Tuesday, February 10, 2026

I THINK I MIGHT NEED A DEGREE IN DENTISTRY

 


I was eating creamed soup the other night and broke off a piece of one of my back molars.

I'm still trying to figure out how on earth I managed to accomplish that one.

I do suspect, however, it just might have something to do with the fact that the tooth was given its last rites about five years ago after it had been filled more times than the potholes in the back road up to my house. It's also had two root canals, a post and maybe even some Bondo and Gorilla Glue to hold it together all of these years.

"Sorry to say, but it has to be extracted," my dentist said one day, finally admitting defeat and slowly shaking his head. 

"But my partial denture snaps onto it!" I protested. "It's the most important tooth in my mouth! You can't just pull it!"

"It's already far outlived its life expectancy," he said. "Once it's extracted, then we'll just make a new partial denture with that tooth added onto it." He shrugged, making it seem as if we were talking about a simple procedure that would cost me $25 instead of close to $2,000.

And on my measly fixed-income, even the $25 would be a stretch for my budget.

So I've pampered the tooth ever since…and it's been fine...until now. Because now there is a hole in it where it broke off. It still is able to support my partial denture, though not quite as solidly as before, but the crater in the tooth is driving me mad.

For one thing, my tongue is drawn like a magnet to that hole, which has sharp edges. So my tongue is getting stabbed about 10 times a day. If this keeps up, I figure the tip of it will end up being forked like a snake's before too long.

Purely out of desperation, I searched online for a do-it-yourself tooth-repair kit. To my surprise, I found several. Most offered temporary solutions, though, good only in an emergency until you're able to see your dentist, the ads advised. But why would I want to see my dentist when his only solution to my problem involves pliers and committing tooth-icide?

So I searched for tooth-repair kits that offered patching materials that would last for years, even if I snacked on peanut brittle. It took a while, but I finally found such a kit, and for only $20. I immediately ordered it, and then impatiently awaited the package’s arrival.

It arrived yesterday, to my delight and relief. No more tongue stabs, I thought. No more gopher hole in my tooth, filling up with everything I ate. And best of all, no more worrying about my partial denture losing its anchor.

I tore open the package and removed the kit. There were a number of jars, bottles, containers, spatulas and other assorted accessories in it. I unfolded the instructions:

"Apply etchant onto the enamel. Be careful to cover the bevels and keep acid off of the dentin. Leave the etchant in place for 20 seconds, then rinse for 20 seconds. Dry with oil and water-free air. Apply a thin coating of the self-cure bonding resin immediately onto each etched tooth surface. Mix equal amounts of the catalyst and base pastes using the mixing pad. Spatulate for 20 seconds to get a uniform mix, one to two strokes per second. Insert the prepared composite material into the hole or cavity using a non-metallic instrument. Use a slight excess to apply a transparent matrix strip. A rubber dam is also recommended as the method of isolation. The composite material will begin to harden in two minutes from the mixing time. At the end of six minutes, remove the feather flash with a sharp instrument. Contour with a fine diamond, stones or bur. A surface sealant can be used to seal micro cracks and surface imperfections. Protective eyewear should be worn while handling these products. If contact is made with any skin, immediately wash with copious amounts of soap and hot water."

Dry with oil and water-free air? Contour with a fine diamond? Um...huh?

I’d been hoping for something simple, similar to Play-Doh, that I’d just roll into a ball, then stuff it into my tooth and let it harden.

Needless to say, I didn't even dare touch anything in that dental kit, never mind risk putting it into my mouth or having it accidentally spill on some body part that would need "copious amounts of soap and water" to prevent it from melting and falling off. And I had no idea what most of the instructions were instructing me to do anyway, unless I took them to my dentist for his professional interpretation.

Which, of course, would be totally counterproductive for "Dr. Extracto."

So I guess I have no choice other than to learn to live with the my tooth the way it is…unless some long-lost, wealthy relative dies and leaves me a stack of money.

But in the long run, it probably would make more sense for me to use that money to study dentistry.


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 Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.







 



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Saturday, January 31, 2026

WHICH IS SCARIER? MY BASEMENT OR A PUBLIC STORAGE-UNIT?


I ventured down into my basement the other night to look for something, and the entire time I was down there, I had the feeling I was being watched. I had no idea who or what might be watching me, or where it might be hiding, but the feeling was so strong, I finally bolted back up the stairs, slammed the door and locked it.

To heck with what I was looking for, I thought. I’ll just buy another one.

Having a basement where I conveniently could store everything from my photo albums and collections, to household goods and seasonal items, always had been a dream of mine, mainly because in my previous home there was absolutely no storage space at all.

So for years, my husband and I rented an outdoor storage unit for our excess junk and valuable collectibles (both of which were just about the same, actually).

But one hot summer day, when I dug out my treasured Farrah Fawcett doll and discovered that her breasts had melted right through her thin white jumpsuit, I decided it might be time to ditch the outdoor storage-unit and splurge on a temperature-controlled indoor one.

So we did, and then our junk was safely stored at a comfy 60-something degrees all year round.

There was only one problem with the storage building, however…it was spooky. So whenever I ventured over there, my imagination usually ran wild.

For one thing, the place had absolutely no windows, other than the two in the front office, so walking through the aisles was so dark and shadowy, even in broad daylight, it reminded me of one of those Halloween haunted houses where at every turn, something hideous was preparing to pop out in front of me.

Even worse, when the people in the office went home for the night, they would shut off all of the lights except for a dim one in the front office, even though the storage building was open for another three hours.

One night, I happened to go over there just after dusk because I wanted to search my unit for some "treasures" to sell on eBay. I parked in the deserted parking lot and entered the front door, which opened into a short, dark hallway with a metal staircase to the left.

Immediately, every horror movie in which the killer (armed with a knife, machete, rope, gun, crowbar, bow and arrows, harpoon, chloroform, poison darts, etc.)  was lurking underneath a staircase and waiting to pounce on his next victim, came to mind. I bolted past the stairs. Fortunately, my unit was on the ground floor.

Once my feet were firmly planted in the main hallway, I made a dash for the wall-switch so I could flip on the lights.

Even with the lights on, the long walk to my storage unit, four aisles away, did little to calm my feelings of uneasiness. The place was so empty, I could hear my footsteps echoing on the concrete floors. And each time I passed by a deserted unit with its overhead door wide open, I expected someone (or something) carrying one or more of the aforementioned weapons to leap out at me.

In an empty unit with the overhead door raised, three doors down from mine, there was a lone black sock lying on the otherwise naked floor. It was a big sock, for at least a size-13 foot, and made me wonder what had happened to the guy who owned it.

Perhaps, I thought, he was some notorious axe murderer who'd used the sock to strangle his latest victim and then had hidden the evidence in his storage unit. But that would make him a sock murderer, I reasoned, not an axe murderer. Somehow, that didn't sound quite as frightening.

Once I reached my storage unit, which just happened to be located in the darkest corner of the building where there was no overheard light, I unlocked it, lifted the door and dashed inside, as if I thought I would be safe in there.

The unit was dark and dusty…and very, very quiet. I turned on the battery-operated lantern I kept on a trunk near the doorway and began to search through boxes of Barbie dolls, Star Wars toys and an assortment of old mugs and dishes, hoping to find some incredibly rare item that would make me an instant thousand-aire on eBay.

Suddenly, I heard footsteps.

I stood upright and held my breath. The footsteps, slow and measured, sounded as if they belonged to a good-sized man…like maybe the owner of the big-footed black sock? They also sounded as if they were heading directly toward my aisle.

Could it be, I wondered, the sock murderer returning to collect the incriminating evidence?

Just as suddenly as the footsteps began, they stopped. I waited for them to start up again, hopefully heading back in the opposite direction. I also waited to hear the sound of a unit's overhead door being opened...or closed.

I heard nothing.

Visions of some drooling, alien life-form silently slithering toward my storage unit, made me search for a weapon. I picked up a lamp to whack it with, but then, considering the lamp had been a gift at my parents' wedding back in 1947, decided not to risk all of the money it possibly could be worth on eBay. So I reached for a metal curtain-rod instead.

When I still heard nothing, I feared I might be dealing with a Dracula-like villain who'd sprouted bat wings and was swooping through the aisles.

Allowing my overworked imagination to take control, I frantically grabbed a talking Steve Urkel doll and a set of Starsky and Hutch action figures, so my trip wouldn't be completely in vain, locked up the storage unit and then, with the curtain rod still in my hand, made a beeline for the exit.

With every step I took through the deserted aisles, I anticipated hearing footsteps approaching from behind me at any second…which made me walk even faster.

Finally, I reached the front door. Next to the staircase was a trash container piled with some empty cardboard boxes I hadn't noticed when I'd entered. Even though I was in a hurry, I grabbed several of the boxes, mainly because I wasn't about to pass up anything that might come in handy (and cheap) for mailing my eBay items.

Out in the parking lot, there was a pick-up truck parked right next to my car. I instantly assumed it belonged to the phantom aisle wanderer…then wondered if I should memorize the license plate.

When I was safely back home, I noticed that the label on one of the empty boxes I'd snatched from the storage building listed the contents as a set of Ginsu carving knives.

That did it. From then on, whenever I needed something from the storage unit, I sent my husband.

But now there is no one here to protect me from the evils that might be lurking in the dark, hidden recesses of my basement.

All I can say is if I ever see a big black sock lying on the concrete floor down there, I’m putting the house up for sale...immediately.


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 Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.







 



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Monday, January 19, 2026

MY CAR WAS HELD HOSTAGE BY JACK FROST

 

I have to admit that when it comes to winter driving, I try to avoid it at all costs.

If I absolutely have to go out, such as if there is no food in the house and my dogs are staring at me as if they’re wondering how many meals the meat on my thigh bone might provide, then I’ll venture out. Otherwise, I’m perfectly fine with hibernating until June.

Last week, however, I finally made a sale on eBay. It was a set of trading cards I’d listed way back when people were still complaining about the heat and how all of the stores were sold out of air-conditioners and fans.

In other words, I’d totally forgotten about those cards.

The temperature was a balmy 20 degrees with a sub-zero wind chill on the day I made the eBay sale. Not exactly a day I was eager to leave my warm house, my cup of hot tea and my heated comforter, and subject my old body to weather that would cause icicles to hang from my nostrils in about 10 minutes.

But experience has taught me that when it comes to eBay, being prompt at sending out packages usually earns some much-desired 5-star positive feedback, so I forced myself to get up early and go to the post office.

By the time I finally gathered the courage to actually set foot outside, however, it was 3:00 PM…two hours before the post office closed. One of the reasons why I was so late was my hair. No matter which way I brushed it, it decided to go in the opposite direction. I tried dampening it, spraying it and using gel on it. After countless failures, I finally found a solution.

A knitted hat pulled down past my ears.

Anyway, I went out to the garage, hopped into my car (which could have doubled as a refrigerator in an emergency at that point) and reached up to the visor to push the button on the remote control that opens the automatic garage door.

Nothing happened…other than a loud grinding noise. So I tried again and heard even more grinding. Muttering, I got out of the car and walked over to examine the door. It was welded to the concrete with a strip of ice the entire length of it.

“Nooo!” I groaned, thinking my car would be stuck in the garage until the spring thaw and I’d lose my great rating on eBay.

So I tried the door-opening button on the garage wall which, in retrospect, probably wasn’t the most brilliant thing to do. I mean, if the door was stuck in the ice and the remote-control button on my car’s visor caused it to grind, then why would the other button on the wall make any difference? Did I think it might be concealing a hidden blow-torch or something?

Sure enough, when I pressed the wall button, the grinding sound not only grew louder, the panels on the door looked as if they were about to rip apart and go flying into the garage. Picturing my cause of death listed as “flattened by debris from a dismembered garage-door,” I dashed back into the house, grabbed my laptop and Googled “How to release an automatic garage door that’s frozen to the ground.”

It suggested that I first disconnect the door from the automatic opener by pulling straight down and then back on the red emergency release-cord hanging from the trolley on the rail. After that, it suggested trying to lift the door manually. If that didn’t work, it recommended using a blow-dryer or a portable heater on the ice.

I hadn’t even been aware my garage door had an emergency release cord, which sounded more like something a skydiver would use as he was plummeting to his death. But I found it and tugged on it. Then, just to make certain the door no longer was connected to the automatic opener, I pushed the button. No more grinding noise, so that meant, I assumed, it was disconnected. That gave me the courage to grab the handle on the bottom of the door and give it my strongest heave-ho upwards.

Nothing budged…other than several of my vertebrae.

I frantically searched the garage for something that might chop the ice away – or even better, something thin enough to slide underneath the ice and pry it up from the concrete. I found a flat, hand-held garden spade that kind of resembled a spatula, and set to work sliding it underneath the ice.

After what seemed like four hours, I’d managed to loosen about one inch of the ice. Even worse, I’d been on my knees for so long, they felt as if they also were frozen to the concrete. Visions of myself having to squirm out of my jeans and walk pants-less back into the house, sent me rushing back inside to search for the blow-dryer. I’d never bothered to buy one for myself after my last one broke, but I remembered my late husband had one…back when he wanted to keep his mullet looking stylish.

Where, however, was it?

By then, it was 3:45 and I was becoming desperate. I found the blow-dryer in a far corner of the cabinet underneath the bathroom sink. Then I searched for an extension cord, which I ended up tearing off my Christmas tree. For once, procrastinating about taking down the tree actually had come in handy.

The blow-dryer also turned out to be painstakingly slow. As soon as I would manage to thaw one section of the ice and move to the next section, the first section would start to freeze up again.

At that point, I knew that barring some miracle, I wasn’t going to make it to the post office before it closed. And the next day, an ice storm, as if to curse me, was predicted.

I had to face reality...I was doomed.

I stomped back into the house and tossed my purse and the eBay package onto the counter. That was when I saw it…the empty salt shaker I’d left out so I would remember to fill it. Without thinking twice about the consequences, I rushed to the cupboard and found a full container of table salt, then headed out to the garage and emptied nearly all of the contents along the stubborn strip of ice that was holding the door captive.

The ice began to thaw more rapidly than I’d anticipated, and soon I could hear crackling noises. I waited a few minutes longer, then tried tugging the door open again.

It was a struggle, but it finally gave way and opened. I stood there, momentarily stunned that the table salt actually had worked. I checked my watch. It was 4:30. If I left right then and the traffic cooperated, I estimated I could make it to the post office just in time. Figuring out how to hitch the door back up to the automatic opener would have to wait until later.

I walked into the post office at 4:55 and successfully mailed the package. I was so relieved, I felt like doing a happy dance right there in the lobby. But I noticed that the clerk had given me a strange look when he'd first set eyes on me, so I didn’t want to give him any reason to think of me as being even stranger.

Puzzled by the clerk's reaction, I checked my reflection in the mirror once I was back in my car...and gasped. Despite the frigid weather, I’d obviously worked up a sweat during my lengthy struggle to open the garage door because my mascara was in streaks down my cheeks. Also, my hat had worked its way over to one side of my head and revealed a section of my hair on the other side that was stuck to the side of my face because of the gel I’d used on it. And there was a smear of something brownish, like axle grease, on my chin. I pretty much resembled Alice Cooper in full makeup.

The first thing I did when I got home was hook the door back to the automatic opener, which required the use of a broom handle and some more grunting. Then I headed straight to my laptop and deleted any items I still was selling on eBay.

I will relist them again in June…maybe July.

I also asked Google, even though it was too late, if it was okay to use table salt on the concrete under my garage door. No problem whatsoever – well, other than the deterioration of the concrete as the salt works its way into the fine cracks, accelerates the freeze-thaw cycle and causes mass destruction leading to expensive and extensive repairs.

Nope, no problem at all.

So after suffering through this latest experience, I’m now more serious than ever about hibernating…even if it means sacrificing some of my thigh meat to the dogs.

Heck, I can spare it.

 

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 Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.







 


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Wednesday, January 14, 2026

VALENTINE'S DAY...A GREAT DAY FOR FLORISTS

 


When I went shopping the other day, I noticed that the discounted Christmas items had been replaced by huge displays of Valentine’s Day items. It made me realize that February 14th is only a month away.

It also made me recall how much my late husband disliked the entire idea of Valentine’s Day, which he swore had been invented by florists solely for financial gain and had nothing to do with romance.

I still remember one particular Valentine’s Day many years ago when he seemed more against the whole idea than usual.

“Why does there have to be only one day set aside to show someone you love them?” he complained as he drove me to the supermarket. “You’re supposed to show and express your love every day of the year, not just on the one day they force you into a guilt trip to do it.”

“So what you’re saying then is you’ll buy me cards and gifts for no special occasion at least once a week?” I asked.

“Well, no…that’s not exactly what I meant.”

As we pulled into the parking lot of the supermarket, he handed me a $5 bill. “Here, while you’re in there, buy yourself a nice Valentine’s card from me.”

Talk about unromantic! If looks could have killed, that night he’d have been in an urn on the mantel and my face would have been on a “wanted” poster.

I stepped inside the supermarket and stopped dead. The place looked like a convention for Flower Buyers of America.  Men of all ages were carrying bouquets, arrangements and plants. And the poor floral department looked as if a swarm of locusts had attacked it.

I also noticed that just about every man had an, “I have to buy these flowers or sleep on the sofa tonight,” sort of expression on his face.

I ran into more of the flower-carrying men in the wine aisle. 

“Now all you have to do is buy a box of chocolates and you’ll be all set,” I joked to one of them who was holding a bottle of wine along with a bouquet.

“I’d rather get my fiancé drunk than give her a sugar rush, if you know what I mean,” he answered with a smile and a wink.

Yep. I knew exactly what he meant.

I picked up the few groceries I needed, but I didn’t buy a Valentine card for myself with the $5 my husband gave to me. No, out of revenge, I used it to treat myself to some chocolate bars – making certain all of them were his least favorites.

At the checkout, my cashier, who was a guy about 18, said, “I’ve never seen so many flowers go through the registers in one day. Is it because you women get mad if your men don’t buy them for you?”

“I couldn’t care less about flowers,” I said, lying, because I actually loved to receive them...even though my husband always said flowers were a waste of good money because they dropped dead in five days.

The woman in line behind me plunked a six-pack of beer down on the counter. “This is what I’m giving my husband for Valentine’s Day,” she said. “I’ll just slap a bow on it.”

The clerk’s eyes lit up. “Wow!  That’s a cool gift!  I’d sure be happy with it!”

A man in line behind the beer-buying woman said, “I bought my wife seven roses for Valentine’s Day last year, one for every day of the week. I thought she’d be happy with roses and think they were romantic, but after I gave them to her, she wouldn’t even speak to me…because she said I was too cheap to buy her a full dozen.”

“Well, I think a guy should show his wife love all year ‘round,” the young clerk said, “and then make Valentine’s Day really special, too.”

The woman behind me rolled her eyes. “You can tell he’s never been married.”

When I got back out to the car, my husband said, “I’ve been sitting here counting how many guys came out of the store carrying flowers. Would you believe there were 35?”

I nodded. “There are about another 135 inside.”

“How about I treat you to supper?” he suddenly said.

He didn’t have to ask me twice. The last thing I wanted to do on Valentine’s Day (aside from grocery shopping) was cook a meal. So, I thought, my husband just might have had a bit of romance left in him after all.

I yanked my makeup case and mirror from my purse and started to spruce up for dinner.

To my shock, he drove to a local convenience store, which had a deli that also served hot foods like pizza, soup and subs, and handed me $20. “I’ll have a steak-and-cheese sub,” he said. “And get yourself one, too. Oh, and a large side of fries, seeing today is such a special day.”

Personally, at that moment, I thought the woman with the seven roses should stop complaining...


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 Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.







 


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Wednesday, January 7, 2026

THOSE DARNED NEWSPAPERS JUST KEPT MULTIPLYING!

 

I have a terrible habit that used to drive my late husband crazy. Well, actually I have several habits that drove him crazy, but I’m pretty sure this one ranked right up near the top of his list.

Since the day we were married, I subscribed to several daily newspapers, mainly because I was the correspondent for my town’s weekly newspaper and I wanted to make sure I didn’t miss any upcoming events, story ideas or news items I also could cover.

Every morning after my husband left for work, I would relax with a cup of tea and read the papers. But as time passed and I began to work longer hours and go to bed later, I often skipped my morning tea and then had little or no time to read. I also got into the habit of picking up a few extra copies of the newspapers that printed my articles and columns so I could cut them out and keep them, but I never seemed to find the time to do that either.

So the papers began to pile up.

At first, I just ignored them, telling myself I would sit down some night, pour myself a cup of tea (or five) and tackle a few weeks’ worth of papers in one shot. But that never happened.

And the papers continued to pile up.

I hid them behind the sofa, in closets and under the beds. My husband never suspected they were there (because he never looked in the closets, behind the sofa or under the beds). But one day, I think he did begin to suspect that something wasn’t quite right.

“Why didn’t you tell me that Loretta passed away?” he asked me. “I met John today when I was picking up a coffee and I asked him how his wife was. He told me she died three months ago! I was so embarrassed! You read the obituaries every day, don’t you?”

“Um, yeah…but I guess I just forgot to mention Loretta,” I said.

“Well, I sure hope there’s no one else you forgot to tell me about. I wouldn’t want to embarrass myself like that again.”

“No, I don’t think there’s anyone else,” I said, making a mental note to dig out all of the newspapers and if nothing else, catch up on the obituaries.

But as usual, I didn’t. And the papers kept multiplying faster than a herd of rabbits.

One week, however, I actually felt motivated enough to try to remedy the situation. I was doing some massive housecleaning in preparation for my annual Thanksgiving gathering, and realized that all of the places where I usually hid the things I didn’t want my guests to see, already were occupied by stacks of newspapers.

So I spent three days skimming through newspapers and then re-stacking them out in the shed (for future recycling) so I could make room to conceal some stuff in the hiding places where the newspapers had been.

As I was looking through the papers, it really felt strange to read about events that already had happened. One article, for example, was headlined, “Forecasters Now Predict Powerful Snowstorm Will Bypass NH.” Two days later, the headline was, “NH Digs out From Under 18 Inches of Snow.”

The hardest part was seeing all of the “this week only” sales flyers, or grabbing the scissors to cut out a product coupon, only to discover it had expired back in the Stone Age.

Then came the day when I once again unintentionally gave my husband a clue about my secret paper-hoarding habit.

“I really like these shoes,” he said as he was removing them to put on his slippers. “They’re so comfortable, the best shoes I’ve ever had. I’d love to get another pair, but they’re too darned expensive.”

“I just read in the paper that they’re on sale for 20 percent off at Sears,” I blurted out without thinking.

“Great!” he said. “When does the sale end?”

“Uh…last July.”

Two nights before Thanksgiving, I was so busy flipping through more stacks of newspapers, I lost track of time. So I wasn’t even aware my husband had come home early from work…until he walked in and caught me surrounded by my secret stash.

“Where did all of these papers come from?” he asked. “Are you sponsoring a paper drive or something?”

My head popped up from behind a mountain of papers and I smiled sheepishly. “No, I’m just catching up on my reading. I got a little behind.”

He picked up a paper from one of the piles and read the headline: “Polls Predict Gore Will Beat Bush in 2000 Election.”

“Where have you been keeping all of these?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Oh, here and there. Didn’t you notice that the house was a lot warmer last winter? Newspapers make great insulation!”

“They also make great kindling. If this place ever caught fire, people in Vermont would be able to see the flames!”

So I promised him that from that day on, I would try to set aside some time every day to read my papers and clip my articles.

And I’m still trying.

But it’s much less of a struggle now because so many newspapers have either switched to digital versions or stopped publishing altogether, I haven’t added any new ones to the collection in a few years.

So at long last, the piles are beginning to dwindle...a little.

And if my calculations are accurate, I figure I'll finally be all caught up by the year 2040.

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Sally Breslin is an award-winning syndicated humor columnist who has written regularly for newspapers and magazines all of her adult life. She is the author of several novels in a variety of genres, from humor and romance to science-fiction. Contact her at: sillysally@att.net.







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