"Three Chairs for Jerry!"

By Jerry Zezima

As chairman of the bored in my house, a responsibility I take sitting down, I am thrilled to announce that I have a new chair in my office.

My only worry is that, as with all the other chairs I have ever had, I will lose possession of this one to either my wife or — this has actually happened before — a dog.

The stolen seat saga began many years ago when I bought, with the approval and financial assistance of my wife, Sue, an easy chair.

It wasn’t so easy to shop for because we went to several furniture stores where I test-sat big, comfy chairs, sometimes for periods so long that even Sue, a dedicated shopper, got annoyed and announced it was time to go.

One time, I fell asleep in a chair on the showroom floor. It’s a good thing we weren’t buying a bed or I would have been locked in the store overnight.

I settled on a chair that was delivered to our house and placed in the family room, where I could sit in comfort while watching sports, drinking beer, eating popcorn and otherwise solving the world’s problems.

But I had a problem: Sue liked the chair so much that she took it over. I was left to plop into her chair, which replaced my old chair, in which I had made quite an impression, no ifs, ands or butts about it.

Eventually, the new-old chair, or the old-new chair, was brought into the living room and was again, ostensibly, mine.

Until our dog, Lizzie, took it over.

The pooch didn’t drink beer, in which case she would have been a lap dog, and the only popcorn she ate were the kernels I had dropped. She didn’t even watch sports because she didn’t have thumbs to work the TV remote. But she was smart enough to solve the world’s problems, most of which have been caused by humans like me.

Still, whenever I sauntered into the living room with the intention of sitting in the chair — my chair — I invariably found Lizzie, snoozing, snorting, sneezing or shedding.

God forbid I asked her to get out of the chair to do something constructive, like fetch my slippers, which apparently were too smelly even for a dog.

Eventually, Lizzie crossed the rainbow bridge, the chair was reupholstered and I laid sole claim to it again.

But my chair in the family room, which replaced the chair of mine that was taken over by Sue, was once again taken over by Sue. Which left me with the other chair, which is now worn and rumpled, like yours truly. To compound matters, it’s too deep for me to get out of without considerable effort.

One of these days, in trying to get up, I will pull a muscle, rupture a vital organ or remain there, ossifying in front of the TV while watching sports.

This is why I am so excited about the new chair in my office.

Sue thought it would be a nice touch for the room, which was recently refurbished. She looked online and showed me a midcentury accent chair (since the chair doesn’t talk, I don’t know what kind of accent it has) with modern linen fabric.

We went to a store where it was on sale. I plopped myself down in it and pronounced it cushy on the tushy.

We brought it home in the back of my car, but it was too cumbersome to carry upstairs (the chair, not my car). It sat in the living room until our neighbor Michael kindly came over and lugged it up to my office.

I am now enjoying the chair, which is easy to get out of. And our granddog, Opal, is afraid of stairs, so she won’t be taking it over.

Sue has promised not to lay claim to it, either. But if she did, I would, yet again, have to stand for it.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"The Adventures of a Class Clown"

By Jerry Zezima

On May 23, 1985, a date which will live in journalistic infamy, my first humor column was published. Now, 40 years later, I am still writing it for two unsound reasons: I am spectacularly unqualified to do anything else and nobody has stopped me.

I knew I wanted to be a writer in high school. My decision was made in an English composition class.

We had to write an essay about a particular topic (I forget what it was) and get up in front of the class to read it. Nobody wanted to do this — except me. Everybody took it seriously — except me.

I wrote the silliest, stupidest, funniest stuff I could think of. When I read my essay, I got big laughs.

Around this time, I started to read my hometown paper, the Stamford Advocate in Connecticut, and got hooked on the humor columns of Art Buchwald and Erma Bombeck.

I resolved to be like them because I was the class clown. My professional goal was to be silly and irresponsible and actually get paid for it.

In 1976, a year out of college, I strolled into the Stamford Advocate newsroom and announced that I wanted a job.

The editor, Roland Blais, asked what experience I had. I told him I had none.

Instead of throwing me out, Mr. Blais — kind, patient and a true newspaperman — gave me a test that included grammar, history and current events.

I did well enough because I was hired. But there were some questions to which I didn’t know the answers. Instead of leaving them blank or taking halfhearted guesses, I remembered what I did on that essay in high school and wrote the silliest, stupidest, funniest stuff I could think of.

Later, in his office, Mr. Blais said, “That’s what got you the job. It showed signs of creativity.”

I was going to say that I didn’t think you were supposed to make stuff up in a newspaper, but for once in my life, I kept my mouth shut.

Over the next nine years, I was a succession of things: copyboy, police reporter, sportswriter, assistant metro editor and features editor. I failed miserably in all of them until there was nothing left to do but write a humor column.

I decided early on to write about family foibles and the funny little things of everyday life.

My wife, Sue, without whom I would be either dead or in prison, has been the star of innumerable columns. One of the most memorable was when I went to the bank to apply for a loan to buy her the $10 million Millennium Bra from Victoria’s Secret. I didn’t get the money, so I bought her a flannel nightgown.

I wore pajama bottoms to work to impress our two daughters, who wore them to school. It was the only time they ever thought I was cool.

I called the White House to see if I could qualify for federal funds to clean up the disaster area that was our younger daughter’s room when she was home from college. Not only couldn’t I get the money, but she put a lock on the door.

And of course I have written about our five grandchildren, who are more mature than I am. I’m proud to be their favorite toy.

Other column adventures, which number more than 1,500, have included being a model in a women’s jewelry show (I got a turquoise necklace for Sue), running for vice president of the United States on the Cocktail Party ticket (my running mate and I actually got votes), playing blackjack with our dog (I lost), making my own beer (it went down smooth and came back up the same way) and taking Sue to the dump on our anniversary (I’m surprised she didn’t leave me there).

After 40 years, I’m still writing nonsense and having more fun than the law allows.

Not bad for a class clown.

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"O Say Can't I See"

By Jerry Zezima

As a man of vision, which has saved me from walking into walls, I can see clearly that my eyes aren’t what they used to be.

In fact, they used to be martini olives. Those were the days!

At any rate, I now need my wife’s glasses to read books, newspapers, emails, bills and even what I am writing, which would probably come out better if I couldn’t see it.

The only kind of glasses I have needed until now are wineglasses, which can make me a double-visionary.

I also have a pair of specs that can be used for distance if I am driving at night in the rain and can’t see road signs leading to important destinations like, for instance, my house. But I really don’t need them because on most nights, I am asleep in front of the TV, unable to stay awake for the 11 o’clock news to see if rain is in the forecast.

But I recently found, at the advanced age of 71, that I am farsighted, though not in the sense of showing foresight, because I can’t see into the future. If I could, I would have won Powerball by now.

Rather, I am farsighted in the sense that I can’t properly focus on things that are close to my eyes, such as words, objects or, in an extreme case, my nose, which I could see if I had access to the Hubble Space Telescope.

This may explain why my wife, Sue, who has what she estimates are “90 pairs of glasses” scattered around the house, is always telling me that whatever I am looking for in the refrigerator, a cabinet or a drawer, but can’t find, is right in front of my face.

What this doesn’t explain is why Sue is always asking me if I saw her glasses. It has led to the eternal optical conundrum: If you can’t find your glasses, wouldn’t you need your glasses to find them?

I found a pair of hers in my office and have been using them to work on the computer because without them, letters and numbers look like either a Volkswagen Beetle or the chemical symbol for krypton, which you’d think would give me X-ray vision.

But my eyes have been opened to the joy of using glasses for which I don’t need a prescription. I refer to “readers,” inexpensive glasses you can buy in a store not affiliated with an optometrist, whose prices might be so high that when the bill comes, you won’t believe your own eyes.

Sue’s readers have a diopter strength of 2.75 (to the best of my knowledge, which is scant on this subject, the highest in the typical range is 3.0).

According to Merriam-Webster, who has astigmatism, a diopter is “a unit of measurement of the refractive power of lenses equal to the reciprocal of the focal length in meters.”

I have no idea what that means and can’t read it without getting a headache.

Still, I thought it was a good idea to get a pair of my own glasses. So Sue and I went to CVS (Cheap Vision Service) and found a stand with readers that weren’t particularly flattering on me. Plus, they were tight.

“They’re for women,” Sue helpfully pointed out.

We went to the men’s section, where I selected a pair that fit well, look stylish and have a diopter strength of 2.75.

I opened the email on my phone and beheld letters, words and sentences I could actually read without squinting so hard that my eyelids fell off.

And the glasses cost only $26.99.

“That’s a lot better than what you would pay for a pair from the eye doctor,” Sue said. “And now you don’t have to use mine.”

“At last,” I said, “I see what you mean.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Cone of Sloppiness"

By Jerry Zezima

You scream, I scream, we all scream for …

Beer!

Well, I do when the grandkids aren’t around. But when they are, we all scream for ice cream. My screaming happens when I eat it too fast and get brain freeze, which I would get even if I were marooned on the blistering sands of the Sahara Desert without food, water or a heaping cone of vanilla soft serve with rainbow sprinkles.

This year’s ice cream season officially began on a sunny Saturday. After Old Man Winter was finally run out of town and took his sleet, mittens and sinus infections with him, I drove two of my granddaughters to a shop called Magic Fountain for frosty treats that go straight to the sweet tooth if you are a kid and straight to the waistline if you are an adult.

“What do you girls want?” I asked as we stood in a long line outside.

They looked over the extensive menu printed on a large board, where an excited bunch of other kids had congregated while their parents (and one grandparent) held their place in line, but it didn’t matter because they had already made up their minds.

“I want a cup of cake mix with rainbow sprinkles,” said one granddaughter, who’s 12.

When she was 4, she and I went to Magic Fountain (“Where Ice Cream Dreams Come True!”) to make a batch of honey-cinnamon with the owner.

My granddaughter helped pour a bottle of honey into a plastic container. She also helped pour eight ounces of ground cinnamon into a measuring cup and dump the ingredients into the container. Then she squeezed in a bag of ice cream mix and helped turn on the machine.

When the ice cream was done 20 minutes later, my granddaughter tasted it and exclaimed, “Wow!”

“Now,” said the very kind and patient owner, “you can say you taught your grandfather how to make ice cream.”

“I remember that,” said my granddaughter, who didn’t want to make ice cream this time. “I just want to eat it.”

Her sister, then a baby and now 8, wanted a large mint chocolate chip milkshake with whipped cream.

“That cup is too big for you,” I said, pointing out that the plastic container’s contents could choke a water buffalo.

“No, it’s not,” the girl protested. “I can finish it.”

I placed both orders with a young woman behind the counter.

“What would you like?” she asked me.

“A vanilla soft serve cone,” I replied.

“What kind of cone?” she inquired.

“Anything but a traffic cone,” I said with a goofy grin.

She sighed, because it was really busy, and inquired further: “Wafer or waffle?”

I waffled before choosing wafer.

“Rainbow sprinkles?” she said.

“No, thanks,” I responded. “I’m driving.”

I paid at the register — $26.09 on a card, plus a nice tip in cold cash because the frazzled employee really deserved it — and grabbed a fistful of those wimpy little napkins that are sadly inadequate for wiping melted ice cream from the faces, and sometimes clothing, of sloppy patrons.

By that I mean grandfathers.

The girls and I sat outside on a bench and, in the strong spring sun, began slurping, sipping and slobbering our sweet treats.

Immediately my soft serve started to trickle over the top of my cone, so I had to lick the edges while inhaling the top of the creamy mound before it collapsed in an avalanche of goo.

“I can’t finish mine,” announced the younger girl, who had promised she could.

“I can’t finish mine, either,” said her sister.

I did finish mine, used every napkin in my possession to clean up the mess on all three of us and walked back to the car with the girls.

“Let’s come back tomorrow!” the older one said.

“Yeah!” her sister agreed. “But Poppie,” she said to me, “you have to stop telling silly jokes or you’ll never get any rainbow sprinkles.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima