"She's Got My Number"

By Jerry Zezima

According to statistics that must be true or I wouldn’t have made them up, 87 percent of grandfathers couldn’t pass a third-grade math test.

This is shocking because it represents almost half the grandpa population.

Unfortunately, I am in this group because I recently got taken to school by my 8-year-old granddaughter, who is in third grade, has an A average in math and gave me a lesson in basic arithmetic by showing me that what I learned when I was a third-grader no longer adds up.

“Math is my favorite subject,” my granddaughter said. “On my last test, I got 100.”

“You answered all the questions correctly?” I said.

“That’s what 100 means, Poppie,” she informed me.

Then my granddaughter played teacher, with me as the student, by giving me a division problem.

“What’s 35 divided by 7?” she asked.

As I began to calculate it in the recesses of my brain, which was active only during recess when I was in school, my granddaughter said, “There’s a strategy.”

“You mean I should use a calculator?” I said.

My granddaughter sighed and said, “Seven times blank equals 35. You go by fives: 5, 10, 15, 20, 25, 30, 35. That’s 7 fives. Five times 7 equals 35.”

“I used to just memorize the times tables,” I said.

“That’s not the right way to do it,” my granddaughter said. “You have to show how you got the answer.”

“Even if the answer is wrong?” I wondered.

She sighed again and gave me another one.

“Nine times 3 equals blank,” she said. “You have to use your hands. Two fingers on your left hand and seven on the rest of your two hands: two on the left and five on the right. The answer is 27.”

“I don’t get it,” I said.

“Two and seven,” my granddaughter said. “Twenty-seven.”

“I can just imagine if I tried to pull this on the IRS,” I responded.

“Now you ask me a question,” she said.

“OK,” I said, figuring I’d really stump her. “What’s 75 divided by 15?”

“You skip count by 5,” my granddaughter said. “The answer is 5. The number you skip count by, that’s your answer.”

“I must have skipped that one in class,” I said.

“Is that why you became a writer, Poppie?” she asked. “Because you can’t do math?”

“I can’t do the new math,” I told her. “But my decision to become a writer could be encapsulated in one word: algebra.”

“Dad asked me an algebra question once and I got it right,” my granddaughter said.

“See if you can figure this one out,” I said, giving her the typical algebra problem. “The Smiths are leaving New York for Boston at 9 a.m. averaging 55 miles per hour.”

“I’ve been to both New York and Boston,” my granddaughter chirped.

“I know, but this isn’t a geography question,” I said, continuing: “And the Joneses are leaving Boston for New York at 10 a.m. averaging 50 miles per hour. At what point in the 200-mile journey will they pass each other?”

“Who cares?” my granddaughter said.

“Exactly!” I replied.

I pulled out an old book I found in my office, “Beginning and Intermediate Algebra,” and opened to Chapter 1, Example 1: “Insert (less-than symbol), (greater-than symbol) or (the equal sign) in the space between the paired numbers to make each statement true.”

Statement: “2 (blank) 3”

Solution: “2 (less-than symbol) 3 since 2 is to the left of 3 on the number line.”

“That’s easy,” my granddaughter said. “The less-than symbol looks like an alligator. And an alligator will always eat the bigger number. My first-grade teacher told us that. I’m in third grade now.”

“This is why I let your grandmother balance our checkbook,” I said.

“You should go back to school, Poppie,” my granddaughter said. “But I don’t think you’d get an A.”

Copyright 2025 by Jerry Zezima

"Tooth or Consequences"

By Jerry Zezima

My orthodontist is a gem. That’s why he suggested I buy an ultrasonic retainer cleaner that my wife can wash her jewelry in.

I got retainers several years ago when I decided to go straight, not because I was a crooked jewel thief, but because two of my teeth were crooked and needed straightening.

I went to the Stony Brook University School of Dental Medicine on Long Island, New York, so my right upper lateral incisor and my left central lower incisor could be rotated back to their original positions with invisible braces, which weren’t actually invisible because otherwise, let’s face it, how could I find them?

Once my wayward ivories were realigned, which saved me the trouble of going to a mechanic, I got retainers. I wear them at night to keep my teeth on the straight and narrow, even though the mouth where they reside is deep and wide.

On a recent visit to Stony Brook for my yearly follow-up, I met Dr. Andy Lin, the latest in a long line of orthodontic residents who have had the dubious honor of treating me.

“Please pop your retainers in so I can see how they fit,” Dr. Lin said.

I did as instructed, first the top, then the bottom.

“They’ve kept your teeth nice and straight,” he noted. “But part of the top retainer on the left side has broken off. I can clip the end and smooth it out with an acrylic bur so it won’t cut your tongue.”

“While I’m still wearing it?” I asked nervously.

“No,” the good doctor assured me. “You wouldn’t want a bur in your mouth.”

“You could probably fit a jackhammer in there,” I said.

“We use that for drilling,” said Dr. Lin, who took my upper retainer to a back room, clipped and smoothed it, and returned a few minutes later. “Try it now,” he said.

I popped it in.

“It feels much better,” I told him. “Now I won’t speak with a forked tongue.”

Dr. Lin spoke with a funny tongue when he told me that he was the class clown in dental school.

“I did a lot of stupid things,” he said. “In an oral surgery class, when we were shown how to do stitches, we had to bring in bananas. I brought in a watermelon.”

“Did you have braces as a kid?” I asked.

“Yes, four times,” said the doctor, flashing a nice smile. “But I never had retainers. I’m too lazy.”

“I’ve been told the best way to keep them clean is with dishwashing liquid,” I said. “It might be easier just to put them in the dishwasher.”

“They’d come out in clumps,” said Dr. Lin, adding that I could use water and hydrogen peroxide or get a box of retainer tablets.

The best way to clean retainers, he said, is with an ultrasonic cleaner, a small, plastic and stainless steel machine that uses UV sterilization.

“I use one to clean my jewelry,” Dr. Lin said. “I even put my glasses in there.”

“Can I clean my wife’s jewelry?” I asked.

“Sure,” said the doctor. “But maybe you should start with your retainers.”

I went online and ordered the device, which cost $49.99. When it arrived, I plugged it in, filled it with water, put in my retainers, closed the lid and pressed the button.

Five minutes later, my retainers were spotless.

“They’re nice and clean,” said my wife, Sue.

“Do you want me to clean your jewelry?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

Undeterred, I took off my silver wedding band, the only piece of jewelry I own, and put it in the ultrasonic machine. When the ring came out, it looked like new, even though it’s 46 years old.

“It shines!” Sue exclaimed.

“Now do you want me to clean your jewelry?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It has stones. If they get ruined, you’ll have to buy me new ones.”

“I’ll stick with cleaning my retainers,” I said. “I can’t afford to put my money where my mouth is.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima

"Some Like It Cold"

By Jerry Zezima

When you get to be a certain age — in my case, old — you tend to run hot and cold, which not only is true but also rhymes.

The reason is that no matter what the temperature is inside or outside, it’s either too hot or too cold.

That is why my wife, Sue, called a technician named Joe to come over and fix the upstairs thermostat, which had been making the second floor feel like a sauna.

“Maybe we should start wearing towels,” I told Joe.

“You can do whatever you want after I leave,” he said.

I explained that Sue and I don’t like to be hot and that we prefer the cold weather.

“Except for sleet, which was invented when God had a sinus infection,” I added.

“I’d rather be warm,” said Joe, who works for a heating company that installed our central air-conditioning system over the summer so Sue and I could stay cool.

“Every year, I lugged two huge AC units upstairs to put in the bedroom and office windows,” I said. “But when I turned 70, I didn’t want to sweat the big stuff anymore.”

“You’re 70?” Joe asked.

“Yes,” I answered proudly. “I’m officially a geezer. And when you get to be this age, no temperature feels right. You’re always either too hot or too cold.”

“My parents are in their 70s,” said Joe, who’s 46. “They say the same thing.”

That’s why I have convinced Sue that I don’t have to change my seasonal wardrobe. I leave summer and winter clothes out all year because you never know what the temperature is going to be inside or out.

“There’s no such thing as climate control,” I told Joe. “I found that out when I worked in an office building. It would be freezing in the summer, when the air-conditioning was cranked up, and steaming in the winter, when the heat was on. I felt like bringing a suitcase with a change of clothes.”

“Yes,” Joe acknowledged, “office temperatures can be difficult to regulate.”

“One brutally hot summer day,” I remembered, “I called the National Weather Service to see if my workstation qualified as the coldest spot in the United States.”

“What did they say?” Joe wondered.

“No one answered,” I said. “I guess it’s tough to pick up the phone when you’re wearing mittens.”

Ever since I retired, I haven’t had to deal with such frustrating fluctuations. But now we were having trouble in the house.

“When you get older, you feel the temperature more,” I said. “Yesterday, when it was nice, I went outside. It was too warm in the sun, so I stepped into the shade. It was really chilly.”

“What did you do?” Joe asked.

“I came back inside,” I said. “The downstairs was cold and the upstairs was hot. I’m a man for all seasons. Unfortunately, it’s never the one we’re supposed to be having.”

Sue, who said she couldn’t wait for snow, controls the two thermostats, one upstairs, the other down, because I would press the wrong buttons and turn the house into either a meat locker or a steam bath.

But lately the heat had been going on so high upstairs that Sue and I routinely woke up feeling like we had been camping out in the Amazon.

“Let me see what I can do,” said Joe, who worked for about 20 minutes on the thermostat, which seemed so complicated that it must have been manufactured by NASA.

There are five buttons on the bottom, including Negative (which lowers the temperature) and Positive (which raises it). There are also three settings on the screen: Mode, Menu and Fan, with Permanent Hold, Next and Auto thrown in for good measure.

“Pick a temperature,” Joe told Sue, “and hit Permanent Hold.”

Sue picked 67 (it had been 70) and set it.

“Now,” said Joe, much to Sue’s delight, “it won’t be like a sauna.”

“And we won’t have to wear towels?” I asked.

“Not while I’m here,” he answered.

I smiled and said, “Cool.”

Copyright 2024 by Jerry Zezima