey, a health care enrollment specialist who examined me with a fat-loss monitor and said that my body mass was perfect. "That’s because most of the fat is in my head," I said.
All in all, the wellness fair went well.
Afterward, I said to Sue, "It looks like you’re stuck with me for another 40 years." She started having heart palpitations. I don’t know if it was love or stress. Maybe I should give her some of my red wine.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
There is good news and bad news on the medical front. The good news (for me) is that I probably will live to be 100. The bad news (for my family and friends) is that I probably will live to be 100.
I came to this healthy conclusion recently while attending an event at work called a "wellness fair," where I was diagnosed as being (at least from the neck down) well.
I was not surprised because my father, the original and by far the best Jerry Zezima, recently turned 90 and is still going strong. His only concessions to age are that he doesn’t drive anymore and he has stopped climbing ladders. That’s because he fell off of one earlier this year. He escaped with barely a scratch, much to the relief of my mother, Rosina, aka Foxy Roxy, who is almost 83 and is still going strong herself. In fact, they’re both sharper than I am, which admittedly isn’t saying much but is nonetheless impressive.
So I have genetics on my side. This has given me a great excuse – as if I needed one – to be lazy.
Three years ago, when I turned 50, I went for a checkup with Dr. Leonard Vinnick, a physician with a practice in Stamford. "You’re in great shape," he said. "What do you do for exercise?"
"I get up once a night to go to the bathroom," I answered.
Vinnick remembered this when I went back recently for my annual physical, which I again passed with the proverbial flying colors. "Still on the same exercise program?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. "I’m as active as a sedentary person could be."
My philosophy: Why start exercising now? It would only be a shock to my system and I’d drop dead. I figure I’m saving my own life by not doing anything. Besides, I drink red wine, which is essentially over-the-counter heart medicine. If my liver holds out, I’ll be fine.
Speaking of hearts, which are worth more than diamonds, except to my wife, Sue, who doesn’t play cards, I recently read about a study in which British scientists found that a bad marriage can damage your heart. Speaking of Sue, I am in a great marriage, which so far has lasted almost 30 years and, at this rate, will continue for at least another 40. This may not, unfortunately, be good for Sue’s heart.
Anyway, I had all of this going for me when I went to the wellness fair. First, I got a massage from Alan End, a massage therapist from Plainview, N.Y. "I’m not a dead end," said End, who added that he has heard all the jokes about his last name but that, "in the end, they don’t bother me."
"I guess they don’t rub you the wrong way," I said.
"I’ve heard all the massage jokes, too," End said as he helped me into a special chair in which I sat backward with my head in a circular opening so I was facing the floor. Then he went to work, deftly using his fingers, palms and elbows to invigorate the seldom-utilized muscles in my shoulders, ribs and back.
"You’re nice and loose," End said. "You have no stress."
"That’s because everything rolls off my back," I told him.
"I haven’t heard that one before," he noted, adding that I was in fantastic shape. "Keep doing what you’re doing," End said.
"I don’t do anything," I replied.
"Keep doing it," he suggested.
Next I got a posture and spinal exam from Dr. Michael Berlin, a holistic chiropractor and wellness coach who also is based in Plainview. After filling out a stress survey in which I indicated that I have no stress, I sat down with Berlin, who asked me to turn my head as far as I could both ways. I felt like Linda Blair in "The Exorcist." He detected a little crick ("I’m a pain my own neck," I told him) but otherwise said I was in fine form.
So did Esther Morrissey, a health care enrollment specialist who examined me with a fat-loss monitor and said that my body mass was perfect. "That’s because most of the fat is in my head," I said.
All in all, the wellness fair went well.
Afterward, I said to Sue, "It looks like you’re stuck with me for another 40 years." She started having heart palpitations. I don’t know if it was love or stress. Maybe I should give her some of my red wine.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, October 19, 2007
"The Not-So-Great Pumpkin Carver"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the most hallowed of Halloween traditions – the one that makes mere mortals susceptible to vampires because it involves not fake blood but the real stuff – is the carving of the pumpkin.
When my two daughters were young, I would take my life in my hands by taking my knife in my hands and attempting to carve a pumpkin without either: (a) severing a major artery or (b) doing such a horrible job on the face that the girls would giggle and say, "That pumpkin looks just like Dad!"
These cherished memories came flooding back recently when I read a story in the 2007 edition of the Old Farmer’s Almanac about Michael Valladao, a jack-o’-lantern of all trades from San Jose, Calif. Under the headline "Carving Cues from a Pumpkin Pro," the story tells how "Farmer Mike" has become famous not only for growing a specimen of pumpkin known as the Atlantic Giant, which can weigh up to 1,000 pounds, but for being the official carver at the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival in Half Moon Bay, Calif.
"The whole concept here is to have fun," Farmer Mike said. "The only thing that you really need to carve a pumpkin is imagination."
It also helps, Farmer Mike added, to have tools. His favorite: a pocketknife. I’m not sure how you can carve a half-ton pumpkin with such a puny blade, unless you are a fanatic with lots of free time, in which case you probably shouldn’t have access to sharp implements anyway, but a paring knife or a steak knife also works.
Among Farmer Mike’s other tips: "Use a water-based marker to outline the face that you want to carve" and, of course, "Carve with care."
I hate to argue with Farmer Mike, especially since he is handy with knives, but I have more practical tips for carving a pumpkin. Here, as I recall from my days of performing reconstructive surgery on gourds, which made me, in my daughters’ eyes, out of my gourd, are the five things you need for a successful job:
1. A chain saw.
2. A gas mask.
3. A tourniquet.
4. A transfusion.
5. A priest.
Because your spouse is not likely to let you use a chain saw in the house, except maybe to slice meat loaf, you will have to settle for a steak knife. You will notice that the top of the pumpkin doesn’t come off easily. That’s because it is attached to the disgustingly pulpy interior mass, which smells bad enough to curl the wallpaper. Here is where the gas mask comes in handy.
Once you have scooped out the seeds, you should place them on a piece of newspaper (ideally, this column, which is about all it’s good for). Then you are required by federal law to knock the seeds all over the floor.
Now you are ready for the actual carving. See Nos. 3-5.
In a fit of nostalgia, my wife and I recently went pumpkin picking. The girls weren’t with us because they are all grown up and out of the house and wouldn’t want to relive the nightmare of being seen in a pumpkin patch with me.
Our journey took us to Lewin Farms in Wading River, N.Y. We were growing pumpkins in our yard (not Atlantic Giants, but another species, Long Island Midgets), but I mowed over the vines while cutting the grass.
So we picked a pair of perfect pumpkins and paid a pittance. Actually, it cost $7 for the healthy specimens, which weighed 9 pounds each. While wandering through the patch, my wife and I came upon a shoe that apparently belonged to someone who never made it out.
"We’ll send in a search party," said Bob Mudaro, who was manning the stand with Megan Donahue, whose family owns the third-generation farm.
When Mudaro mentioned that he has a 4-year-old daughter, I asked him for pumpkin-carving tips. "Let your wife do it," he said. "That’s what I did last night. My wife carved the pumpkin with our daughter and I watched." Mudaro held up his hands and added, "I still have all my fingers."
I guess it’s up to my wife to carve our pumpkin this year. Unless, of course, Farmer Mike wants to come over and do it.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
One of the most hallowed of Halloween traditions – the one that makes mere mortals susceptible to vampires because it involves not fake blood but the real stuff – is the carving of the pumpkin.
When my two daughters were young, I would take my life in my hands by taking my knife in my hands and attempting to carve a pumpkin without either: (a) severing a major artery or (b) doing such a horrible job on the face that the girls would giggle and say, "That pumpkin looks just like Dad!"
These cherished memories came flooding back recently when I read a story in the 2007 edition of the Old Farmer’s Almanac about Michael Valladao, a jack-o’-lantern of all trades from San Jose, Calif. Under the headline "Carving Cues from a Pumpkin Pro," the story tells how "Farmer Mike" has become famous not only for growing a specimen of pumpkin known as the Atlantic Giant, which can weigh up to 1,000 pounds, but for being the official carver at the Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival in Half Moon Bay, Calif.
"The whole concept here is to have fun," Farmer Mike said. "The only thing that you really need to carve a pumpkin is imagination."
It also helps, Farmer Mike added, to have tools. His favorite: a pocketknife. I’m not sure how you can carve a half-ton pumpkin with such a puny blade, unless you are a fanatic with lots of free time, in which case you probably shouldn’t have access to sharp implements anyway, but a paring knife or a steak knife also works.
Among Farmer Mike’s other tips: "Use a water-based marker to outline the face that you want to carve" and, of course, "Carve with care."
I hate to argue with Farmer Mike, especially since he is handy with knives, but I have more practical tips for carving a pumpkin. Here, as I recall from my days of performing reconstructive surgery on gourds, which made me, in my daughters’ eyes, out of my gourd, are the five things you need for a successful job:
1. A chain saw.
2. A gas mask.
3. A tourniquet.
4. A transfusion.
5. A priest.
Because your spouse is not likely to let you use a chain saw in the house, except maybe to slice meat loaf, you will have to settle for a steak knife. You will notice that the top of the pumpkin doesn’t come off easily. That’s because it is attached to the disgustingly pulpy interior mass, which smells bad enough to curl the wallpaper. Here is where the gas mask comes in handy.
Once you have scooped out the seeds, you should place them on a piece of newspaper (ideally, this column, which is about all it’s good for). Then you are required by federal law to knock the seeds all over the floor.
Now you are ready for the actual carving. See Nos. 3-5.
In a fit of nostalgia, my wife and I recently went pumpkin picking. The girls weren’t with us because they are all grown up and out of the house and wouldn’t want to relive the nightmare of being seen in a pumpkin patch with me.
Our journey took us to Lewin Farms in Wading River, N.Y. We were growing pumpkins in our yard (not Atlantic Giants, but another species, Long Island Midgets), but I mowed over the vines while cutting the grass.
So we picked a pair of perfect pumpkins and paid a pittance. Actually, it cost $7 for the healthy specimens, which weighed 9 pounds each. While wandering through the patch, my wife and I came upon a shoe that apparently belonged to someone who never made it out.
"We’ll send in a search party," said Bob Mudaro, who was manning the stand with Megan Donahue, whose family owns the third-generation farm.
When Mudaro mentioned that he has a 4-year-old daughter, I asked him for pumpkin-carving tips. "Let your wife do it," he said. "That’s what I did last night. My wife carved the pumpkin with our daughter and I watched." Mudaro held up his hands and added, "I still have all my fingers."
I guess it’s up to my wife to carve our pumpkin this year. Unless, of course, Farmer Mike wants to come over and do it.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, October 5, 2007
"Big Daddies"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached middle age, that wonderful stage of life between changing your kids’ diapers and needing them yourself, I have begun to grow a bit more reflective. This isn’t easy to take, especially in the morning, when my reflection in the bathroom mirror tells me that I am getting old.
The passage of time really hit home when I found out that the first guy in my circle of friends (at our age, it’s too difficult to form a trapezoid) became a grandfather.
My wife, Sue, and I went to college with Tim Lovelette, who with his wife, Jane, are now grandparents of Anna Grace Lovelette, daughter of Tim and Jane’s older son, Marshall, and his wife, Sara, if you are scoring at home.
Last year, our older daughter, Katie, married her husband, Dave, which made me the first person in our obtuse triangle of friends to be father of the bride. Now it is Tim’s turn because his and Jane’s daughter, Amy, is getting married next year to her fiancé, Mel, which will make him (Tim, not Mel) father of the bride.
This recently allowed Tim and me to give each other unsolicited advice, which, if we are smart, and there is ample evidence to the contrary, we won’t take.
The meeting of the minds, or what passed for them, since cocktails were involved, occurred when Sue and I visited Tim and Jane at their home on Cape Cod. Tim reminisced fondly about the moment when he found out he was a grandfather. "I demanded a paternity test for Marshall," he said. "I’m still not a grandfather. In the absence of the test, I’m not sure the whole thing is going to stick."
According to an official source (Jane), it will, so Tim picked the name he wants Anna, who is 5 months old, to call him when she learns to talk. His choice: Big Daddy. "Not for any other reason than that Jane will have to be known as Big Mama," said Tim, who acknowledged that he has to lose a few pounds for Amy’s wedding. Jane, a marathon runner, is anything but big.
Then, inevitably, the subject of changing diapers came up. Will Tim do it? "Not at all," he said firmly. "I’m world-famous for not performing my fatherly duties, so it’s advancing one generation."
What about bottle feeding? "I’ll bring a quart of liquor and a nipple," Tim said. "I’ll outdrink the baby."
And what words of wisdom did Tim give to Marshall? "Hide. Get out of the house. Pretend you have to go to work. Your qualities as a father will be pretty limited, so take up fishing, boating, get a second job if you have to."
Speaking of jobs, Marshall works for Tim at Lovelette Insurance, a third-generation agency on the Cape, and recently brought Anna to the office. "Every woman in the place had to hold her," Tim recalled. "There was zero production. It set business back three years in one trip. She’s the most expensive baby ever born."
Tim, of course, said all of this with tongue in cheek, which made him pretty hard to understand, and even though he thinks he’s better-looking than the baby (sorry, Tim, but no one else does), he’s thrilled to be a grandfather, which was obvious when Sue and I met Anna. She is, without question, the best-behaved baby in the world. She developed a regular sleeping pattern her second night home, although, Marshall said, "That first night was tough. I’ve been recovering ever since." A chip off the old block!
Also, Anna didn’t scream or cry when she saw me. In fact, she cooed and laughed and let me hold her while Marshall snapped a picture of us and e-mailed it to Katie, who drove out with Dave the next day and met Anna.
When, the question was asked, will Jerry be a grandfather? Immediate answer: Not just yet.
Besides, the next big event will be Amy and Mel’s wedding. "Your chief role as father of the bride," I informed Tim, "is to be like a bobblehead doll: Just keep nodding and sign everything that is put in front of you. Otherwise, stay the hell out of the way."
"I’ve already done my part," Tim said. "I’ve agreed to show up."
What more could you ask of two guys who not only love their growing families, but who have promised to be burdens to everyone in their old age? Then again, that’s what everyone says about us now.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Now that I have reached middle age, that wonderful stage of life between changing your kids’ diapers and needing them yourself, I have begun to grow a bit more reflective. This isn’t easy to take, especially in the morning, when my reflection in the bathroom mirror tells me that I am getting old.
The passage of time really hit home when I found out that the first guy in my circle of friends (at our age, it’s too difficult to form a trapezoid) became a grandfather.
My wife, Sue, and I went to college with Tim Lovelette, who with his wife, Jane, are now grandparents of Anna Grace Lovelette, daughter of Tim and Jane’s older son, Marshall, and his wife, Sara, if you are scoring at home.
Last year, our older daughter, Katie, married her husband, Dave, which made me the first person in our obtuse triangle of friends to be father of the bride. Now it is Tim’s turn because his and Jane’s daughter, Amy, is getting married next year to her fiancé, Mel, which will make him (Tim, not Mel) father of the bride.
This recently allowed Tim and me to give each other unsolicited advice, which, if we are smart, and there is ample evidence to the contrary, we won’t take.
The meeting of the minds, or what passed for them, since cocktails were involved, occurred when Sue and I visited Tim and Jane at their home on Cape Cod. Tim reminisced fondly about the moment when he found out he was a grandfather. "I demanded a paternity test for Marshall," he said. "I’m still not a grandfather. In the absence of the test, I’m not sure the whole thing is going to stick."
According to an official source (Jane), it will, so Tim picked the name he wants Anna, who is 5 months old, to call him when she learns to talk. His choice: Big Daddy. "Not for any other reason than that Jane will have to be known as Big Mama," said Tim, who acknowledged that he has to lose a few pounds for Amy’s wedding. Jane, a marathon runner, is anything but big.
Then, inevitably, the subject of changing diapers came up. Will Tim do it? "Not at all," he said firmly. "I’m world-famous for not performing my fatherly duties, so it’s advancing one generation."
What about bottle feeding? "I’ll bring a quart of liquor and a nipple," Tim said. "I’ll outdrink the baby."
And what words of wisdom did Tim give to Marshall? "Hide. Get out of the house. Pretend you have to go to work. Your qualities as a father will be pretty limited, so take up fishing, boating, get a second job if you have to."
Speaking of jobs, Marshall works for Tim at Lovelette Insurance, a third-generation agency on the Cape, and recently brought Anna to the office. "Every woman in the place had to hold her," Tim recalled. "There was zero production. It set business back three years in one trip. She’s the most expensive baby ever born."
Tim, of course, said all of this with tongue in cheek, which made him pretty hard to understand, and even though he thinks he’s better-looking than the baby (sorry, Tim, but no one else does), he’s thrilled to be a grandfather, which was obvious when Sue and I met Anna. She is, without question, the best-behaved baby in the world. She developed a regular sleeping pattern her second night home, although, Marshall said, "That first night was tough. I’ve been recovering ever since." A chip off the old block!
Also, Anna didn’t scream or cry when she saw me. In fact, she cooed and laughed and let me hold her while Marshall snapped a picture of us and e-mailed it to Katie, who drove out with Dave the next day and met Anna.
When, the question was asked, will Jerry be a grandfather? Immediate answer: Not just yet.
Besides, the next big event will be Amy and Mel’s wedding. "Your chief role as father of the bride," I informed Tim, "is to be like a bobblehead doll: Just keep nodding and sign everything that is put in front of you. Otherwise, stay the hell out of the way."
"I’ve already done my part," Tim said. "I’ve agreed to show up."
What more could you ask of two guys who not only love their growing families, but who have promised to be burdens to everyone in their old age? Then again, that’s what everyone says about us now.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, September 21, 2007
"Giving Painting the Brush-off"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
For the past nine years, I have had a brush with disaster. Now that I have barely survived, I am going to put down my brush, wash my hands of the whole miserable business and retire from painting.
That is the announcement I made to my wife, Sue, after I recently spent two days painting our bedroom. It was, I declared, the last in a series of projects in which I painted (and repainted) practically the entire house, including the family room (once), the living room (twice), the dining room (twice), the downstairs and upstairs hallways (twice each), the downstairs bathroom (three times), both upstairs bathrooms (twice each), our older daughter’s bedroom (once), our younger daughter’s bedroom (once) and, of course, our bedroom (twice).
That adds up to more than two painting projects a year. It may not seem like much, but when you hate to paint as much as I do, and are as incompetent at it as I am, which means it takes me twice as long to finish a project as it would take someone who knows what he’s doing, it amounts to cruel and unusual punishment.
My only salvation has been beer. For every gallon of paint I have used, I have consumed the equivalent in beer. Maybe that’s why it has taken so long.
At any rate, I am now officially retired as a painter. Even Michelangelo hung up his brush, although that was because, if I am not mistaken, he died. I am getting out of the game before it kills me.
For anyone who is either foolish enough to take up painting (you must already be drunk) or whose wife insists that he take it up (refusing to be subjected to this torture should be a key clause in any prenuptial agreement), here is what I have learned.
The worst part of any painting project is not the painting itself, but the preparation work. This includes the painstaking act of bordering the ceiling or the wall with masking tape. I conservatively estimate that over the years I have used eight dozen rolls or 125 miles, whichever is more, of tape. About half of that amount became stuck on my fingers and had to be thrown away.
Next on the list is plugging holes, including the one in your head, with Spackle. This is an excellent product, although it doesn’t taste as good as it used to. I know this because I have gotten some in my mouth every time I have painted. It must have come off my hands when I was drinking beer.
As for the actual act of painting, neatness counts. You should use a drop cloth so you don’t ruin the floor or the furniture or whatever you are going to ruin anyway. This will happen when you mix the paint, or dip your brush into the can, or use a roller on the walls or the ceiling.
Speaking of the ceiling, this is the worst part of any room to paint. I’m lucky I am not blind from looking up and having large gobs of paint land in my eyes. I’m also lucky that Sue is only 5-foot-1 and therefore can’t see what a horrible job I have done on all of our ceilings.
The worst room to paint is the bathroom, especially one without a window, because if you don’t slip while standing on the edge of the bathtub or the toilet and crack your skull on the sink, you will be overcome by paint fumes and nearly all of your brain cells will be destroyed. In my case, no one can tell the difference.
So there you have it. Good luck on your next project. I may be joining you after all because Sue just announced that she wants me to repaint the hallway. I think it’s time to buy more beer.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
For the past nine years, I have had a brush with disaster. Now that I have barely survived, I am going to put down my brush, wash my hands of the whole miserable business and retire from painting.
That is the announcement I made to my wife, Sue, after I recently spent two days painting our bedroom. It was, I declared, the last in a series of projects in which I painted (and repainted) practically the entire house, including the family room (once), the living room (twice), the dining room (twice), the downstairs and upstairs hallways (twice each), the downstairs bathroom (three times), both upstairs bathrooms (twice each), our older daughter’s bedroom (once), our younger daughter’s bedroom (once) and, of course, our bedroom (twice).
That adds up to more than two painting projects a year. It may not seem like much, but when you hate to paint as much as I do, and are as incompetent at it as I am, which means it takes me twice as long to finish a project as it would take someone who knows what he’s doing, it amounts to cruel and unusual punishment.
My only salvation has been beer. For every gallon of paint I have used, I have consumed the equivalent in beer. Maybe that’s why it has taken so long.
At any rate, I am now officially retired as a painter. Even Michelangelo hung up his brush, although that was because, if I am not mistaken, he died. I am getting out of the game before it kills me.
For anyone who is either foolish enough to take up painting (you must already be drunk) or whose wife insists that he take it up (refusing to be subjected to this torture should be a key clause in any prenuptial agreement), here is what I have learned.
The worst part of any painting project is not the painting itself, but the preparation work. This includes the painstaking act of bordering the ceiling or the wall with masking tape. I conservatively estimate that over the years I have used eight dozen rolls or 125 miles, whichever is more, of tape. About half of that amount became stuck on my fingers and had to be thrown away.
Next on the list is plugging holes, including the one in your head, with Spackle. This is an excellent product, although it doesn’t taste as good as it used to. I know this because I have gotten some in my mouth every time I have painted. It must have come off my hands when I was drinking beer.
As for the actual act of painting, neatness counts. You should use a drop cloth so you don’t ruin the floor or the furniture or whatever you are going to ruin anyway. This will happen when you mix the paint, or dip your brush into the can, or use a roller on the walls or the ceiling.
Speaking of the ceiling, this is the worst part of any room to paint. I’m lucky I am not blind from looking up and having large gobs of paint land in my eyes. I’m also lucky that Sue is only 5-foot-1 and therefore can’t see what a horrible job I have done on all of our ceilings.
The worst room to paint is the bathroom, especially one without a window, because if you don’t slip while standing on the edge of the bathtub or the toilet and crack your skull on the sink, you will be overcome by paint fumes and nearly all of your brain cells will be destroyed. In my case, no one can tell the difference.
So there you have it. Good luck on your next project. I may be joining you after all because Sue just announced that she wants me to repaint the hallway. I think it’s time to buy more beer.
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, September 7, 2007
"Car Wash"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a veteran road warrior who has owned some of the worst cars ever made, including one jalopy I dubbed the Hatchback of Notre Dame, I like to wax nostalgic about my various vehicles. Every once in a while, however, my current vehicle gets so dirty that it needs to be waxed, as well as washed, vacuumed and fumigated.
So I recently took my SUV (sloppy utility vehicle) to Island Car Wash in Centereach, N.Y., where it was miraculously transformed into another SUV (shiny utility vehicle).
In the process, I learned that life at a car wash can be a soap opera.
My first clue was the ceramic jar that sat on a shelf above the register and was embossed with the words "Ashes of Problem Customers."
"If you behave yourself," owner Ron Kass told me, "you won’t end up in there." I promised to be good while Kass, manager Eduardo Valladares and cashier Kristine Koehler regaled me with stories of some of the characters who make working there such an adventure.
There was, for example, the guy who accused workers of stealing his marijuana. "He said, ‘You took my weed!’ So I said, ‘We can call the police and file a report.’ For some reason, he didn’t want us to do that," Koehler recalled.
"We looked in the vacuum," Valladares added, "and sure enough, there it was."
"Did you put the ashes in the ceramic jar?" I asked.
"No, but the guy took back his joint," Valladares answered. "It was, you might say, the high point of the day."
Then there was the hunter who came through in a pickup truck with a dead deer in the back. "He wanted us to wash the deer," Koehler said. "This thing was dripping blood, so he thought it would be a good idea to run it through the car wash."
"I told him that we wash cars, not deer," Valladares said.
Death paid another visit the day a hearse stopped by on the way to a funeral. "There was a corpse in there," Koehler remembered. "We just did the exterior because the guys were afraid to vacuum the inside."
"It’s nothing unusual," Kass said. "There was a lady who put dishwashing detergent all over her car because it was supposed to rain and she thought it would get the dirt off. But it only drizzled, so she came here." Kass smiled and said, "There’s enough material in this place for a TV series."
The show would, of course, be good, clean fun. That’s what I found out when my car went through the wash with Valladares and me inside.
First, we stopped at the booth where sales executive Shayna Tufano asked which wash I wanted. The choices ranged from basic ($15.50) to platinum ($24). "Give me the works," I said. Then Tufano asked which car scent I wanted. The choices were strawberry, cherry, vanilla and baby powder. "Vanilla is the most popular," said Valladares, who was in the driver’s seat, "but I think your car needs baby powder."
"Why not?" I said. "It’s about time I babied my car."
"There are a lot of crumbs in here," Valladares noted. "It looks like you’ve been eating corn flakes." I told him it was just dirt. Then he made sure all the windows were shut as we started to go through the wash.
It was better than an amusement park ride. The car was scrubbed, soaped, brushed, power washed, hosed, waxed, buffed with a giant shammy and blow-dried. It took three minutes for my car to make its way over the 100-foot conveyor.
When we came out, Valladares drove the car to an area where I got to help a couple of workers, a young man and a young woman, hand-dry it. Valladares gave me two towels and showed me how to fold them properly. Then he showed me how to dry the doors, the door frames and the windows. As I fumbled with the towels, he said, "Don’t quit your day job."
The two workers did the rest, which included the vacuuming and the application of the baby powder scent. When they were finished, my car looked and smelled brand-new.
"You guys do a great job," I told Kass before I drove away.
"You’re a good customer," he said. "We didn’t even have to put your ashes in the jar."
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As a veteran road warrior who has owned some of the worst cars ever made, including one jalopy I dubbed the Hatchback of Notre Dame, I like to wax nostalgic about my various vehicles. Every once in a while, however, my current vehicle gets so dirty that it needs to be waxed, as well as washed, vacuumed and fumigated.
So I recently took my SUV (sloppy utility vehicle) to Island Car Wash in Centereach, N.Y., where it was miraculously transformed into another SUV (shiny utility vehicle).
In the process, I learned that life at a car wash can be a soap opera.
My first clue was the ceramic jar that sat on a shelf above the register and was embossed with the words "Ashes of Problem Customers."
"If you behave yourself," owner Ron Kass told me, "you won’t end up in there." I promised to be good while Kass, manager Eduardo Valladares and cashier Kristine Koehler regaled me with stories of some of the characters who make working there such an adventure.
There was, for example, the guy who accused workers of stealing his marijuana. "He said, ‘You took my weed!’ So I said, ‘We can call the police and file a report.’ For some reason, he didn’t want us to do that," Koehler recalled.
"We looked in the vacuum," Valladares added, "and sure enough, there it was."
"Did you put the ashes in the ceramic jar?" I asked.
"No, but the guy took back his joint," Valladares answered. "It was, you might say, the high point of the day."
Then there was the hunter who came through in a pickup truck with a dead deer in the back. "He wanted us to wash the deer," Koehler said. "This thing was dripping blood, so he thought it would be a good idea to run it through the car wash."
"I told him that we wash cars, not deer," Valladares said.
Death paid another visit the day a hearse stopped by on the way to a funeral. "There was a corpse in there," Koehler remembered. "We just did the exterior because the guys were afraid to vacuum the inside."
"It’s nothing unusual," Kass said. "There was a lady who put dishwashing detergent all over her car because it was supposed to rain and she thought it would get the dirt off. But it only drizzled, so she came here." Kass smiled and said, "There’s enough material in this place for a TV series."
The show would, of course, be good, clean fun. That’s what I found out when my car went through the wash with Valladares and me inside.
First, we stopped at the booth where sales executive Shayna Tufano asked which wash I wanted. The choices ranged from basic ($15.50) to platinum ($24). "Give me the works," I said. Then Tufano asked which car scent I wanted. The choices were strawberry, cherry, vanilla and baby powder. "Vanilla is the most popular," said Valladares, who was in the driver’s seat, "but I think your car needs baby powder."
"Why not?" I said. "It’s about time I babied my car."
"There are a lot of crumbs in here," Valladares noted. "It looks like you’ve been eating corn flakes." I told him it was just dirt. Then he made sure all the windows were shut as we started to go through the wash.
It was better than an amusement park ride. The car was scrubbed, soaped, brushed, power washed, hosed, waxed, buffed with a giant shammy and blow-dried. It took three minutes for my car to make its way over the 100-foot conveyor.
When we came out, Valladares drove the car to an area where I got to help a couple of workers, a young man and a young woman, hand-dry it. Valladares gave me two towels and showed me how to fold them properly. Then he showed me how to dry the doors, the door frames and the windows. As I fumbled with the towels, he said, "Don’t quit your day job."
The two workers did the rest, which included the vacuuming and the application of the baby powder scent. When they were finished, my car looked and smelled brand-new.
"You guys do a great job," I told Kass before I drove away.
"You’re a good customer," he said. "We didn’t even have to put your ashes in the jar."
Copyright 2007 by Jerry Zezima
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