By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
As the Least Handy Man in America, a title I bestowed on myself when my wife and I moved into our house 10 years ago, I have been known to throw a monkey wrench into every home improvement project I have ever undertaken. Unfortunately, a monkey wrench is often the only tool I can find.
Or at least it was until I met Jerry Guirlinger, who not only may be the Most Handy Man in America, but who knows an Allen wrench from a monkey wrench. He also knows that a screwdriver is not necessarily vodka and orange juice but concedes that it can be a valuable tool in a difficult home improvement project.
The only other person I know who is as handy as Guirlinger is another Jerry, my father, the original and by far the best Jerry Zezima.
The only other person I know who is as inept as I am is yet another Jerry, Jerry Howard, better known as Curly of the Three Stooges.
I never knew Curly personally because he died before I was born, but I once met his daughter and granddaughter at a Three Stooges convention. Neither one had a shaved head, but they were very nice and said Curly was, too, so I felt like I knew him.
Anyway, the Stooges wielded tools in a way that was painfully funny, which is why my mother didn’t want me to watch them when I was a kid. I guess she was afraid I would get a hammer from my father’s tool cabinet and hit one of my sisters over the head with it. I would never do that because it would have ruined the hammer.
But at least I knew where the hammer was. That’s because my father was – and, at 91, still is – so organized. Unfortunately, his organizational skills have skipped a generation with me.
That was evident when my father visited recently and saw first hand, in which he has expertly used many a hammer, wrench and screwdriver over the years, just how disorganized I am when it comes to tools, most of which he has given to me. They are tossed, willy-nilly, which would be a good name for me, in several toolboxes in the garage.
"You should know where all your tools are," my father said.
"I do know where all my tools are," I replied. "It’s just that I can never find the one I want."
Enter Guirlinger, who made a house call recently with his handyman invention, Mobile-Shop, a portable organizer than can hold 230 tools and even has a small shelf that serves as a bar where you can make yourself a screwdriver.
"Sometimes you need one," said Guirlinger, who is based in Columbus, Ohio, but had come east on a business trip. He stopped by one morning with his vice president of sales, Angelo Mazzella, who drove down to New York from Milford, N.H.
"The good news," Guirlinger said as he surveyed the chaos in my garage, "is that you’re actually pretty normal. The bad news," he added, "is that you have a lot of chaos."
Mazzella was especially amused by my vintage collection, including a wooden extension ruler that I didn’t know I had and obviously hadn’t used in a long time. "This is pretty old," he noted.
"Well," I said, "there’s no tool like an old tool."
I’m surprised he didn’t hit me over the head with a hammer. Then again, he probably couldn’t find one.
That wouldn’t be the case with Mobile-Shop (more info at mobile-shop.com) because everything would be at my fingertips, which I am lucky to still have considering the way I use saws. In addition to the aforementioned 230 tools, which come with the wheeled contraption and are kept in labeled pockets, there is a first-aid kit.
"That might come in handy for you," Guirlinger said.
I was pretty impressed with Mobile-Shop, which is 40-by-26-by-21 inches and weighs 140 pounds fully stocked, but I couldn’t find a drill to extract $3,167 from my bank account, so I haven’t purchased one yet.
But Guirlinger and Mazzella did give me some valuable tips on how to be handier and more organized with my tools. Will I ever be in the same class as my father? No. Am I now better than Curly? Soitenly! Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk!
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, October 31, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
"Law & Disorder"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I’m the very model of the modern model citizen, although I’m not as beautiful a model as Heidi Klum, which explains why I have never been featured in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.
Still, I am proud and slightly flummoxed to say that I do not (as yet) have a criminal record. On the advice of my attorney, who is in jail, I can’t say anything else except that I am disappointed I wasn’t chosen to serve on a court case when I was called recently for jury duty.
After I received my summons in the mail, I eagerly called the telephone standby number every day for a week, only to be told by a recorded message that my services weren’t needed. At the end of the week, I was excused and was told I wouldn’t be called for another six years.
I was so crestfallen at this miscarriage of justice that I went to see Michael D. O’Donohoe, commissioner of jurors for Suffolk County, N.Y., where I live, to find out why I wasn’t picked.
"Don’t take it personally," O’Donohoe told me as we sat in his office just off the jury room. "We’re looking for anyone who is reasonable."
"I guess that’s what eliminated me," I reasoned.
Actually, O’Donohoe said, failure to be called for a case isn’t unusual. "It happens," he explained. "At least you wanted to serve. There are some people who will do anything to get out of jury duty."
Like the guy who filled out his juror information form by writing, "I hate everybody." Then he added epithets about various religious and ethnic groups.
"He thought we wouldn’t pick him because he was prejudiced," O’Donohoe said. "He also blackened out his name and figured we would never find him. But he didn’t realize there was a bar code on the form, so we tracked him down and put him back in the system. When he came in, he said, ‘How did you ever find me?’ I told him I had my ways. Then I reported him to the bias crimes unit. He wasn’t anything but a knucklehead. In this job, you have to deal with idiots like that."
Even O’Donohoe’s wife couldn’t get out of jury duty.
"Not that she wanted to," he said. "During questioning for a civil case, an attorney asked if she was any relation to the commissioner of jurors. She said, ‘Yes, I’m married to him.’ The attorney said, ‘You’re his wife and you can’t get out of jury duty?’ My wife said, ‘I’m sleeping with him and I still can’t.’ Then the woman behind her said, ‘I guess my excuse isn’t going to work.’ My wife got picked. So did the other woman."
And if you think being a celebrity can get you off the hook, O’Donohoe said, think again. That’s what actor Alec Baldwin found out after failing to report.
"He didn’t show up for his first court date and he didn’t show up for his next one, either," O’Donohoe recalled. "I said to his attorney, ‘I am going to give him another date and I want him to show up this time,’ but he didn’t show up again. I called his attorney back and said, ‘Let’s not play games.’ Finally, Alec walked in and said, ‘I’m very sorry, Mr. Commissioner.’ He wasn’t selected to be on a jury, but he went through the process."
So did other Hamptons celebrities such as Christie Brinkley, Billy Joel and Alan Alda, whom O’Donohoe called "a gentleman," adding, "He was a really nice guy."
There was, however, one person O’Donohoe did excuse from jury duty: his mother.
"One day a letter came across my desk," O’Donohoe remembered. "It said, ‘My car can make it but I don’t think I can.’ And it was signed ‘Helen O’Donohoe.’ I said to myself, ‘That’s my mother!’ So I called her and said, ‘Why didn’t you call me instead of writing a letter?’ She said, ‘I didn’t want to bother you.’ I get thousands of these letters, but I excused her anyway."
O’Donohoe, 60, a former legislator, has been on the job for 15 years and loves it. "The system really does work," he said, adding that I wouldn’t have to wait six years to be back in the jury pool. "You can volunteer after two years," he suggested.
When I asked what I had to do to get on a case, O’Donohoe smiled and said, "Just make sure you’re not the defendant."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
I’m the very model of the modern model citizen, although I’m not as beautiful a model as Heidi Klum, which explains why I have never been featured in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue.
Still, I am proud and slightly flummoxed to say that I do not (as yet) have a criminal record. On the advice of my attorney, who is in jail, I can’t say anything else except that I am disappointed I wasn’t chosen to serve on a court case when I was called recently for jury duty.
After I received my summons in the mail, I eagerly called the telephone standby number every day for a week, only to be told by a recorded message that my services weren’t needed. At the end of the week, I was excused and was told I wouldn’t be called for another six years.
I was so crestfallen at this miscarriage of justice that I went to see Michael D. O’Donohoe, commissioner of jurors for Suffolk County, N.Y., where I live, to find out why I wasn’t picked.
"Don’t take it personally," O’Donohoe told me as we sat in his office just off the jury room. "We’re looking for anyone who is reasonable."
"I guess that’s what eliminated me," I reasoned.
Actually, O’Donohoe said, failure to be called for a case isn’t unusual. "It happens," he explained. "At least you wanted to serve. There are some people who will do anything to get out of jury duty."
Like the guy who filled out his juror information form by writing, "I hate everybody." Then he added epithets about various religious and ethnic groups.
"He thought we wouldn’t pick him because he was prejudiced," O’Donohoe said. "He also blackened out his name and figured we would never find him. But he didn’t realize there was a bar code on the form, so we tracked him down and put him back in the system. When he came in, he said, ‘How did you ever find me?’ I told him I had my ways. Then I reported him to the bias crimes unit. He wasn’t anything but a knucklehead. In this job, you have to deal with idiots like that."
Even O’Donohoe’s wife couldn’t get out of jury duty.
"Not that she wanted to," he said. "During questioning for a civil case, an attorney asked if she was any relation to the commissioner of jurors. She said, ‘Yes, I’m married to him.’ The attorney said, ‘You’re his wife and you can’t get out of jury duty?’ My wife said, ‘I’m sleeping with him and I still can’t.’ Then the woman behind her said, ‘I guess my excuse isn’t going to work.’ My wife got picked. So did the other woman."
And if you think being a celebrity can get you off the hook, O’Donohoe said, think again. That’s what actor Alec Baldwin found out after failing to report.
"He didn’t show up for his first court date and he didn’t show up for his next one, either," O’Donohoe recalled. "I said to his attorney, ‘I am going to give him another date and I want him to show up this time,’ but he didn’t show up again. I called his attorney back and said, ‘Let’s not play games.’ Finally, Alec walked in and said, ‘I’m very sorry, Mr. Commissioner.’ He wasn’t selected to be on a jury, but he went through the process."
So did other Hamptons celebrities such as Christie Brinkley, Billy Joel and Alan Alda, whom O’Donohoe called "a gentleman," adding, "He was a really nice guy."
There was, however, one person O’Donohoe did excuse from jury duty: his mother.
"One day a letter came across my desk," O’Donohoe remembered. "It said, ‘My car can make it but I don’t think I can.’ And it was signed ‘Helen O’Donohoe.’ I said to myself, ‘That’s my mother!’ So I called her and said, ‘Why didn’t you call me instead of writing a letter?’ She said, ‘I didn’t want to bother you.’ I get thousands of these letters, but I excused her anyway."
O’Donohoe, 60, a former legislator, has been on the job for 15 years and loves it. "The system really does work," he said, adding that I wouldn’t have to wait six years to be back in the jury pool. "You can volunteer after two years," he suggested.
When I asked what I had to do to get on a case, O’Donohoe smiled and said, "Just make sure you’re not the defendant."
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, October 3, 2008
"Fast Paul and the Ping-Pong Kid"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Paul Newman had such a delightfully wry and self-deprecating sense of humor that he probably wouldn’t mind if I said I’m glad I’m not the reason he’s dead. But I came close to killing him several years ago, when the legendary actor and popcorn pooh-bah almost choked on a bowl of Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger.
The first ingredient in my recipe for near-disaster was a ping-pong ball, which came into play when someone from the office of Newman’s Own, the Westport, Conn.-based food company that sells salad dressing and gives lots of lettuce to charity, called to ask if I wanted to play Fast Paul in a game of table tennis at the Rainbow Room in New York City.
I immediately accepted the challenge because the game would be played at the awards luncheon for the annual Newman’s Own and Good Housekeeping Recipe Contest and, being a serious journalist, I knew there would be free eats.
The place was filled with more than 100 people, not just contest winners from across the country but celebrities such as Regis Philbin, Kathie Lee Gifford and writer A.E. Hotchner, Newman’s Westport neighbor and his partner in the food company. And right in the middle was the ping-pong table, at one end of which stood Newman, paddle in hand. I was at the other end. A woman from Newman’s Own wore a striped shirt and carried a whistle. She was the referee.
I quickly learned one thing about Paul Newman: His propensity for cheating was, I am sorry to say, even greater than mine.
He hit a shot into the net. The ref said, "Point, Mr. Newman."
I hit a forehand smash past the athletic star. "Point, Mr. Newman."
One of his shots was long. "Point, Mr. Newman."
It continued in this fashion until I was utterly defeated.
The crowd roared. Newman shook my hand and said, "Nice game, kid."
At least he fed me.
Being not just a glutton for punishment but a glutton, period, I went back for more the next year. But the luncheon was delayed because there was a fire in the kitchen at the Rainbow Room. By the time it was out, the entertainment portion of the program had to be shelved.
"Is it true that you used some of your hot sauce to start the fire so you could weasel out of playing me in a rematch?" I asked Newman.
He winked one impossibly blue eye and replied, "You might want to say that."
The following year, I created a dish and brought it to the luncheon for Newman to try. The ingredients were garlic, onions, chicken, hot sausage, red and green peppers, salt, black pepper, red pepper and a jar each of Newman’s Own Bombolina and Sockarooni sauces. I also poured in some red wine and vodka and served the whole thing over a bed of pasta.
I fed the concoction, which I dubbed Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger, to my family. Miraculously, nobody had to be hospitalized, so I put some in my wife’s best Corningware dish and brought it to the luncheon.
For some reason or other, Newman never got a chance to try it. To make matters worse, the Corningware dish got misplaced and was never found. To this day, my wife has not forgiven me. But Waldy Malouf, executive chef of the Rainbow Room, sampled my creation and said it was delicious. "You should enter it in next year’s contest," he suggested.
So I did. I filled out the entry form with my recipe and mailed it in. A few weeks later, I got a phone call informing me that I was the runner-up in the pasta sauce division. I, a man who can barely make toast, had finished second in a field of thousands.
I made another batch and fed some to my dog, Lizzie, just to make sure it was OK. Lizzie wolfed it down and wanted more, but I put the remainder in a Tupperware container – no Corningware this time – and brought it to the awards luncheon.
Afterward, I went up to Newman with my plastic bowl of Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger and asked if he wanted to try it. "Sure, kid," he said, grabbing a fork.
As he was shoveling in the first mouthful, I told him I had fed some to my dog and that if it was good enough for her, it would be good enough for him, too.
"Gack!" Newman said in mid-chew. Then his eyes bulged, his face flushed and he gasped for air.
"Oh, God!" I thought. "He’s going to choke to death on my recipe. I’ll forever be known as the man who killed Paul Newman."
Fortunately, he recovered, swallowed the mouthful and asked, "Is your dog still alive?"
"Yes," I assured him.
That was all Newman needed to hear. He scarfed down the rest of the Zinger, saying between bites, "Mmmm! This is – umph, umph, umph – delicious! You could have been a winner, kid."
Thanks to the man with a great appetite for life and a twinkle in those famous eyes, I sure felt like one.
Point, Mr. Newman.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Paul Newman had such a delightfully wry and self-deprecating sense of humor that he probably wouldn’t mind if I said I’m glad I’m not the reason he’s dead. But I came close to killing him several years ago, when the legendary actor and popcorn pooh-bah almost choked on a bowl of Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger.
The first ingredient in my recipe for near-disaster was a ping-pong ball, which came into play when someone from the office of Newman’s Own, the Westport, Conn.-based food company that sells salad dressing and gives lots of lettuce to charity, called to ask if I wanted to play Fast Paul in a game of table tennis at the Rainbow Room in New York City.
I immediately accepted the challenge because the game would be played at the awards luncheon for the annual Newman’s Own and Good Housekeeping Recipe Contest and, being a serious journalist, I knew there would be free eats.
The place was filled with more than 100 people, not just contest winners from across the country but celebrities such as Regis Philbin, Kathie Lee Gifford and writer A.E. Hotchner, Newman’s Westport neighbor and his partner in the food company. And right in the middle was the ping-pong table, at one end of which stood Newman, paddle in hand. I was at the other end. A woman from Newman’s Own wore a striped shirt and carried a whistle. She was the referee.
I quickly learned one thing about Paul Newman: His propensity for cheating was, I am sorry to say, even greater than mine.
He hit a shot into the net. The ref said, "Point, Mr. Newman."
I hit a forehand smash past the athletic star. "Point, Mr. Newman."
One of his shots was long. "Point, Mr. Newman."
It continued in this fashion until I was utterly defeated.
The crowd roared. Newman shook my hand and said, "Nice game, kid."
At least he fed me.
Being not just a glutton for punishment but a glutton, period, I went back for more the next year. But the luncheon was delayed because there was a fire in the kitchen at the Rainbow Room. By the time it was out, the entertainment portion of the program had to be shelved.
"Is it true that you used some of your hot sauce to start the fire so you could weasel out of playing me in a rematch?" I asked Newman.
He winked one impossibly blue eye and replied, "You might want to say that."
The following year, I created a dish and brought it to the luncheon for Newman to try. The ingredients were garlic, onions, chicken, hot sausage, red and green peppers, salt, black pepper, red pepper and a jar each of Newman’s Own Bombolina and Sockarooni sauces. I also poured in some red wine and vodka and served the whole thing over a bed of pasta.
I fed the concoction, which I dubbed Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger, to my family. Miraculously, nobody had to be hospitalized, so I put some in my wife’s best Corningware dish and brought it to the luncheon.
For some reason or other, Newman never got a chance to try it. To make matters worse, the Corningware dish got misplaced and was never found. To this day, my wife has not forgiven me. But Waldy Malouf, executive chef of the Rainbow Room, sampled my creation and said it was delicious. "You should enter it in next year’s contest," he suggested.
So I did. I filled out the entry form with my recipe and mailed it in. A few weeks later, I got a phone call informing me that I was the runner-up in the pasta sauce division. I, a man who can barely make toast, had finished second in a field of thousands.
I made another batch and fed some to my dog, Lizzie, just to make sure it was OK. Lizzie wolfed it down and wanted more, but I put the remainder in a Tupperware container – no Corningware this time – and brought it to the awards luncheon.
Afterward, I went up to Newman with my plastic bowl of Zezima’s Zesty Ziti Zinger and asked if he wanted to try it. "Sure, kid," he said, grabbing a fork.
As he was shoveling in the first mouthful, I told him I had fed some to my dog and that if it was good enough for her, it would be good enough for him, too.
"Gack!" Newman said in mid-chew. Then his eyes bulged, his face flushed and he gasped for air.
"Oh, God!" I thought. "He’s going to choke to death on my recipe. I’ll forever be known as the man who killed Paul Newman."
Fortunately, he recovered, swallowed the mouthful and asked, "Is your dog still alive?"
"Yes," I assured him.
That was all Newman needed to hear. He scarfed down the rest of the Zinger, saying between bites, "Mmmm! This is – umph, umph, umph – delicious! You could have been a winner, kid."
Thanks to the man with a great appetite for life and a twinkle in those famous eyes, I sure felt like one.
Point, Mr. Newman.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, September 19, 2008
"Dirty Driving"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
The good news in the Zezima family is that my younger daughter, Lauren, has a new car that she has somehow managed to keep spotlessly clean since she bought it in July.
The bad news is that the remains of Jimmy Hoffa were not found in her old car, which would have given her enough money so I wouldn’t have had to co-sign a loan for her new car.
To say that Lauren’s old car was messy is like saying the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. In fact, she could have filled that hole with all the junk that had to be removed from a vehicle that was essentially a garbage dump on wheels.
I must admit that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree (I think Lauren did, indeed, find an apple in that mess) because until I got my present car, none of the many automobiles I have had the displeasure of owning could have passed the white glove test, although gloves were definitely needed to avoid contracting some horrible disease.
The worst was a jalopy I dubbed the Hatchback of Notre Dame. Not only was it so messy that it made Lauren’s old car look as sterile as the surgical unit in a hospital, but it took on water every time it rained. No one could ever find the source of the leak, which created a pool on the floor of the front passenger side. It also created tides: When I drove uphill, the water rushed to the back. When I drove downhill, the water rushed to the front.
I finally totaled the stupid thing when the brakes failed at an intersection. It was, of course, a lucky brake for me.
My next two cars, as well as the clunkers I had before the hatchback, also could have been condemned by the board of health except that no inspector in his right mind would have been seen dead in them, probably because that’s the way he would have ended up.
Four years ago, when I turned 50, I got a new car. Suddenly, I turned over a new leaf and, for the first time since I got my driver’s license, cleaned up my act. I gave my old car, which contained old leaves, to my wife, who in turn gave her car to Lauren. It’s the one Lauren was driving – and filling with so much stuff that there was barely enough room in the backseat for her little dog, Maggie – until she got her new car.
A few weeks ago, Lauren decided to go car shopping. She went to a Volkswagen dealership because she had her eye on a Jetta. She had her other eye on my wallet, which contained my driver’s license, which I would need to verify my meager existence so I could co-sign her loan, which Lauren, to her credit (my credit is lousy), is paying.
Anyway, she saw a 2005 model, which was shown to her by an automotive associate named Anthony, who is about my age and, like me, has adult children. He spent a lot of time with Lauren each of the three or four times she visited the dealership; went over all the details with my wife, who accompanied Lauren on one of her visits; let me test-drive the car when I went to see it; and didn’t put any pressure on any of us. In short, Anthony gave used-car salesmen a good name.
But he was no match for Lauren when it came to negotiating the price, which he lowered to what she said she could afford and not a penny more.
So now, at 25, which is half the age I was when I cleaned up my act, Lauren has done the same. Her car has been spanking clean for almost three months. Even the dog is impressed.
The downside is that my wife’s car is messy. And she wants a new one, too.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
The good news in the Zezima family is that my younger daughter, Lauren, has a new car that she has somehow managed to keep spotlessly clean since she bought it in July.
The bad news is that the remains of Jimmy Hoffa were not found in her old car, which would have given her enough money so I wouldn’t have had to co-sign a loan for her new car.
To say that Lauren’s old car was messy is like saying the Grand Canyon is a hole in the ground. In fact, she could have filled that hole with all the junk that had to be removed from a vehicle that was essentially a garbage dump on wheels.
I must admit that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree (I think Lauren did, indeed, find an apple in that mess) because until I got my present car, none of the many automobiles I have had the displeasure of owning could have passed the white glove test, although gloves were definitely needed to avoid contracting some horrible disease.
The worst was a jalopy I dubbed the Hatchback of Notre Dame. Not only was it so messy that it made Lauren’s old car look as sterile as the surgical unit in a hospital, but it took on water every time it rained. No one could ever find the source of the leak, which created a pool on the floor of the front passenger side. It also created tides: When I drove uphill, the water rushed to the back. When I drove downhill, the water rushed to the front.
I finally totaled the stupid thing when the brakes failed at an intersection. It was, of course, a lucky brake for me.
My next two cars, as well as the clunkers I had before the hatchback, also could have been condemned by the board of health except that no inspector in his right mind would have been seen dead in them, probably because that’s the way he would have ended up.
Four years ago, when I turned 50, I got a new car. Suddenly, I turned over a new leaf and, for the first time since I got my driver’s license, cleaned up my act. I gave my old car, which contained old leaves, to my wife, who in turn gave her car to Lauren. It’s the one Lauren was driving – and filling with so much stuff that there was barely enough room in the backseat for her little dog, Maggie – until she got her new car.
A few weeks ago, Lauren decided to go car shopping. She went to a Volkswagen dealership because she had her eye on a Jetta. She had her other eye on my wallet, which contained my driver’s license, which I would need to verify my meager existence so I could co-sign her loan, which Lauren, to her credit (my credit is lousy), is paying.
Anyway, she saw a 2005 model, which was shown to her by an automotive associate named Anthony, who is about my age and, like me, has adult children. He spent a lot of time with Lauren each of the three or four times she visited the dealership; went over all the details with my wife, who accompanied Lauren on one of her visits; let me test-drive the car when I went to see it; and didn’t put any pressure on any of us. In short, Anthony gave used-car salesmen a good name.
But he was no match for Lauren when it came to negotiating the price, which he lowered to what she said she could afford and not a penny more.
So now, at 25, which is half the age I was when I cleaned up my act, Lauren has done the same. Her car has been spanking clean for almost three months. Even the dog is impressed.
The downside is that my wife’s car is messy. And she wants a new one, too.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, September 5, 2008
"Out on a Limb"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
"I think that I shall never see/a poem as lovely as a ... TIMBER!"
This is how Joyce Kilmer might have begun his most famous poem, "Trees," if he had been alive and in my yard recently. That’s because one of my trees, a lovely oak, fell like a drunken reveler and landed on the house next door.
I was in my own house on a rainy weekday morning when I heard what sounded like an explosion. I looked outside and saw that a massive tree had collapsed, crashed through the fence on the edge of the property and come to rest on the garage of the home owned by Mike and Corrie, a very nice young couple who took this act of nature in stride by saying that their insurance company would cover the damage, which wasn’t small.
First, though, Mike called Peter Fiore, who owns Pete’s Arbor Care Services of Port Jefferson Station, N.Y.
"You have root rot," Fiore told me when he came over with his crew.
"I shampoo regularly," I replied.
"No, I mean the tree," he said, adding that I also had ants.
"Yes, Aunt Jo and Aunt Jenny," I said.
"Carpenter ants," Fiore explained. "They can take down an entire tree."
Actually, they took down half the tree, which had a double trunk. The other half, about 60 feet tall, was still standing. "It’s been compromised, so we’ll have to take it down before it falls down," Fiore said. "And if it does, it will land on your house."
That’s all I needed to hear. I told Fiore and his crew to take down the rest of the tree, cut it up and give all the wood to Mike and Corrie.
"Don’t you want to burn it?" Fiore asked.
"That would really destroy the house," I said. "We don’t have a fireplace."
Later, I told Fiore that I am a Connecticut Yankee by birth and that I had always loved oaks until my wife and I moved into our house, which is surrounded by them. "Now I hate the damn things," I said.
"I love all trees, especially if they have root rot and carpenter ants," said Fiore, 42, who has been in the tree business for 16 years. In that time, he has never fallen out of a tree, although he has occasionally had a falling out with humans, dogs and various other creatures.
Fiore recalled the time he warned a homeowner about the double maple next to her house. "I told her it should be removed because it had root rot and trunk separation," he said. "When I gave her the estimate, she said I was out of my mind and told me to leave. Five days later, half the tree fell. It was leaning against the house and destroyed her chimney. She took me to court, but the judge said she was out of her mind and dismissed the case."
Then there was the time Fiore was doing work for a customer who had a Newfoundland. "The dog was huge," he said. "It was supposed to be behind a gate, but it got loose as I was bending over and bit me in the butt. My crew thought it was the funniest thing they ever saw."
They also thought it was funny when Fiore had to answer the call of nature on another job. He went into the woods wearing only a pair of shorts and climbing spikes when he stepped into a nest of yellow jackets. "I was getting stung and tried to run away with the spikes attached to my legs, which made me look really stupid and clumsy," Fiore remembered. "The guys were hysterical. They said, ‘Hey, look, it’s Forrest Gump!’ It’s not always easy being a tree guy."
Nonetheless, Fiore said he loves his job and that the vast majority of his customers are wonderful, Mike and Corrie among them.
"They’re great people," said Fiore, adding that I was a good customer, too, but that I would be even better if I had him take down another double oak at the far end of the property. Since I don’t want that one to fall, either, I am going to call him for an appointment.
I think that I shall never see a yard as lovely without that tree.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
"I think that I shall never see/a poem as lovely as a ... TIMBER!"
This is how Joyce Kilmer might have begun his most famous poem, "Trees," if he had been alive and in my yard recently. That’s because one of my trees, a lovely oak, fell like a drunken reveler and landed on the house next door.
I was in my own house on a rainy weekday morning when I heard what sounded like an explosion. I looked outside and saw that a massive tree had collapsed, crashed through the fence on the edge of the property and come to rest on the garage of the home owned by Mike and Corrie, a very nice young couple who took this act of nature in stride by saying that their insurance company would cover the damage, which wasn’t small.
First, though, Mike called Peter Fiore, who owns Pete’s Arbor Care Services of Port Jefferson Station, N.Y.
"You have root rot," Fiore told me when he came over with his crew.
"I shampoo regularly," I replied.
"No, I mean the tree," he said, adding that I also had ants.
"Yes, Aunt Jo and Aunt Jenny," I said.
"Carpenter ants," Fiore explained. "They can take down an entire tree."
Actually, they took down half the tree, which had a double trunk. The other half, about 60 feet tall, was still standing. "It’s been compromised, so we’ll have to take it down before it falls down," Fiore said. "And if it does, it will land on your house."
That’s all I needed to hear. I told Fiore and his crew to take down the rest of the tree, cut it up and give all the wood to Mike and Corrie.
"Don’t you want to burn it?" Fiore asked.
"That would really destroy the house," I said. "We don’t have a fireplace."
Later, I told Fiore that I am a Connecticut Yankee by birth and that I had always loved oaks until my wife and I moved into our house, which is surrounded by them. "Now I hate the damn things," I said.
"I love all trees, especially if they have root rot and carpenter ants," said Fiore, 42, who has been in the tree business for 16 years. In that time, he has never fallen out of a tree, although he has occasionally had a falling out with humans, dogs and various other creatures.
Fiore recalled the time he warned a homeowner about the double maple next to her house. "I told her it should be removed because it had root rot and trunk separation," he said. "When I gave her the estimate, she said I was out of my mind and told me to leave. Five days later, half the tree fell. It was leaning against the house and destroyed her chimney. She took me to court, but the judge said she was out of her mind and dismissed the case."
Then there was the time Fiore was doing work for a customer who had a Newfoundland. "The dog was huge," he said. "It was supposed to be behind a gate, but it got loose as I was bending over and bit me in the butt. My crew thought it was the funniest thing they ever saw."
They also thought it was funny when Fiore had to answer the call of nature on another job. He went into the woods wearing only a pair of shorts and climbing spikes when he stepped into a nest of yellow jackets. "I was getting stung and tried to run away with the spikes attached to my legs, which made me look really stupid and clumsy," Fiore remembered. "The guys were hysterical. They said, ‘Hey, look, it’s Forrest Gump!’ It’s not always easy being a tree guy."
Nonetheless, Fiore said he loves his job and that the vast majority of his customers are wonderful, Mike and Corrie among them.
"They’re great people," said Fiore, adding that I was a good customer, too, but that I would be even better if I had him take down another double oak at the far end of the property. Since I don’t want that one to fall, either, I am going to call him for an appointment.
I think that I shall never see a yard as lovely without that tree.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, August 22, 2008
"Doggie Dynamo"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If I ever star in my own sequel to "Father of the Bride," in which I had the title role in 2006 when my older daughter, Katie, got married, I may have to put paramedics on the guest list. That’s because my younger daughter, Lauren, has literally fallen into the bad habit of needing emergency medical care whenever she is invited to a wedding.
And it’s all because of my granddaughter, Maggie.
Lauren is a single mother and Maggie is her baby, a playful little pup of whippet and various other breeds who will be 3 in October. To say Maggie is in the terrible 2s would be barking up the right tree.
This is why she may have to go to obedience school.
The trouble began about a week before Katie and Dave’s wedding. I was sitting in the office, trying to figure out how I was going to pay for everything without having to continue working even after I am dead, when the phone rang. It was Lauren.
"Dad," she moaned, "I think I broke my face."
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"No," Lauren said, sobbing.
"What happened?"
"I was walking Maggie, and she pulled me, and I fell face first into the bricks on the outside of my apartment. I might have a concussion and a broken nose."
It turned out that Lauren, who was the maid of honor, had neither, although she did have bumps and bruises that healed enough to be covered by makeup on the wedding day.
Fast forward to this past May, when my wife, Sue, and I, as well as Katie, Dave and Lauren, were invited to the wedding of Amy and Mel. Amy is the daughter of Jane and Tim, who in 2003 became the first couple in our circle of friends to marry off a child. It was their older son, Marshall, who married Sara, who last year gave birth to Anna, making Jane and Tim the first couple in our circle of friends to be grandparents (of a human, not a dog).
I was the first guy in the group to be father of the bride, the role Tim played in Amy’s wedding. The night before, Sue and I got a call from Lauren.
"Dad," she moaned, "I think I broke my ankle."
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"No," Lauren said, sobbing.
"What happened?"
"I was walking Maggie, and she pulled me, and I fell down the stairs outside my apartment."
To make a long story even longer, Lauren tore the tendons in her right foot and ankle and couldn’t drive to Cape Cod for the wedding. She ended up in a cast and had to use crutches to get around. Her ankle still bothers her.
Maggie is taking the rap for both incidents. She’s really very sweet, in a slobbering sort of way, but she’s also – I say this with great affection because Maggie is, after all, my own fur and blood – insane.
Whenever she visits Nini and Poppie, as she did last weekend, when Sue and I doggie-sat because Lauren went to Boston to see Katie and Dave, she runs around like a madwoman, terrorizes our four cats, chases squirrels and completely dominates our dog, Lizzie, who just became a teenager and is a bit long in the fang.
Maggie doesn’t have a job, but she ought to be on an excavation crew because she’s such a proficient digger that she could have tunneled her way to China for the Olympics.
She also is a miniature cyclone when being walked, which is why Lauren thinks she should enroll Maggie in obedience school.
I don’t know if Maggie will pass with flying colors or, more likely, flunk out, but I do know that when Lauren gets married, the dog’s not invited.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
If I ever star in my own sequel to "Father of the Bride," in which I had the title role in 2006 when my older daughter, Katie, got married, I may have to put paramedics on the guest list. That’s because my younger daughter, Lauren, has literally fallen into the bad habit of needing emergency medical care whenever she is invited to a wedding.
And it’s all because of my granddaughter, Maggie.
Lauren is a single mother and Maggie is her baby, a playful little pup of whippet and various other breeds who will be 3 in October. To say Maggie is in the terrible 2s would be barking up the right tree.
This is why she may have to go to obedience school.
The trouble began about a week before Katie and Dave’s wedding. I was sitting in the office, trying to figure out how I was going to pay for everything without having to continue working even after I am dead, when the phone rang. It was Lauren.
"Dad," she moaned, "I think I broke my face."
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"No," Lauren said, sobbing.
"What happened?"
"I was walking Maggie, and she pulled me, and I fell face first into the bricks on the outside of my apartment. I might have a concussion and a broken nose."
It turned out that Lauren, who was the maid of honor, had neither, although she did have bumps and bruises that healed enough to be covered by makeup on the wedding day.
Fast forward to this past May, when my wife, Sue, and I, as well as Katie, Dave and Lauren, were invited to the wedding of Amy and Mel. Amy is the daughter of Jane and Tim, who in 2003 became the first couple in our circle of friends to marry off a child. It was their older son, Marshall, who married Sara, who last year gave birth to Anna, making Jane and Tim the first couple in our circle of friends to be grandparents (of a human, not a dog).
I was the first guy in the group to be father of the bride, the role Tim played in Amy’s wedding. The night before, Sue and I got a call from Lauren.
"Dad," she moaned, "I think I broke my ankle."
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"No," Lauren said, sobbing.
"What happened?"
"I was walking Maggie, and she pulled me, and I fell down the stairs outside my apartment."
To make a long story even longer, Lauren tore the tendons in her right foot and ankle and couldn’t drive to Cape Cod for the wedding. She ended up in a cast and had to use crutches to get around. Her ankle still bothers her.
Maggie is taking the rap for both incidents. She’s really very sweet, in a slobbering sort of way, but she’s also – I say this with great affection because Maggie is, after all, my own fur and blood – insane.
Whenever she visits Nini and Poppie, as she did last weekend, when Sue and I doggie-sat because Lauren went to Boston to see Katie and Dave, she runs around like a madwoman, terrorizes our four cats, chases squirrels and completely dominates our dog, Lizzie, who just became a teenager and is a bit long in the fang.
Maggie doesn’t have a job, but she ought to be on an excavation crew because she’s such a proficient digger that she could have tunneled her way to China for the Olympics.
She also is a miniature cyclone when being walked, which is why Lauren thinks she should enroll Maggie in obedience school.
I don’t know if Maggie will pass with flying colors or, more likely, flunk out, but I do know that when Lauren gets married, the dog’s not invited.
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
Friday, August 8, 2008
"Baby Face Zezima"
By Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Baby face, I’ve got the cutest little baby face.
Those are the lyrics I am singing to myself these days, not just because I smell like a baby, but because I look like one.
That is what I was told when I went to the makeup counter at a department store after finding out that wearing makeup is the latest fashion trend among men.
I had heard about it when I went to that same store with my wife, Sue, to buy cologne.
According to a recent story by The Associated Press, baby powder scent is popular in women’s perfumes. As a man who not only has been called a big baby but is often told to take a powder, I wondered if the same were true for men’s cologne.
"It’s true that baby powder scent is popular with women because they love that new baby smell," said a fragrance specialist named Phyllis. "I imagine men feel the same way."
"I have two daughters who are all grown up, but I can still remember what they smelled like when they were babies," I said. "I don’t think I want to smell like that."
"He never wanted to change their diapers," Sue explained.
Phyllis nodded knowingly and introduced me to Michael, the fragrance manager, who took me to the men’s counter to see if there was anything that would make me smell like a freshly changed infant. After being sprayed with an array of colognes, I picked Touch by Burberry, which is aptly named because it has a touch of baby powder.
"Baby powder is good," Michael said, "but the real trend among men these days is makeup. A lot of guys are buying it. It’s not for me, but if you want to look better, go for it."
That’s what I did a few days later, when I went back to the store, this time without Sue, and headed for the makeup counter, where I met Jenna, a makeup artist, and Keri, a beauty analyst.
"I sell a lot of self-tanners to guys," Keri said. "One application lasts for a week and makes you look bronzed."
"It also covers up acne," Jenna noted.
"My zits cleared up a long time ago," I said. Then I added, "I’m 54."
"Wow, you sure don’t look it," exclaimed Jenna, who is 19.
"You mean I look even older?" I wondered.
"Not at all," said Jenna. "You look very young – you know, for your age."
"You have very healthy-looking skin," said Keri, who is 23. "And no wrinkles."
"Except for these crow’s-feet around my eyes," I remarked. "It looks like a flock of birds landed on my face."
"Those aren’t crow’s-feet," Keri assured me. "They’re smile lines."
I smiled. "I guess I don’t need plastic surgery," I said, "although I ought to cut up my credit cards. That would really be plastic surgery."
Keri and Jenna smiled. They didn’t have crow’s-feet. But they did have a color chart they used as a guide to determine my skin tone.
"On this spectrum," Keri pointed out, "you are in the red and orange range. They’re warm colors, which means you would look good wearing brown, green or gold."
I was wearing blue, but I guess it didn’t matter.
Keri then dipped a buff brush into a small jar of powdery makeup and started applying it to my face. "This helps cover pores and blemishes," she said, "but you really don’t have any. Your face is very clear. And very smooth."
"Like a baby’s?" I asked.
"Yes," said Keri, adding that some guys buy makeup to cover blotches and even use eyeliner. "They want to hide their imperfections," she said.
"It’s probably a clever rouge to attract women," I guessed.
"I think that’s the reason," said Keri, who handed me a mirror.
"I don’t notice any difference," I said.
"You don’t need makeup," said Jenna, who saved me a lot of money because the stuff that Keri applied costs $32.50 per 0.31-ounce jar.
When I got home, I told Sue about my makeup session. "I look like a baby and I smell like a baby," I said.
Sue nodded and replied, "So when are you going to grow up?"
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
The Stamford Advocate
Baby face, I’ve got the cutest little baby face.
Those are the lyrics I am singing to myself these days, not just because I smell like a baby, but because I look like one.
That is what I was told when I went to the makeup counter at a department store after finding out that wearing makeup is the latest fashion trend among men.
I had heard about it when I went to that same store with my wife, Sue, to buy cologne.
According to a recent story by The Associated Press, baby powder scent is popular in women’s perfumes. As a man who not only has been called a big baby but is often told to take a powder, I wondered if the same were true for men’s cologne.
"It’s true that baby powder scent is popular with women because they love that new baby smell," said a fragrance specialist named Phyllis. "I imagine men feel the same way."
"I have two daughters who are all grown up, but I can still remember what they smelled like when they were babies," I said. "I don’t think I want to smell like that."
"He never wanted to change their diapers," Sue explained.
Phyllis nodded knowingly and introduced me to Michael, the fragrance manager, who took me to the men’s counter to see if there was anything that would make me smell like a freshly changed infant. After being sprayed with an array of colognes, I picked Touch by Burberry, which is aptly named because it has a touch of baby powder.
"Baby powder is good," Michael said, "but the real trend among men these days is makeup. A lot of guys are buying it. It’s not for me, but if you want to look better, go for it."
That’s what I did a few days later, when I went back to the store, this time without Sue, and headed for the makeup counter, where I met Jenna, a makeup artist, and Keri, a beauty analyst.
"I sell a lot of self-tanners to guys," Keri said. "One application lasts for a week and makes you look bronzed."
"It also covers up acne," Jenna noted.
"My zits cleared up a long time ago," I said. Then I added, "I’m 54."
"Wow, you sure don’t look it," exclaimed Jenna, who is 19.
"You mean I look even older?" I wondered.
"Not at all," said Jenna. "You look very young – you know, for your age."
"You have very healthy-looking skin," said Keri, who is 23. "And no wrinkles."
"Except for these crow’s-feet around my eyes," I remarked. "It looks like a flock of birds landed on my face."
"Those aren’t crow’s-feet," Keri assured me. "They’re smile lines."
I smiled. "I guess I don’t need plastic surgery," I said, "although I ought to cut up my credit cards. That would really be plastic surgery."
Keri and Jenna smiled. They didn’t have crow’s-feet. But they did have a color chart they used as a guide to determine my skin tone.
"On this spectrum," Keri pointed out, "you are in the red and orange range. They’re warm colors, which means you would look good wearing brown, green or gold."
I was wearing blue, but I guess it didn’t matter.
Keri then dipped a buff brush into a small jar of powdery makeup and started applying it to my face. "This helps cover pores and blemishes," she said, "but you really don’t have any. Your face is very clear. And very smooth."
"Like a baby’s?" I asked.
"Yes," said Keri, adding that some guys buy makeup to cover blotches and even use eyeliner. "They want to hide their imperfections," she said.
"It’s probably a clever rouge to attract women," I guessed.
"I think that’s the reason," said Keri, who handed me a mirror.
"I don’t notice any difference," I said.
"You don’t need makeup," said Jenna, who saved me a lot of money because the stuff that Keri applied costs $32.50 per 0.31-ounce jar.
When I got home, I told Sue about my makeup session. "I look like a baby and I smell like a baby," I said.
Sue nodded and replied, "So when are you going to grow up?"
Copyright 2008 by Jerry Zezima
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