Monday, March 9, 2026

I'M CONVINCED THIS WINTER IS TRYING TO KILL ME

 

I apologize for not posting anything on here last week, but the fact that this winter nearly has beaten everything around here (especially me) to within an inch of its life is the main reason why.

Forget the fact I did so much snow shoveling in a three-week period, my fingers now are permanently curled into a position that keeps me fully prepared to grab a shovel and run outside whenever the need arises. The actual reason why I couldn’t post a blog last week is because one of the 2,300 snowstorms we’ve had so far this winter killed my Internet satellite dish…and as of this writing, it’s still resting in peace.

Where I live, cell-phone reception is so weak, I have to stand out in the middle of the road and dodge oncoming trucks just to get half a bar for a signal. Therefore, I own only a very basic cell-phone that does nothing but allow me to make and receive calls. So I carry it with me in case of an emergency, such as if I were out driving and an escaped, rampaging bull attacked my car. Other than that, it’s pretty useless. So that leaves me only an old-fashioned landline and my Internet satellite hookup for communication with the outside world while I’m at home.

As of February 26th, however, the Internet’s satellite dish, located on the very peak of my roof and aimed at the Milky Way, finally raised the white flag and shouted, “I’ve had enough of being buried up to my transceiver in snow out here in the wind and sub-zero temperatures 24 hours a day, freezing my bolts off, just for you! So I’m turning in my official resignation, effective immediately!”

They say you never realize what you’ve got until it’s gone…but believe me, I realized it right away…and panicked. No Internet? How was I supposed to check my auctions on Ebay? My book sales on Amazon? My current standing against my competition on Klondike Solitaire? My bank balances? 

And worst of all, how was I supposed to listen to my favorite song 25 times a day?

But because my Internet service never has been reliable up here in the wilderness anyway, I told myself to just calm down and be patient, that it would come back, as it always had in the past. Sometimes it took only a few minutes. Other times, a few hours. But it always came back.

Except this time.

The next day, after the longest 24 hours in the history of mankind, I suspected I was in big trouble when I turned on my laptop and a pop-up on the screen said, “Sorry, no Internet. Try again.” So I tried again…and again…and then again. Finally, I took a deep breath in an effort to emotionally prepare myself to face what I knew from experience was about to be the worst torture any human being ever should be forced to endure.

I had to call my Internet provider and ask for technical support.

As I sat there on hold, I prayed for strength and courage…but most of all, patience, especially when the recorded message informed me the company had a zero-tolerance policy for rude behavior or inappropriate language directed toward its employees.

That, of course, made me wonder why they needed to even play that sort of a message in the first place. I mean, how often did customers go off on them…and why?  My heart began to palpitate.

I wasn’t surprised when I finally was connected with an actual human and I barely could understand his thick accent. I explained to him that I’d had no Internet for the past 24 hours, not even a flicker, and yes, I had checked the connections, unplugged the modem to reboot the system, and even replaced the Ethernet cable with a brand new one (I keep a supply in my desk, solely for that purpose). Despite that, he had me repeat the steps all over again, which involved moving the sofa away from the wall because there, for whatever reason, was where the company installed my modem’s cable 15 years ago.

When there still was no signal, after he’d instructed me do everything short of a spiritual dance to make it return, he then uttered the words every corpuscle in my body had been dreading to hear: “We will have to send a technician to your home, Miss Sally, to determine the problem. And you will be expected to pay the service fee of $95.”

I wanted to point out that I had been renting the equipment from them for over 15 years, to the tune of nearly $3,000, so why should I have to pay a fee if it failed? But I remembered their zero-tolerance policy and held my tongue, mainly because I was so desperate. “How soon will someone be here?” was all I said.

“Do not worry, I will write this up as an emergency so you will not have to be inconvenienced for very long. Please hold for two minutes while I schedule your appointment.”

As I waited, I had the feeling that because it was Friday, no one was going to show up until Monday, which made me feel panicky all over again. How would I survive the weekend? What if someone bought one or, heaven forbid, ALL of my items on Ebay? How would I even know?

Finally, the technician returned. “Do you have any means of writing?” he asked. “Please take down this information.”

I grabbed a pen and waited.

“Your appointment has been set for March 5th between the hours of 11:00 AM and 2:00 PM, he said. "Will you be available then?”

I was too stunned to respond. “A whole week away?” I finally blurted out. “Do you really consider that an emergency appointment?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You don’t have anything sooner?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“But I can’t go that long without the Internet! I work from home! What am I supposed to do?”

“I apologize,” he said. "But you must wait."

Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling extremely cheerful or optimistic after the call ended. The thought of waiting a week for a technician to arrive felt like an eternity. And almost immediately I was bored. After all, in addition to checking my items on Ebay and my books on Amazon, I had a daily schedule to keep – online chats with my friends, watching videos and influencers online, researching highly important information on Google, and playing Scrabble against the formidable robot named Finn on Pogo. How was I going to survive? What would I do to occupy my time during those long, cold winter days and nights? Clean my house?  Lord, no.

The path to the propane tank
after only the first storm
As it turned out, I was too busy and too exhausted to be bored on those days leading up to the appointment because I spent countless hours shoveling – especially after the blizzard. And my propane company made it even more “fun” for me by insisting I keep the underground propane tank’s lid and fill-pipe free and clear of snow at all times, along with a direct path leading to it, in anticipation of their “impending” delivery.

So after each storm, there I was, shoveling the equivalent of the Appalachian Trail out to that darned propane tank.  

And then there was the plow guy I’d hired online, sight unseen, who, because I couldn’t afford his “deluxe” package (or anyone else's regular package), plowed only one side of my driveway after each storm. As he left the driveway, he would lift up the plow on the other side and not plow it. So I had to shovel that side myself. I mean, he already was there, so would it have killed him to put the plow back down on his way out? 

Probably.  Because chivalry is dead.  And if this winter's weather continues for much longer, I'm pretty sure I will be, too.

Anyway, on March 4th, the day before the technician was scheduled to arrive, another snowstorm swooped in and dumped five more inches. I received a voice mail from the Internet company, reminding me of my appointment and emphasizing that my driveway should be cleared well enough to allow their truck easy access to my house.

As luck would have it, my plow guy ghosted me. Even worse, my only communication with him since I hired him had been through Facebook messaging. I didn’t even have a phone number so I could call to ask him if he was buried under a snow bank somewhere. So, without thinking, I reached for my laptop to see if I could dig up a phone number for him.

“Sorry, no Internet. Try again.”

Old habits die hard.

I didn’t dare chance waiting for the plow guy any longer, so I grabbed my trusty shovel and headed outdoors. I didn’t care if the technician arrived the next morning to find my frostbitten, lifeless body lying in the middle of the driveway – just as long as he fixed my Internet.

At 10:00 the next morning, the day I had been anticipating for what seemed like 100 years, the technician phoned and said he would be arriving earlier than planned. “I should be there in about a half-hour. Is that okay with you?” he asked.

Okay?! Was he kidding? If I knew how to do cartwheels, I’d have done a string of them across the kitchen floor at that moment. I had expected him to be late, making me sit and wait all day, as most of the repair people usually did, so I didn’t hesitate to tell him the earlier he arrived, the better.

At 10:30, I made a quick dash outside to salt the ice on my walkway because I wanted to make certain the technician remained upright long enough to repair whatever needed to be repaired. When I came back inside, I saw I had a message flashing on my answering machine. It was the Internet provider, saying the technician had been delayed and would have to reschedule the appointment, so to please call them back to set up another date and time!

What the…?! I just stood there, my mouth hanging open. The “early” technician suddenly had been delayed to the point where he couldn’t even make it for the appointment at all? What on earth had happened after he called me? Plenty of visions popped into my head at that point…all of which would have felt right at home in a Stephen King movie.

I was snapped back to reality when my doorbell rang.

Puzzled, I answered it to find a tall, husky guy standing there. “Hi!” he said. “I’m here to check out your satellite system. I understand you have no Internet access?”

I stared at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head, which probably made him think I’d taken too much medication or something.

What happened next was totally bizarre…

 

(Sorry, but a very kind friend is letting me borrow his Starlink-Mini portable satellite-kit to get online, so I will have to post this now and continue with the rest of the story next week!  Until then, wish me luck. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it, mainly because, and I hesitate to admit it...I did end up violating the company’s zero-tolerance policy! 😉).


#   #   #

 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, February 25, 2026

MY CAR'S INSPECTIONS USUALLY REQUIRED TAKING OUT A PERSONAL LOAN UNTIL...



I have mixed feelings about my state’s mandatory annual car inspections being suspended (at least until April, the last I heard).

Part of me feels relieved because having my car inspected every year always has been a source of great stress for me, right up there with scheduling a dental appointment. I’m talking about heart palpitations, clammy hands, dry mouth and nausea. The only difference between the two is with a dental appointment, it’s the physical pain I fear. With the car inspection, it’s pain in my wallet.

My biggest mistake with my past car inspections was I always had the dealership conduct them. And the dealership never failed to find some expensive part that “urgently” needed replacing. I never managed to escape without forking over a minimum of $350, and that was on a good day.

Still, although saving money every year sounds fine to me, another part of me fears that if there no longer are any more mandatory auto inspections, I might not be aware of any impending doom until my car does something like drop its entire exhaust system in the middle of a four-lane highway or lose its brakes just as a moose dashes out in front of it.

Three years ago, however, I finally smartened up and began to suspect the dealership just might be taking advantage of me. About eight months after one of the aforementioned inspections, my car's oil light popped on as I was heading home from shopping. Concerned, I pulled into the first auto-repair garage I spotted.

“When’s the last time you had the oil changed?” the mechanic asked me after checking it.

I shrugged. “I have no clue. I figured it was something they automatically took care of during the inspection every year.”

“Obviously not,” he said, frowning. “The oil is supposed to be dripping off the dipstick when I check it, not sticking to it like tar.”

He said I was lucky because he had some spare time before his next customer was due to arrive, so he could do an oil change.

Relief flooded through me as I took a seat in the waiting area while the mechanic set to work.

Unfortunately, my relief was short-lived.

It seemed like only seconds before he came into the room and said, “Ma’am, come here, please. I want to show you something.”

Years of experience had taught me that whenever a mechanic utters a sentence that begins that way, it’s never a good thing.

He led me to my car, which was up on the lift, and started wiggling some kind of rod that looked as if a good sneeze would cause it to fall off.

“Your tie rod is broken,” he said. “If you hit a bad frost heave or pot hole with it like that, you could risk losing your steering.”

My eyes widened. The road up to my house was comprised of nothing but frost heaves and pot holes. I imagined what it would be like to suddenly lose my steering on that road. Visions of my car dangling by two wheels over the side of the Catamount Pond bridge weren't exactly comforting because swimming never was one of my best assets...especially while wearing jeans, boots and a winter jacket.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t have time to do the job today,” the mechanic said. “Can you bring the car back tomorrow morning?”

“You actually want me to drive that deathtrap home?” I asked in disbelief.

“It should be OK as long as you take it easy,” he said.

“Easy?! You haven’t seen the road to my house! It has so many frost heaves, it looks like the roller-coaster track at Canobie Lake Park!”

“OK, then,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, you can leave the car here and I’ll have my son drive you home.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice. So his son drove me to my house and then zoomed off.  I’d barely walked to the front door, however, when I noticed his car coming back up the driveway.

“Forget something?” I asked him.

He smiled. “Yeah, you! My dad just called me. Your car is ready.”

I just stared at him.

“He changed the oil, put in two new tie rods and then did an alignment. It’s all set.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I figured his father must have been a former member of Mario Andretti’s pit crew. Either that, or he was like Samantha on “Bewitched,” where all he had to do was twitch his nose and “poof!” the car was fixed. 

When we returned, the father showed me proof of the work he’d done, probably because I couldn’t conceal my skeptical expression – which probably resembled that of someone who’d just witnessed a magic trick and wanted to know where the magician's hidden props and wires were.

Even better, his price was so cheap, I had to ask him twice if he was sure that was all he wanted. 

He laughed. “I can charge you more, if it will make you happy.”

It then dawned on me that because he was so speedy, the labor fee, which usually was the most expensive part of any job (no matter what the profession) probably totaled about $25.

After that, I vowed he would do the annual inspections on my car, and the dealership could kiss my big fat…annual checks goodbye.

The only problem was, my newly discovered mechanic retired that winter and moved to Florida. I was crushed.

Was I discouraged enough to return to return to the dealership?

Heck no.

I found another mechanic in the area and for the past three years, my annual inspection has cost me a mere $39.

The reason for that, however, just might be because I drive an average of only about 1,000 miles per year. The older I get, the less appealing driving seems to me - mostly because I value my life.

On second thought, maybe my car will do just fine without an annual inspection after all…unless the tires get dry rot from lack of use.

I can relate.

 

#   #   #

 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, February 18, 2026

I WASN'T MEANT TO BE A SWAN


Several of my friends have daughters or granddaughters who attend ballet classes and are winning awards at various dance competitions throughout New England.

I really admire (and envy) those young, flexible, graceful girls. I like to think that years ago I could have been one of them, and the truth is, I actually did try. But my efforts were met with limited success.

Extremely limited.

Back in my younger days, from age four to 15, I studied ballet at the Evelyn Howard Dance Studio, which was located on the second floor of the Manchester YMCA. In retrospect, I think poor Miss Howard must have had the patience of a saint to put up with me.

At my very first ballet recital, I was a butterfly. I basically had to continuously flap my arms, which were draped in a thin, glittery cloth to resemble wings, and flutter around a girl named Susan, who was a rose. Susan was dainty and petite, while I was, well…jumbo petite...always big for my age. Susan looked so cute in her little rosebud hat and rose-petal dress, neither of which could have stretched far enough to fit over any of my body parts, I felt very un-butterfly-like next to her.

I think I'd probably have felt a lot more comfortable if I'd have been able to portray something less delicate than a butterfly...like a killer bee. 

But I still continued to show up for class each week, desperately trying to become more light on my feet. Miss Howard also was determined to correct my habit of standing with my knees together, which made me look knock-kneed. But no matter how much she tried, my knees always seemed to have a mind of their own, as if they had magnets attached to them.

Many recitals followed, which my poor parents faithfully suffered through. I was, among other things, a firefly with battery-operated light-up wings; a pixie dressed in all green satin; a Hawaiian dancer in glow-in-the-dark hot pink; and a cinnamon stick in pale pink and red stripes, which, considering my figure at the time, made me look more like a barber's pole. 

But what I really longed to be and dreamed about was becoming a dancer in a major ballet like Swan Lake. For one thing, the advanced ballerinas’ class, unlike my class, had a guy in it...Michael. 

Michael had long dark hair and was very fit. He also was the first guy I'd ever seen wearing tights. And I gasped out loud the first time I watched him effortlessly lift one of the ballerinas over his head as if she were made of feathers. At that moment, my goal became to eventually become one of those ballerinas. I totally ignored the fact I was about as graceful as a buffalo and poor Michael probably would need hernia surgery after he tried to lift me. But I was determined.

Fortunately, my parents always had encouraged me to follow my dreams...so they generously continued paying for my ballet lessons.

When I turned 13, I finally gathered the courage to ask Miss Howard if I could join the advanced group so I could be included in the studio's annual performance of  Swan Lake. 

“But the ballerinas in that class are all en pointe," she said.

My blank expression told her I had no clue what en pointe meant.

“They wear toe shoes," she explained, "not ballet slippers like you do.”

“I'm sure I can dance in toe shoes!” I said, even though I’d never even tried one on.

So Miss Howard agreed to let me give the toe shoes a shot. I soon discovered the human body wasn’t built with feet that were meant to walk on the tips of their toes. Even worse, I had a few extra pounds to carry around on my stubby toes, which didn’t help.

“You’re not a real ballerina until you’ve had a blister on every toe,” Miss Howard told me, smiling knowingly when I complained about the pain. I was beginning to think that nothing, not even being lifted by Michael’s strong arms, was worth the torture of having to limp for the rest of my life.

As I teetered around in my toe shoes, with my legs bowed out so I could keep my balance, I looked more like a bullfrog about to leap at a fly than a Swan-Lake-worthy ballet dancer.

But on the bright side, at least my knees weren't knocking.

Miss Howard finally made a suggestion that saved my feet (and probably my dignity). “Why don’t I let you be in a ballet, but you can wear ballet slippers instead of toe shoes?” she said. “As long as they are white, like the other girls’ shoes, when you’re onstage, no one will know the difference.”

I was so relieved and grateful, I felt like kissing her feet. But seeing she was a longtime toe dancer, I figured her toes probably still were covered in blisters.

Ballet classes were easier after that, mainly because I didn’t have to worry about keeping my balance or hiding my pain, and could concentrate on attempting to perfect the dance steps.

Soon, I actually became a member of the corps de ballet, which was a group of about 25 ballerinas…and Michael.

I even had the chance to talk to Michael after every class, which I enjoyed. He told me that his buddies teased him endlessly about studying ballet, but he was the one who had the last laugh. After all, he said, how many other teenage guys could say they were surrounded by 25 girls wearing nothing but leotards every week?

He had a point.

Unfortunately, I never did get to perform in Swan Lake, but I came close. I performed as a sylph (a mythological fairy-like being) in the ballet, “Les Sylphides,” with the corps de ballet, and wore a flowing white dress and a crown of flowers.

Michael, who played The Poet, was one of the lead dancers in the ballet, and my cousin Carla was selected as the prima ballerina who performed alone with him in the pas de deux in the spotlight. They moved so gracefully together, I watched in awe...and swallowed a severe case of jealousy.

Of course, my cousin couldn’t have hit 100 lbs. on the scale even if she were soaking wet and wearing a necklace made of rocks, but that was besides the point. I think even at birth I weighed more than she did when she performed in that ballet. And she was so effortlessly lifted by Michael, you'd think she'd been pumped full of helium beforehand.

After my stage debut with the corps de ballet, I gave up on my dream and switched to tap dancing and flamenco dancing. Clomping around and stomping my feet seemed more up my alley than trying to be a graceful swan.

There have been many times over the years, however, when I've thought about studying ballet again and maybe fulfilling my dream of finally performing in Swan Lake. But then I'd hear my back creaking like a rusty old hinge and decide not to risk ending up in traction.

Whenever I'd mention to my husband my desire to someday still pursue that dream, he always tried to be encouraging and would tell me to go for it. But then one day, when I was in my 40s and still hadn't done a thing to make my dream come true, I think he finally got fed up with hearing me talk about it.

“Well, if being in Swan Lake is still on your bucket list,” he said, obviously struggling to still sound encouraging, “then stop procrastinating and give it your best shot. But I think maybe you should consider setting your sights a little lower and strive to be something other than a swan in the ballet, something less challenging. I mean, aren't there any other creatures in the lake besides swans? You know, like maybe a frog...or a mosquito?”

I took the hint and never mentioned it again.

#   #   #


FOOTNOTE:  Back in the 1970s, my husband started a new civil-service job and he would come home each night and tell me about all of the new and interesting people he was working with. One guy, who was a highly respected Vietnam veteran and a decorated war hero, particularly impressed him.

"He's so down-to-earth, with a great sense of humor," my husband said. "And he's SO helpful while I'm trying to learn everything at work, I feel as if I've known him for years. I can't wait for you to meet him and his wife!"

That meeting turned out to be a real surprise for me...because the war hero was Michael!

Talk about a small world...

To this day, even though my late husband has been gone for nearly 14 years, and Michael and his wife have moved away, I still keep in touch with them twice a month with our marathon phone conversations, and they always make me laugh.

But I have to confess, there still are times when I'm tempted to ask Michael if he would do me a big favor and lift me, the failed swan...just once! I think it might qualify me to finally cross it off my bucket list, don't you? 😂









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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.


#   #   #

 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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