tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58123151348877316012024-03-19T04:08:31.777-04:00Sally Breslin: My LifeA HUMOROUS LOOK AT EVERYDAY LIFE THROUGH THE EYES OF A BABY BOOMERArchive Adminhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12124637443162287751noreply@blogger.comBlogger690125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-17731572096954747222024-03-19T04:05:00.000-04:002024-03-19T04:05:15.650-04:00JUST MENTION "CORNED BEEF" TO ME AND I'LL TURN A LOVELY SHADE OF GREEN ON SAINT PAT'S DAY <p><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: verdana;"> I was reading the school-lunch menus in the newspaper the other day and I couldn’t help but envy the kids of today.</span></p><span style="font-family: verdana;">Listed were such delicacies as pepperoni pizza, chicken nuggets, barbecued ribs, Tater Tots ® and French fries. They sure sounded a heck of lot better than the stuff I was forced to eat back when I was in grammar school.<br /><br />Back then, the cafeteria routine was much different. We kids would enter at lunchtime and immediately sit at our assigned tables, which already were set with plates, napkins and silverware. Also on the table was a stack of bread and butter “sandwiches,” each made from half a slice of white bread and half a slice of wheat bread stuck together with butter. The corners of the bread usually were curled up by the time we arrived.<br /><br />Our desserts, in tiny white bowls, also sat next to our plates. These desserts always consisted of either pudding (butterscotch or chocolate), Jell-O, a square of cake, or canned fruit in syrup.<br /><br />As soon as we were seated, six to a table, the cafeteria workers would load a cart with casseroles and bowls of vegetables and then come around and plunk down the food on each table. Everyone ate the same thing. There were no choices to make. And we never carried food or trays anywhere. We sat and stayed sitting. There was a lot less to clean up that way, both on the floor and on ourselves.<br /><br />At the head of each table sat an upperclassman, usually a seventh or eighth grader, who acted as the server. The responsibility of these servers was to dish out equal portions of food to each of us so there would be no fighting or hair pulling (not that any of us actually WANTED a larger helping of most of the food anyway). They also acted as pseudo mothers and made certain we were nutritionally fulfilled. This usually was accomplished by yelling at us to eat our vegetables and not touch our desserts until we did.<br /><br />All I can say is that my parents wasted a lot of money paying for my hot lunches because I hardly ever ate them. That’s because some of the meals the school served back then probably would constitute a criminal offense nowadays…endangering the digestive tract of a child.<br /><br />One of my least favorites was what the cafeteria ladies affectionately called Welsh Rabbit. A large square of four saltine crackers sat on our plates, over which the servers poured thick, lumpy melted cheese. And next to it, as a finishing touch, they added a big plop of stewed tomatoes.<br /><br />The end result was something that looked so disgusting, just the mere sight of it made me want to upchuck. Even scarier was the fact that I was convinced that the concoction really did contain “rabbit” somewhere in the depths of all that cheese, and I wasn’t about to eat the Easter Bunny.<br /><br />And then there was the canned Chinese chop suey sitting on top of some kind of crunchy noodles that looked like bird’s-nest material. I didn’t even recognize half of the ingredients in the chop suey because everything was the same color...gray. It smelled even worse than it looked.<br /><br />There were a couple dishes that I didn’t mind too much. The macaroni and cheese was pretty good, and the American chop suey wasn’t bad, as long as I ate around the rubbery hamburger. Ditto for the shepherd’s pie.<br /><br />The boss of the cafeteria, Mrs. Ludwig, didn’t take kindly to kids who didn’t eat her gourmet fare. As we sat there eating, she would walk around carrying a huge spoon and checking everyone’s progress, or lack thereof. If she caught us picking at our food or trying to bury it in our napkins, she would bang the spoon on our table and shout, “Eat up!” in a voice that invited no argument.<br /><br />I was terrified of Mrs. Ludwig. Every time I’d see her approaching my table, I’d shove a big spoonful of food into my mouth, even if I hated the stuff, and pretend to be happily chewing when she passed by. Then I’d spit everything into my napkin as soon as she turned her back.<br /><br />Using what I thought were deviously clever means, I managed to escape the wrath of both Mrs. Ludwig and my server for quite a while. Then came the fateful day in fifth grade that still gives me nightmares.<br /><br />All morning, I’d had a nagging stomachache, and on top of that, the orange juice I’d guzzled during morning recess had given me a bad case of heartburn. By the time I entered the cafeteria at lunchtime, food was the last thing I wanted.<br /><br />There, plopped down in front of me was a big plate of canned corned-beef hash surrounded by hot beets, complete with the beet juice soaking into the hash. One whiff of it made me want to crawl underneath the table and die.<br /><br />I didn’t touch my food. I didn’t even fake that I was eating it. In fact, I pushed my plate away so I wouldn’t have to look at it.<br /><br />That’s when I heard Mrs. Ludwig’s voice behind me. “Eat your hash!” she said. “Your parents paid good money for that meal.”<br /><br />“NO!” I blurted out, surprising everyone at my table, but most especially myself. My eyes widened and I bit at my bottom lip. I pretty much figured that my life, as I’d known it, was over.<br /><br />“Well, I am going to stand here till you eat,” Mrs. Ludwig said, folding her arms and still gripping the ever-present giant spoon. “So if you want to hold up everyone else and keep them from going out for recess, then so be it.”<br /><br />As dozens of beady little eyes glared at me, I knew I had no choice. I choked down a good portion of the hash, and even a couple of the beets. </span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TjHnsiK_GTi-e_8pQBMD9EMr_JJ2Wy62RZvupjAOP4i_Iy39_plbrZGhZCVK5HNmhwhsnaggcziv5trbIZt3Se4S9w_WD7dViUml31BLjSxwOaJYLPQ253cLLBzdtSPGQj1UoOHYQGPo44eAR4c66yBcT4mvdT2gfvkm0gSqLsDzYmly7dZTldLn5ZiP/s294/hash%20&%20beets.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"><img border="0" data-original-height="195" data-original-width="294" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7TjHnsiK_GTi-e_8pQBMD9EMr_JJ2Wy62RZvupjAOP4i_Iy39_plbrZGhZCVK5HNmhwhsnaggcziv5trbIZt3Se4S9w_WD7dViUml31BLjSxwOaJYLPQ253cLLBzdtSPGQj1UoOHYQGPo44eAR4c66yBcT4mvdT2gfvkm0gSqLsDzYmly7dZTldLn5ZiP/s1600/hash%20&%20beets.jpg" width="294" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;">MY "YUMMY-LOOKING" REASONABLE<br />FACSIMILE OF THE<br />HASH AND BEETS</span></b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: verdana;">And then I went outside for recess and threw it all up. In fact, I spent the next three days throwing up. My parents told me they’d never seen a greener-looking kid.</span><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;">Well, let's face it, the hash pretty much resembled vomit to begin with.<br /><br />From then on, I brought my own lunch to school and never bought another hot lunch.<br /><br />And to this day, if you want to torture me into telling you some deep, dark secret, all you have to do is open a can of corned-beef hash and I’ll spill my guts (literally!).</span></div></div><div><span style="font-family: verdana;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: verdana;"># # #</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="551" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/w551-h551/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="551" /></a></span></div><p><span style="color: #01ffff; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="748" height="413" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6L-xHCu-KHIRenhbHeuZqrWE6GPFsRrBUs93BUbKQG5i9jajyn3FAEWiDFnxBMOMmp13brGiUkfvCnAUDxAEdNOi3aja7SuyZLTmJ5Ylsbw-RGrEGdln8XULt0RIJA63bVq5vwuBJQjkMJHnKYKLEXrNT3HBIlLWrVTF1MKU3qMzxR3EaSUIKsNEOOfiD/w601-h413/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" width="601" /></a></span></div><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: 700;"><a href=" https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON AMAZON</a><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-19073858282728280102024-03-11T06:17:00.000-04:002024-03-11T06:17:57.234-04:00INSOMNIACS, REPEAT AFTER ME..."I'M ASLEEP...I'M ASLEEP."<p><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, so for the first time in ages I've been having trouble falling asleep. Usually I'm in dreamland five minutes after my head hits the pillow, but the past week or so has been torture. An hour goes by and I’m still wide awake. Two hours later, the same. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Because I can’t fall asleep, things that never bothered me before are bothering me now. For one, there’s my clock on the nightstand. It ticks. So as I’m lying there, all I hear is, “tick…tick...tick.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it seems to get louder with every tick.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like the clock and don’t want to get rid of it because it has a really loud alarm, like a school bell (which I need) and great big numbers on the face (which I also need).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So I tried earplugs. They successfully tuned out the ticking, but because they also blocked every other exterior sound, they seemed to amplify the interior ones – mainly the ones inside my body.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">There was my heartbeat, which suddenly sounded like a bass drum: “tha-thump, tha-thump, thumpa-thumpa” (I probably should see a doctor about that last one) and drove me crazy. Then there was my stomach, “grrrrowwwl, grrrrowwwl,” in stereo. I finally couldn’t stand the torture any longer and took out the earplugs, figuring the clock’s ticking was the least annoying of the bunch.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Because the cell-phone reception in my area is so bad I practically have to shimmy up a tree and swing by my feet from a branch to get a signal, I still have an old-fashioned landline and an answering machine, also on my nightstand. Even though I always shut off the ringer and turn off the volume when I go to bed, the machine still makes a single “beep” sound whenever someone leaves a message. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">Three mornings in a row last week at exactly the same time, the answering machine beeped. And every time, the message was nothing but a dial tone. The machine identified the daily caller as a satellite-TV company. Lack of sleep caused me to become irritated, mainly because that dumb beep was jolting me wide awake </span><span style="font-family: arial;">bright and early every morning, </span><span style="font-family: arial;">after I'd tossed and turned all night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">So on the fourth day, I was ready and waiting for the annoying satellite-TV call.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hello?” I practically growled into the receiver when the phone rang.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Hi there! How are you this morning?” the cheerful male voice responded. “I have a gift for you!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Free HBO for a month! How does that sound?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Let’s just say my response pretty much guaranteed he won't ever be making my machine beep again while I’m trying to sleep.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;">It wasn't until nearly sunrise the other morning when I finally managed to nod off. Up until that point, I’d pounded my pillow into submission, added a blanket to the bed because I was cold, then removed it because I was too hot; and adjusted my pajamas a dozen times because they either were bunching up, sliding down, twisting or trying to cut off my circulation. I also got up twice to go to the bathroom. After that, I finally fell asleep, probably due to sheer exhaustion.</span></div><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Aroooh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aroooh!” came from outside my bedroom door. It was one of my dogs.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Go to sleep!” I muttered and pulled the blankets over my head.</span></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“Aroooh!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Aroooh!” she continued.<o:p></o:p></span></div><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I ignored her. I wasn’t about to get out of bed and risk becoming so wide awake, I'd have to struggle for another two hours to fall back to sleep again. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">When I finally crawled out of bed four hours later, I discovered a surprise my dog had left on the rug for me, as if to say, “That’ll teach you to ignore me when I cry to go outside, you old hag! Take that!”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">Last night, as I once again was lying in bed and dealing with insomnia, I decided to try the age-old remedy of counting sheep jumping one by one over a fence. By the time I counted sheep number 53, I was picturing it surrounded by tomato chunks, onions and green peppers, all grilling on a shish-kebab skewer.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">“Grrrrowwwl,” said my stomach.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">As luck would have it, there was a doctor on TV this morning who was talking about insomnia. He said if you lie in bed, close your eyes and silently keep imagining the words "I'm asleep" over and over again, it will trick your brain into believing you actually are, so it then will command your pineal gland to release extra melatonin to make sure you stay asleep. He said it usually works like a sleeping pill within five minutes.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">So tonight I'm going to try it. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">And if I do succeed in tricking my brain into believing I'm asleep and it helps me to doze right off, then tomorrow night, I'm going to replace the "I'm asleep" phrase with "I'm slim and 25."</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial;">I'll let you know if it works.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"># # #</span></b></p><p><b> </b><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b></p><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="551" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/w551-h551/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="551" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="748" height="413" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6L-xHCu-KHIRenhbHeuZqrWE6GPFsRrBUs93BUbKQG5i9jajyn3FAEWiDFnxBMOMmp13brGiUkfvCnAUDxAEdNOi3aja7SuyZLTmJ5Ylsbw-RGrEGdln8XULt0RIJA63bVq5vwuBJQjkMJHnKYKLEXrNT3HBIlLWrVTF1MKU3qMzxR3EaSUIKsNEOOfiD/w601-h413/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" width="601" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium; font-weight: 700;"><a href=" https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON AMAZON</a><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-29792739766659584562024-03-03T15:48:00.003-05:002024-03-08T19:31:18.966-05:00REMEMBER WHEN REFRIGERATOR FREEZERS HAD TO MANUALLY BE DEFROSTED?<p> </p><p>I was browsing through some of my old newspaper columns a few days ago and came across this one I originally wrote over 25 years ago about the dreaded chore of defrosting the freezer. It brought back a lot of not-so-pleasant memories that made me laugh. I thought I'd reprint it here for those of you who are old enough to relate!</p><p style="text-align: center;"> * * * *</p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The other night I tackled a chore I hate with such a
passion, I can force myself to do it only once every two years: I defrosted my freezer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I've heard that most refrigerators nowadays come with
self-defrosting freezers, but you can’t prove it by me. I mean, a freezer that’s actually capable of
melting its own frost while still keeping frozen foods frozen? Sounds like
something straight out of a Stephen King novel to me (probably because my refrigerator
is so old, it was delivered by horse and buggy).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">By the time I get around to defrosting my freezer, it has
built up such a thick layer of ice inside, I honestly expect to see the bow of
the Titanic poking out of it. I also usually wait until so many stalactites have formed, I can’t wedge anything else in
there without the risk of impaling a major artery.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Defrosting my freezer is no small job. In fact, when you do it as infrequently as I
do, it can turn into an all-day affair. To begin with, there is the time-consuming process of deciding which
frozen foods should be kept and which should be given their last rites. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, my husband is no help.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“What’s that big black lump you’re holding?” he asked me the
last time I cleaned out the freezer on defrosting day. “It looks like a
meteorite.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“It used to be a roast,” I answered, frowning, “…before it
died a slow and agonizingly painful death from freezer burn.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“You’re not just going to toss it out, are you?” He gave me his much-too-frequent “are you wasting my hard-earned money again?” look. “Why
don’t you at least cook it up for the dogs? I'm sure <i>they’ll</i> eat it.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The man should be reported to the SPCA.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I used to take everything out of the freezer and put it into
Styrofoam coolers, then turn off the refrigerator and patiently wait for the
ice inside to melt. Two days later, the
food in the coolers would be breeding deadly botulism toxin, and I’d still be
waiting. But a few years ago, my mother
took pity on me and gave me a gadget called an electric defroster. It looked like a small hot-plate on legs,
with a power cord attached. The directions said to set it inside the freezer,
close the door and then plug it in and wait.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Although it sounded like the answer to my prayers, I was a
little apprehensive about putting an electrical device into a place that soon
would cause water to drip directly onto it. Still, I was willing to try anything that would
speed up the chore from Hades, even if it meant electrocuting myself and having
to sport a Bride of Frankenstein hairstyle for a while.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The gadget ended up cutting down my defrosting time to a mere
six hours. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-gOUxdn-SEX4eHPM2qAqNiQacg9iu0NwPwNbL1YFtQj-x2HyN7t9bcNSoubllupCcIG95JBOHTh_7pJOaWSjW8VRuCGPzWbcanXGdRe2OApXqumx80W5YUxIMDndewaCgG48tvv-xgGYuyx1Z072HU45v1Ki2bFIf07ru3FW_UP3OZvM3bRf2tdF1wCV9/s379/defroster.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="169" data-original-width="379" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-gOUxdn-SEX4eHPM2qAqNiQacg9iu0NwPwNbL1YFtQj-x2HyN7t9bcNSoubllupCcIG95JBOHTh_7pJOaWSjW8VRuCGPzWbcanXGdRe2OApXqumx80W5YUxIMDndewaCgG48tvv-xgGYuyx1Z072HU45v1Ki2bFIf07ru3FW_UP3OZvM3bRf2tdF1wCV9/s320/defroster.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My husband always reasoned that I should defrost the
freezer in the middle of the winter, so I could bury the contents of the freezer
out in the snow to keep it frozen. I,
however, always figured it was better to do the defrosting on the hottest
day of the summer so I could keep cool.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That’s why I chose last week for the dreaded task. It was a real scorcher of a day, so the thought of tackling my freezer
actually appealed to me. Besides that,
I'd just read about a “simple” technique for defrosting freezers and I was
eager to try it…especially since it didn’t involve handling any electrical
devices covered with water.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The article suggested I soak a towel in hot water, then lay it over the ice. It said as the ice melted,
the towel would absorb the water and then easily could be wrung out, eliminating all of the messy dripping and draining in the freezer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sounded good to me. So I took a bath towel and soaked it in hot
water in the kitchen sink, then applied it to the ice in my freezer. Right away, the ice began to melt…and
instantly cooled off the hot towel. Back to the sink for more hot water, then back to the freezer to melt
more ice. About 2,245 trips to the sink
later, I finally began to see the bare walls of my freezer peeking through.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I soon learned that repeatedly thrusting your hands into
steaming hot water and then shoving them into a freezer did something strange
to your fingers. Aside from making them steam, it made them feel all numb and
tingly, as if they were asleep. It also
made them incapable of grasping anything. I dropped the sopping-wet towel on
the floor so many times, I think I warped the wood.</span></p><p>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Alas, all of the torture was worth it because I now
have a nice roomy freezer that contains neatly stacked food… <i>most</i> of which I
actually can identify. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">But two summers
from now, or whenever I get the rare urge to defrost the freezer again, I am going to use
an even easier (and much quicker) method than the hot towel: a </span><span style="font-family: arial;">blowtorch </span><span style="font-family: arial;">and a </span><span style="font-family: arial;">chisel.</span></span></p><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># # #</span></h3><div><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b><p><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="551" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/w551-h551/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="551" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; 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font-size: medium;"><span> </span> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">
In last week's blog I started to tell you about my new dehumidifier. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">According to
the manufacturer's description, it supposedly could do just about everything
short of making my breakfast and walking my dogs. I couldn't wait to turn it on
and transform my soggy, mildewed basement into something completely dry and
smelling like roses within a day or two.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I followed
the instructions and soon, it was set up and running – quietly purring like the
proverbial kitten despite its alleged "super-duper" strength. On its
display panel it showed a reading of 84 percent humidity in the basement. It
then asked how low I wanted to set the target level. I thought about it for a
while, then set it at 45 percent. According to the manufacturer, when the unit
finally did reach 45, it would shut off automatically as an energy-saving
feature and not pop on again until the humidity started to climb. <o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After the
dehumidifier had been running for about six hours, I was eager to see the
results, so I went downstairs to check the humidity level. According to all of
the glowing reviews, it should have dropped dramatically by then. <o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It was 82
percent...a whole two percent lower.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Another 24
hours later, it was 79. I figured by the time it got down to the 45 percent I
wanted, my basement would be covered in moss and mushrooms. Still, I forced
myself to be patient and give the machine a fair chance. I programmed it to
collect the moisture into its inside bucket, instead of having it automatically
drain through the hose that came with it. That way, I'd be able to measure how
much water it sucked out of the air...hopefully over 100 pints a day as the
manufacturer claimed it would.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Alas, it
collected barely a pint per day, even after a rainstorm that left a big puddle
in the middle of the basement floor. I had to drag the wet/dry vacuum down
there and use that to suck up the puddle after the water began to resemble
something from the Black Lagoon.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I was patient
for nearly two weeks. The dehumidifier ran continuously, shutting off only when
it went into the “defrost” mode. Even so, the humidity seesawed between 69 and
86 percent. Then it just remained at a fairly constant 82. Even blasting the
machine's fan on its highest setting, which could have blown wallpaper off the walls, didn't help dry out the air.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately,
I learned it was because the unit itself was leaking, contributing to the
dampness in the basement instead of drying it out. I couldn't figure out the
source of the leak, however. The instructions said to make sure the bucket
wasn't overflowing. Heck, the bucket never was more than one-quarter full, so
it definitely wasn't overflowing.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile the
refreshing scent of "Eau de Mildew" continued to permeate my house.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When the
electric bill arrived and I noticed the total had increased by $40, that did
it. I shut off the dehumidifier and unplugged it. In my opinion, its trial
period was over. I finally was forced to admit what I'd been trying to
deny ever since the first day I'd turned it on...the unit wasn't big enough or
powerful enough to handle the problems in my warehouse-sized basement. It was
struggling. So its leaking probably was due to an inguinal hernia.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One of my
friends dropped by and checked it out, then quickly summed up the problem in
only a few words: "What a piece of cheap junk! They sure don't make things
the way they used to."<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So once again
I called customer service, this time to ask how to return the dehumidifier.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"We can
have someone come pick it up for you," the woman said.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I breathed a
sigh of relief because I wasn't about to struggle with the darned thing again.
Dragging it <i>down</i> the stairs had been torture enough. The
thought of having to somehow get it back <i>up </i>the<i> </i>stairs
seemed about as daunting as scaling Mount Everest.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But my relief
was short-lived.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"Just
make sure the dehumidifier is packed back in its original box with all of the
original paperwork and accessories it came with, and that it's outside waiting
for them when they come to get it," the woman added.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"<i>Outside?</i> How
am I supposed to get it up the basement stairs? Can't they help me?"<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"Sorry,
no."<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"Why
not?"<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"They
can't enter your house. It's the rule."<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Déjà vu.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"I see
you ordered it online," she added. "But you still can return it to
the nearest store if you'd like."<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sure. Easy. I
could just drive my car down to my basement...maybe squeeze it in through the
bulkhead, and shove the dehumidifier into the hatchback, then head off to the
store. <o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Call me hard
to please, but I wasn't fond of either option. <o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Frustration
can make some people do pretty dumb things. And I turned out to be one of those
people. The dehumidifier had a handle on top and wheels on the bottom. So I
grabbed the handle and wheeled it over to the staircase. Then, one stair at a
time, I used both hands to yank it up to the top as I walked backwards. But
first, I removed the bucket, the filter door, and anything else I could think
of to make the beast even slightly lighter.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It didn’t
help. By the time I reached the top stair, I felt as if I'd pinched every nerve
in my body. Even my nostril hairs hurt.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But I was
excited because the dehumidifier no longer was in the basement...and neither
was I, which meant I hadn’t tumbled down the stairs and knocked myself
unconscious. And as far as I could tell, my heart still was beating.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I put
everything back together, boxed up the dehumidifier and dragged it out to my
car in the garage. I was ready to celebrate because I'd actually made it that
far all on my own. But then I hoisted the box, trying to get it into the
hatchback, and my back began to emit sounds very similar to those of someone in
high heels walking across a carpet made of bubble wrap.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The next day
I drove to the store, left the dehumidifier in the car and headed straight to
the service desk. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"I'm
returning a really heavy item," I said. "Is there someone who can
help me bring it in?"<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The clerk
smiled and immediately paged someone.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A young,
petite woman showed up and said, "Lead the way!"<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I had
expected Hercules or the Incredible Hulk to appear, so I was taken aback by the
employee – even more so when she didn't even grab a dolly or one of the big
flatbed wagons on our way out.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When we
arrived at my car, which was parked in the middle of the lot, she reached in
through the hatchback, dragged out the box and promptly hoisted it up onto one
shoulder, as effortlessly as if it weighed only a few ounces instead of about
60 pounds. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When she saw
my shocked expression, she laughed and said, "Being able to lift 50 pounds
or more is one of the requirements of this job, so I'm used to it. You should
see me with the sacks of cement and fertilizer!"<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Without even
so much as a grunt or a hair out of place, she carried the box into the store.
I didn't know whether to be impressed or to resent her...because at that moment
my body still was screaming at me to drive over to urgent care and beg for
painkillers.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I was
refunded my money without any problem, so I detoured down to the dehumidifier
department and talked to an employee there. He asked me a lot of questions
about my basement, then said I'd need a much bigger and more powerful unit,
which I'd have to order from their website.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I sighed.
"And then UPS will just deliver it to my driveway or porch and not take it
down to the basement for me, right?"<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He nodded.
"Sorry, but..."<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>"It's
the rule,"</i> I said at the same time he did.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So the next
day I ordered a bigger, stronger dehumidifier that cost a few hundred dollars
more. But first, I made sure I could line up someone who'd carry it downstairs
for me after it was delivered. I wasn't about to attempt it again on my
own...not ever...not even for a million dollars.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Well...maybe...<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The website
listed the date of delivery as February 12th. So on that day, I had everything
ready and waiting.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And I'm <i>still</i>
waiting.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Even though
the website had said there were 23 of that particular dehumidifier in stock
when I ordered it, it's now suddenly on backorder with the ETA
"unknown." So I guess everyone suddenly must have wanted to buy one
on the exact day I did.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile,
I'm still dehumidifier-less.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWtV-4rbP9CYfhKaHCiCOEvFIE8pttzujS9dkH9oVXAZty9PvkVaXURk_HeVHvJA0FkPLDSkyCw53vp1lUF7Qpx2vKoKXNQZLelABVaRI585WkPV8W3gy7bzp-V7MpfkcqKWS1RdUSlMUhNNYkw52No4wrbPdzIRmA5-_70MxarN5gI09N54PTI0zsIdE/s411/mushrooms%20lit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="411" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWtV-4rbP9CYfhKaHCiCOEvFIE8pttzujS9dkH9oVXAZty9PvkVaXURk_HeVHvJA0FkPLDSkyCw53vp1lUF7Qpx2vKoKXNQZLelABVaRI585WkPV8W3gy7bzp-V7MpfkcqKWS1RdUSlMUhNNYkw52No4wrbPdzIRmA5-_70MxarN5gI09N54PTI0zsIdE/s320/mushrooms%20lit.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span><p></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But the moss
and mushrooms are doing just great.<o:p></o:p><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># #
#</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><div><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></div>Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b><p style="text-align: left;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="551" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/w551-h551/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="551" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; 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font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-22909984601903281122024-02-19T10:28:00.000-05:002024-02-19T10:28:02.976-05:00(PART 2) MY NEW CAREER...MUSHROOM FARMER! <p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As I mentioned in my last post, I’m having problems with
dampness and mildew in my basement, to the point where photos I stored down
there are stuck together in clumps, magazines and books are covered with so
many spots, they look as if a wet Dalmatian sat on them; and all of my
solid-colored summer clothes now appear to be tie-dyed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After spending hours researching mildew online, I finally came up with what
I thought were a couple of good solutions to the problem...better than the solutions
given to me by the professionals I'd contacted, which would have forced me to sell my
house (along with all of the mildew) to get enough money to afford them.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">First of all, many sites mentioned that vinegar gets rid of
mold and mildew. Spray it on, they said, then later wipe it off…but only on
non-porous surfaces. So all of my clothes and paper products, as I’d suspected,
were doomed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Secondly, according to the online experts, a big, commercial dehumidifier (not one of those wimpy, bedroom ones) supposedly will lower the humidity to zilch in a basement.
And “zilch” means mold and mildew will hop on the first train bound for a damper
location, like Florida. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As one guy wrote, “Have you ever heard of the Sahara
having problems with overgrowths of mold and mildew? That's because they need moisture to grow!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He made a good point. I was determined to make my basement
as dry as the Sahara…during a sandstorm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I went out shopping. Buying the vinegar was a snap…and
cheap.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Buying the dehumidifier wasn’t.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The stores I visited had regular-sized dehumidifiers, but
the clerks informed me that the kind I needed, the “super-suckers,” had to be
ordered directly from the stores’ websites. Most had free delivery, however,
which I thought was a pretty good deal.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I spent so many hours reading descriptions of commercial
dehumidifiers online that night, my eyeballs felt as if they were on the verge of leaping
out of their sockets in a desperate attempt to save themselves. Every time I’d
find a dehumidifier that seemed like the perfect fit for all of my needs, I’d
then check out the reviews.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“The only thing this cheaply made piece of crap is good for
is a giant doorstop!” said one customer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“It caught fire and nearly burned down our house!” wrote
another.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“It worked fine for only about four months and then died!”
said about 350.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I continued to research even more dehumidifiers.
I finally found one that not only sounded perfect, it also had great reviews
and was reasonably priced. The description said it could handle an area of up to
5,000 square feet (which was about 3,000 more than I needed) and it could suck up 125
pints of moisture per day and drop the humidity by 50 percent in only two hours. It also was Energy Star certified and had a sensor that would turn the machine off and
on only as needed, to save even more energy. And best of all, it contained an air-purifier to get rid of any odors, and a built-in pump to empty the water it collected so I wouldn't have to lift a heavy bucket and empty it myself.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Relieved and excited, I ordered it and was given an estimated delivery date of 12 days later. The store said someone would notify me before then with more specific details.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A week before the delivery due-date, however, I discovered the dehumidifier in a big
box with straps around it, sitting on my front porch.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I called the store and explained I’d thought the
dehumidifier was going to be delivered by actual humans who would carry it down
to the basement for me, unbox it and set it up.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The employee’s tone made me feel as if she thought I’d just
time-traveled here from the 1950s. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“UPS delivered it,” she said. “And they aren’t allowed to
enter people’s homes.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Why not?” I asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Because it’s the <i>rule</i>,” she answered, which explained nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“So how am I supposed to get it downstairs to the basement?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Don’t you have any friends or relatives who can help you?”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I thought of a few of my friends and relatives. One was
suffering from vertigo, two were going through physical therapy for sciatica,
one had just undergone open-heart surgery, and another was scheduled to have a
hip replaced.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Nope,” I answered.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I’m so sorry,” she said, “If I lived closer, I’d come over
there myself to help you with it.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That was kind of her, I thought, but she had a slight accent
and was manning a 1-800 customer-service number. That meant she probably was
sitting in a cubicle somewhere in a place like Machu Picchu. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I knew I couldn’t just leave the dehumidifier sitting out on
the porch. At the very least, I had to get it into the house, where it would be
safe. So I grabbed it by the straps and dragged it, inch by inch, into the front hallway. Then I stood there with my hands on my hips and stared at it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Was it possible, I wondered, that I also might be able to drag it
down a steep flight of stairs if I took only one stair at a time?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I wouldn’t know until I tried.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And that’s what I did. As I struggled with each step down into the damp,
smelly pit from Hell, all I could envision was my body, covered with an overgrowth of mildew and lying flattened beneath
the dehumidifier, being discovered on
the concrete below.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But, I’m relieved to say, the machine and I safely made it.
I then unboxed it and grabbed the instruction booklet, which said to allow the
unit to stand upright for at least a day before turning it on. That was fine
with me because the instructions turned out to be so vague and poorly written, I
was pretty sure it would take me an entire day just to decipher them.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I mean, this is an actual photo I took of a sentence printed
on the back of the brochure.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAILGU5N83HbQRxDv5wVDi62r3qbezmsVrkM3yyvGULKjF_HxsnklCG7W6Fdi0a1GkO3LoCMvYvJe5obEX5QTqcbK9Reat4CNHBQQtMvuWEGStS7qfcmTKKrQCkNiVtglBsbhpcJRyu3-k19fI8vxT_ahcxx8_pnA86EokkWL0HeTfj1tyWOuBmn9G6Vz3/s548/dehumidifier%20brochure.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="145" data-original-width="548" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAILGU5N83HbQRxDv5wVDi62r3qbezmsVrkM3yyvGULKjF_HxsnklCG7W6Fdi0a1GkO3LoCMvYvJe5obEX5QTqcbK9Reat4CNHBQQtMvuWEGStS7qfcmTKKrQCkNiVtglBsbhpcJRyu3-k19fI8vxT_ahcxx8_pnA86EokkWL0HeTfj1tyWOuBmn9G6Vz3/w597-h159/dehumidifier%20brochure.jpg" width="597" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It made me wonder if the dehumidifier contained a hidden
audio-video camera somewhere!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So, did the dehumidifier do everything it promised? Do I now
have a nice dry basement that smells fresh and clean? And why am I sitting on a heating pad as I write this?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ll tell you the rest of the story next week.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># #
#<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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.
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font-family: arial; font-size: large;" /></div><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-82633703885637031682024-02-11T22:18:00.003-05:002024-02-16T09:52:37.088-05:00MY NEW CAREER...MUSHROOM FARMER!<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Until a few weeks ago, I hadn’t ventured down into the damp, dark catacombs (a.k.a. my basement) in quite a while, mainly because there are eight-legged creatures of various dimensions lurking down there, just waiting to pounce on me or drop from the ceiling and land on my head. The last one of these creatures I had the pleasure of encountering was big enough to warrant its own zip code. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJPjORWXgY13nU-x003W6ekW3Ejy_RMsPO7NF3RPM2fw-5JdUcMEbqthD8DlhbOvlNEsZ4s07szLvF4RvRqbxqSZ87jC7ZQMUmQJ9EyWjvcq5zgd021VDmdSOtVYsp91FNvThCW_JOBbTMp-nkL23WH9r0wcoikNSVtd8-Pr7Rn8o58Q1bLDju-nS5IjP/s283/wolf%20spider.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="193" data-original-width="283" height="193" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcJPjORWXgY13nU-x003W6ekW3Ejy_RMsPO7NF3RPM2fw-5JdUcMEbqthD8DlhbOvlNEsZ4s07szLvF4RvRqbxqSZ87jC7ZQMUmQJ9EyWjvcq5zgd021VDmdSOtVYsp91FNvThCW_JOBbTMp-nkL23WH9r0wcoikNSVtd8-Pr7Rn8o58Q1bLDju-nS5IjP/s1600/wolf%20spider.jpg" width="283" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But I recently had no choice other than to head down into the pit from Hell…because of the smell.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’m talking about mildew. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For weeks, I had been denying that the odor wafting up through the vents was anything other than the long-term effects of my bout with Covid, which did strange things to my sense of smell – like make my bowl of chicken soup smell like cheap perfume. But when two different friends who dropped by on separate occasions told me my house smelled like mildew, I realized I had no choice other than to investigate.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After I cautiously inched my way down the stairs, what I saw left me speechless (and those of you who personally know me realize that's a true rarity). Everything down there looked as if it had been attacked by someone wielding a giant can of fake snow, the kind you spray on Christmas trees and wreaths. It actually would have looked pretty, even festive...if it hadn't been clinging to things like my doll collection or the furniture stored down there. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The most shocking sight was an expensive 5'x7' rug I'd rolled up and dragged down there for safekeeping because I'd wanted to protect it from the wrath of my dogs, who seemed determined to torture it and then kill it. It made me wonder if it might have been made from something like recycled road-kill.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anyway, it had so much mildew on it, it resembled a shag carpet.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0ayyIJddSTkKza4LZJajWA-VNyW8BcUTYAyIBXvqyuUs6_PhREBw4Y5JgGDdyrqw1tzjwzfrKBOUrH-o_efhVv09m3GiNciFY-eT61ady97_BCybepZUCiL2yr6afMCjekj-RL4kcmyMO35WOfzqzEWLRj2AhizuY5JfXJqfnltUsaAI-pUg3k0WgAuQ/s660/basement%20rug.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="660" data-original-width="436" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR0ayyIJddSTkKza4LZJajWA-VNyW8BcUTYAyIBXvqyuUs6_PhREBw4Y5JgGDdyrqw1tzjwzfrKBOUrH-o_efhVv09m3GiNciFY-eT61ady97_BCybepZUCiL2yr6afMCjekj-RL4kcmyMO35WOfzqzEWLRj2AhizuY5JfXJqfnltUsaAI-pUg3k0WgAuQ/s320/basement%20rug.jpg" width="211" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>MY ONCE-BEAUTIFUL RUG!</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Panicking, I called one of those guys I’d seen on TV who talked about mold and mildew in basements and how, if you didn’t have it treated right away, you could die a slow and agonizingly painful death after your lungs shriveled up to the size of raisins.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The first guy who came over took one look at my basement, shook his head and said, “Everything that’s porous has to be thrown out – paper, cloth, wood, cardboard, and even the insulation on the ceiling. It all has to go. Then we’ll come in and get rid of all of the mold and mildew. You’ll also need a commercial-sized dehumidifier, the kind they use in warehouses, to control the humidity in a huge basement like this. Mold and mildew thrive on moisture. So if you keep the basement dry, you shouldn’t have this problem again.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">His estimate, <i>without</i> the oversized dehumidifier, was $6,800.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The second guy was much more thorough. He tested, he measured, he looked outside at the land and inspected the foundation. He then made his recommendations. “First and foremost, you have to keep the basement dry,” he said. “And I guarantee I can make your basement so dry, you’ll be able to turn it into an additional living space.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The spiders, I thought, might have something to say about that.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I highly recommend an interior perimeter drain at the base of all four walls. Then you should have two sump pumps, one at each end, along with a dehumidifying system that drains into them and is capable of reducing the humidity down here to below 50 percent (it was a sub-tropical 84 percent at the time...in December). Finally, I recommend waterproofing all four walls.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Should I open the windows down here to let some fresh air in?” I asked.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He vigorously shook his head. “No, you don’t want any mold spores or humidity that’s outside to get inside. Keep the windows closed. In fact, basements shouldn’t even have windows, in my opinion. Some, like yours, are so low, the ground water leaks in through them.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So basically, he was trying to tell me my basement was like a giant sponge. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">His estimate to fix all of my problems? A mere $28,000.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">No problem. By my calculations, I should be able to save up enough money to hire him after I’ve been dead for about 20 years.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So how do I intend to do battle with all of the mildew when I have only a few hundred dollars to spare (and that’s if I eat Ramen noodles three times a day)?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ll continue this saga next week...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># # #</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i><b>Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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 </b></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large; text-indent: 13pt;"> </span></b></i></p><p>
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font-weight: 700;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON AMAZON</span></a><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-90488520150099065392024-02-05T05:16:00.001-05:002024-02-05T06:03:21.670-05:00SOME RANDOM FACTS ABOUT CANDY...<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I was thinking about penny candy the other day, mainly
because I think about candy a lot, and decided to check out some online candy
sellers that advertise it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What I discovered was penny candy should change its name to
<i>quarter</i> candy because it’s false advertising to associate anything about it
with a penny now – unless maybe you’re talking about a couple of those teeny
white balls on the tops of nonpareils.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When I think back to when I was a kid and a dollar bought
100 pieces of penny candy or 20 full-sized candy bars, and how today, a dollar
buys only four pieces of penny candy and maybe half a candy bar, well, it’s
enough to make me swear off sweets for life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Almost.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The truth is, I’ve been addicted to candy ever since I was a
toddler and found my grandmother’s secret stash of a 10-lb. box of Whitman’s
chocolates hidden underneath her sofa. I ended up with most of the chocolate on my
face and hands, but I did manage to get enough into my mouth to create a lifelong craving for more...so much more.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Which, according to my recent online search, should have
caused my premature demise ages ago.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For example, I’ve always loved Tootsie Rolls, even though
many people have described them as tasting like weak chocolate milk and being chewy when
soft, but capable of yanking out fillings when they get hard. What I never knew, however, was a Tootsie Roll contains one gram of trans
fat. That doesn’t sound like much, but according to the American Heart
Association, only one percent of a person's total daily calorie-intake should be from trans
fats. For a person who consumes 2,000 calories a day, that translates to just
two grams.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Believe me, I was not the sort of kid who ate only ONE
Tootsie Roll at a time. That wasn’t even an appetizer for me. So all of my arteries probably were clogged up by the time I was 10.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I also just read a shocking article released by PETA in
which they are asking people to send the following request to candy companies:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #fcff01; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b>“I've learned that your company uses insect secretions to
glaze candy, even though you can still make your product without it. Not only is this
unappetizing, it's also cruel. Some 100,000 lac bugs must die to produce about one pound of shellac flakes. Please, make your candies cruelty-free by replacing
this shellac with a vegan alternative so that I can once again enjoy them.
Thank you.” </b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #fcff01; font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFfD58p6VAJ0E1GCVNnYYcxpdinlsX74lgKKPIfUT00j6Rb9KOaDA1DXPhnCKIY0xCbzm1dYHiKIdkNJmbKzJqU8ct07ip5BkF-TP2IPcvVmu3H_OMmRTclPCAOvEM0rYM5uBdYujMvb1Ji00KDOOiggfF6_UZqCbo0SMqYPl7DE2OX5UoJEtxEO6zTiH/s235/lac%20bug.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="235" data-original-width="189" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzFfD58p6VAJ0E1GCVNnYYcxpdinlsX74lgKKPIfUT00j6Rb9KOaDA1DXPhnCKIY0xCbzm1dYHiKIdkNJmbKzJqU8ct07ip5BkF-TP2IPcvVmu3H_OMmRTclPCAOvEM0rYM5uBdYujMvb1Ji00KDOOiggfF6_UZqCbo0SMqYPl7DE2OX5UoJEtxEO6zTiH/s1600/lac%20bug.jpg" width="189" /></a></b></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’d never heard of “lac bugs,” so I researched them. There
are many types, but most commonly they are a type of beetle that sucks the sap
from trees and excretes "sticklac" (a resin) almost constantly...which
then is used in making shellac, as well as the glaze on some types of popular
candies. One brand of candy they mentioned just happened to be one I've enjoyed eating at least once a week for over 50 years. I even have a brand new box of it sitting in my cupboard at this very
moment.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I figure I’ve probably consumed more bug parts than an anteater
at this point in my life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Another fact I found interesting was which candies currently are considered the top two favorites in the USA…and which two would guarantee your house to be
bombarded with eggs if you dared to hand them out to trick-or-treaters. The two most popular, according to the majority of the polls, are Reese’s peanut butter cups and Snickers bars,
in no particular order. The two least favorites are candy corn and circus
peanuts.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ve never understood why those banana-flavored, bright
orange candies were called circus peanuts in the first place, other than they
are shaped like peanuts still in the shell. And candy corn has no flavor at all, even
though the three different layers of color on each one deceptively lead you to
believe it has three different flavors, like orange, lemon and vanilla...when it actually tastes like plain sugar mixed with candle wax.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Ironically, both of them were my late husband’s favorites.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But I can’t criticize him for being in the minority and liking the least popular candies in this country…because one of my own favorites came in third on the “prefer to let
the dog bury” list.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’m talking about Atomic fireballs. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBoC1Fz9GM9vSKW59P57nrgroQBWB9DnRqtEIhKcWlPCyPahXJTZ3ecc_VMMoaLviZ7EKsHvDuMAyGV5WngWuzhMvgnZR6W09vjwrSmsLEvTH0qIUoo8BQBkfWHOCKxcU8PuJg1NZTByfctChpkB6W4L9SVBqJvq9EjKeK1O0erDfIdQOyfZf4CIQQS-2/s992/worst%20candies.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="404" data-original-width="992" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHBoC1Fz9GM9vSKW59P57nrgroQBWB9DnRqtEIhKcWlPCyPahXJTZ3ecc_VMMoaLviZ7EKsHvDuMAyGV5WngWuzhMvgnZR6W09vjwrSmsLEvTH0qIUoo8BQBkfWHOCKxcU8PuJg1NZTByfctChpkB6W4L9SVBqJvq9EjKeK1O0erDfIdQOyfZf4CIQQS-2/s320/worst%20candies.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As a kid, there was nothing I enjoyed more than burning out
my tonsils or cracking a molar while sucking on and then </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">crunching</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">(when I got bored because the flavor had disappeared) a fireball jawbreaker.
The Atomic ones were especially good because they were capable of making even your eyeballs sweat.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And let’s not forget the excessive amounts of red dye used
on them. When licked, a fireball could then be used like bright red lipstick…that lasted all day. I still can remember when I was in the eighth grade and bought fireballs after school every day (unbeknownst to my parents). I experienced so many bouts of heartburn, my mother finally took me to a doctor
who made me drink a glass of chalk and then X-rayed my stomach. The
diagnosis was an inflammation of the stomach lining.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ll bet it just looked inflamed due to all of the
red food-coloring it had absorbed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And now that I’ve learned all of this valuable information about candies that contain artery-clogging trans fat, bug excretions
and questionable food coloring, do I regret eating so much of it? And will I, from this day forward, make an effort to avoid such offenders?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Heck no.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After all, it’s not my fault I still need my candy fixes – it’s my grandmother’s.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b># # #</b><span style="text-align: left;"> </span></p><p>
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b><span style="font-family: arial;"><i>Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</i></span></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="551" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/w551-h551/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="551" /></a></span></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; 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font-size: medium;"></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: black; font-family: arial; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-88600446763305581952024-01-30T07:15:00.000-05:002024-01-30T07:15:26.120-05:00IT'S TIME FOR FROST HEAVES AND POTHOLES – WINTER’S MERCILESS OFFSPRING <p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One of my old friends came over the other day and the first thing I noticed when I opened the door was how green she looked.</span></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">“You have any Dramamine?” she asked. “Your road up here is so bad, I nearly lost my lunch!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">The problem was, she wasn’t joking. Every winter, the main road to my house probably could make the Guinness Book of World Records for breeding the largest number of frost heaves and potholes in a single month. An aerial view of the road easily could be mistaken for a topographical map of the Himalayas...or the Grand Canyon. <o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">When I went to the store the other day, I decided to take my two dogs for a ride with me. Big mistake. The road was so bumpy, by the time we reached our destination, they were giving a different meaning to the word “heave”…all over the back seat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I guess the term “frost heaves” isn’t as widely known in the rest of the country as it is in New England. I remember when we had company from Maryland one winter and they asked us, “What the heck are frost heaves? We saw signs everywhere on our drive up here!”<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uIE4GU3LTwk/Ux-7RqQMp0I/AAAAAAAAAQQ/NVEMy0oREK8/s1600/frost+heaves+smaller.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="260" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-uIE4GU3LTwk/Ux-7RqQMp0I/AAAAAAAAAQQ/NVEMy0oREK8/s1600/frost+heaves+smaller.jpg" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">My husband jokingly told them the signs referred to a really large family named Frost who thought it was fun to <i>heave</i> snowballs at passing cars.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I hate to say it, but I think our guests actually might have believed him.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Because of the condition of the roads every winter, I usually avoid leaving the house unless it's absolutely necessary. And when I do venture out to the supermarket, I buy so many groceries, you’d think I was preparing for a zombie apocalypse. But that’s partly because having the fillings in my teeth jarred loose really doesn’t appeal to me.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Naturally, I drive very slowly on winter-ravaged roads...mainly because I don’t want to leave my car’s exhaust system in a pothole. This inevitably results in some vehicle zooming up behind me and riding my bumper. The last one came so close to my car, when I looked in the rearview mirror, I thought the driver was sitting in my back seat.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">In an effort to lose him, I stepped on the gas…just as I came to the Queen Mother of all frost heaves. I think some of my hair is still stuck in my car’s dome light.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">Yesterday I received a call to schedule the annual maintenance on my house’s generator system. After I made the appointment, I warned the guy who called, “You’d better take some motion-sickness pills first. The road up here is so bumpy, it’s like trying to ride a rodeo bull."<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Really?” he asked.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> "I'm totally serious."</span><o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Thanks for the warning,” he said. He paused before adding with a laugh, “Hmmm…now which of my employees don’t I like?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll send him over.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">I was watching a skiing competition on TV the other night and they were showing some of the athletes training on moguls (a.k.a. hundreds of really big bumps). This resulted in them having to assume a position in which their knees practically were touching their chins. All I could think about as I watched them was how much the moguls course resembled the road to my house, and how the skiers seriously should consider coming over here to train. Heck, if they can conquer these bumps, they're guaranteed to win Olympic gold.<o:p></o:p></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anyway, if I ever have my car checked in the winter and the mechanic suggests it needs an alignment, I'll tell him it can wait until spring.</span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;">By then, I figure I'll hit enough bumps to throw the car back into alignment on its own.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b># # #</b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;"><b><i>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<o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
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text-indent: 13pt;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13.0pt;"><b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13.0pt;"><b><i><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p><br /></o:p></span></i></b></p></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-91765360198965957082024-01-23T03:40:00.000-05:002024-01-23T03:40:15.586-05:00RECALLING THE DAYS WHEN DOCTORS MADE HOUSE CALLS<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Many of my
friends recently have told me they’ve canceled their annual routine medical
procedures this winter because they don’t want to expose themselves to Covid,
the flu, or whatever other viruses currently might be running amok, just
waiting to pounce on unsuspecting victims.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My friend in Scotland,
however, phoned the other day and told me she was waiting for her doctor to
arrive because she was having severe pain from neuropathy.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Oh, you’re
calling from his waiting room?” I asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“No, I’m at
home, in bed."</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It took a few
seconds for that information to sink in.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“You mean he’s
actually making a house call?" I asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“A what?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“He’s coming
to your house?"</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Well, yes.
Don’t doctors do that where you live?"</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Not since
Abraham Lincoln was too young to grow a beard.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After we hung
up, I found my mind wandering back to the days when doctors actually did make
house calls. I was only a child back then, but I clearly remember good old Dr.
Kennard arriving with his black bag, which contained the essentials: a
stethoscope, tongue depressors, two thermometers (oral and rectal), aspirin,
and hypodermic needles to administer the contents of the ever-present bottle of
penicillin. And then there were the other must-have first-aid items…bandages,
suturing materials, antiseptics like alcohol and iodine, etc. – all neatly packed in a black
leather bag that nowadays would be considered too small to make even a decent purse.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But house
calls made a lot of sense, at least for the patients. I mean, think about it. The last thing a
sick person wants or needs to do is crawl out of bed, venture out into the cold,
and then sit in a waiting room filled with people who look as if they’re
auditioning to be extras on the TV show, “The Walking Dead." Even worse,
there’s the real risk of going there with something like a mild case of the sniffles and ending up catching something like the Ebola virus.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When I was a
kid, most of Doctor Kennard’s visits to my house were for my sore throats.
Every year, like clockwork, I would end up with a really bad one. And, without any
cultures or tests, he'd annually diagnose me with strep throat. Then he’d remove
the dreaded hypodermic needle from his bag and fill it with penicillin.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Roll over,”
he’d say in a monotone.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I knew the
routine by heart. The hypo's target always was my right butt-cheek. Luckily, I had
plenty of fat on it to cushion the jab. </span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But the weird
thing about that shot in the butt was it always worked. Just one shot – no days
of endless pill-taking like nowadays whenever antibiotics are needed. That
single shot did the trick.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And for
everything else, there was aspirin...or Bromo-Seltzer.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The cost for
the doctor’s house call? Five dollars, which my parents always handed to him in
cash at the end of each visit.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And that was
that. Simple.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately,
at some point, doctors figured out they could help more patients per hour if
they remained in one spot and had the patients come to them. No more spending
precious minutes sitting in traffic while trying to rush to a house call. No
more wasting gas, getting lost or worrying that something like a flat tire or a dead battery could result in a
delay that might contribute to a patient’s early demise.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So the majority of doctors began to choose to stay in their offices all day and do away with making
house calls. Much less stressful that way.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Maybe for
them…but not for me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I still too vividly remember the time, back when I was in my thirties, when I was suffering
from the flu…and I do mean <i>suffering.</i> Even lifting my head off the
pillow was a struggle. Never had I felt more certain I was about to see the
Pearly Gates first-hand.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I finally gave
in and called my doctor, hoping he’d suggest some miraculous home-remedy to
ease my suffering.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Instead, he
told me if I came right over, he could see me.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There was no
time to call my husband and ask him to drive the 18 miles home from work to
take me to the doctor’s office, so I was determined to get there on my own. It
was barely a three-mile trip, so I figured I could handle it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">By the time I arrived, however, I looked and felt as if I’d just run the Boston marathon…during
a hurricane…in 110-degree heat. My fever had reached molten-lava proportions by
then, so my hair, skin and clothes were soaked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The moment the
doctor saw me, his mouth fell open and he blurted out, “God, you look <i>awful!</i>
You should be home in bed!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My thoughts
exactly.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Loaded down
with various samples of medication the doctor gave me (so I wouldn’t have to
risk lapsing into a coma while waiting for any prescriptions to be filled) I
drove straight home a short time later, took off my clothes, swallowed a couple
of the pills and then crawled back into bed. It took eight days before I finally started to feel human again.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And all the
while I kept thinking about how Dr. Kennard would have come to my house, jabbed
a needle into my butt and I’d have been feeling like a new person in only a day
or two.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately,
he was deceased.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Probably from
all of the stress caused by trying to make too many house calls.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># # #</span></b><span style="text-align: left; text-indent: 13pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is
a native New Englander and 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</span><o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJ_bjtsv1xZXBckxmpJp0YGkhp-NjdVNchQT7uN-dYnZzXJISF-fdhtl1m0xs-BEoky0X0jqDn0tQkjvlp567AtbQoeXyuq0bc8gHstgBD6ylb2BHWgqKAWHDe8-G-qcfONcvqgEnWg6kGhpqroL9L4Ftns3hW5S5jjVTPGBLId9hymkEA2Mci5u3Cbr3/s800/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="475" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJ_bjtsv1xZXBckxmpJp0YGkhp-NjdVNchQT7uN-dYnZzXJISF-fdhtl1m0xs-BEoky0X0jqDn0tQkjvlp567AtbQoeXyuq0bc8gHstgBD6ylb2BHWgqKAWHDe8-G-qcfONcvqgEnWg6kGhpqroL9L4Ftns3hW5S5jjVTPGBLId9hymkEA2Mci5u3Cbr3/w634-h475/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" width="634" /></a></b></div><b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; 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font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Heed-Predictor-Sally-Breslin-ebook/dp/B00Q639U38/ref=sr_1_9?crid=1ZE9DVMFITO8R&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1677574246&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C1602&sr=1-9"><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON AMAZON</span></a></span></b></div></b><p></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/496444"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON SMASHWORDS</span></a><br /></b></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13.0pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </span></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3TlgqLXuCggsgE1pjh7Kz1Q_VZGRG23p6qbGKkRzSQox9hVpT7LKBqhju3VxzcrAFbDeFAkjMf8m0oJDdNu5LVEjgFpYuWPx9N4jJC2sGFv9cLREC85G79QAK-SAMeKxkhY2SFMNk5dGmalidheuKrsIG3gtXjjETjdprhmUtaXl5gnGGOowErkJ3xCkL/s427/too%20far%20free%20blog%20ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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text-indent: 13.0pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-xkQWKeuU6Jn3QbLIcbZJv8cJq2KKAtTJqfrqwKziNi8YiFmaLUaxIIxf1pULQjwxGlZ0j6-lA_GxuMoeIQTcRY1ImMnoul7KkQfGPqUeyH6d5tsj3F4pKPYTnYmffnkE-TwdZmMUUdPMTKbnUPQYFZHXtktOczy8ph2mO5CNJH7PubhR7cD668JXIIk/s748/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="748" height="442" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-xkQWKeuU6Jn3QbLIcbZJv8cJq2KKAtTJqfrqwKziNi8YiFmaLUaxIIxf1pULQjwxGlZ0j6-lA_GxuMoeIQTcRY1ImMnoul7KkQfGPqUeyH6d5tsj3F4pKPYTnYmffnkE-TwdZmMUUdPMTKbnUPQYFZHXtktOczy8ph2mO5CNJH7PubhR7cD668JXIIk/w644-h442/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" width="644" /></a></div><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoBodyText">
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON AMAZON</span></b></a></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><br /></p><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-68900617315472932142024-01-14T05:51:00.004-05:002024-02-05T05:19:27.296-05:00WHEN IT COMES TO SLOT MACHINES, JUST CALL ME "BAD LUCK BRESLIN!"<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A few months ago, after an eye exam that left me seeing
everything in a blur due to having my pupils dilated, my friend Dot, who’d
driven me to the exam, said, “Let’s go check out that new casino while we’re
here in Manchester. I keep seeing the ads on TV and I’m curious to find out
what it’s like.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Even though I was seeing double, maybe even triple, at
that point, I agreed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Perhaps my compromised vision was to blame, but compared to
the casinos with their crystal chandeliers and glitzy décor I’d previously visited in Las
Vegas and Connecticut, this one kind of resembled a drab warehouse with rows of
slot machines lined up along the walls. And it was so dark inside, I practically had to
feel my way to one of the stools in front of a machine. </span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEih96upvyY7cj5tuFv744o7CWN6wCWQDVmY_m9gZOoOCQ73_5X4dfnZIoUGeMLAxotpThyphenhyphenjSkIYLUs7C1WHV7yqXNwmf-ZTIqjCT1mOYV6khXR906iwtoK3qpnoQARtk64bbtmTcwH_ae57YyuWZ7rnidjC4G-EMSNzH57phWwqU9PjzDdTpr64tM3CRL/s399/casino.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="297" data-original-width="399" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEih96upvyY7cj5tuFv744o7CWN6wCWQDVmY_m9gZOoOCQ73_5X4dfnZIoUGeMLAxotpThyphenhyphenjSkIYLUs7C1WHV7yqXNwmf-ZTIqjCT1mOYV6khXR906iwtoK3qpnoQARtk64bbtmTcwH_ae57YyuWZ7rnidjC4G-EMSNzH57phWwqU9PjzDdTpr64tM3CRL/s320/casino.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>TALK ABOUT UNPRETENTIOUS!</b></td></tr></tbody></table><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I can’t see much of anything,” I said to Dot. Then I joked,
“But I suppose I’ll know when I win something if I hear coins pouring out into my tray.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Dot laughed. “When was the last time you went to a casino
anyway? They don’t have coins any more, or even tokens. You get a receipt or a
ticket to cash in.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’d forgotten about that. No more filling up cups and
buckets with coins or tokens and then taking them up to the payout booth. No
more noisy clanking sounds of coins hitting metal that usually made other
players nearby turn to stare with envy…or contempt.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Not that I’d ever heard much coin-clanking going on at any
of the slot machines I’d played in the past anyway. No, with me, it always had been more like that old song, “The Sound of Silence.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I certainly didn’t take after my mother (a.k.a. “Lucky
Fingers Della”) who never seemed to lose. Friends who’d been to Foxwoods Casino
with her always returned with stories about how she'd been able to stare at a line
of machines, point at one of them and say, “That one is about to pay off,” and
it would.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So when my mother invited me to go to Foxwoods with her
back in the late 1990s, I figured I had it made – that I’d come home with
enough cash to pay off my mortgage. After all, I was going to learn the ropes
from one of the best, so I couldn’t lose.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As usual, I’d figured wrong.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">First of all, I was a little apprehensive about going to a
casino. For years, I’d heard so much about New Hampshire not approving casino
gambling because it would attract the “criminal element,” I’d envisioned a
place overrun with men wearing black shirts, white ties, pin-striped suits and
black fedoras, with gun holsters strapped across their chests beneath their
jackets.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I was surprised when we walked into what looked like the
recreation hall at a nursing home. Sweet-looking, gray-haired grandmotherly
types were everywhere. I didn’t spot even one Al Capone look-alike. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My mother led me to a room filled with slot machines. It was
a slow day, so we pretty much had our pick of them.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Have fun!” Mom said, immediately rushing over to sit down
and start playing.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I did the same. Within 15 minutes, I’d lost $50. I got up
and walked over to see how my mother was doing. She’d already won 200 quarters and obviously was having a
wonderful time.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop thinking about
everything I could have done with the $50 I’d just blown…like buy groceries. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“This machine won’t pay again for a while,” my mother said,
finally rising from her seat. “Time to switch!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She moved to a different row of machines and inserted a $20
bill. Her smile quickly faded.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“This machine just gave me only half the credits it’s
supposed to!” she said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I moved closer so I could check it out. “That’s because it’s
a 50-cent machine, Mom, not a 25-cent one.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Oh! Well, I’m not about to play a 50-cent machine. The
money goes too fast that way. I’m going
to cash out my $20 and put it into a quarter machine.” But instead of hitting the “cash-out” button,
she accidentally hit the “spin” button…and won 100 half-dollars. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I rolled my eyes and groaned.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My mother’s good fortune inspired me to use my credit card
to get more money so I could continue to play.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Alas, even Houdini couldn’t have made my cash
vanish any faster.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Frustrated, I sat on the stool at one of the slot machines
and waited for my mother. As I was sitting there, I remembered seeing a TV
documentary about casinos and how all of them were set up with so many hidden
cameras, if you dared to even pick your nose or adjust your underwear, it would
be seen by the entire security staff. They even said the cameras could zoom in
on something as small as a freckle. The thought of my every move being watched
made me feel uneasy. I wondered if I could spot any of those so-called hidden
cameras in this particular casino.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I looked up at the ceiling, then left and right, and back up at
the ceiling. I didn’t see anything that stood out. But obviously the security
people saw me scrutinizing the place and must have thought I was planning to do
something sneaky (like feed a slug into a machine), because two men who looked
very “security-ish” approached and sat down at the slot machines on either side
of me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Having any luck?” one of them asked me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: arial;">“Nope,” I said. “I’ve already lost my shirt…and other
assorted articles of clothing.” </span><span style="font-family: arial;">I laughed at my own statement.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">They didn’t.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“My mother, Della, who’s over there, however,” I paused to
point at her, “is really cleaning up.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In retrospect, my choice of words probably could have been better. One of the security guys immediately went over to visit my
mother.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">They finally concluded that my mom and I weren’t Bonnie and
Clydella, and went on their way.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">An hour later, my mother, carrying two nearly overflowing
buckets of coins, decided she was ready to leave. “I just have to cash these
in,” she said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I won’t say I was jealous, but I was hoping she’d drop one
of the buckets so maybe I could scoop up a couple of the coins, quickly stuff
them into a slot machine and win a jackpot, so I wouldn’t have to go home
empty-handed to face my husband... who was going to be forced to eat canned spaghetti
for the next two weeks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My mother read my thoughts and reached into one of the
buckets and handed me a fistful of coins.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Here,” she said. “While I’m cashing out, have fun.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I rushed over to the nearest slot machine and shoved the
coins into it. The money disappeared so fast, it left skid marks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Back to the present...even though I’d like to say I had
better luck at the casino with Dot and won a big jackpot, I ended up just
breaking even…which, in my case, I suppose could be considered a major victory.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But if nothing else, experience has taught me a foolproof way
to play the slots and return home with a small fortune.</span></span></p><p>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Go there with a large fortune.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b># # #</b></span><span style="text-align: left; text-indent: 13pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is
a native New Englander and 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<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13pt;"><b><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL952u4PvC6Oo3E3HBZPSCMyHpzZMu6uG3LUgHDFB9BJx73hBJXxCqJJdgqfxHUp9VeePK9qRTrqIxckTYTqM1PNa4Hlkfg4CBfAvj9X9aere7eGV9nkGQz1Mo4icGL_5W4OB947A7FLPdFC1tNY9SY3xb4d98Yvaasjg5TDXR-u9islNUwhzWCR28eiu/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; 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font-size: medium;">As I am writing this, I’m holding my breath and typing as
fast as my arthritic fingers will allow, because I'm rushing to finish it
before the predicted big snowstorm strikes…and causes me to lose my Internet
connection.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That's because I live out in the wilderness. I'm talking
about hawks and coyotes eyeing the daily guests at my bird feeder. I'm also
talking about having to wait for the deer to move out of my way before I can
drive up my driveway. And due to this vast wilderness, the cable company I'd had
at my previous house, only five miles from here, hadn't even reached this area
yet when I first moved here.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I ended up with two satellite dishes, side by side on my
roof – one for TV and the other for the Internet. They constantly wage battles
with each other to see which one will stop working first whenever there is more
than one flake of snow or two drops of rain, both of which wreak havoc on the
signals. And when a really bad snowstorm strikes and covers the dishes with
snow, they end up looking like two giant white Mickey-Mouse ears perched on
my roof. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At that point, I'd probably get better reception using a wire
coat-hanger wrapped in aluminum foil.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, after a snowstorm, my satellite dishes are
destined to remain buried until the spring thaw. Call me a pessimist, but I think climbing a ladder so I can clear the snow from them is a
recipe for disaster. I can just picture myself clinging to an icy ladder and
then falling over backwards with the ladder landing on top of me...leaving an imprint in the snow that resembles a giant
snow-angel lying underneath railroad tracks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">A few years ago, when my first Internet satellite company
went out of business and I had to find a new one, the technician who came over
to assess my situation said, “We don’t install satellite dishes on the roof any
more. It’s more convenient to put them on the sides of the houses or even on
the ground, where people can reach them to clean them off in the winter.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I was pleased to hear that bit of good news. Finally, I
thought, I would have a reliable Internet connection throughout the winter
because I'd be able to clean the snow off the dish without risking the need for
any of my body parts to be surgically pinned back together.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The day of the installation, I was in the house when the
technician came in, smiling.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> “All done!” he said. “Your new dish is installed.
And guess what? I decided to bend the rules a bit and put the dish exactly
where your old one was, on the roof! No
sense drilling any new holes in your house when there were already some
ready-made ones right there for me to use.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Let's just say the smile I flashed at him was so forced, it
nearly cracked my face.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I'm still plagued with “lost signal” messages every time
I’m using my computer or trying to watch TV during a storm. Just prior to
losing the signal, however, my computer is kind enough to warn me it’s about to
happen…by completely locking me out. And my TV will freeze a program right in
the middle of the action…which actually looks kind of pretty, like an explosion
in a paint factory. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeFpHZFL30I7xcPDm4ca33B4iFuHknsucZ62IvCEyIOVZ4xE8bjs-BNyS_aRmC1jF8bEUoR1VFTUINBpxg2BT28HfIo7yb-UgdXTSytshb67U9ZHE-jsBs-op2R39ST489Lt0F7l1a7LxDNr4X8YWHDtGC4oqEZA_goT85CRAHGxo7Rp9eU83RV5UUSdc/s690/lost%20satellite%20signal.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="455" data-original-width="690" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpeFpHZFL30I7xcPDm4ca33B4iFuHknsucZ62IvCEyIOVZ4xE8bjs-BNyS_aRmC1jF8bEUoR1VFTUINBpxg2BT28HfIo7yb-UgdXTSytshb67U9ZHE-jsBs-op2R39ST489Lt0F7l1a7LxDNr4X8YWHDtGC4oqEZA_goT85CRAHGxo7Rp9eU83RV5UUSdc/s320/lost%20satellite%20signal.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And at those moments, I’m grateful it’s winter and the
windows are closed, because people in the next county probably would be able to
hear me having a loud “conversation” with either my TV or my computer, where
every other word should be bleeped.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">By the time winter ends, there is a strong possibility I’ll
either have destroyed my computer out of sheer frustration, or pegged a few big
rocks at my satellite dishes to “dislodge” the snow from them.</span></p><p>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">On the other hand, knowing my bad aim, I'll probably
end up accidentally knocking out one of the birds flying in to dine at my
feeder.</span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b># # #</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;"><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is
a native New Englander and 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. 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<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="color: #01ffff; font-size: x-large;"><b> </b></span><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><b></b></span><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-11325935842650513552023-12-26T15:26:00.000-05:002023-12-26T15:26:39.470-05:00NEW YEAR, SAME OLD WORN-OUT RESOLUTIONS...<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Once again, it’s time to make my annual New Year’s resolutions,
even though I already know I won’t keep any of them. That's because I usually make the same ones every year, due to my perfect track-record of failing miserably.</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It's pretty obvious the old saying, “Persistence pays off," doesn't
apply to me.</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So although my list of possible resolutions is lengthy, I’ve
decided to pick only two of them for 2024. I figure the fewer I have, the more
likely I'll be to succeed at keeping at least one of them. I mean, the odds are
50-50…I think.</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Also, another reason why I’m listing only two resolutions at this
moment is because one of the gifts I received this holiday season was a case of
some virulent stomach virus. So any minute now, I’ll probably be leaping over my two dogs and
sprinting to the bathroom. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At least if it continues much longer, I can skip my annual resolution to lose weight and get more exercise. </span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My first resolution is to stop wasting money on anti-aging
products. The time has come for me to realize the only thing that will take
years off my life and make me look young again is if someone invents a time
machine that actually works.</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I have so many anti-aging products and gadgets stuffed into my
bathroom cabinets, the wood on the doors actually is beginning to look new again. My
face, however, still looks as if I fell asleep on a waffle iron. And my neck is
so saggy, it’s a wonder I wasn’t shot during turkey-hunting season.</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I resolve to accept the fact that wrinkles and sagging are just a
natural part of aging and I'll have to learn how to peacefully co-exist with them (that is, unless I get
lucky enough to meet and marry a cosmetic surgeon before I turn into a giant
prune).</span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My second resolution is to motivate myself to pump my own
gas. The problem is my brain is still living in the era when people pulled into a gas station
and the attendant rushed right out, pumped gas for them, washed their vehicle’s
windshield, checked the oil and even gave them a free gift, like a drinking glass or a coffee
mug.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I always have stubbornly refused to pump my own gas. It
just doesn’t make sense to me that back when gas was only 35 cents a gallon, the gas-station attendants did everything short of performing show tunes for their patrons. But now that gas is about 10 times more expensive, we’re expected to
get out of our warm vehicles in sub-zero temperatures and risk getting
frostbite on various susceptible body parts while we stand there pumping our
own gas?</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This is why I still drive 34 miles out of my way to get gas at one of the very rare full-serve stations left in the state. With my luck, it might even be the last one in
existence (perish the thought!).</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Whenever I mention it to my friends, however, they laugh at me, shake their heads and say something like: "You're
crazy! You’re just wasting gas and money driving that far! Pumping your own
gas is a snap, and much cheaper in the long run."</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sure, I know they’re probably right, but it’s the principle of the
thing. If I’m going to start pumping my own gas, then I think it’s only fair to
expect a reward for my efforts, like the aforementioned free glass or coffee
mug.</span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After all, if I’m saving the station’s employees from getting
frostbite on <i>their </i>susceptible body parts, then it should be worth at least <i>something</i> to them, right?</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sorry, gotta run now!</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">#<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>#<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>#</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Happy New Year to all of my readers! Here’s hoping 2024
will bring you happiness, good health, love and prosperity...and a whole bunch
of other great stuff! </span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><br /><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8Q7gSndxWWBEOn3loHhdILPHF5XcDFzID9YSR-y2nzaMqur-ynTFHGgcslSAo3DGZoXG8JkN7JLmFCfX9v_QbWaB5o2YT_IulgrLv0iE2M7Eht53TaTTxy3vR1CbJJtjVozr89BL2UilMXQhFNg_iFkUjrWBXCWazy3OmlgeGuuAWB6zL2OQlyOdDCKc/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="524" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiF8Q7gSndxWWBEOn3loHhdILPHF5XcDFzID9YSR-y2nzaMqur-ynTFHGgcslSAo3DGZoXG8JkN7JLmFCfX9v_QbWaB5o2YT_IulgrLv0iE2M7Eht53TaTTxy3vR1CbJJtjVozr89BL2UilMXQhFNg_iFkUjrWBXCWazy3OmlgeGuuAWB6zL2OQlyOdDCKc/w524-h524/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="524" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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font-family: arial;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><br /></span></div><div style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: xx-large; font-weight: 700; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-91537861579267362802023-12-19T12:21:00.000-05:002023-12-19T12:21:20.267-05:00MY MOTHER ALWAYS LOVED TO BUY UNUSUAL CHRISTMAS GIFTS<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My mother,
bless her soul, was the queen of "unique" when it came to buying Christmas gifts. Each year, she would spend weeks searching for things she was certain no one possibly
could already own.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And I'm pretty sure there was a good reason why they didn’t.<br />
<br />
Don’t get me wrong. Whenever I gave Mom my Christmas list, she was excellent at
tracking down even the hardest-to-find items on it. And her taste in clothing was so great, if I asked for a sweater, I knew the one she'd pick out for me would be
gorgeous.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But Mom also was in the habit of straying from the list and adding a few of her own original gift ideas…as an unexpected surprise.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And they definitely were a surprise. Believe me, there was no way I (or anyone else) could shake one of those boxes and <i>ever</i> guess what was inside.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Take, for example, the duck
remote-control holder she bought for my husband one year. It was a stuffed
vinyl Mallard that had a cloth pocket-flap attached to each side of it. You could insert a TV Guide into the flap's pockets on one side, and a remote, canned
beverage and probably a side of beef into the ones on the other side. The duck was filled with
something that weighed it down, like the beans in beanbags, and was supposed to
sit on the arm of a chair or sofa, with the flaps hanging down over each side.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOuhNWCPWLAhuEFVYo8NerRYzJggHxFknVYBTUH01lY7WenmgnWI-uYHTUqTQ6hiE-YWCqTcixm907vL7zuDlWQ1Mw7VpXpZzL8Ps3f1-VXbkeaunx-jjsOHzb6LicG7dVwp6sMBm5o3VQxse5i__qVKfwI1msjUlF-_RM4H7ab1WMx-fSZJVduUdONed/s445/duck%20remote,%20no%20box.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="445" data-original-width="354" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvOuhNWCPWLAhuEFVYo8NerRYzJggHxFknVYBTUH01lY7WenmgnWI-uYHTUqTQ6hiE-YWCqTcixm907vL7zuDlWQ1Mw7VpXpZzL8Ps3f1-VXbkeaunx-jjsOHzb6LicG7dVwp6sMBm5o3VQxse5i__qVKfwI1msjUlF-_RM4H7ab1WMx-fSZJVduUdONed/s320/duck%20remote,%20no%20box.JPG" width="255" /></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">
When my husband opened the gift, I could tell by his strained expression it wasn’t exactly love at first sight. Not wanting to hurt my mom’s feelings,
however, he smiled and plunked the duck down on the arm of his recliner, then
shoved a remote control and a TV Guide into the flaps.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I tried not to laugh when I
saw the duck perched there next to my husband. For one thing, he always used both armrests, so I doubted he'd enjoy having to share one with a stuffed duck.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Why a duck anyway?” he asked me the next night after he’d stretched out in his
recliner and accidentally hit the duck with his arm and knocked it onto the
floor for the umpteenth time. He glared at it. “What does a duck have to do
with holding a remote control anyway? A kangaroo would have made more sense!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">
“I don’t know,” I said. “But just make sure you keep that duck on your chair. When my mom drops by, you'll hurt her feelings if it's not there."<br />
<br />
The very next morning I got up to find a gasp-worthy scene in the living
room. On the rug lay the duck, decapitated, with its innards strewn from one
end of the living room to the other.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span>My first thought was my
husband had committed duck-icide.<br />
<br />
I rushed back into the bedroom to confront him. “What did you do to the duck? And what are we going to tell my mother?"<br />
<br />
Half asleep, he opened one eye. “What on earth are you talking about?”<br />
<br />
“The duck she bought for you! It’s lying </span>in pieces on the rug! I don’t even
know where its head is!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">
He sat up and smiled. “Really? The duck’s been mutilated? You wouldn’t kid me
about something like that, would you?”<br />
<br />
As if on cue, one of our dogs came trotting into the room...with the duck’s
head in her teeth. I thought my husband was going to kiss her.<br />
<br />
“You didn’t smear that duck with Alpo before you went to bed, did you?” I
narrowed my eyes at him.<br />
<br />
He laughed. “No, the dog is just smart, that’s all.”<br />
<br />
My mother must have had a fondness for birds, because the next Christmas she
bought me a stuffed parrot that contained some kind of a recording device that
enabled it to repeat everything it heard.<br />
<br />
“Hello!” I said to the parrot after my mom, smiling broadly, told me to try it.<br />
<br />
“Hello!” its squawky voice came back at me. When it spoke, its beak opened and
closed and its mechanical wings flapped.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span>Mom giggled and clapped her
hands together. “Say something else!”</span><span> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>“Say something else!”</i> the parrot repeated, to Mom’s obvious delight.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Back when I was in grade school, there was a bully named Gary who got a kick out of repeating everything I said, mocking me until I wanted to kick him. Unfortunately, the parrot immediately reminded me of Gary.<br />
<br />
“My name is Sally,” I said. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_bsmwJF6HENqm83GDF9cQL8bjrtss8myQE9oAlITu4xlBTRCE9Kjq2MD4AgRrgQL7JbRg1xg4GA9u1Z80F-eKktZB_4iutuDUdmiUcCKaxOOZTDWCybohmVypOZwkmiCvORZg2iob4p8vNkmL20dyUSWsgl-jq-uRBqZAebMtG3FWXmBSLTm2TLWQwPr/s289/parrot%20gift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="289" data-original-width="281" height="289" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix_bsmwJF6HENqm83GDF9cQL8bjrtss8myQE9oAlITu4xlBTRCE9Kjq2MD4AgRrgQL7JbRg1xg4GA9u1Z80F-eKktZB_4iutuDUdmiUcCKaxOOZTDWCybohmVypOZwkmiCvORZg2iob4p8vNkmL20dyUSWsgl-jq-uRBqZAebMtG3FWXmBSLTm2TLWQwPr/s1600/parrot%20gift.jpg" width="281" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">
<br /><i>
“My name is Sally!”</i> the annoying bird said back to me.<br />
<br />
The minute our dog, Sabre, heard the strange, nasally voice, she started
barking at it.<br />
<br />
“Aarrff! Aarrff! Grrrrr!”<br />
<br />
The parrot immediately responded with, <i>“Aarrff! Aarrff! Grrrrr!”<br /></i>
<br />
Sabre obviously didn’t appreciate being mocked. She shot her most threatening
Cujo-style growls at the parrot. It shot the same growls right back, which only
served to agitate her even more.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span>I figured that in dog talk,
Sabre probably had been telling the parrot, “Shut up or <i>die,</i> bird brain!” So
when the parrot repeated it, he was telling her the same thing.<br />
<br />Before we knew what was happening, Sabre had the parrot in her mouth, and f</span>ake feathers went flying everywhere. Within seconds, the bird joined my husband’s duck as a member of the
decapitation club. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After witnessing the carnage, my mother pretty much stuck to our Christmas
lists from then on and refrained from buying us any more bird or animal-themed gifts.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That is, until she
discovered Chia Pets…</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b><span># # #</span></b><b><span> </span></b></span></p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b><div><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br /></span></i></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0qCelMtyNJVkj2DzfjJ0AdnoELHzGzGwxoXQMgImbj62FRjrbjuaxxBEpP44zZ0zSSTdjO4RytJLMhuS2C07g0YONCEhqU0WJy7np0Mpx4vdKhYec7MF7Z5EGacpLk_L8zOZ-vmOe-XnZyRPHM4TlrflciZcQXl9FdLTTsT2L6bV3nt1skOhcBdgQKiPW/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON AMAZON</span></b></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-56132082241240132092023-12-11T08:49:00.001-05:002023-12-11T08:49:22.907-05:00MY FURNACE IS HARBORING THE SPIRIT OF SCROOGE<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My
furnace has taken its usual cue and decided to act up right before Christmas,
which has become a tradition that often forces me to spend most of my
gift-shopping budget on furnace parts.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">This
year the situation is weirder than usual, however. During the past two months,
every time I’ve been outside and the furnace popped on, a strong odor of
chlorine wafted out of the exhaust vent.</span></p><p class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It’s puzzling because I very rarely use anything with
chlorine in it. I can remember my mother always bleaching the white items in
the laundry when I was growing up, but because I’m so pale, I haven’t worn
anything white since my wedding day. Also, my furnace runs on propane gas,
which smells like hard-boiled eggs, not chlorine.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So
because my sense of smell has been messed up ever since I had Covid last year,
I just ignored the odor, thinking my nose was playing tricks on me. I mean,
sometimes I can smell fresh flowers in the house when the closest thing I have
to a flower in here is a fake potted-plant.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But
a couple of weeks ago, one of my friends dropped by for a visit and mentioned
she’d smelled chlorine when she walked by the vent.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At
that point, I figured I was in trouble. I did some research online and the
results ranged from “when the furnace pops on, it briefly releases ozone, which
smells like chlorine, which is normal,” to "Wires in your furnace’s motor
can overheat and smell like chlorine. Call a service technician immediately to
avoid a fire!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
opted to call a service technician…just to be safe…and to prevent my house from
becoming a pile of ashes in time for Christmas.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Three
technicians later, I still was hearing the same response: “Never heard of such
a thing. Have you been using cleaners with bleach in them near the furnace?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“No.
The only smell I have in my basement is mildew.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Finally,
one technician said he would come check things out…in three weeks. By then, I
thought, I could become a charcoal briquette. But having no other option, I
agreed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Do
you <i>really</i> want someone to come over to check out your furnace when he’s
already admitted he's never even heard of such a problem?" my friend asked
me when I updated her. "You're leaving yourself wide open for him to
charge you for a bunch of stuff you don’t even need. He’s probably leafing
through a how-to manual at this very minute so he can make a list of parts.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Well,
I’m hoping he at least will be able to tell me if the wires are overheating,” I
said.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“And
if they aren’t,” she said, "he'll find some other reason for the odor,
even if he has to invent something, just to make a sale.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">She
wasn’t exactly filling me with optimism.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anyway,
as I await the technician's visit and his verdict, I once again find myself
afraid to spend any more money on Christmas gifts in case I do have to pay for
some expensive furnace part(s). And this leads me to suffer a bad case of déjà
vu.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Below is a newspaper column I wrote back in late November of 2005, to show you what
I mean. Back then, I lived in a different house and had an oil furnace, but it
doesn’t matter. Some things never change...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><h1 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">THE COLD SHOULDER </span></h1><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Two weeks ago, I
got out of bed on a chilly Saturday morning, padded out to the living room and
turned up the thermostat to 68 degrees. I then waited for the familiar sound of
the furnace kicking on.<br />
<br />
Nothing happened.<br />
<br />
I cranked up the thermostat to 80. Still nothing.<br />
<br />
I opened my mouth to shout to my sleeping husband, but then changed my mind.
First, I decided, I would try everything possible to get the furnace to pop on.
If I failed, then, and only then, would I wake up Rip Van Breslin.<br />
<br />
First I checked the oil tank. The gauge said it was half full. Then I checked
the circuit breakers. They were fine. Finally, I hit the furnace’s reset
button. Nothing happened. There was only one thing left to do…write two
obituaries – one for the furnace and one for myself…if I dared to wake up my
husband on a Saturday morning.<br />
<br />
In a last-ditch effort, I called my cousin, a heating/refrigeration technician,
and asked for advice. He ran through the list of everything I’d already done,
then said there was one more thing I could try.<br />
<br />
“You know those two screws on the motor that are holding the wires down? Well,
sometimes you can jump-start the furnace if you take a pair of needle-nose
pliers and touch the two screws with them at the same time.”<br />
<br />
“Won’t I get a shock if I do that?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Yeah, but it will only be a mild one.”<br />
<br />
I woke up my husband.<br />
<br />
“We’re not calling a repairman till Monday,” he said after he tried and
failed to get the furnace to pop on. “They charge double, even triple on
weekends. I’d rather wear a hat and long-johns around the house than pay all of
that extra money for nothing. Besides that, the furnace is practically new. It can’t be
broken!”<br />
<br />
“Well, I hate to say it,” I said, “but the blue tint on my lips and my teeth chattering
like castanets are a pretty good indication it just might be!”<br />
<br />
So all weekend, I suffered with a frozen nose and a bloated bladder (from
drinking 400 cups of hot tea to keep my body from stiffening up).<br />
<br />
The repairman arrived on Monday afternoon and spent a lot of time fiddling with
the furnace. At one point, he actually got it to pop on, only to have it drop dead again. This continued until he
finally got so frustrated, he muttered a few things under his breath and called
for backup. Another repairman arrived within 15 minutes.<br />
<br />
Together, the two of them stared at the furnace as if it were a UFO. “I think
it’s the heat sensor,” one of them said. “And let’s change the nozzle, just to
be safe.”<br />
<br />
An hour later, the familiar sound of the furnace running filled the house,
followed by the long-awaited blast of warm air. I removed my scarf and
earmuffs.<br />
<br />
“That should take care of it,” one of the repairmen said. “If not, be sure to
give us a call.”<br />
<br />
“How much do I owe you?” I asked, bracing myself for cardiac arrest.<br />
<br />
He shrugged. “You’ll get a bill in the mail.”<br />
<br />
I didn’t like the sound of that. Visions of them leisurely sipping coffee and
taking extra time to add every little nut, bolt and screw to my bill, filled my
head. Christmas shopping, I decided, would have to be put on hold until that
bill arrived.<br />
<br />
A week later, I still hadn’t received the bill, so I got up that morning with
every intention of calling the billing office and asking about my balance.
First, however, I turned up the heat.<br />
<br />
The furnace made three loud booming sounds, then coughed and died. The strong
smell of oil began to fill the house. The furnace struggled to pop on again but
only made a helicopter sound. I, picturing my house going airborne and landing
somewhere in Munchkin Land, dashed to the furnace’s emergency shut-off switch
and flipped it. Then I called the repairman.<br />
<br />
I was put on hold for 45 minutes.<br />
<br />
There have been only a few times in my life when I’ve been really angry, like
the time I found out that my supposedly sick boyfriend actually had taken my
best friend to a drive-in movie, but I honestly can say that after minute
number 35 on hold, I was feeling just about that angry. In fact, I was so hot
under the collar, I didn’t even need the dumb furnace.<br />
<br />
The same repairman arrived two hours later. This time, he decided it was a
clogged fuel line. Maybe it was sediment from the bottom of the tank, he said.
Or maybe it was a kink in the line. Or maybe it was air in the line. Or maybe
it was a clump of jellified oil.<br />
<br />
I was waiting for him to say that maybe a rattlesnake had crawled up into it
and died, but he stopped talking and set to work clearing the line.<br />
<br />
The furnace, knock on wood, has been purring like a kitten ever since.<br />
<br />
And I’m still waiting for both repair bills.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I have the
sneaking suspicion I’ll be doing all of my Christmas shopping at Dollar Tree
this year.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">#
# #<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b></p><p><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvQgSxu1IK4I0_7rP1_ZMOysBMLZiw-JqRG5DGpe9IK0Hi7wm8TgRgjAxz4dP2eGNfDcqCOBpJ1iWe59y76w99RQGNlGO-iFhVLPeeKqS0p7IaJyZ9Zct_Dyiewj5hX41FBDwg4GmRVO9g72aLp-rnxTSX-4YyEovko_Sc9RNTdpa9G6aPBHoHVBBLWRn/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="493" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmvQgSxu1IK4I0_7rP1_ZMOysBMLZiw-JqRG5DGpe9IK0Hi7wm8TgRgjAxz4dP2eGNfDcqCOBpJ1iWe59y76w99RQGNlGO-iFhVLPeeKqS0p7IaJyZ9Zct_Dyiewj5hX41FBDwg4GmRVO9g72aLp-rnxTSX-4YyEovko_Sc9RNTdpa9G6aPBHoHVBBLWRn/w493-h493/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="493" /></a></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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font-weight: 700;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON AMAZON</span></a><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-13274347788650400632023-12-04T07:55:00.001-05:002023-12-04T07:55:15.799-05:00IF IT SOUNDS TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE...BEWARE! THAT OLD ADVICE STILL HOLDS TRUE.<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Recently, one of my friends who collects realistic-looking baby dolls spent over $100 on one that was advertised as looking so real, it
was guaranteed to make people think it was a genuine newborn. In fact, the doll in the photo in the advertisement resembled an actual living, breathing
baby.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In retrospect, it probably was.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What my friend ended up receiving was a package from China
(even though the company’s address was listed as being in New York) that contained a cheap
plastic doll that looked as if someone had won it at a carnival after hitting a
balloon with a dart.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I really could empathize with how she felt, mainly
because of something that happened to me back in the 1950s…when I was an
impressionable young child.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And it still causes me trauma to this day.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I blame it on those evil, deceiving comic-book
advertisements that crushed thousands of children’s spirits back then. After
all, if you can’t trust an ad in a <i>Little Lulu</i> comic book, then what <i>can</i>
you trust?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I probably sound overly dramatic, but I feel justified.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Growing up, I loved dolls so much, I couldn't get enough of them. My dolls all had
names and I treated them as if I were their mother. I talked to them, sang to
them and slept with them. And on Christmas Eve, I even hung up stockings
for them so Santa would fill them...(<i>enter devious chuckling here</i>).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So when I was about nine years old and saw this
advertisement in the back of one my comic books, my eyes grew as big as saucers
and my heartbeat increased.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06F5gcF4Sl0N2Pp5j4zryctT2Yo3zkxvqyhrKUj7WEJkfOLMhKKnjoSVJkGlwniyEVnGpJ56wnLJxmEhX5nIVPS7pWLCVPaN0GfseEWaPFBlCal9yAcbb2xA4MhQGCkOZY580QPGt_twMIB0OkGk26_24wnKFDbl2YdYdGh6aBbQw-Kkos37QEopxKx-Z/s562/100%20dolls%20ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="471" data-original-width="562" height="372" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj06F5gcF4Sl0N2Pp5j4zryctT2Yo3zkxvqyhrKUj7WEJkfOLMhKKnjoSVJkGlwniyEVnGpJ56wnLJxmEhX5nIVPS7pWLCVPaN0GfseEWaPFBlCal9yAcbb2xA4MhQGCkOZY580QPGt_twMIB0OkGk26_24wnKFDbl2YdYdGh6aBbQw-Kkos37QEopxKx-Z/w445-h372/100%20dolls%20ad.jpg" width="445" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I ran to my mother, who was watching her soap opera, and
waved the comic book in her face just as Patty was about to confess something
shocking to her mother on TV.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Please, Mommy!” I begged. “Can I get these dolls? I really,
really, <i>really</i> want them!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My mother took the comic book from me and scanned the ad.
She then read the details as I held my breath and stared, not even blinking at
her.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">There was no way she could refuse, I told myself. I mean, a
<i>hundred</i> dolls made of Styrene (whatever that was!) for only a dollar? Where
else could you buy dolls for only a penny each?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Granted, a dollar was a lot of money back then. It could buy
20 full-sized candy bars, or admission to a double-feature movie, including a
box of popcorn and a box of Milk Duds.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But heck, that wasn't nearly as exciting as having a hundred
dolls!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I don’t know..." my mother said, frowning, after she'd
finished reading the ad. "You know what they say about something that
sounds too good to be true…it usually is."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“But <i>look</i> at them!” I said, beginning to feel
desperate and pointing at the ad. “They have dancers, cowboys, babies and clowns!
I could play with them and make my own town!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“That’s not a real picture of them, though,” Mom said. “It's
only a drawing. So you don't know what the dolls really look like.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When she saw my look of disappointment, she finally sighed
and said, “You’ll have to save your allowance. Once you have a dollar, then
I’ll send away for them for you, OK?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My allowance was only a quarter a week, so to me, saving a
whole dollar seemed as if would take months, maybe even years.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That night, when my dad got home from work, I showed the
advertisement to him – mainly because I knew he was a soft touch. Within five
minutes, I had a dollar bill in my greedy little paws.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And as promised, Mom sent for the dolls. Every day after she
did, I practically stalked the mailman. I was on summer vacation from school,
so I was able to keep a close watch on the mailbox.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Finally, after my patience completely had run out, the mailman delivered a package to me. But instead of the squeals of delight I’d anticipated
would be my reaction, I only stared silently at it. My expression was one of
total confusion.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The package wasn’t even the size of a box of tissues. How, I
wondered, could 100 dolls possibly be in a box that small? One doll, maybe, but
<i>no</i> way could 100 ever fit in there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Unfortunately, I was wrong. When my mother and I opened the
box, it contained mostly packing material. The dolls were in a plastic bag
about the size of a modern-day sandwich bag. When I saw the actual dolls, I burst
into tears. In my naïve little mind, I had envisioned them as being actual
dolls wearing real dresses and colorful outfits.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But all of the dolls and their outfits were made of the
same pale-pink plastic and were so tiny, they looked as if they had come straight out of a gum
machine. And they all were standing on bases, which hadn't been shown in the original ad.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis9ZrjBJhqeGcZE4Mcv7t1C5ewkA2mCE_9a028z-iWSM-8RoayR4BEW4rw7eJFeUfTIiPdt-vH3mwTT0qXr_LfUYdu2Gw-U0Z5_ToVzFGxDpbX0xQdWGfbP4erYKB-Sq0sP3lo1WZdN49nBaqQROb0XCzKOcuNLCXQDxm3-nGldM83odXsRHfxZ8syvuOu/s351/100%20dolls%20in%20box.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="351" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis9ZrjBJhqeGcZE4Mcv7t1C5ewkA2mCE_9a028z-iWSM-8RoayR4BEW4rw7eJFeUfTIiPdt-vH3mwTT0qXr_LfUYdu2Gw-U0Z5_ToVzFGxDpbX0xQdWGfbP4erYKB-Sq0sP3lo1WZdN49nBaqQROb0XCzKOcuNLCXQDxm3-nGldM83odXsRHfxZ8syvuOu/w427-h426/100%20dolls%20in%20box.JPG" width="427" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My mother didn’t look too pleased either. She frowned at the
bag of dolls and said what I knew she was going to say but had hoped she
wouldn’t…"I <i>told</i> you the ad sounded too good to be true. But honestly, I'm
really sorry I was right.” She arched a brow at me and forced a smile as she
added, “Maybe we can have fun painting their outfits, though. How about
that?" </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I was much too upset to be interested at that point. I
didn’t ever want to look at those cheap, plastic, gum-machine dolls again.
They, in my opinion, didn’t even deserve the honor of being called dolls. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Still, the advertisers in the comic books didn’t care or
have any conscience, because they continued to dupe young kids for years. My
cousin, for example, not long after I received my crappy dolls, begged his
parents for this log-cabin playhouse he saw advertised in the back of a comic book. When they said
yes, he practically danced a jig, he was so excited. He even told a bunch of
his friends that after it arrived, they could come play “Davy Crockett” in it
with him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcDiBsjqd1DFyYvdyMupg38T9KysN74H-Ne7pV-02roUjOvWdMgPqRx1qhKhcjuBLU3VIS08ttFUNZp2OdcUo5L-fz8n1Z4nHnex1tfgSqLHbRrJtDkdt-PfYp39vDTeRHBSpImzmxdr1IO5zaQ6jvvvXB6haC2SQ4bYLzCKA3kjTMnJUYVvEuNFtTyqB6/s455/log%20cabin%20ad.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="350" data-original-width="455" height="496" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcDiBsjqd1DFyYvdyMupg38T9KysN74H-Ne7pV-02roUjOvWdMgPqRx1qhKhcjuBLU3VIS08ttFUNZp2OdcUo5L-fz8n1Z4nHnex1tfgSqLHbRrJtDkdt-PfYp39vDTeRHBSpImzmxdr1IO5zaQ6jvvvXB6haC2SQ4bYLzCKA3kjTMnJUYVvEuNFtTyqB6/w646-h496/log%20cabin%20ad.JPG" width="646" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What ended up arriving, however, was a large manila envelope
that contained a folded, thin plastic sheet with a picture of a cabin printed
on it. The instructions said to drape it over a table and then crawl underneath
the table.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">My cousin didn't even want to show his face in school after that, he was so humiliated. I honestly felt sorry for him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But on the other hand, at least I had someone to commiserate with.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That is, u</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: large;">ntil I saw the ad for sea monkeys...</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> # # #</span></b></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText"><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is
a native New Englander and 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</span><o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><b> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-size: x-large;"> FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQFQiU_x1qXaSIDpYm0rXrXOHZ6SLnc_JKQTl4z4U20TzQXocXDwtxWa0MJXfJZZZV0rPUiBpTUPVbLLRmI9IQhazYCTdGE85nTIvRTTtbUmK550KrHJIwSrCrA-BBXYXzZ-uwRu4hq4DjsN1SWtDVx93EGvuaOBzBXX2miaus5_dMwJyV-50NzIZxCzyU/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="485" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQFQiU_x1qXaSIDpYm0rXrXOHZ6SLnc_JKQTl4z4U20TzQXocXDwtxWa0MJXfJZZZV0rPUiBpTUPVbLLRmI9IQhazYCTdGE85nTIvRTTtbUmK550KrHJIwSrCrA-BBXYXzZ-uwRu4hq4DjsN1SWtDVx93EGvuaOBzBXX2miaus5_dMwJyV-50NzIZxCzyU/w485-h485/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="485" /></a></b></div><b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Heed-Predictor-Sally-Breslin-ebook/dp/B00Q639U38/ref=sr_1_9?crid=1ZE9DVMFITO8R&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1677574246&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C1602&sr=1-9"><span style="font-family: arial; 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<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><br /><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-14131048627842621782023-11-27T08:20:00.001-05:002023-11-27T08:20:34.471-05:00SOMEONE'S KNOCKING AT THE DOOR...SOMEBODY'S RINGING THE BELL<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Arial Unicode MS";"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Last Monday morning, the week of Thanksgiving, I was cozy and warm in bed when my
dogs suddenly barked and woke me up. I barely managed to pry my eyes open when
the doorbell rang, which incited another round of frenzied barking.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Well,
there was no way I was about to crawl out of bed and open the door. For one
thing, I had no idea who was out there. Anyone who <i>knows</i> me is fully aware I'm
not a morning person. So that meant it probably was a stranger.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Like
a guy selling driveway paving because he had some leftover asphalt from his
previous job.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Or
an escaped criminal looking for a hideout.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Or
a hungry bear looking for…well, just about anything.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Secondly,
if I answered the door looking the way I usually do when I first wake up in the
morning – thermal pajamas, hair curlers, face cream, and my bangs sticking up
like porcupine quills – I’d frighten away anyone who was out there…including
the bear.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So
I didn’t budge.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Within
a few seconds, the doorbell stopped ringing, the dogs stopped barking and I
rolled over and went back to sleep. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">About
45 minutes later, however, the doorbell rang again. By then, I was feeling
slightly irritated, especially since my dogs were acting as if a UFO had just
landed on the front lawn and alien beings were surrounding the house.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But
this time, the doorbell ringer wasn’t satisfied with just the usual “ding dong." No,
it was "ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong-ding-dong" in rapid succession.
And when all of those dings and dongs failed to elicit any response from me, I
heard the visitor walk back and force across my porch, then switch to
knocking…loudly…also in rapid succession.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When
it continued, I became annoyed – so annoyed, I no longer cared how I looked. I
got out of bed, shoved my feet into my fleecy slippers and stomped out to the
living room. The front door has an outer storm door, which I also keep locked,
so I felt safe enough to open the inside door just a crack.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
did consider shouting “Who is it?” first, but finally, I just creaked open the
door about two inches.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Never
would I have guessed who was standing there.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It
was a police officer…a tall, young and handsome police officer. In fact, I had
to stop and think about what occasion it might be that would inspire one of my
friends to play a joke on me and embarrass me by sending over one of those male exotic dancers who dressed like a cop.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But this officer turned out to be a real policeman (darn
it!).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He asked if I was Sally and then, “Are you okay?" </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Why, I wondered, would he be asking me that? Had I slept so
soundly, some natural disaster had struck while I was snoring? Or maybe there
was a vicious, drooling, wild animal (or person?) running rampant on my
property?</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I’m fine,” I said. "I was sleeping."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I think the fact I wouldn’t open the door any wider than a
crack made him think I might be hiding a fugitive or someone in the house,
because he stretched his neck to look past me and into the living room.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Sorry to wake you,”
he said. “But we received a call to do a wellness check on you. The caller said
he hadn’t seen you or heard from you in weeks.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I hadn’t expected that one. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>“Weeks?”</i> I repeated. “I can’t think of anyone I haven't been
in touch with, and I'm always posting stuff on social media. Also, I take my
daily walk around the neighborhood and say hi to or wave at everyone."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Well, I'm glad you're all right. Sorry again to disturb
you. Have a nice day."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I closed the door, locked it and went back to bed, but my
eyes were wider than an owl’s by then, and my heart was pounding like a
jackhammer. There was no way I was going to get any sleep until I found out who had requested the wellness check.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I got up and called the local police department. When I
gave my name to the woman who answered, she said, "Oh, Sally! I'm so glad
you're all right! I was worried about you when I saw your name!"</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">To be honest, it made feel good to know that people were so
concerned about me. I’ve often had visions of myself lying on the basement
floor after tumbling down the stairs, and not being found until the spiders
down there had completely wrapped me in webs, like a mummy.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I asked the woman if she could tell me who'd contacted the police about me, and she gave me the information – a very nice couple who live
about a mile up the road from me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I thanked her and then called the couple. The husband
answered and was happy to hear I was still kicking. He then explained he’d been
out walking his dog and noticed I hadn’t picked up my Sunday newspaper in the
tube out by my mailbox. He said he was worried I’d fallen or that something bad
had happened to me, so he rang my doorbell to check on me. When there was no
answer, he phoned the police. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Well, that explained it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I also hadn’t put my trash out for the weekly Monday-morning
pickup because there was only one bag in the container (which is big enough to
house a family of four), so I figured I could be lazy and wait another week. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In retrospect, that probably didn’t help much either. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I thanked the couple and told them I really appreciated
their concern...and I truly meant it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In fact, they can call back that same police officer to come
check on me again any time they’d like.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># # #</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><b><i><span style="font-family: arial;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span><o:p></o:p></i></b></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p>
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font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-weight: 700;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2"><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON AMAZON</span></a><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>CLICK TO VIEW SAMPLE CHAPTERS OR BUY ON SMASHWORDS</b></span></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-39955364247929262242023-11-20T07:27:00.001-05:002023-11-28T17:46:39.212-05:00THE "H" IN THE NECKLACE MUST HAVE STOOD FOR "HELL"<p> </p><p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiAQI8XZ1ob6HuB43tj-Ym4ioNIknfLypzwxA_hEEndKZQprv11VaAmuo47tVnljy2hIHwe6fLY81GOYWNC0FboT9azkBywflUJABiQXRmXCImqMfTjkGKC44eiJN9N5_JitJN9z8nY13qb13_ysmEzz7kEijLkx_XnOQChjkDyvQl1GNKQptVk15KvO-h/s432/ladder%20necklace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="192" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiAQI8XZ1ob6HuB43tj-Ym4ioNIknfLypzwxA_hEEndKZQprv11VaAmuo47tVnljy2hIHwe6fLY81GOYWNC0FboT9azkBywflUJABiQXRmXCImqMfTjkGKC44eiJN9N5_JitJN9z8nY13qb13_ysmEzz7kEijLkx_XnOQChjkDyvQl1GNKQptVk15KvO-h/s320/ladder%20necklace.jpg" width="142" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>LADDER NECKLACE</b></td></tr></tbody></table></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It’s that time of year again when I have to start thinking
about Christmas shopping. And believe me, just the thought of it causes my
palms to get clammy and my heart to race.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Every Christmas season I struggle for weeks until I finally
come up with what I feel certain is a perfect gift for each person on my gift
list…only to have it turn out to be a complete disaster.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For example, I still vividly remember the year I decided to
buy my mother a necklace she had seen a woman wearing and raved about, saying she would love to have one like it. Her description of it turned out to be something called a
ladder-style necklace, which was popular at the time. The pendant resembled a tiny gold ladder, narrower at the top and wider at the bottom. About two-thirds of the way down the ladder, there was a rung with a diamond on it. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I figured that for once, it would be a snap to buy my mother a
gift she was certain to love...and with no racking of my brain involved.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And once again, I’d figured wrong.<br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I searched in the fine-jewelry departments in two big department
stores, and then in two jewelry stores...with no luck. Finally, I entered a third
jewelry store. A sales clerk who was at the far end of the store spotted me and made the
20-yard dash in two seconds flat. I barely had set one eye on the display case of diamond
necklaces when she leaned over the counter and gushed, “Aren’t they all just
beee-yoo-tiful?” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I frowned and sighed. “Sorry, no, they’re not. The necklace I want isn’t
here.” I turned to leave.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Wait!” the clerk called out (obviously eager to still snag a commission). “I’ll get our goldsmith. He can make you anything you want.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Before I could open my mouth to protest (because I knew
anything that had to be specially made would require me to rob a bank to pay
for it), the goldsmith appeared, asking me to describe the necklace I
wanted. I did, and after I was done, he took a pen and pad of paper out of his
pocket and quickly sketched something.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Is this it?” he asked, holding up the pad.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">His drawing of the pendant was perfect, absolutely perfect. I was
impressed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I can have this for you in three days,” he said. He then
quoted a price that was far below what I’d anticipated. I ordered the necklace.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>Eight</i> days later, I received a call from a woman at the jewelry
store. “Your necklace is ready!” she excitedly said. “It’s absolutely gorgeous! Stunning!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t wait for you to see it!” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rushed over to the
mall.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The goldsmith, smiling with pride, showed me a necklace. It
was a solitaire diamond, bezel set, dangling from a big gold triangle through which a chain was strung. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">What do you think?” he asked.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“It’s lovely,” I said, feeling just slightly impatient. “But
I’m really anxious to see my necklace, so please, don’t keep me waiting any
longer!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The goldsmith’s face dropped. “This IS your necklace.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I just stared at him, waiting for him to tell me he was
joking. Unfortunately, he was serious.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Do you still have that sketch you drew for me?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I asked. He quickly retrieved it. I took it from him and looked at it, then laid it on the counter and set the necklace right next to it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“So tell me honestly,” I said. “Do you <i>really</i> think this necklace
resembles the one in the sketch?” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He shrugged and shook his head. “No, but it’s still a beautiful necklace,
so you shouldn’t be disappointed.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Again, I just stared at him. I suspected he'd either forgotten all about making my necklace or he'd tried and thought it was too much work, so he'd just grabbed some other necklace he'd had out back. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Several moments passed before I
finally said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Then what you’re saying is if I were a seamstress and you ordered a business suit from me,
it would be okay for me to give you a sequined gown instead, just because it’s
beautiful?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">His cheeks flushed. “Well, no, of course not. What on earth
would I do with a gown?”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Probably the same thing I’m going to do with this
necklace,” I said, louder than I’d intended. “I’m not going to buy it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Within seconds, the store’s manager was by my side, asking if there was a problem. I showed him the sketch, then the necklace. His
expression told me he also thought the goldsmith should invest in a good pair
of bifocals.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I will personally make this for you,” the manager said,
studying the sketch. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“There's not enough time left now,” I muttered.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“You will have it tomorrow. I give you my word on that.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sure enough, the next afternoon he called and told me the
necklace was ready. I rushed back to the mall.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The manager looked as if he’d just crawled out of bed. His
hair was messy, his eyes were red and puffy, and his shirt was wrinkled.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I spent the entire
night making this necklace for you,” he told me. “But I guarantee you will
be pleased.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Call me fussy, but I <i>wasn’t</i> pleased. The pendant looked
like a short, fat letter “H.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The sides weren't long and tapered, so they made it look chunky instead of graceful. </span>Still, I
just couldn’t bring myself to tell the poor guy I didn’t like it, even though I had visions of my mother being asked what the "H" stood for whenever she wore it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I sighed. “It’s fine. Wrap it up.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The manager was so relieved, he grabbed my hand and vigorously shook it, then said, “I’m
so pleased! For a moment there, I had a sinking feeling you
didn’t like it!”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The man definitely was perceptive.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After I left the store, I wandered into J.C. Penney’s in
search of a handbag. As I walked past their fine- jewelry counter, something in
the case happened to catch my eye. I moved closer to investigate. It was the exact necklace I'd wanted for
my mother all along…at half of what I’d just paid for the short, fat “H.”</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It’s not often you see a grown woman stomping her foot and
shouting, “No! No! Nooooo!” in the center aisle of J.C. Penney’s jewelry
department.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">To this day, I'm still hoping they thought I was shouting, “Ho,
ho, ho!” </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">#<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>#<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>#</span></b></p>
<p class="MsoBodyText"><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13.0pt;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 19.5pt; text-indent: 13.0pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
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text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08XP1TFCL"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON AMAZON</b></span></a><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1155214"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIS1fW6d0gJLSY7BeS8xmiK6yryw4VtqPDk7W3_UukIobaTkUUfwYitsXipOJYgcg7T_Ca_Oy8h-B8Y8c51Q4Ku-Qyzjxfjtr9fZ0Fkc8qraCcNRg4c4wAwuT6D0gmI8k9jmIXw-Ht_EhwuzNaZQ2zUunMI62HaHvOVzI6lLJwKU1MLpk4KFzlKsUb6HAd/s748/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="748" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIS1fW6d0gJLSY7BeS8xmiK6yryw4VtqPDk7W3_UukIobaTkUUfwYitsXipOJYgcg7T_Ca_Oy8h-B8Y8c51Q4Ku-Qyzjxfjtr9fZ0Fkc8qraCcNRg4c4wAwuT6D0gmI8k9jmIXw-Ht_EhwuzNaZQ2zUunMI62HaHvOVzI6lLJwKU1MLpk4KFzlKsUb6HAd/w630-h433/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" width="630" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON AMAZON</b></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></p><br /><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></b></span><p></p><br /><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-53016865579774329882023-11-13T00:37:00.000-05:002023-11-13T00:37:08.888-05:00THE SRT TEST NEARLY CAUSED MY DEMISE<p><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was
surfing the Internet the other night when an item popped up about something
called the SRT test. It said it was a simple test people age 50-80 could do at
home to determine how long they will live, and it involved simply sitting and
standing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Curious, I
decided to check it out.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">When I
entered the website, it immediately began to run a video that demonstrated the
test. A woman who looked like a fashion model was shown standing with her legs
crossed and her arms straight out in front of her.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Now all
you have to do,” she said,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“is keep
your body straight, and while bending only your knees, sit on the floor.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">One moment
she was standing, and the next, in just one smooth motion, she was sitting
cross-legged on the floor, her arms still straight out in front of her.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“If you can
do this without having to use your hands or without stumbling, give yourself 5
points,” she said. “If you had to use your hand, arm or other body parts to
brace yourself, minus a point for each part you used.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She then
went on to demonstrate the procedure to get up. Still sitting cross-legged with
her arms straight out in front of her, she used the outer sides of her feet to
push herself up to a standing position. Once again, she moved so smoothly, not
even one lock of her perfectly coiffed hair fell out of place.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“If you are
able to stand without using your hands to push you up,” she said, “give
yourself another 5 points.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And that’s
all there is to the test!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Simple! If
you scored a perfect 10, you’re in optimal health. If you scored less than 3,
however, statistics have shown you’ll probably be dead within five years.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">To be
honest, I thought the whole thing seemed completely ridiculous, especially the
part about dying within five years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
mean, what was the test supposed to prove? Someone with bad knees obviously wouldn’t
be able to pass it, but that wouldn’t mean the poor guy was on death’s
doorstop, would it?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So without
pausing to think of the consequences, I decided to try the test for myself, mainly because my
curiosity was driving me crazy.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I stood on
the rug (to cushion my fall in case I lost my balance) in the middle of the
living room, then crossed my legs and held my arms straight out in front of me.
Slowly, I bent my knees, lowering my body to the floor. When I was within a few
inches of my goal, I started to lose my balance, so I had to use my hand to
brace myself.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">“Not too
bad,” I thought. “I used one body part, so I have to minus a point. But I still got 4 points.”</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">If there’s
one thing I should know not to do in my house, it’s get down on the floor. In my
dogs’ eyes, anything on the floor is something to play with…even if it’s a human.
Within seconds, I had two huge dogs pouncing on me and knocking me over
backwards. I began to wonder if the test offered point adjustments for
interference.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I shooed
the dogs away and then concentrated on the next part of the test – standing
without using my hands. I sat there in my cross-legged position, thrust my arms
out in front of me, dug the sides of my feet into the rug and tried to stand. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Nothing happened.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I leaned forward,
stretching my arms farther out in front of me. Still nothing. My butt felt as
if it weighed 300 pounds. I knew that unless a crane magically appeared, there
was no way I was going to get up off the floor. Still, I continued to try. I
grunted so much, I sounded like a hog at feeding time. I finally surrendered
and used my hands, my knees, and even one of the dogs for leverage before I was
able to stand again. By then, I think I owed points to the test.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Frustrated,
I was determined to get a better score. Not wanting any four-legged
interference this time, however, I locked myself in the bedroom and tried the test
there.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Not only
were my results even worse, when I tried to stand from the cross-legged
position, I pulled a muscle in the back of my thigh and ended up with the
world’s worst Charley horse. And my knees made sounds like someone in baseball spikes walking across bubble wrap.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Two days
later, I still was limping…and begging Charley to come get his horse.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But now I
think I’m better able to understand why the video said if you flunk the test
you probably should go shopping for a headstone.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Trying to
pass the darned test is what kills you.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">#<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>#<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>#<o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;"><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></span><o:p></o:p></i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><b><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZjLDfeMXqfNVoF9EXtQjL9i9vhS3iwSvPc_yyLcm-NSqtMrkS5qVxtbu2vwUYT7ZUbiS177tgtucUTMf7TFjkHVuvLTKt3VCoLh0Ori5AABNEU5sDGtvezJTDCQJ7eazk8YguUxrYVF5_pg43OGrtGQ3-qWEE1NsCTpasmSHVUnr5ol-BzrSv0T5Bob9/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="493" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjZjLDfeMXqfNVoF9EXtQjL9i9vhS3iwSvPc_yyLcm-NSqtMrkS5qVxtbu2vwUYT7ZUbiS177tgtucUTMf7TFjkHVuvLTKt3VCoLh0Ori5AABNEU5sDGtvezJTDCQJ7eazk8YguUxrYVF5_pg43OGrtGQ3-qWEE1NsCTpasmSHVUnr5ol-BzrSv0T5Bob9/w493-h493/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="493" /></a></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YLe5TdqEnW_Su1uz7DFNPPTuQ2jKToA17h1N1G2W8D6fWNfLN52v_IUMU-XGPPTj3WNBWeaR9qsYkWhoAY6l0Y1eSdy7e00WEFpJUEozV35n3VLkvCvPOyZGf4JL5RAnpBQVbvbNhC6SAhShj3O_s8tFxOqA91vvX_hEJVbVoPA-axPKVA7y9jJrxgl4/s427/too%20far%20free%20blog%20ad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="341" data-original-width="427" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_YLe5TdqEnW_Su1uz7DFNPPTuQ2jKToA17h1N1G2W8D6fWNfLN52v_IUMU-XGPPTj3WNBWeaR9qsYkWhoAY6l0Y1eSdy7e00WEFpJUEozV35n3VLkvCvPOyZGf4JL5RAnpBQVbvbNhC6SAhShj3O_s8tFxOqA91vvX_hEJVbVoPA-axPKVA7y9jJrxgl4/w515-h412/too%20far%20free%20blog%20ad.jpg" width="515" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b style="text-indent: 13pt;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B009T8WQJC"><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON AMAZON</span></a></span></b></div></b><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center; text-indent: 13pt;"><b><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/384106 "><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON SMASHWORDS</span></a><br /></b></p><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-25667417967312712412023-11-06T07:01:00.000-05:002023-11-06T07:01:37.684-05:00MY CURRENT VOCABULARLY CONSISTS MAINLY OF "HUH?" AND "YEAH."<p><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I hate to admit it, but I’ve begun to notice that several of my friends and I aren’t hearing quite as clearly as we once
did. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Phone calls are particularly bad because I find myself either having to repeat things or shout
when I’m talking. And in return, I notice I’m saying “huh?” so often, I
probably sound as if I’m trying to hack up something that’s stuck in my throat.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Cell phones definitely don’t help the situation, especially
when people call me from their cars. I have one friend who often phones me on his drive home from work. Bad enough he uses the speaker-phone mode,
which makes him sound as if he's calling from an orbiting space station, he also loses his connection every time he drives by a certain area.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Wait till you hear what happened to me last night!” he’ll
say. "I was driving home and didn’t know a cop was right behind me. All of
a sudden he put on his flashing lights and then…" </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Static and silence.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, I’m
shouting, "And then <i>what?</i> What happened? Hello? Are you there? Do
you need bail money?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The calls I have the most trouble with are the ones to
customer service, which usually involve being connected to someone who barely
speaks English and is in some obscure, foreign place I’ve never heard of, like
Atowedudu. I can’t hear clearly to begin with, so add a heavy accent to
the mix and I’m pretty much doomed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The last time I talked to a technical-support guy when my
computer was acting up, his accent was so thick, I had no clue what he was
saying through most of our conversation. At one point, he instructed me to “click
on Internet options.” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I honestly thought he’d said he was sick and nauseous.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Have you tried drinking ginger ale?” I asked him.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He must have thought I was the one who was drinking…something much stronger than ginger ale.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And I remember when my husband started to lose his hearing. At
first, I couldn’t figure out whether he was just ignoring me, or if he actually
had a problem. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But as time passed, I noticed that no matter what I said,
he’d just answer, “Yeah.” He probably figured I’d be happy if he agreed with
me, so “yeah” was a safe answer. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’d say, “Do you want steak for dinner?” </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Yeah.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“You want fries with it?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Yeah.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Or would you prefer mashed potatoes?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Yeah.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Is it OK if I run off with Ricardo, the Brazilian
landscaper and part-time exotic dancer I met last week?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Yeah.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I have to confess I’ve also been guilty of using my
husband’s “yeah” technique fairly often lately when I’m on the phone. It was
evident last week when my friend in Scotland called to chat. Her thick Scottish accent made my struggle to understand her even more challenging. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I uttered a lot of “yeahs” throughout most of our conversation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Judging from my friend’s tone of voice after some of my
responses, however, I’m pretty sure I said, “yeah,” when I should have been
saying, “no,” or “Oh no, that’s terrible!”
I’m also afraid I might unintentionally have offended her.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I mean, I’m still not sure if she said,
“I’m getting a cat” or “I’m getting fat.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Either way, I answered “Yeah!”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">If she doesn’t call me again, then I guess I’ll be able to
figure out which one she actually said.
</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It’s tough getting old.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># #
#<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b></p><p><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcp7LKaMMbmxV_mbVxKsixGUzYs5rZvN8u79ONU_mvCHrcCvMsT8nh4piZxS7H9eepu7jixcNbA8OWwDK5se2dXiisSERqTo52fj4qdH5pnhDZDzrXfjEJISAUoPhOa8llVRPeKz-rxONK-A8B7YM4_NFWxWFfc5K2wtwyLV1w51Tcwoms2osnRu0GWqc/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="487" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWcp7LKaMMbmxV_mbVxKsixGUzYs5rZvN8u79ONU_mvCHrcCvMsT8nh4piZxS7H9eepu7jixcNbA8OWwDK5se2dXiisSERqTo52fj4qdH5pnhDZDzrXfjEJISAUoPhOa8llVRPeKz-rxONK-A8B7YM4_NFWxWFfc5K2wtwyLV1w51Tcwoms2osnRu0GWqc/w487-h487/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="487" /></a></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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font-size: xx-large; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><b style="font-size: xx-large;"><br /></b></span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-13429743252270935792023-10-30T15:08:00.002-04:002023-10-30T15:08:49.462-04:00MAYBE IT'S TIME TO GIVE UP ON MY DREAM OF WRITING A BESTSELLER<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ve arrived at a point in my writing
career where I’m seriously considering retiring and finally giving up on my
dream of ever penning a bestseller. The truth is, there’s just too much
competition out there nowadays, and many of the writers whose books have made
it to the top of the bestseller list have done so by spending thousands of
dollars per month on ads and promotions.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Heck, I don’t even have thousands of <i>cents</i> to
spend on promoting my books, so that pretty much leaves them (and me) at the
very bottom of the literary barrel. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Each book I’ve written took me months,
even years in some instances, to complete. And upon finishing each one I've
thought, “This is it! This is the one that finally will earn enough money to
make it worth all of my hard work.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But it hasn’t happened yet...and alas,
probably never will.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I think part of the problem is I’m not
certain which genre I write the best, if any. I have tried them all – romance,
humor, sci-fi, paranormal, nonfiction, fantasy and more, hoping to attract a
large audience to at least one of them so I'd know which was my true calling.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I remember when I searched online years
ago to find out the most popular genre at the time. It turned out to
be erotica. Laughing, I immediately searched for the second most popular. It
was romantic thrillers. So I decided if that was what readers wanted, then that
was what I would give them, even though I had no clue how to go about writing
one.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I did have a plot idea in my head, but
putting that idea into words that actually made sense and flowed perfectly
turned out to be as challenging as trying to teach my dogs how to perform in a
dance routine with the Rockettes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After working on the manuscript for months
and rewriting it at least a dozen times, I was satisfied I’d finally created a
winner: <i>Heed the Predictor</i>, a thriller about a young woman who has
the ability to accurately predict the exact day, time and way in which every
person she meets will die.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’ll never forget when I told my friend
Bob I’d finished writing the novel. Its title, however, <i>Heed the
Predictor, </i>obviously confused him.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Is that like Conan the Barbarian?” he
asked, thinking "Heed" was my character's name.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I probably should have taken that as a
sign.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When the author’s proof copy of my book arrived,
I thought it looked great. Smiling, I grabbed a cup of tea and sat down to read
my masterpiece. I didn’t think I’d find any mistakes or typos in it because I
so carefully had checked and rechecked every page before I’d sent the
manuscript to Amazon, the publisher.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">To my shock, there were so many mistakes,
I began to suspect they secretly were breeding and multiplying as I read each
page, just to defy me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For example, on one page I’d written, “He
walked over to the table and took a seat across from her.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">On the very next page I wrote, “Don’t just
stand there,” she said, “have a seat.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And then, I wrote, “Meg’s green eyes
locked with his blue ones.” But a few pages later, “His hazel eyes
narrowed.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The guy must have been part chameleon.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I know this sounds crazy, but I also
wasn’t pleased with the deaths in my book. As I reread them, they just didn’t
seem as scary as I’d intended them to be. For one thing, I had my
characters die in very weird and unusual, even comical, ways. I couldn’t
help it, my sense of humor kept bullying me and taking control, no matter how
much I wanted the deaths to be worthy of the best Stephen King novel.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Finally, I made it all the way through the
proof copy and submitted the corrected version of my manuscript to the
publisher. Then I waited for another proof. When it arrived, I decided not to
read it myself. Instead, I gave it to my friend Nancy to proofread for me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After she and her husband both read it,
she got right back to me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“So what did you think of my thriller?” I
asked.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Well…for one thing, it’s not really
thrilling,” she said. “Your sense of humor kept popping up and ruining things.
And the first two chapters seemed a little too rushed with not enough depth.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Her husband added, “I loved the surprise
ending! I didn’t figure out how the story was going to end until the
fourth to the last page!”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><i>The fourth to the last page? </i>My “surprise" ending was supposed to
remain a surprise until the very last sentence!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So once again, I sat down and rewrote the
book. I changed my first two chapters by adding more details and dialogue so
they would seem less rushed. Then I attempted to make the deaths in the book
more tense and frightening. I added racing hearts, beads of perspiration and
shortness of breath, which actually made my potential murder victims sound more
like victims of cardiac arrest than homicide. And I changed the pages leading
up to my surprise ending so the readers wouldn't be able to guess it until the
book’s final paragraph.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">By the time I was through, I’d
unintentionally increased my manuscript by about 10,000 words. I had no idea if
that was a good thing or a big mistake. I mean, by adding so much more to the
plot, I'd risked turning the book into the equivalent of a giant sleeping pill.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I also decided, after doing some serious
thinking, to add a few mild curse words to the dialogue. It just didn’t sound
right for a maniacal killer to be saying things like, “Oh shucks!” and “darn
it!” in the heat of anger.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Again, I waited for another proof copy to
arrive. And once again, I started reading the book, even though I
was so sick of it at that point, I’d have preferred to be doing anything else, like
getting my underarms waxed.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The more I read, the more I found fault
with just about everything in the book. There was something I wanted to change
on every page. So I did. That’s when I realized I couldn’t be objective any
longer – that even if I read that book another hundred times, I’d still change
it a hundred times and not be satisfied with it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So the book finally was published the way
it was – good, bad or otherwise. And I didn’t remove all of the humor from it,
so I suppose it can be called a “campy thriller.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But to my delight, it has received positive
reviews, with an average rating of 4.4 out of 5. Not too shabby, I guess, for a
humor writer turned novice thriller-writer.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I wrote a sequel, <i>Conceal the
Predictor</i>, thinking I’d finally found my true calling, and then offered the
original book free in e-book form (you can click on it below for a free
download) to entice new readers.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">To date, the free copy has been downloaded
over 15,000 times and is in the top 75 in its category.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And I’ve sold a whopping 20 sequels.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Does that mean people prefer not to spend
any money, so they specifically search for and read only free books? Or does it
mean my original book is so terrible, nobody even cares about the sequel?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I guess I’ll never know…not unless I also
offer the sequel free and see what happens.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But how can I ever fulfill my wish of
writing a bestseller if I'm not actually "selling" the books?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As I said, maybe after 50 years, it’s
finally time to retire from writing and do something less stressful that also
will help supplement my income.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Like there’s an opening for a greeter at
one of the area Walmarts I think I might check out.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># #
#<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b></p><p><b><i><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br /></span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8lymCJ2zIL8wQy_IFImcWHChugoLhYIa-qcrMEK83j0IljAb3Wp9f9Cc2Shrae1YjyCcMxUJylcxcUTvaBlv7J8-wi-3BRfj9OoNqE2kK1q0qUBhVZHrAIMFL2fQ_QGr6ZAiQwyIS5ReZW04QcITdOQRI21M2Fta9NuJPSBpJ_dbgotegqar8oy0mjVN_/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="497" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8lymCJ2zIL8wQy_IFImcWHChugoLhYIa-qcrMEK83j0IljAb3Wp9f9Cc2Shrae1YjyCcMxUJylcxcUTvaBlv7J8-wi-3BRfj9OoNqE2kK1q0qUBhVZHrAIMFL2fQ_QGr6ZAiQwyIS5ReZW04QcITdOQRI21M2Fta9NuJPSBpJ_dbgotegqar8oy0mjVN_/w497-h497/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="497" /></a></b></div><b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Heed-Predictor-Sally-Breslin-ebook/dp/B00Q639U38/ref=sr_1_9?crid=1ZE9DVMFITO8R&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1677574246&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C1602&sr=1-9"><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON AMAZON</span></a></span></b></div></b><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/496444"><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON SMASHWORDS</span></a><br /></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrIlx_YnzpfH3BaRVy8uQxG5OORMigCD5eKJad-370drFc66CoXQ_Gmbzr44R7cN_LWT5wYBu52PYzYtGIydVvrYrkXrAktabJz2h2cC-Kn8OmLF6gPGX0uC4brKihrRblmZqFzS4LPT_MrNuxHoroc18y1SJMTTHAhlTuvNTm9Qe8MFZDdxdBjXXHVZD/s748/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="748" height="395" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihrIlx_YnzpfH3BaRVy8uQxG5OORMigCD5eKJad-370drFc66CoXQ_Gmbzr44R7cN_LWT5wYBu52PYzYtGIydVvrYrkXrAktabJz2h2cC-Kn8OmLF6gPGX0uC4brKihrRblmZqFzS4LPT_MrNuxHoroc18y1SJMTTHAhlTuvNTm9Qe8MFZDdxdBjXXHVZD/w575-h395/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" width="575" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1ANJFY2OK20AS&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1689464602&s=digital-text&sprefix=%2Cdigital-text%2C841&sr=1-2"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON AMAZON</span></b></a><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><b><span style="font-size: medium;">CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-90151942527723278802023-10-22T10:26:00.003-04:002023-10-22T10:26:44.359-04:00I'M A REAL SUCKER FOR (CHEAP) HOME-SECURITY DEVICES<p><br /><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br />
</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I hate to admit it, but because I'm always thinking about my safety, I often
fall for infomercials that advertise home-security devices…especially the
motion-activated ones.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One
of them was a driveway alarm. The ad said it would send a signal to a receiver
in my house that would emit a chime whenever a person or car was coming up the
driveway. I thought it sounded like a great idea, not only for my protection,
but also to reduce all of the jumping up and rushing to the front window I
usually do whenever I'm expecting company or a repairman. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
probably should mention here that I can't afford state-of-the-art, high-tech
products, so my purchasing power is always limited to...well, basically cheap
stuff. I think I paid $14.95 for the driveway alarm.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It
was made of plastic and consisted of two pieces – the outside motion detector
and the indoor unit that received the signal and sounded the chime. Each
operated on just regular alkaline batteries.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At
first, I was surprised at how well the alarm worked. The day after I hung it up
on a tree facing the driveway, a UPS delivery truck came up the driveway.
Immediately a loud beeping sound, similar to when a construction vehicle backs
up, blared out of the receiver on my kitchen counter. The dogs and I jumped,
startled. But I was excited the device actually did what it was advertised to
do.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It
didn’t take long, however, for that excitement to wear off. Due to the fact the
alarm was a motion<i> </i>detector, everything set it off –
squirrels, deer, leaves blowing in the wind and even bugs crawling over the
sensor. On really windy days, the receiver would beep about 10 gazillion times
(give or take a few gazillion). <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
wanted to toss a shoe at it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Instead,
I got into the habit of shutting it off on windy days, which kind of defeated
the whole purpose for buying it. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Alas,
the motion detector ended up falling off the tree and crashing to the ground
during a windstorm, and its cheap plastic casing cracked open. I'd never liked
that casing anyway because it was bright white. If the manufacturers wanted
customers to conceal a warning device outside in the trees, then they should
have colored it green or brown so it would blend in with its surroundings
instead of practically announcing, "Hey! Look at me, a secret driveway
monitor! You can't miss me!" to the entire neighborhood.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">One
year, during a period of only a few weeks, three houses in my neighborhood were
broken into and robbed in the middle of the afternoon while the homeowners were
at work. When I told my uncle about the robberies, he was concerned and said he
was going to bring over something to protect my property. That was fine
with me. In fact, I was hoping he’d arrive driving a flatbed truck
carrying an eight-foot-high electrical fence with a couple hundred feet of razor
wire coiled around the top.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He arrived with something called a stealth
camera – a motion-activated surveillance device that had infrared capabilities
for taking both daytime and nighttime photos. He attached the camera, which was
encased in black, to the trunk of a tree facing the driveway and said it would
capture any burglars or prowlers on film in crystal clarity.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I secretly hoped it also might capture
something more exciting…like an extra-terrestrial…or Bigfoot – something I
could sell to a tabloid for big bucks.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The next day was trash pickup day, so at
sunrise I wheeled my trash containers out to the road. I threw on a jacket over
my nightgown and didn’t bother to take the pink foam-curlers out of my hair or
remove my furry purple slippers and put on shoes. No one was around at that
hour anyway, so I wasn’t concerned about frightening someone into instant
blindness.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">After I deposited the trash containers at
the end of the driveway, I walked back toward the house. At that hour of the
morning, I still was half-asleep and yawning...a lot. That’s when I noticed a
pale orange flash in the trees.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">It took a few seconds for me to realize it
was the stealth camera. I’d forgotten all about it! I also realized
that I, in all of my hideous frumpiness, had just been captured on film. To
make matters even worse, my mouth had been wide open in mid-yawn at the time. I
bolted into the house before any more embarrassing photos could be snapped.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The problem was, my uncle hadn't explained
to me how to erase photos in the camera or even how to remove the little card
they were stored on. Sure, he'd left the instruction booklet with me, but I
hadn't even opened it yet. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So if, at that very moment, a gang of
burglars had come up the driveway and burst into my house, and the police needed
the photo footage (with me still on it) as evidence, I wouldn’t have reported
the crime. Sacrificing my TV, laptop and jewelry would have been a small price
to pay to save myself from eternal humiliation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I finally did learn how to open the camera
and remove the card inside, pop it into my computer and erase it before
inserting it back into the camera and resetting it. But it always was a
struggle because the camera’s casing had several extremely tight external and
internal snap-closures that prevented water from getting inside.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I did enjoy seeing all of the wildlife it
captured, especially at night. But the camera ate up eight D-cell batteries
every week, which turned out to be too much of a bother and expense for me to
keep up with, so I finally quit buying batteries.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddHQ12BXaEWM0F-3NrcavPQE9FEVVdwkCLoAtIdvjkZf0BhyphenhyphenB96Hb_AkgDlQ_daD3yb9wsQefoxFxw-rq03bWVP5VFOQEpoF06Wrlyp98AovCXdEPGBWlHSwFhGZVOKgxZOeK8Bl2LF5ByM_tthoEL7HmIbezQQl6yhOGY-MG5x7_66KUj4oNxy9Tefaj/s760/stealth%20cam%20mama%20and%20baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="614" data-original-width="760" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjddHQ12BXaEWM0F-3NrcavPQE9FEVVdwkCLoAtIdvjkZf0BhyphenhyphenB96Hb_AkgDlQ_daD3yb9wsQefoxFxw-rq03bWVP5VFOQEpoF06Wrlyp98AovCXdEPGBWlHSwFhGZVOKgxZOeK8Bl2LF5ByM_tthoEL7HmIbezQQl6yhOGY-MG5x7_66KUj4oNxy9Tefaj/s320/stealth%20cam%20mama%20and%20baby.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Now, years later, that old camera still is
sitting out there, attached to the tree, and it serves a useful purpose as a
nesting place for a colony of big black ants.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At least <i>they</i> figured out
how to get inside the darned thing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But I haven't given up. A few weeks ago I
saw an advertisement for a set of Bell and Howell motion-detector spotlights on
sale for a great price. They are solar-powered and need no wiring, so they can
be placed anywhere, high up or low to the ground, with their purported
super-powerful, blinding beams hitting and scaring off intruders (both
two-legged and four-legged) who dare to set foot on the property after dark.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">They sounded like a good idea to me, so I
mentioned them to my friend and her husband.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">"But you live in the middle of the
woods and your house is surrounded by big trees that block out the
sunlight," the husband said. "How do you expect to solar-power
anything?"<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Technicalities, technicalities.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I guess I'll just end up doing what my
grandfather used to do on his farm to alert him if someone or something was out
there – tie a string of tin cans about a foot off the ground from one side of
the driveway to the other. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I'm pretty sure I can handle that.</span></p><h3 style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> # # #</span></h3><p></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is
a native New Englander and 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<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b></p><p class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1agAzXoqbYJXRm1B9SAPDdr-ZogdX6jl15NV3ybb_d0MQwNjzogS0jTELvTkkQeXbJApbdV20NYJ4edWBtVLE7M8hQO0EK05uUzR0Vm-8EyHIy6ppahN__sBa2sQTI9YD4r-iwL5OZWftPjethTMWZVfFWva_NNwNJAWM6uLNkB6dTU5shWjiqd8UHUQ-/s800/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="427" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1agAzXoqbYJXRm1B9SAPDdr-ZogdX6jl15NV3ybb_d0MQwNjzogS0jTELvTkkQeXbJApbdV20NYJ4edWBtVLE7M8hQO0EK05uUzR0Vm-8EyHIy6ppahN__sBa2sQTI9YD4r-iwL5OZWftPjethTMWZVfFWva_NNwNJAWM6uLNkB6dTU5shWjiqd8UHUQ-/w569-h427/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" width="569" /></a></b></div><b><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; 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font-size: medium;">CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON AMAZON</span></b></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1420374"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON SMASHWORDS</span></b></a><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-15715774783072832912023-10-16T14:58:00.003-04:002023-10-16T14:58:26.429-04:00MAYBE PRESSURE-WASHING MY HOUSE WASN'T SUCH A GOOD IDEA AFTER ALL<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Three weeks ago I had the exterior of my house
pressure-washed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">At the time, I thought it was good idea because my house,
thanks to a summer that hadn’t produced that much rain since Noah built his
ark, sprouted a variety of fungi in a rainbow of colors.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But once the guy arrived and started the actual
pressure-washing procedure, I rapidly began to regret my decision.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">For one thing, my house has a big farmer’s porch with white
railings surrounding it – and those railings have exactly 100 slats. The minute
the jet-propelled blast of water hit them, the area resembled a snow globe.
White flecks of paint flew everywhere, like a blizzard, and landed on the
grass, the driveway, and probably on a couple of crows in a nearby tree.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Even the walnut stain on the porch floor and steps wasn’t
spared from the attack. By the time the washing was done, most of the stain had
been blasted off into the stratosphere, leaving patches of bare wood behind in
sort of a checkerboard pattern.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The carnage continued on the garage, where the wooden frame
around the side door not only lost paint, it also lost chunks of wood.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7yjQFJTjCRHmOd822OWUJTwnSInB8-VY2eK8kSWoCMI9zSF5HO4zgty8HolZACP4gRHKr4GXxQvFDoaxN75ke-34TqDWucDenY6px6GaBmvWrMQVQzgCNlrf5ngokWs4zmjJcAR-SoDDB1FR7iTX_-xVYqmqR0RQeqjPKyC_60eNB10v2ptSDVeRaJdRm/s645/doorway%20paint%20loss.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="645" data-original-width="456" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7yjQFJTjCRHmOd822OWUJTwnSInB8-VY2eK8kSWoCMI9zSF5HO4zgty8HolZACP4gRHKr4GXxQvFDoaxN75ke-34TqDWucDenY6px6GaBmvWrMQVQzgCNlrf5ngokWs4zmjJcAR-SoDDB1FR7iTX_-xVYqmqR0RQeqjPKyC_60eNB10v2ptSDVeRaJdRm/s320/doorway%20paint%20loss.jpg" width="226" /></span></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">As I stood and stared at the mess, wondering how I was going
to get rid of the zillion chips of white paint all over my lawn (drag out the
Hoover?), the guy who did the power washing asked me if I had a hammer, a
ladder and some roof tacks.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Call me a pessimist, but that didn’t sound too promising.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He explained, in a voice that sounded calm and unfazed, that
a section on the edge of the porch roof was sagging and he just wanted to tack
it back up.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But when he climbed up there, I could tell by his expression
his next words weren’t going to be anything I actually wanted to hear.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“There's nothing to tack it to,” he called down from the
ladder. “The beam behind the siding is gone.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Where’d it go?” I asked, thinking it probably also had been
launched somewhere up into the trees with the crows.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7_-TdAUs-JSD-OkVPaRLQYh757IkJYKLW389oJpEhzsxL1nkq6RlrgKli66wegcL-zDRpg1A9D9QP3d6-Rf86Kvag8LlcYQIy-WcaSVJ_ZyEE8dUiB8KlHCRFKhEn9HJUQF36kskh_4vf_o8AivhFWYt5ychB_fF3CPdGNnBD3TfAdBNKKoeGzI75UEY/s850/roof%20sag%20with%20lettering.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="850" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz7_-TdAUs-JSD-OkVPaRLQYh757IkJYKLW389oJpEhzsxL1nkq6RlrgKli66wegcL-zDRpg1A9D9QP3d6-Rf86Kvag8LlcYQIy-WcaSVJ_ZyEE8dUiB8KlHCRFKhEn9HJUQF36kskh_4vf_o8AivhFWYt5ychB_fF3CPdGNnBD3TfAdBNKKoeGzI75UEY/s320/roof%20sag%20with%20lettering.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“It rotted away."</span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I hadn’t expected that answer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“I have a friend who’s a retired carpenter," he said.
"I'll send him over to check it out.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I’m still waiting.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, I bought some paint, a scraper, sandpaper and
brushes so I could repaint the railings. It’s been a slow process because every
time it rains, I have to wait three or four days for the wood to dry out again.
And it rains often. So I currently have 50 more slats to tackle.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And to be honest, I’d rather fling my naked body into a
field of poison ivy than do any more painting. So, with luck, those remaining
slats just might get done by 2026.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Anyway, common sense told me my priority should be to find
and call a handyman, contractor, carpenter, or whatever, and get the sagging
roof portion of the porch roof repaired before snow season…which, in New
Hampshire, could be tomorrow.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The thought of a lot
of heavy snow piling up on something with a rotted-away beam that could cause my roof to cave in made me feel,
well…desperate…to the point where I was willing to settle for a kid from an industrial-arts
class or maybe even a beaver (hey, they construct pretty solid dams, don’t
they?) to repair the sag.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">When I mentioned the problem to one of my good friends, she said her
husband, who has done quite a bit of carpentry work, would come take a look at
the porch and maybe be able to fix it for me. I thought my prayers had been
answered.</span></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Alas, when he climbed the ladder, peeked behind the siding
on my porch and let out a groan, my high hopes came crashing down.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“It’s not just a beam that’s rotted," he said, reaching
underneath the siding and flinging what looked like pieces of year-old steak
onto the ground. "The plywood all the way up to the roof is gone,
disintegrated. I’m so sorry, but it’s too big of a job for me to handle."</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He said his brother, however, knew a retired construction
worker named John who might be able to do it at a reasonable price, and he’d
have him contact me.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">John called me that same night and sounded very gung-ho
about the job. He said his two sons also were in construction and would come
with him to check things out. And even though they all were really busy, he
said they would make time for my job because it sounded like something that shouldn't wait. He
gave me all of his contact information and even his sons' names, and said he’d
get right back to me and let me know the exact time they would be over.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That was two weeks ago.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I called him and left a messages. Still no response.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I did an online search for other carpenters and handymen, and also asked a couple of my
neighbors if they could recommend someone. I ended up with two more names to contact.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Meanwhile, I found out that one of John's sons was out on
bail after being arrested for pawning stolen jewelry, so that might explain why
he never got back to me. And one of the two remaining guys on my list had his
many 5-star reviews removed from Yelp when it was discovered his glowing reports all had
originated from the same computer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That left only a guy one of my neighbors recommended.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjNj-sSjfTOeIsUMDb9CC8o69G4PIeP88dLCnlTVZ5NpdZVPr2ZcEsz-nJG8mP24ugr-ztjiTiDoyoT1Se9rKd8IMF2m-2-WIFA3OsCrcpu25JNboyK_mGLW3Pk8YjGWHBdzw7_RAydm3z8TxnUjVtPmWBd1SvKabBbWQzfUd-D7bYWS-FoPZEl_fcv6TS/s744/porch%20roof%20crumbs.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="744" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjNj-sSjfTOeIsUMDb9CC8o69G4PIeP88dLCnlTVZ5NpdZVPr2ZcEsz-nJG8mP24ugr-ztjiTiDoyoT1Se9rKd8IMF2m-2-WIFA3OsCrcpu25JNboyK_mGLW3Pk8YjGWHBdzw7_RAydm3z8TxnUjVtPmWBd1SvKabBbWQzfUd-D7bYWS-FoPZEl_fcv6TS/w200-h148/porch%20roof%20crumbs.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>PIECES OF THE PLYWOOD FROM<br />UNDER THE SIDING</b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">So I called him and he said he’ll be here this afternoon.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">If he does show up, I have my fingers crossed he will have
encouraging news for me and will be able to do the work within my meager (a.k.a. pretty pathetic) budget.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">If not, I guess I will just have to hope for a snow-free winter.</span></p><p>
<span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Or an available beaver.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><b># # #</b></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p align="left" class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: left;"><b><i><span style="font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is
a native New Englander and 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<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></p><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><b>FREE E-BOOKS!</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHHIbTaTixsEq1BQQmkPcUpUXLGgVWWZuLc5sA5YS3Z8VQayJTZW9wKm0yxGRaYSCFyqhDLNfOp9iX7AXTnSqUwvQ6A5pEse9-byuTz2mWfgSOVjQYn7w__NS4sIzEEK2sFn0u1CvX-QR8EfaqeKncA2zEq_0fCgBituHE8D-7w_OItVOlqGiTL44hhSc/s800/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="423" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfHHIbTaTixsEq1BQQmkPcUpUXLGgVWWZuLc5sA5YS3Z8VQayJTZW9wKm0yxGRaYSCFyqhDLNfOp9iX7AXTnSqUwvQ6A5pEse9-byuTz2mWfgSOVjQYn7w__NS4sIzEEK2sFn0u1CvX-QR8EfaqeKncA2zEq_0fCgBituHE8D-7w_OItVOlqGiTL44hhSc/w564-h423/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" width="564" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6lYpKCzJQ3dqmDLODkEnwCrCsjcRy0-k-_tRCvnkA2eBQTHDn-hU9miPs30kVRUfIaNBuigO4FgwLcXMZhqAOUSHH-aEa-ymNYEjVcbIgh1lCf_NHgNjlbEdXAWqiUL0_GWzcI0Gr-TIX1aFYew4l-_Af-KtEhUlX_vp8lqw7C0vJlWt-R35mvZDYju5/s748/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="514" data-original-width="748" height="420" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6lYpKCzJQ3dqmDLODkEnwCrCsjcRy0-k-_tRCvnkA2eBQTHDn-hU9miPs30kVRUfIaNBuigO4FgwLcXMZhqAOUSHH-aEa-ymNYEjVcbIgh1lCf_NHgNjlbEdXAWqiUL0_GWzcI0Gr-TIX1aFYew4l-_Af-KtEhUlX_vp8lqw7C0vJlWt-R35mvZDYju5/w611-h420/fate%20advert%20for%20blog.jpg" width="611" /></a></div><br /><span style="color: #01ffff;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Fate-Worth-Wait-comical-romance-ebook/dp/B0CB83ZGF5/ref=sr_1_2?crid=1C9YSZT3VC6VG&keywords=sally+breslin&qid=1697481498&"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON AMAZON</b></span></a><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/extreader/read/1420374/1/fate-is-worth-the-wait">CLICK TO READ SAMPLE CHAPTERS ON SMASHWORDS</a><br /></span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-20755823644565891962023-10-09T06:08:00.002-04:002023-10-09T06:08:39.819-04:00I WISH TRICK-OR-TREATERS WOULD NOTIFY ME IN ADAVANCE SO I'LL KNOW HOW MUCH CANDY TO BUY<p><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I wish I had a
crystal ball so I could tell in advance how many trick-or-treaters, if any,
will show up on my doorstep this Halloween. That way, I won’t buy too much
candy and end up stuck with it, especially since the same amount and brand of
candy I bought for $11.95 last year now costs $21.95.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I've also noticed that most Halloween candy expires the next August or September…just a few weeks short of being able to recycle it for another Halloween.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Tell me that’s
not part of some greedy, sinister plot.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Back in 2010 when
my first Halloween in my current house was approaching, I asked one of the
neighborhood women how many trick-or-treaters she’d had the year before.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">“Oh, about 40,”
she said. “Maybe a few more.”<br />
<br />
That was only about half the number I’d been accustomed to at my previous address,
but it actually was more than I'd anticipated. Wanting to make a good first impression in my new
neighborhood, I stocked up on full-sized candy bars. Then on Halloween night, I
turned on all of the outside lights and waited for the trick-or-treaters to
arrive.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Three hours
later, I still was waiting. I thought I saw two kids sharing a very
realistic-looking deer costume walking up the driveway and I got excited…but it
turned out to be an actual deer.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">
“I don’t understand it!” I said to my husband. “The lady on the next street
said she had over 40 trick-or-treaters last Halloween! So where are they this
year? Did they have a mass migration and all head south for the winter?”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">He made no effort to conceal the “what planet are you from?” look he gave me.<br />
<br />
“Have you happened to notice that we live in the middle of the woods and
have a 400-foot, unlit driveway?” he asked. “Or that our house isn’t visible
from the road even when we have all of the outside lights on? And have you
forgotten how many hunters have driven up here, thinking our driveway was a
road where they could park their pickups while they hunted?”<br />
<br />
“But word must have spread by now that there’s a new house here with people
living in it!” I said.<br />
<br />
My husband frowned. “I hate to say it, but the only living things you’re going
to see around here tonight are our dogs...and maybe a skunk...and hopefully,
not at the same time.”<br />
<br />
As more houses sprang up in my area, however, things slowly improved over the years,
and last Halloween I actually had about 20 trick-or-treaters. But this year I’m
hoping for even more, so I’m trying to think of ways to attract them. <br />
<br />
Maybe I could line my driveway with lit jack-o-lanterns and make it look like an airport runway? </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0upUc6k9HssqHxJXpnYZlkpBYNxEXEP-fGkYg72qQdprEQNZCC40n5PU9KQiACBjokund-84PMtvO8AwCcWrvctoFfdZB8DW_wFEdlJH-G5v02X6e2_cdEbqb-pjlHQ9S60ygQvuQKWTyJRWiL4z6-H_SMfGmFNmSg9ayD4FRBpLQZneiqdjF7jQvfCK/s544/halloween%20pumpkins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="375" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhd0upUc6k9HssqHxJXpnYZlkpBYNxEXEP-fGkYg72qQdprEQNZCC40n5PU9KQiACBjokund-84PMtvO8AwCcWrvctoFfdZB8DW_wFEdlJH-G5v02X6e2_cdEbqb-pjlHQ9S60ygQvuQKWTyJRWiL4z6-H_SMfGmFNmSg9ayD4FRBpLQZneiqdjF7jQvfCK/s320/halloween%20pumpkins.jpg" width="221" /></a></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Or would that be
the equivalent of hanging out a sign that says, “Come have some fun and smash these pumpkins or steal them! No one will see you do it!”<br />
<br />
And speaking of signs, how about if I put one out on the road that says, “Hey,
kids! Get your full-sized candy bars here!” with an arrow pointing the way?<br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">On second
thought, that might sound too much like something the witch in <i>Hansel and
Gretel</i> might do to lure innocent kids into her stew pot.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I guess the ideal
solution would be to take a lantern and a chair out to the edge of the road and
then sit there and hand out the candy.<br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">With my luck, I’d
probably get run over by a truck.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Or mugged by a
bear with a Kit-Kat addiction.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">#
# #<o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b></p><p><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b></b></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq35zs9uZl_35O2WoOCT_GWb1THm3Vu8zsOllWPxqa1wviyu-ymRX4oy0GyVwdEO3J30YRqlQ-du8bfHlf0N4Xrsbdy8G47iZgkfTSJMeVeMk9rfqP3Ih2h7C5cTkRWxqTR0Lq_uPjRdTBeoojthSYYP84oz2vPTMVQfJvLtWBUGicGVVZJoLvEsaD8rHa/s573/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="573" data-original-width="573" height="502" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq35zs9uZl_35O2WoOCT_GWb1THm3Vu8zsOllWPxqa1wviyu-ymRX4oy0GyVwdEO3J30YRqlQ-du8bfHlf0N4Xrsbdy8G47iZgkfTSJMeVeMk9rfqP3Ih2h7C5cTkRWxqTR0Lq_uPjRdTBeoojthSYYP84oz2vPTMVQfJvLtWBUGicGVVZJoLvEsaD8rHa/w502-h502/heed%20the%20predictor%20cover%20for%20blog%20free%20offer.jpg" width="502" /></a></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #01ffff; 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text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;"><br /></span></b><p></p>Sally B.http://www.blogger.com/profile/06512803547697035498noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5812315134887731601.post-80331765284754810442023-10-02T00:27:00.001-04:002023-10-02T00:33:32.826-04:00SHOPPING DOWNTOWN DEFINITELY WASN'T FOR WIMPS<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> </span></p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rgeE85EwOzioBnb1XUw_HfT-T8i4zwtSRWL8Ft66PQlhCx02AeTLjUS6VMMfArx3jzH_hTr1glnG9USckYQd0Ka7V061UN50TALoW69rpzinI0w5QG6byzzoZlvqRyWAr6wDKvgq-j240ffVU0J1ORLxZrY1nF9v-CG24b0lDKIPixwXb97geaHuJ8I8/s785/NH-Manchester-New-Hampshire-Elm-Street-during-the-1950s.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="501" data-original-width="785" height="272" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-rgeE85EwOzioBnb1XUw_HfT-T8i4zwtSRWL8Ft66PQlhCx02AeTLjUS6VMMfArx3jzH_hTr1glnG9USckYQd0Ka7V061UN50TALoW69rpzinI0w5QG6byzzoZlvqRyWAr6wDKvgq-j240ffVU0J1ORLxZrY1nF9v-CG24b0lDKIPixwXb97geaHuJ8I8/w427-h272/NH-Manchester-New-Hampshire-Elm-Street-during-the-1950s.jpg" width="427" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>ELM STREET IN DOWNTOWN MANCHESTER, <br />NH...WAY BACK WHEN</b></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /><!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Although
my visit was brief, the last time I shopped in the Mall of New Hampshire I left
there feeling as though I should be sitting in a rocking chair, wearing a shawl
and knitting. No kidding, I think I was the oldest person in the place. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Throngs
of teenagers were crammed into every nook and cranny of the mall. Most weren’t
even shopping, they were just “posing,” like an army of jeans-clad mannequins.
And they, both male and female, all seemed to be posing for the same reason…to
attract other teenagers.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Although
it’s been over 100 years since I was a teenager, I find myself thinking that
things haven’t changed all that much over the years. I mean, the Mall of NH
really is nothing more than the downtown Elm Street of my day…only with a roof over
it.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
guess one of the biggest differences between the malls of today and
Manchester’s Elm Street when I was a teen was shopping took a lot more guts,
stamina and energy. And strutting up and down Elm street in mid-winter while
wearing four layers of clothes didn’t exactly attract a whole lot of teenage
guys.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But
when I was in the mall one frigid winter night, the temperature inside was a
balmy 115 degrees – perfect for all the navel-baring fashions the young girls
were displaying. I, however, in my heavy sweater, boots, flannel-lined jacket
and scarf, was about as comfortable as a polar bear in Tahiti. My lips were so
dry by the time I got out of the place, I was afraid if I smiled, they’d crack
into pieces and fall off my face.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Back
when I was a teen, my friend Sandi and I were all excited about the first two
malls that opened in the area: the Bedford Mall and the Nashua Mall (not to be
confused with the modern and much spiffier Pheasant Lane Mall). Every weekend
we’d get all dressed up in our sharpest outfits and drive to Bedford to roam
through the mall there. Then we’d hop onto the turnpike and head to Nashua and
do some more shopping in that mall.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">That
sense of adventure rapidly wore thin, however. No matter how “cool” the malls
were, my heart still belonged on Elm Street. In fact, the stores downtown held
so many special memories for me, I actually felt like a traitor whenever I set
foot in a mall.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">I
also felt like a wimp, a real sissy, in malls. I mean, unlike shopping on Elm
Street, mall shopping was pretty cushy. There were no skirts flying up to
women’s waists or hairstyles being whipped to within an inch of their lives by
the tornado-like winds that always greeted shoppers at the corner of Elm and
Hanover Streets, even when the weather was calm everywhere else. And there were
no puddles to leap over or snow to trudge through to get from store to store.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">In
malls, I also missed the Santa Clauses of all shapes and sizes ringing bells on
street corners; policemen blowing whistles and motioning everyone to cross the
street; and most of all, Old Mike, the newspaper man who walked up and down Elm
Street every day shouting, “Leader paper, get your Leader paper!” as he peddled
the New Hampshire Union Leader.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Maybe
I’m just biased, but I think the stores on Elm Street back in the 1950s and ‘60s were a
lot more fun than the ones in the malls of today. I still vividly remember the
live hand-painted turtles and baby alligators upstairs in Woolworth’s pet
department. And the lunch counter there and the one at J. J. Newberry’s always were
favorite places to stop for a snack or a cold drink (or hot chocolate in the
winter - served in real ceramic mugs). I’ll never forget the day my mother and I sat eating chocolate-cream
pie (also served on real ceramic plates) at the lunch counter in Newberry’s when we spotted a big cockroach with
whipped cream on its back scurrying across the counter. I was only a kid, so I
thought it was hilarious.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But
for some reason, my mother, her complexion suddenly looking a bit greenish,
didn’t see any humor in it whatsoever.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And
then there was Moreau’s Department/Hardware store where I, when I was just a
little kid, saw a beautiful Lazy-Susan with dainty porcelain dishes on it on display and gave it such a forceful spin, all of the little dishes went flying off with such force, they looked as
if they’d been launched by NASA…before they crashed to the floor. That time, my
mom’s complexion wasn't greenish, it was a few shades paler than usual.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">The
store that was the most fun, however, was Leavitt’s Department Store – five
spacious floors containing every item imaginable, from baby clothes to
lawnmowers. The store even had an elevator that was run by an actual human who
announced which departments were on each floor. Where else could a person take
an elevator ride to the <i>mezzanine</i>? (Heck, I didn’t even know the meaning
of that word until I shopped in Leavitt’s!).</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And
there was “Jerry the Cobbler” down in Leavitt’s basement, where he worked
miracles on old, worn-out shoes and made them look new again. OK, so maybe he
did intimidate people a little at first, what with all of his tattoos, long
black hair and stories about his wild times with the Hell’s Angels, but he sure
knew his way around a shoe.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Leavitt’s
also gave free Gold Bond stamps with every purchase. One floor in the store was
devoted to a large redemption center where customers could trade in their
stamps for merchandise. I ended up with so many Gold Bond items, I could have
opened my own redemption center after a while. Even to this day, I’m still
using some of the avocado-green, Teflon-coated pots and pans I got with those
stamps.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Now
that I think about it, I suppose Leavitt’s Department Store was Elm Street’s
closest thing to a mall – a vertical mall.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">And
I can’t count how many hours I spent listening to 45 r.p.m. records at
Manchester Music, where customers were allowed to try out records before
they actually bought them. That
probably explains why it was so difficult to buy a record there that wasn’t
scratched. It didn’t bother me, though, because I always did more listening
than buying anyway.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But
in all fairness to the malls of today, I must give them credit for having one
thing that’s a lot better than what Elm Street had: public restrooms. I’ll tell
you, just one trip to the Merrimack Common area of Elm Street, where you had to
descend a spooky flight of subway-like steep stairs beneath the sidewalk before
you reached the “fragrant" underground world of those public restrooms,
was enough to give you an instant case of constipation.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Nope,
shopping on Elm Street definitely was not for wimps.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">But in all honesty, I must confess…I loved every minute of it.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"># # #</span></b><b><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> </span></b></p><p>
<b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;">Sally Breslin is a native New Englander and 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</span></i></b></p><p><b><i><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></i></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: #01ffff; font-family: arial; font-size: x-large;">FREE E-BOOKS!</span></b></p><p style="text-align: center;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDsus22TRb9o5kMkEnDxWym209S3O7_Ca7fvIw5K8_zEeX8ChwFsVUzu-e5284WXbwAEJKsZ8e3GrdhRj3-lWelyn4ToKaNiXV9DRjV1VD6uC1V0RuY-_OKujV6oSW9Umd7Jc3y3tmXeS5smUDWv104d9ackiysGsOOHyYxjnKiGZikuf0UIBeHoVyEesk/s800/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="800" height="498" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDsus22TRb9o5kMkEnDxWym209S3O7_Ca7fvIw5K8_zEeX8ChwFsVUzu-e5284WXbwAEJKsZ8e3GrdhRj3-lWelyn4ToKaNiXV9DRjV1VD6uC1V0RuY-_OKujV6oSW9Umd7Jc3y3tmXeS5smUDWv104d9ackiysGsOOHyYxjnKiGZikuf0UIBeHoVyEesk/w664-h498/Inside%20the%20blue%20cube%20free%20offer%20for%20blog%20-%20best.JPG" width="664" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08XP1TFCL"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON AMAZON</b></span></a></p><p style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/1155214"><span style="font-size: medium;"><b>CLICK TO DOWNLOAD FREE ON SMASHWORDS</b></span></a><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; 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font-size: medium;">The last time I had an appointment with a podiatrist, he
diagnosed me with bunions, hammertoes, fallen arches, plantar fasciitis and
tendonitis. He jokingly added that I should have my feet photographed for
podiatry textbooks because they featured just about every problem and ailment a
future podiatrist ever could hope to encounter.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I blame it on the Cinderella syndrome.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">In the story of Cinderella, she loses her dainty glass
slipper at the ball when she dashes off to make it home by midnight. The
prince, who falls madly in love with her after only one dance, never has the
chance to find out anything about her, including her name, so he orders his men
to take the glass slipper to every unwed female in the kingdom and have her try
it on. The lady whose foot fits the slipper perfectly, he declares, will have
the honor of becoming his bride.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Well, every woman in the kingdom dreamed of marrying the
handsome prince, but to their dismay, they all had big feet…and the glass
slipper was only about a size two. Still, out of desperation, they struggled,
grunted and even considered chopping off a few of their toes in their efforts
to wedge their feet into it. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I can empathize.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">During my teens and early twenties, wearing fashionable
footwear was important to me. In fact, I was one of the first to rush out and buy a pair
of go-go boots when they first came out. But I didn’t want the popular white
ones. No, I wanted the more unique tan suede ones. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Alas, the particular boots I
set my sights on ran small, and the highest size they came in was a nine…which
happened to be my size.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Trying them on was such a painful struggle, I soon worked up a sweat. And when I finally managed to wedge my feet into the boots,
they were so tight, my toes actually were curled back.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But I wasn’t about to go home without those precious go-go
boots. So I bought them and wore them every day…and possibly broke a world
record for the greatest number of blisters ever counted on a single human foot.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">But did the suffering prevent me from ever buying too-tight
shoes again?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Heck no.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Another time, I must have shopped in 12 different shoe
stores during my search to find a pair of purple high heels to match a purple
skirt I’d bought. Finally, in a bargain-basement store, I found a pair in a
closeout bin. They were exactly what I’d been searching for – the perfect shade
of purple, just the right heel height and an unbelievable price of only $4.99. I was
excited.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">There was just one small problem, however...they were only a size eight.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I did everything short of greasing my feet with butter
before I finally managed to squeeze into those shoes. And even though every
step I took in them made me wince, I still bought them. I even convinced myself that maybe
if I lost about 10 lbs., my feet would shrink and the shoes would fit more
comfortably.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">All that really mattered to me at that time – 1969 – was
they were purple.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">And my bruised feet soon matched that exact color whenever I
wore the shoes for more than an hour.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">I did discover that feet are smaller in the morning and tend
to swell as the day progresses. So even though I managed to fit into the
too-small shoes at 7:00 AM, I practically needed the
Jaws of Life to get my feet out of them at 4:00 in the afternoon.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Over the years, I eventually did learn my lesson as the
aforementioned bunions and hammertoes began to form. And now I’m forced to buy
shoes that are one or two sizes larger than my usual size, just to accommodate
all of those weird bumps and deformities. Comfort, I’ve now discovered, is much
more important to me than style. In fact, I often buy men’s shoes because they
are much roomier across my permanently bent toes. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWRd7QMN9W-TbuVaoELStlnhNIC1pE_1UZMfyzfTFOFfao_qM50Cp36Kknk3anAsal41MsONeSPdh3rQksY5Y0Yqz-3Imb_Uefkad3M4Fv4663ajgi8_N85tHbWjKIGA0HUkruBXBXmFqGBPnmoCrkkCzk8mJq-xLQEXyy237fL9N1USA3h0QYfWzvljp/s307/shoes%20-black%202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="307" data-original-width="197" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAWRd7QMN9W-TbuVaoELStlnhNIC1pE_1UZMfyzfTFOFfao_qM50Cp36Kknk3anAsal41MsONeSPdh3rQksY5Y0Yqz-3Imb_Uefkad3M4Fv4663ajgi8_N85tHbWjKIGA0HUkruBXBXmFqGBPnmoCrkkCzk8mJq-xLQEXyy237fL9N1USA3h0QYfWzvljp/s1600/shoes%20-black%202.JPG" width="197" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">Yep. There’s nothing sexier than a low-cut black dress
accessorized with a nice pair of men’s wingtips or Oxfords. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;">It’s all your fault, Cinderella.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: verdana; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: verdana;"># #
#</span><span style="font-family: arial;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><!--[if !supportEmptyParas]--><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><b><i>Sally Breslin is
a native New Englander and 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</i></b></span></p>
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