"Three Chairs for Jerry"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

A man’s home is his hassle. That’s why he needs a throne to sit on. And I’m not talking about one made of porcelain.

I refer, of course, to a guy chair -- a big, comfortable seat he can relax in after performing such exhausting tasks as throwing out the garbage or picking up his dirty socks and underwear, a place fit for a king while he sits in front of the TV and either watches sports for hours on end or struggles to stay awake for the 11 o’clock news.

My wife, Sue, bless her heart, said I needed one. So we went furniture shopping.

When we arrived at the store, Sue told the greeter, who did her job well by greeting us, that we had an appointment with a saleswoman named Melody. The greeter telephoned Melody, who was in another part of the store, and said, “There are guests at the front desk.”

“This sounds like a hotel,” I said. “If we’re guests, can we stay overnight?”

“Sure,” the greeter answered. “We have bedroom furniture upstairs.”

I noticed a bar with wine glasses and empty bottles.

“Did I miss happy hour?” I asked.

“Yes,” the greeter said. “We just finished the wine.”

While we were waiting for Melody, I walked around the store, which probably had more chairs, tables, beds, bureaus, sofas and nightstands than Buckingham Palace. There were enough footstools for an ottoman empire.

“Try out the chairs,” Sue suggested.

“You want me to sit around and do nothing?” I asked. “That’s what I do at home.”

At that point, Melody showed up and said she was helping another customer but that we would be in good hands with Gloria.

“We’re looking for a chair,” Sue told her.

“What kind?” Gloria inquired.

“A guy chair,” I said. “For me.”

Then I proceeded to tell Gloria the long, sad story of the history of all the chairs that were supposed to be for me but were co-opted by Sue or our various pets, including our late, beloved dog, Lizzie, and our still-living cats, Kitty and her fat daughter, Bernice.

“The first time we got a chair that was ostensibly for me, we put it in the family room and Sue started sitting in it to watch ‘Law & Order’ and all her other shows,” I explained. “I was relegated to the rocking chair. At least I got to practice for my old age, which is rapidly approaching.”

“You don’t look old,” said Gloria.

“That’s because I’m shockingly immature,” I replied. “It makes me seem younger.”

Sue agreed.

“Anyway,” I continued, “the chair was getting clawed by our cats, so Sue put a slipcover on it. Then she said we needed another chair.”

“It was supposed to be for him,” Sue chimed in.

“Was it?” Gloria asked.

“No,” I said. “Sue started using it and our dog took over the first chair. She didn’t even watch ‘Law & Order.’ We put it in the living room, which we seldom use. I still sat in the rocking chair.”

“Now we’re looking for a third chair,” Sue said. “This time it’s really for Jerry.”

I picked out a very comfortable club chair that matched the sofa and the second chair.

“It’s the only chair that Cindy Crawford attaches herself to,” Gloria informed me. “She uses it for her collection.”

“Does this mean Cindy will be visiting us to watch TV?” I asked excitedly.

“She doesn’t come with the chair,” Gloria responded.

“That’s OK,” I said. “She’d only take it over and I’d have to sit in the rocker again.”

The new club chair was delivered a few days later and put in the family room. I’d like to say I enjoy it, but our cats have taken it over.

As always, I am not going to take this sitting down.

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Self-Maid Man"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I could never see myself in a little French maid’s outfit, except on weekends while doing my household chores, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever wear one because: (a) I probably couldn’t find something like that in my size and (b) I don’t speak French.

But that didn’t stop me from becoming a maid recently when I joined a team from The Maids, a national house cleaning service, and helped clean my own house.

I wasn’t required to wear a little French maid’s outfit -- a yellow Maids polo shirt and a pair of khakis composed the official attire -- but I did have to work hard to get all the dirt and dust off floors and out of corners so the house would be, as it often isn’t after I am done with my chores, spotless.

I called The Maids (www.maids.com) because a husband’s work is never done and, in nearly 35 years of marriage, I have improved my vacuuming, scrubbing and dusting skills to the point where I wondered if I were good enough to be a professional.

“We’ll find out,” said Ken Quenstedt, who owns The Maids franchise that serves northwestern Suffolk County, N.Y., where I live.

Ken came over in a yellow Maids car with four team members: Maria, Mayra, Melanie and Ingris. They were soon joined by Jenny, the field supervisor.

My wife, Sue, who keeps a clean house despite my help, served as the domestic supervisor.

“Jerry didn’t know how to work the washing machine until a few years ago,” Sue told Ken. “But he’s a lot better at chores than he used to be.”

“I’m best at ironing,” I bragged, “because I’m a member of the press.”

“Vacuuming is my specialty,” said Ken, like me an empty nester whose wife appreciates his (not always superlative) efforts around the house.

I thought I was pretty good at it, too, but neither Ken nor I had anything on Maria, who had a space-age vacuum cleaner strapped to her back. It looked like a scuba tank, from which extended a hose with an attachment that Maria expertly maneuvered over the carpeting, along the ceiling and around corners.

“May I try it?” I asked Maria, who graciously helped me strap on the vacuum and showed me how to operate it without getting entangled in the cord, which I did anyway.

“You’re doing a good job,” she said.

I did an even better job of dusting after watching Ingris, the team leader, deftly use her dust cloth on the bureaus and nightstands in the master bedroom.

“I usually dust around things,” I confessed.

“You have to move them,” said Ingris, who was impressed when I followed instructions and did the job right.

“Could I be part of the team?” I asked.

“Yes!” she answered.

Jenny was impressed with my toilet-cleaning prowess after showing me how to correctly use a brush in the porcelain convenience.

“Very good,” she declared.

I was flush with excitement. It was my turn to be impressed after watching Melanie scrub down the tile in another bathroom until it was immaculate.

When I noticed that the team members were wearing shoe covers, Mayra explained, “We don’t want to bring dirt into the house.”

“My feet are so big,” I said, “I should wear garbage bags.”

Instead, the foursome used garbage bags for, yes, garbage, which they emptied out of wastebaskets.

After an hour and a half, they were finished.

“The house has never looked so clean!” Sue exclaimed.

I thanked the hardworking crew for a magnificent job and told Ken that they inspired me to be an even better house cleaner.

“Whenever you do chores,” he suggested, “you can wear the yellow shirt.”

“At least,” I said with a sigh of relief, “I won’t have to wear a little French maid’s outfit.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"What's the Bad Word?"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I know cliches like the back of my hand and I’ve always thought that people should avoid them like the plague.

That’s why I am happy, at this point in time, to know that, going forward, two distinguished word gurus are thinking outside the box and, at the end of the day, fighting the good fight to keep the English language free from hackneyed phrases that I can’t wrap my head around because, after all, it is what it is.

I refer to Tom Pink and John Shibley, who work at Lake Superior State University in Sault Ste. Marie, Mich., and have just come out with their annual Banished Words List.

Pink, director of the public relations department, and Shibley, PR writer and photographer, describe themselves as “co-conspirators” of the list, which this year includes such annoying words and phrases as “fiscal cliff,” “kick the can down the road,” “bucket list,” “double down,” “trending” and “YOLO,” which stands for “you only live once.”

Since Pink and Shibley are trending, I decided to double down and -- spoiler alert (which also made the list) -- call them because, of course, YOLO.

“I’d like to have some talking points with you guys,” I said.

“You mean you want to discuss the Banished Words List?” asked Shibley, adding that “talking points” made the list in 2006.

“That’s affirmative,” I replied. “I have a few suggestions that, at the end of the day, should go on the list.”

“Like the phrase ‘at the end of the day’?” asked Pink, who said it was banished in 1999 but that “people keep using it.”

“That’s just one of them,” I said.

“We always welcome new entries,” said Shibley, noting that people can go to the Banished Words website, www.lssu.edu/banished, and make their own suggestions.

“I’d like to nominate ‘going forward’ and its equally evil twin, ‘moving forward,’ which have the language going backward,” I said.

“They made it in 2001,” Pink informed me.

“I can’t wrap my head around it,” I said.

“If you tried,” Shibley said, “you’d get a headache.”

“Then I wouldn’t be able to think outside the box,” I said.

“It’s better than thinking inside the box,” Shibley pointed out. “You might suffocate. I’d poke holes in the box. In fact, Tom and I poke holes in everything we read or hear. Our language needs some fresh air.”

“We all have our linguistic annoyances,” Pink said. “One of mine is ‘preplanning.’ It’s like planning to plan. Or ‘preregistration.’ If you have to register before an event, when do you preregister -- before the event is even planned?”

“Then you’d have to preplan,” I said. “How about recipes that tell you to ‘preheat’ the oven before cooking dinner?”

“As opposed to turning it on afterward?” Pink asked.

“Exactly,” I said. “Of course, if your dinner is on sale at the supermarket, you’d be getting a good price point.”

“Good point,” said Pink.

“It is what it is,” I noted.

“That one got on in 2008,” said Pink, who called the Banished Words List an “unpopularity contest,” adding: “We try to have fun with it.”

Said Shibley, “We’re looking for good, witty nominations. Even if there’s a word or phrase that has already made the list, you can nominate it again so it will get back on. We want input, which made the list, that is ongoing, which also made it.”

“At this point in time,” Pink said.

“That one was on the original list in 1976,” said Shibley, who added that he and Pink appreciated my interest in joining the fight to rid the English language of the annoying words and phrases that have so negatively impacted (which made the list) our talking points.

“At the end of the day, I’m happy to help,” I said. “Going forward.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"Joking Is in My Blood"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

As a frequent blood donor and a proud member of the Gallon Club, which has nothing to do with my weekend beer consumption, I have often wondered if the people who get my blood suffer from terrible side effects like telling stupid jokes and growing a mustache. And if, especially where facial hair is concerned, any of them have been women.

I gained some insight when I found out that the blood I donated recently had gone to New York-Presbyterian Hospital’s Weill Cornell Medical Center.

The journey began during a blood drive at work, where a phlebotomist named Susan looked over my paperwork and asked what type of blood I have.

“Since I’m a newspaper columnist,” I told her, “I should have typo blood.”

“Are you positive?” she said.

“Actually, I am,” I replied. “A-positive, though I like to call it A-plus because it makes up for the fact that I never got one in school.”

Susan took my temperature and my blood pressure.

“Do I have a pulse?” I asked.

“Yes,” she responded. “You are, technically, still alive.”

“That means,” said George, another phlebotomist, “you are a good candidate to give blood. Sometimes, being alive is all we require.”

“Do you take any medication?” Susan inquired.

“I have a prescription for cholesterol medicine because my numbers used to rival the gross national product of Finland,” I said. “And I take baby aspirin because I am, of course, a big baby.”

“I can see that,” said Susan, who drew blood from my middle finger (it was nothing personal against her) and performed a test indicating that my cholesterol level was normal, if such a word could be used to describe me.

Then it was time to roll up my sleeves.

“Which arm do you prefer?” asked a phlebotomist named Chris.

“Either is fine,” I said. “It’s a good thing I’m not an octopus or this could get really confusing.”

“You have good veins,” said Chris, who chose my right arm.

“My donations are in vein, but I hope they’re not in vain,” I noted as I proceeded to pump out a bag full of blood in a personal best 5 minutes 37 seconds.

“That’s a good time,” said Chris.

“That’s because I had a good time,” I replied, thanking Chris, George and Susan and heading home with the satisfaction of knowing I would be helping someone who needed blood.

I didn’t know who he or she might be until I received an email saying that my donation had gone to New York-Presbyterian.

“Thank you for giving blood,” Kathleen Crowley, manager of transfusion medicine and cellular therapy at Weill Cornell, said when I called to find out the identity of the poor recipient. “I can’t say who got yours, but I can say that you met all the requirements of being a donor.”

“We have very high standards and never lower them,” said Dr. Cheryl Goss, assistant director of transfusion medicine and cellular therapy. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t take you.”

“Was my blood delivered in an armored car or did it get a police escort?” I wondered.

“Neither,” Crowley said. “It was brought here in a delivery truck. You’re important but not that important.”

“Will the person who got my blood start telling stupid jokes and grow a mustache?” I asked.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Crowley said, “your characteristics are not imposed on the person who gets your blood. If you like bananas, it doesn’t mean that the recipient will start eating them.”

“Unless the recipient is a chimpanzee,” I said. “Then it would be a chimp off the old block.”

“We haven’t received a letter saying that a patient had an adverse reaction to your blood,” Dr. Goss assured me.

“Your donation is much appreciated,” Crowley said. “And the world is safe from one more practical joker.”

Copyright 2013 by Jerry Zezima

"iBought a New Phone"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

With apologies to Gilbert and Sullivan, who are dead and can’t sue me, I’m the very model of the modern middle-age man. Except, unfortunately, when it comes to technology.

Until recently, I didn’t have an iPhone, an iPad, an iPod or iTunes, although I did have iTeeth.

At the urging of my wife, Sue, who got into the 21st century when it actually started, I exchanged my dumbphone for a smartphone.

And it cost me only 99 cents.

“What would you like your phone to do?” asked Syed, a nice and knowledgeable retail sales consultant at the AT&T store.

“I’d like it to pick the winning Powerball numbers,” I responded.

“If I could find a phone like that,” Syed said, “I wouldn’t be working here.”

“My old phone is no help,” I said, showing Syed the ancient Samsung I had been using -- or trying to use -- for the past several years.

“He doesn’t even know how to retrieve messages,” Sue told Syed.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said in my own defense. “Nobody wants to talk with me anyway.”

Then I explained that my original cellphone, which the Samsung replaced, came with a 134-page user guide.

“My daughters had to program it for me,” I said. “It used to be that all you had to know about the telephone was that you said ‘hello’ when you picked it up and ‘goodbye’ when you put it down.”

“Things have changed,” Syed said.

“Do you know when telephone technology was at its peak?” I asked him.

“When?” Syed wondered.

“The day Alexander Graham Bell invented it,” I said. “It’s been all downhill from there. Now the industry is defined by this phrase: ‘Can you hear me now?’ Even the phone makers don’t expect the stupid thing to work.”

Sue helpfully pointed out that I was, as usual, wrong.

“The phone works fine if you’re standing in the right place,” she said.

I used my phone to call hers. It didn’t ring.

“See what I mean?” I said. “I’m standing right next to you!”

It was the mission of Syed, a 22-year-old college student who grew up with technology, to modernize me, a 58-year-old geezer who not only hasn’t grown up but remembers when high-tech was an electric typewriter.

“Are you looking for an iPhone?” Syed asked.

“iGuess,” I replied.

“I would recommend the iPhone 4,” he said.

“What happened to the first three?” I inquired. “Didn’t they work, either?”

“They got upgraded,” said Syed. “That’s what I am going to do with you.”

“So I’ll be the iJerry 4?” I said. “It sounds like a rock group.”

Sue looked at me like I had rocks in my head.

Syed was too kind to agree, so he said, “I think I can help you. I have nothing better to do.”

When I told Syed that he has an excellent sense of humor, he replied, “I’m a hoot. The saddest thing about me is that I’m not around myself when I tell jokes.”

It’s a good thing he was around the store when Sue and I came in because he explained in layman’s terms (so even an idiot like me could understand) what the iPhone offered, including a feature that lets me write drivel like this without having to get on a computer. Or an electric typewriter.

“It’s perfect for your lifestyle,” Syed said.

“I really don’t have a life,” I explained.

“That means you’ll have more time to enjoy it,” he said.

“Now you can retrieve messages,” Sue said.

“Even though nobody wants to talk with you,” Syed chimed in.

The phone, which ordinarily costs $549, was only 99 cents with my contract.

“I appreciate the savings,” I said, “but I’d still like to win Powerball.”

“Sorry,” Syed told me. “That’s the one thing your new phone can’t do.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Christmas Letter 2012"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

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

That is why I am pleased as punch (which I also drank) to present the following chronicle of the Zezima family, which includes Jerry, the patriarch; Sue, the matriarch; Katie and Lauren, the childriarchs; and Dave and Guillaume, the sons-in-lawiarch. Happy reading!

Dear friend(s):

It sure has been an exciting 2012 for the Zezimas! The good news is that nobody in the family went to prison, though three of us had brushes with the law.

The first occurred when Jerry got a $100 parking ticket and had to go to court, where he stood before the judge and pleaded “clueless.” The judge refrained from having Jerry handcuffed and instead told him to talk over his case with a prosecutor, who informed him that he had a second ticket that went back several years and would cost hundreds of dollars. It was all a misunderstanding and Jerry got away with only a $40 fine for the first ticket and a warning from the judge that “clueless is not an option.”

Jerry was back in court when he had to report for jury duty on a mob trial. A man with a ridiculous nickname was charged with extortion and murder. Jerry made the first cut and had to go back for the final round of jury selection but fortunately was not chosen, perhaps because word got out in the legal community that he was clueless. At least he is not sleeping with the fishes.

Sue and Katie had contact with the police when they got into fender benders, though not with each other. No one was hurt and, for the purposes of this Christmas letter, they were not at fault.

Sue got a shopping excursion off on the right foot when she took Jerry to buy two pairs of shoes. They originally cost $250 combined, but with the sale price on each, the return of another pair of shoes and the coupons Sue brought with her, the total came to $1.45. Then Sue took Jerry to buy a pair of sneakers. Jerry wanted LeBron X’s, which cost $300, but Sue got him another pair that cost only $49.99. No wonder Sue is Jerry’s sole mate.

Jerry learned other valuable lessons when he had an archery lesson (an arrow escape), piano lessons (he won’t be playing Carnegie Hall) and a horseback riding lesson (he resembled the back end of the animal).

Jerry got physical -- and not in a good way -- when he threw his back out (the garbageman wouldn’t take it) and got an infected finger (no, not that one). Then he started getting brochures in the mail from a funeral home. It ended up being a dead issue.

Superstorm Sandy knocked out Sue and Jerry’s power for nine days, proving that she (he?) had even more hot air than Jerry. The air turned cold in the house, so Sue and Jerry spent three days and nights with Lauren and Guillaume, who also hosted a wonderful Thanksgiving Day that included Katie and Dave. The six of us had a great time.

Actually, six and a half. The best news of 2012 is that there is going to be an addition to the family (Lauren is expecting!), meaning Sue and Jerry will be grandparents. Sue said there will be a lot of toys under next year’s Christmas tree. Jerry thinks the baby should get some, too.

Merry Christmas with love and laughter from the Zezimas.

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima

"Mr. Clean"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

In my early days as a journalist, when newsrooms looked like landfills and the remains of Jimmy Hoffa could have been safely hidden from prying reporters who had the story right under their noses, my desk was so messy that it should have been condemned by the board of health.

Over the years, however, I have cleaned up my act. Now my desk is so neat that it looks like I don’t do any real work, which I don’t.

Still, it made things much easier recently when my colleagues and I moved downstairs. The man in charge of the operation, which seemed as complicated as the invasion of Normandy but turned out to be remarkably smooth, was building services manager Tom Perrotta.

“I’ve seen a lot of messy people,” Tom said as we sat in his office, which was, of course, immaculate. “Some of them have tons of newspapers that you actually have to dig through to get to their desks.”

“I don’t read the newspaper,” I said.

“Really?” Tom replied quizzically.

“Actually, I do,” I said. “But we get it delivered. I leave tons of papers on the kitchen table until my wife bags them for recycling.”

“At least you’re not messy in the office,” Tom noted. “One guy needed 15 boxes to pack up all his stuff.”

“I used only one,” I said. “And I didn’t even fill it.”

“I noticed,” said Tom. “It’ll make it easier when you leave.”

“Do you know something I don’t?” I asked nervously.

“No,” Tom replied. “But you are closer to the door now. Maybe we can put your desk in the parking lot. The only thing you won’t have out there is climate control.”

Tom knew which box was mine because it contained a picture of the Three Stooges.

“How come you don’t have a picture of your wife and kids?” Tom inquired.

“I know what they look like,” I responded. “But the Stooges are my inspiration. Besides, the photo of them adds a touch of class to my work space.”

Speaking of family, Tom said he and his wife are very neat and that they have passed their cleanliness on to their sons, ages 8 and 3.

“My wife is neat, too,” I said. “At home, I’m not.”

“Sometimes, opposites attract,” Tom said.

“If we ever won the lottery, we’d never collect the money,” I said. “Either my wife would inadvertently throw out the ticket while cleaning the house or I’d put it somewhere for safekeeping and never find it again.”

“How about your kids?” Tom asked.

“They’re out of the house now, but the nest isn’t empty because we still have a lot of their stuff,” I said. “Once, when my younger daughter was home from college for the summer, my wife said her room was a disaster area. I called the White House to see if we could have it officially declared a disaster area so we would be eligible for federal funds to clean it up.”

“What happened?” Tom wanted to know.

“The first lady’s press secretary suggested we close the door,” I said.

“If our boys play with something, they put it away when they’re finished,” Tom said. “The younger one is in nursery school, where they sing ‘The Cleanup Song.’ It teaches the kids to be neat.”

Tom played the song for me on YouTube. It’s pretty catchy, although I couldn’t get the jingle out of my head for two days.

“You should pick up your toys when you’re finished playing with them,” Tom told me. “Be as neat at home as you are at work. I’m sure your wife would appreciate it.”

I told Tom that my colleagues and I appreciated the fine work he and his crew did in moving us downstairs.

“It wasn’t that bad,” he said. “But we never did find the remains of Jimmy Hoffa.”

Copyright 2012 by Jerry Zezima