Sally Breslin: My Life

Monday, June 16, 2025

WHAT'S IN A NAME? EVERYTHING!

The other night I was thinking about some of the "unusual" names people have come up with for their children. Granted, many of them might be considered unique and creative…while others probably emotionally scarred the poor kids for life.

The names that immediately popped into my head, however, were last names. Considering surnames are inherited, I suppose I really can’t blame the parents for those.

Take, for example, many years ago when I had a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop even after I stuffed my nose with tissues, so I ended up paying an emergency visit to Concord Hospital. The doctor who was assigned to examine me suddenly appeared through the opening in the curtain that surrounded the bed.

“Good morning,” he greeted me. “I’m Doctor Blood.”

I couldn’t help it. Even in my less-than-pleasant situation, I giggled. I honestly thought he was kidding.

“Seriously?” I asked when I noticed his somber expression.

“Yes, seriously,” he said as he leaned closer to inspect my nose.

“Your first name isn’t Peter, is it?” I asked.

He gave me a curious look. “No, it’s Horace.”

The reason why I asked him about Peter was because back when I was about eleven, I’d seen a British horror movie called Doctor Blood’s Coffin. It was about a crazed doctor named Peter Blood who reanimated corpses by paralyzing innocent victims and then transplanting their still-beating hearts into the decomposing bodies. The movie gave me nightmares for years because it was my first introduction to zombies.

So having someone named Doctor Blood treating my nosebleed didn’t exactly calm my nerves…especially when he announced he was going to use nasal cauterization to stop the bleeding. This basically involved shoving a hot poker up my nostril and burning the blood vessel to seal it off. I couldn’t decide whether to leap up and run for my life, or to stay and search for hidden cameras…because I still wasn’t convinced I wasn’t the victim of some elaborate hoax.

But as it turned out, Doctor Blood stopped my nosebleed and I wasn’t transformed into one of the Walking Dead in the process.

Another surname I definitely would not have enjoyed being cursed with belonged to one of my husband's co-workers, whose last name was…Hoar. And he pronounced it exactly the way it looks.

I hate to admit it, but if I had been his fiancée, as the wedding day grew closer I’d probably have said something like, “I love you, honey, I really do, and I honestly want to marry you…but is it okay if I keep my maiden name?”

I often wondered how his wife managed to deal with her married name. I mean, I doubt I ever could have felt comfortable being called Mrs. Hoar, or even worse, having someone call out to me by only my last name in public. I’m certain all heads would have turned in my direction. And imagine the children being referred to as the little Hoars?

Fortunately, the Hoar family took their name in stride and even joked about it when they so often were mercilessly teased. I really did admire them.

Surnames, as I previously said, are inherited, so children can’t blame their parents for those. But first names are a whole different story.

I think one of the earliest worst offenders I can recall was the late singer/musician Frank Zappa, who named his four children Moon Unit, Dweezil, Ahmet Emuukha Rodan, and Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen (no, I didn’t misspell Pigeen, but it does kind of sound like what you might call a French bird).

The story I’ve heard about Dweezil, however, is there was a nurse who absolutely refused to write down that name on his birth registration. So out of sheer frustration, Zappa finally told her to write “Ian.” But the baby still was called Dweezil, no matter what the paperwork said.

Now that I think about it, the earliest strange names I can recall hearing here in New England actually belonged to a Puritan Reverend named Increase Mather and his son, Cotton Mather. Back in the 1600s, most men had Biblical names like John, Nathaniel and Matthew, so I can imagine how Increase and Cotton must have stood out amongst their peers.

I’ve also noticed that over the years, the spelling of traditional names has become more creative. Like when one of my friends named her baby boy Kryss, and another named hers Jaymz. My first thought was, “Those kids are going to have to spend their whole lives spelling out their names for people.”

And then there is one of my current neighbors, Jerrame. Most people mispronounce it “Jer-aym,” when it’s actually Jeremy.

“My mother ruined my life!” he often jokingly laments.

I must confess I also was guilty of taking a bit of creative liberty with my dog Wynter’s name. When I adopted her during a raging blizzard one February, her name was Rosalind. I didn’t think the 100-lb. Rottweiler looked like a Rosalind, so considering the weather, I changed her name to Winter. But whenever I messaged someone and mentioned her, I realized how confusing her new name could be.

Such as on a 95-degree day in mid-July when I’d write something like, “Winter really is stressing me out today,” and the person wasn’t even aware I had a dog. I probably sounded as if I needed a long vacation. So I changed the spelling to Wynter. But now I always have to spell her name whenever I call the vet or they search for her under “Winter” and then inform me they can’t find her file (which I can’t understand because she’d be in the Breslin file, wouldn’t she?).

So you can imagine my utter shock when a couple of years ago a new family moved in right next door and introduced me to their toddler, Wynter, emphasizing it was spelled with a “y.”

I blurted out, “That’s my dog’s name! And I even spell it the same way! What a coincidence!”

Let's just say they didn’t look too thrilled to discover their dainty little girl shared a name with a hairy, drooling Rottweiler.

“We wanted her to have a unique name,” the wife said somewhat tightly.

After that, I briefly considered changing my Wynter’s name to “Deeojee” (say it out loud for the full effect), but I didn’t want to further traumatize her…or the vet.

Truthfully, if I had to give an award for the most creative spelling of a name I’ve ever seen, it would have to go to the parents of a woman I saw on a newscast not long ago. The announcer pronounced her name “Erica.”

I forwarded it to my neighbor, Jerrame…just to make him feel better.

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Monday, June 9, 2025

MY APPLIANCES ALWAYS KNOW WHEN THEIR WARRANTIES EXPIRE

My last gas range, a Magic Chef, lasted over 25 years. The only problem with it was it had pilot lights. I can’t even remember how many times I woke up to the smell of gas because one of the pilot lights had gone out overnight. It got to the point where I was afraid to scuff my slippers against the rug, for fear I’d create static electricity and end up blowing my house (and myself) somewhere into the stratosphere.

Even worse, the pilot light in the oven always seemed to go out the most often – maybe because it was at floor-level and my flabby legs created a big draft whenever I walked past it. It was located way in the back of the broiler drawer, so whenever I had to relight it, I had to lie on my stomach on the floor and stick my head all the way into the broiler. If I’d have happened to die while in that position, I’m pretty sure my death would have been ruled self-inflicted.

So when my current house was built, I vowed to get a “modern” gas range that didn’t have pilot lights. I was pleased to find not only the perfect stove, but a complete Frigidaire appliance package that included the stove along with a dishwasher, refrigerator, and a washer and dryer, all for under $2,000.

I remembered Frigidaire from way back when I was a kid, and it seemed to be a reliable brand. In fact, my grandmother had the same Frigidaire refrigerator for over 30 years. She never referred to it as a refrigerator, however. She always would say something like “Go get some milk out of the Frigidaire” whenever she mentioned it.

So I bought the appliance package and felt confident that all of the appliances probably would outlive me.

Alas, I was in for a big letdown. After only three years the dishwasher died and I was forced to invest in a new one.

And the minute the clock struck midnight on the final day of the gas range’s extended-warranty, it transformed into Satan's appliance from Hell. I turned on two of the burner knobs one afternoon as I was cooking lunch, and they snapped right off their stems. Then when I tried to order replacements, I learned they weren’t being made any longer. I finally bought some knobs on Ebay that had the same product number, but they didn’t fit. So I was forced to tape the old knobs back on with duct tape. Not exactly a chic look for my kitchen.

And twice within the following three years, I had to replace the oven’s igniter, the gizmo that sparks the gas flame. Each time it needed to be replaced, the service call cost me over $250.

The third time the igniter failed, I was about to bake cookies. I turned on the oven and waited for it to reach the proper temperature so I could shove the pan into it. About two minutes later, I heard a loud “POOF” that made me jump. I looked at the stove, and through the glass door I saw a wall of flames shoot from one side of the oven to the other. Just as quickly, however, everything seemed fine, and I baked my cookies with no problem.

Had I been smart, it might have dawned on me that flames shooting across the inside of an oven couldn’t be a good thing – especially if I had been reaching into it at the time.

Sure enough, that “poof” turned out to be the oven’s final gasp. It refused to light after that.

When the repairman told me it needed yet another igniter, I refused to replace it. It was the oven’s third strike…and as far as I was concerned, three strikes and it was out, permanently benched. It officially was a lemon, not worthy of any more of my time or money.

So I went shopping for a new stove…and spent most of my time gasping in horror at how much the prices had increased since I’d last purchased one.

Not only that, I learned that even if I did buy a new gas range, the store’s delivery people weren’t allowed to install it or disconnect my old one. I was told they would drop it off in my garage or on my front porch and I would have to call my propane company to disconnect the gas from the old stove and then hook it up to the new one.

I hate to say it, but my propane company is in the bad habit of scheduling appointments and then canceling them at the last minute. So for all I knew, by the time someone actually would show up to connect a new stove, it probably would be considered a vintage collector’s item.

So I came up with what I thought was the perfect alternative.

I ordered a toaster oven online that not only toasted, it also baked and broiled, and even had a convection-oven feature and a rotisserie. The burners on my kitchen stove still worked fine, so I figured all I needed was something I could use for baking. The toaster oven sounded as if it would fill that void, and for only $59.

The only problem was the box it came in turned out to be about three times larger than the actual oven inside. Once I unpacked it, I was disappointed to see how small it was. I mean, instead of roasting a whole chicken on the rotisserie as I’d imagined, I doubted I’d even be able to fit a couple chicken nuggets on it.

I also was able to bake only three cookies at a time. They came out fine – golden and crisp. But my favorite recipe usually yielded two dozen, so baking the entire batch of cookies took me most of the night. And my trusty old casserole dish was too big to fit into the toaster oven, so I had to find a smaller dish…like from Barbie’s Dream House collection.

To my relief and delight, my friend and her husband gifted me with a much larger, state-of-the-art toaster-oven for my birthday. I've used it nearly every day since and it’s been great.

Much better than the crummy oven in my gas range ever was.

Speaking of which, just out of curiosity the other day, I turned on the old oven to see if maybe it somehow had miraculously been reincarnated and revived after its prolonged period of rest.

Nothing at all happened…not a “poof,” not a sputter, not a cough…nothing.

But I think I really ticked off the spider that’s living in it.

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Tuesday, June 3, 2025

I HAVE MY DOUBTS ABOUT THE AUTHENTICITY OF THOSE "BEFORE" AND "AFTER" PHOTOS IN ADVERTISEMENTS

I’m learning the hard way that losing weight when you’re a senior citizen has its pros and cons. The pros are I have more energy and can fit into a smaller dress size.

The cons all have to do with my skin. No longer does it have the ability to spring back. It just hangs on me like wet laundry.

I’ve been able to hide all of the loose skin on my body by tucking it into my underwear, but unfortunately I can’t do the same with my face, which now flaps in even the slightest breeze. It looks totally deflated, kind of like a balloon that landed on a cactus.

When I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror the other morning, I wondered whose shriveled old face was staring back at mine. I concluded it had to be the ghost of Methuselah’s sister.

But I’d recently seen some videos on Facebook where several elderly women, whose faces had more wrinkles than an unmade bed, magically were transformed into smooth-skinned beauties merely by using cosmetics in a deceptive, camouflaging way. So I toyed with the idea of seeking help from a professional cosmetician to learn a few of those tricks.

However, I abruptly came to my senses after I recalled an incident from many years ago when I underwent a cosmetic makeover that had less than a stunning outcome. Much less.

And that was back when I, unlike now, barely had any wrinkles or sagging at all.

On that day, I’d been browsing in Jordan Marsh’s Bedford store when a 30-ish looking employee at one of the cosmetics counters flashed a very white smile at me and asked, “How would you like to look 15 years younger? I can show you how with our special line of cosmetics! It will take only a few minutes.”

Immediately, I felt ancient. Did I, I wondered, look that desperately in need of rejuvenation? And what about the makeup I was wearing – the makeup I’d so carefully applied before going shopping? Did it look as if I’d inherited it from my great-grandmother? Or even worse, did I look like my great-grandmother?

Intrigued, I laughed and said, “If you can make me look 15 years younger, I’ll buy everything you’re selling!”

Her eyes lit up like 100-watt bulbs. “Have a seat!” She waved her hand in the direction of a tall stool.

As she leaned toward me to study my face, I couldn’t help but notice that her own makeup was well, just a tad on the heavy side…as if perhaps she’d applied it with a trowel. Her eyeshadow was the color of robins’ eggs, her cheeks were bright red and her perfume was so overpowering, if a family of skunks had walked through the cosmetics department at that moment, I wouldn’t have been able to smell any of them. I fought the sudden urge to get up and run for my life.

She handed me a moist towelette and told me to wipe off my makeup. “I like to work on a clean canvas,” she said, “just like any good artist!”

I grabbed the towelette and scrubbed. When my original layer of skin finally peeked through, the clerk seemed stunned.

“My goodness, you’re a pale one!” she said. “I don’t think even our lightest shade of foundation is going to be light enough for you.”

“Then maybe you should get some of that white stuff mimes use on their faces and try that on me,” I joked.

She wasn’t amused

She grasped me by the chin and turned my head to one side. “Hmm. I see a lot of lines around your eyes and crinkles above your top lip,” she said. “Those are signs of dry, aging skin. You never should apply makeup without first using a good moisturizer.”

Previously, I’d never thought much about my wrinkly eyes or my pruned-up lips. Now, thanks to her, I was feeling like a giant sheet of crepe paper with eyeholes.

“I think the peach and rust shades will work best for you,” she said. “They will wake up your dull skin and bring it to life. The older you get, the more vibrant the colors should be because skin tends to look lackluster, uneven and washed out as we age. And brighter shades of lipstick will make your teeth look whiter in comparison.”

I quietly sat there as she went to work on my face. The more I thought about my washed-out skin, drab teeth and unsightly crow’s feet, the more I thought that maybe I should forget about the makeup and just head straight to the nearest cosmetic surgeon’s office.

“There!” she finally said after about 15 minutes of dabbing, smearing and painting. She stepped back and smiled with obvious satisfaction. “If I do say so myself, you look wonderful, vibrant! So refreshed, so much younger!” She handed a mirror to me.

I grabbed the mirror, expecting to see a teenager looking back at me. But as I stared at my reflection, I was rendered speechless (which, for me, was a rare occurrence). My makeup was vibrant all right. In fact, it was more like neon. My wrinkles no longer showed because they were buried beneath a thick layer of foundation and powder. My lips had been drawn larger than their true shape and then filled in with a bright orange gloss to make them look fuller. My eyes were lined in a deep, smoky gray, and my cheeks were a dark peach all the way up to my temples.

“So…what do you think?” the clerk eagerly asked.

“I think I look as if I should be standing on a street corner and calling out to sailors,” I blurted out.

Again, the woman displayed no sense of humor whatsoever.

I left there without purchasing anything and made a mad dash out to the parking lot. All the while I prayed no one I knew would see me before I was able to leap inside my car and hide.

But as luck would have it, I was within only a few feet of my vehicle when I came face to face with a former neighbor.

“Long time no see!” she said, giving me a brief hug. She then stepped back and stared critically at me. I held my breath, waiting for her next words, which I felt certain would involve some reference to the Ringling Brothers.

“You look amazing!” she finally gushed. “Younger than ever! Come on, fess up! You’ve had a few nips and tucks done, right?”

I didn’t answer her. I was too busy digging my credit card out of my purse and running back into the store.

I hate to admit it, but all of the cosmetics I purchased that day still remain unused and currently are buried somewhere in the dark recesses of one of my closets.

Maybe this would be a good time to find them and finally give them a try.

Now where did I put my trowel?

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