Friday, August 14, 2026

CONGRATULATE ME! I'M ENGAGED!

 

They say love often finds you when you least expect it and sweeps you off your feet. Well, now I officially can attest to that.

It was late one night in mid-April of this year when I was reading something on Quora. I think it was a sad tale about a dog that had been spray-painted blue, of which there also was a photo of the poor dog with its pupils painted a matching blue (where AI obviously had gone a bit too far). Or maybe it was the story about the man who, through some tragic medical anomaly while in his mother’s womb, had absorbed his twin brother’s buttocks and two legs into his abdomen, and was forced to carry those body parts sticking out of his gut for his entire life due to his lack of money for surgery…for which he currently was accepting donations.

Anyway, that was when the message from him – my future love, my soul mate, the man of my dreams – popped on, with only three words…“You are beautiful.”

Naturally I felt compelled to thank him, even though I did suspect he was in dire need of cataract surgery. He immediately asked if we could chat somewhere less public, like Google Chat or on Facebook, so we could get to know each other.

Well, it was nearly midnight and I had nothing better to do, other than take the laundry out of the dryer and fold it, so I shrugged and thought, “Why not?” and agreed.

Little did I know just how much that decision was about to change my life, or how unbelievably fortunate I was. Three hours of chatting later, I had to pinch myself to make certain I wasn’t dreaming. Had fate finally smiled upon me?

The answer was a resounding yes! My admirer turned out to be a U.S. Army two-star Major General named Joe Robles from Texas – a highly decorated Vietnam veteran and the former president and CEO of the banking and insurance company, USAA. Not only that, he told me that oil recently had been discovered on his massive acreage in Texas, and two major oil companies currently were paying him huge monthly annuities to access his supply.

“I just sit back and the money comes flowing in,” he said. “Then I buy gold bullion with most of it. It’s a dream come true.”

And if all of that weren’t enough to impress me, he and I also both were widowed, so we were able to share the pain of losing a spouse after many years of marriage.

We exchanged photos and I felt an instant attraction when I gazed upon his image – distinguished, in uniform, his chest covered in medals and ribbons – everything he’d said he was, and more. 

Major General Joe Robles

“I realize we have known each other for only a few short hours,” he said that night, which actually was morning by then, “but already my heart feels something it has not felt for a very long time. Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “Maybe if we could video chat for a few moments, then I’d be able to give you a better answer.”

“Forgive me, but I can’t right now, my sweets,” he said. “I already have spent far too much time in the pleasure of your company when I should have been working. Perhaps tomorrow. Until then…I send a kiss carried to you on a dove’s wings.”

Wow. Talk about romantic. What more could I possibly have wished for?

Of course, the moment our chat ended, I just had to Google every bit of information I could find about this wonderful man. Everything he’d said about himself was true…except for one minor detail he’d forgotten to mention.

U.S. Army Major General Joe Robles had passed away on July 4th in 2024 at the age of 78.

So that meant I’d just spent three hours chatting with an 80-year-old dead person.

That, I decided, definitely could turn out to be a problem in our blossoming relationship. I mean, I already was a widow, and now I could end up being one again without even getting remarried?

But never let it be said I’m the type who doesn’t give a person the benefit of the doubt. I figured I would play along with General Joe and see where all of this would lead. Would he eventually confess his true identity? How long would he continue his charade? Was he clueless enough to believe I never would attempt to Google anything about him?

So he and I chatted every night for the next three nights, and on the third night, I noticed a sudden lapse in his command of the English language and spelling.

“For you, my heart beets many thousands times per minute,” he wrote. “The meer mention of your name causes my mind to float on clouds.”

Poor guy sounded in desperate need of a defibrillator – and Spell Check. However, also on that night, despite the obvious decline in his prose, he proposed to me!

“My darling,” he wrote. “I know this is sudden, but I am not one who believes in waisting time, for life is too short. I have fallen in love with you and trust you with every fiber of my being. Will you do me the honors of becoming my wife and making me the happiest men in the world?”

I hesitated, not only because I’d never met or even had a phone conversation with the guy before, but also because of his use of the word “men.” Was it possible my beloved General Joe had a split personality?

 “Your proposal would mean so much more if I actually could hear your voice saying the words to me,” I finally answered. “I don’t even know what your voice sounds like. Can you call me?”

“I would love to my darling,” he wrote back. “But I am having many problems with my phone’s signal at present. Please do not punish me for this by keeping me awaiting your response.”

So I said yes, I would love to become his wife (and widow simultaneously).

“You have made my dreams come true!” he responded. “Describe to me the ring you wish me to buy for you and it will be yours.”

“Marquis cut, five carats, platinum setting, size seven.”

“And so it shall be, sweetheart. In one week’s time I promise I shall arrive to place it on your finger myself. The happiest tears of my life will flow at that moment.”

How, I wondered, was he going to pull off that one? Was it going to be the “big reveal” – the day I finally would meet the real person hiding behind General Joe’s identity?

He asked for my address, so I gave it to him…well, sort of. It actually was my address from the 1960s – the house that eventually had been purchased by the City of Manchester so they could tear it down and build a parking lot adjacent to West High School.

But as promised, my betrothed began to organize plans to come visit me and personally put the ring on my finger. One short week later he informed me the ring had been purchased from Tiffany’s, the plane reservation was all set, and nothing was going to stop him from making me his future bride. He was on his way.

I still hadn’t heard his voice or even seen a video of him actually breathing…which I guess was understandable, considering he’d been deceased for two years.

The day before his impending visit, however, he sent me the following message: “My darling, the bank has just informed me that someone has hacked into my accounts, so they had to freeze them. This means I have no access to my money for the extras needed for me to travel to be with you. Could you please be a dear wife and send me $1,500 immediately in cryptocurrency so I don’t have to cancel our much anticipated engagement plans? I will reimburse you as soon as this situation is resolved, which should be shortly after my arrival. I cannot wait to hold you in my arms and taste your lips.”

I wondered why he already was referring to me as his wife…and also what it would be like to taste his lips. Pretty cold and stiff, I presumed.

“Oh, no! I’m so sorry,” I answered. “How terrible! And the timing couldn’t possibly be worse! But, I’m embarrassed to confess, all I have in my bank account at the moment is $35. I live on a fixed income and I don’t get my check until the first of each month. The economy makes things really difficult for me right now. But I know that once you’re here with me, my darling, my life will be so much easier, because as you’ve said, you will take care of me forever and grant me my every wish because money is no object. I’m sure you must have plenty of wealthy friends in your social circle in Texas who will be willing to help you out at the moment, considering your high status in the community. Until then, I’ll be counting the minutes until your arrival when our eyes finally will meet for the first time and our engagement will become official. I know it will be the happiest day of my life.”

He didn’t respond, and I never heard from him again. In fact, he even blocked me.

How tragic. How heart-breaking. I honestly doubted I ever would recover from being ghosted by such a fine, upstanding, rich…corpse.

I guess you could say I truly was ghosted by a ghost.

But fate does indeed work in mysterious ways, so I’m hopeful things are looking up again and my broken heart soon will be mended. You see, I received a warm and flattering message two days ago from Captain Christian McManus, who owns a private yacht in the Caribbean. He sent me his photo and he looks very handsome and debonair. 


I can’t put my finger on it, though…but there just seems to be something vaguely familiar about him.

Hmmm.

 


 

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







 

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Wednesday, August 5, 2026

I MAY BE DESPERATE...BUT NOT QUITE THAT DESPERATE!

 

 

Several of my friends have noticed I’ve really been struggling to make ends meet ever since prices on absolutely everything have inflated to epic proportions. So they have been trying to help me find a side job, or as it’s called nowadays, a side hustle, which kind of makes it sound as if they want me to sell questionable merchandise out of the trunk of my car.

Actually, I’m so desperate, I might even consider doing that …that is, if I could afford to buy gas for my car.

Many of the jobs my friends have suggested (handcrafts, ghostwriting, creating and posting humorous videos on social media, etc.), I’ve already tried in the past with very limited or short-term success. And the side jobs that did succeed for years, such as writing books and selling collectibles on Ebay, have ceased to be profitable in recent months, perhaps because everyone else also is too broke to buy them.

Anyway, the other day one of my friends called and said she’d come up with the ideal job for me because I love animals so much…a pet sitter.

“It’s perfect for you!” she said. “All you have to do is go over to the pets’ houses a couple times a day and walk them, feed them and give them a few cuddles. It’s easy money, and I really think you’d have fun with it.”

I’m sure my response wasn’t what she’d anticipated. I burst out laughing.

My thoughts immediately went back to the time many years ago when my new neighbors, Gregg and Gordon, who were planning a trip to Scotland for 10 days, offered to pay me to run across to their house a few times a day while they were away and check on, feed and care for their dogs – two African-Basenjis and one Basenji mix. I wouldn’t even have to take them out for walks, Gregg said, because they had a huge fenced-in yard to run around in. So I could play ball or fetch with them and give them plenty of exercise that way.

I didn’t hesitate to say yes. Their three dogs – Abu, Tegga and Apit – always had seemed so calm and affectionate whenever I saw them, I figured my dog-sitting job was going to be a snap. I wasn’t even concerned about them barking and making noise because Basenjis have these weird voice-boxes that don’t allow them to bark like other dogs. They are able to make only soft yodeling sounds.

After dinner the first night of Gregg and Gordon’s vacation, I ran over to their house to check on the dogs. I unlocked the door, flipped on the light…and stopped dead. The place looked as if a cotton factory had exploded in it.

My first thought was a burglar had broken in and ransacked the place.

It took me a few minutes before I realized the dogs had torn apart the couch.

I gasped and clutched my chest. My first day on the job and already there was mass destruction?  

“Oh, God! I'm going to end up in court being sued for this!"

Meanwhile, the dogs sat there looking so angelic, I could have sworn I saw halos shining over their heads.

After I cleaned up (a.k.a. hid) the mess, I ran home and told my husband what had happened. He said it sounded as if the dogs already were suffering from separation anxiety, and he’d once read that leaving a radio tuned into a station that played soft music often helped pets feel more relaxed and less lonely.

At that point I figured had nothing to lose, so I dug out my radio and brought it over there.

When I returned the next morning to check on the dogs, the carpet was littered with chewed ink-pens, a shredded scatter rug, two mutilated bed pillows and a knitted scarf with a hole in it big enough to put my fist through. I thought I must have inadvertently left the radio tuned to a party-rock station and the dogs had gone wild, turning the place into "Animal House."

For a brief moment, I once again thought the house might have been burglarized…until I spotted incriminating black ink on Tegga's face, and yarn sticking out from between his teeth. He, the mixed breed, was the ringleader, I concluded. And his expression told me he was pretty pleased with himself about the whole thing.

TEGGA ADMIRING HIS MESS!

I did notice that the dogs knew no basic commands whatsoever, and just stood and stared blankly at me whenever I said, “Sit!” or “Stay!” So I was very grateful they at least were housebroken.

When I got home, I immediately started flinging clothes into a suitcase.

"Going somewhere?" my husband casually asked.

"Timbuktu!" I said. "I don't want to be anywhere around here when Gregg and Gordon get home and see their house…if they still even have a house left by then!”

“If you’re that worried, then maybe you should sleep over there every night to keep an eye on the dogs,” he said.

“I can’t just go sleep in Gregg or Gordon’s beds!” I said. “Bedrooms are people’s private, personal spaces.”

He shrugged. “Then sleep on the couch.”

“There is no couch. The dogs ate it.”

So instead, I just increased the number of times per day I checked on the little darlings – like about 150. I was so exhausted by the end of each day, I think I actually could have slept on the couch with the bare springs popping up and stabbing me in the ribs.

Yet even with my increased visits, there still were endless daily chewed-up souvenirs, like the entire hem of one of the drapes and a pile of yarn that once had been part of an afghan, awaiting me every morning.

Alas, the entire time Gregg and Gordon were away, I rehearsed how I was going to break the bad news to them upon their return.

Something like…“Um, while you were gone, the dogs decided to do a bit of their own interior decorating in your house (insert nervous laugh).”

A part of me still was considering hopping on a plane instead of facing the consequences, but I ultimately decided to be brave and stick around to make a full confession about what a total failure I was as a dog sitter. Also, as a peace offering, I would insist upon paying for everything that had been destroyed while the dogs were in my care, even though I had nothing in my bank account with which to pay anyone. After all, that was the reason why I’d accepted the dog-sitting job in the first place.

By the time I saw Gregg’s car pull into their driveway on the day of their return, I felt as if I were on the verge of fainting – dizzy, sweaty, rapid heartbeat, dry mouth.

Either that, or I was coming down with a bad case of the flu.

“Hurry up and get over there before they unlock the door!” my husband said, frantically waving at me as he wedged his nose between two of the slats in the blinds so he could peer out.

I took a deep breath, said a silent prayer and then ran across the road and did the only thing I could do under the circumstances.

I welcomed Gregg and Gordon home and then threw myself at their mercy and begged for forgiveness.

Both of them chuckled and shook their heads.

"Don't worry about it!" Gregg said, patting me on the shoulder. "The dogs always do that whenever we go away. That's why we make sure we buy cheap furniture at thrift shops and yard sales, so we don’t have to worry about them destroying it. We just let the dogs do their thing.”

I really wished they’d have thought to tell me that bit of information before they’d left on their trip, so I could have avoided adding about 100 new gray hairs to my head.

“But what about that pretty blue and white afghan?” I dared to ask, thinking it might have been a family heirloom from Grandma before the dogs turned it into a pile of yarn.

“Two dollars at Goodwill,” Gordon said.

They then invited me inside. I held my breath, wondering what we were going to find torn to shreds when we entered. Sure enough, their three-legged footstool had only one leg still attached to it. The other two, severely chewed, were lying next to a pile of wood scraps the size of toothpicks in the middle of the room. Gregg and Gordon were too excited to be reunited with their dogs to care.

Two days later, Gordon mentioned they were thinking about taking another vacation in a couple of months and were wondering if I'd be available to dog-sit again.

I told him I’d think about it.

Luckily, they changed their minds about that trip, so I never did have to give them a solid answer.

But I’m pretty sure it still would have been no.

My conscience just wouldn’t have allowed me to witness any more perfectly good furniture, cheap or otherwise, being dismembered.


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




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Wednesday, July 29, 2026

IF YOU LIKE STORIES ABOUT BAD DATES, I CAN WRITE VOLUMES...

 

 Whenever I hear or read people’s horror stories about the bad dates they’ve had (a.k.a. “dates from hell”), I think, “Ha! I’ve had so many, I could write an entire series about them!”

Last month marked two years since Sandi, one of my best friends throughout high school and beyond, passed away, so my thoughts recently have been about her…and how, in 1969, she was instrumental in helping me add yet another chapter to my dates-from-hell archives.

Which I still chuckle about even after all these years.

Back then, Sandi was dating a guy named Steve who was in the navy and was about to be deployed overseas for several months. On his last night at home, before he had to head to Norfolk, Virginia, from where his ship would be sailing, he and Sandi had a disagreement and parted on not-so-great terms. This, of course, really disturbed her.

I didn’t know just how deeply it actually did disturb her, however, until she called me a few days later and said, “I just bought our tickets. You and I are flying down to Norfolk for the day on Saturday so I can see Steve before he leaves. I want to be there waving at him as his ship leaves the port, so he’ll know how much I care about him. And I want you to come with me because I’m too scared to go alone.”

So early that Saturday morning, there I was, sitting on a rickety old prop-plane with Sandi as we flew from Manchester to Boston to catch a connecting flight (a jet, thank goodness) to Norfolk. According to our itinerary, we were going to land in Norfolk at 8:45 AM and head back home at 5:00. It was going to be a long, tiring day.

But hey, what are friends for, right?

The plane shook so much during the short flight to Boston, when we finally got off at Logan Airport, my legs were so wobbly, I was walking as if I had just chugged the entire drink-cart. Let’s just say I wasn’t looking forward to the return trip later that afternoon.

We landed in Norfolk right on schedule. But by the time we figured out where we were, where the port was and how to get there, we were informed Steve’s ship already had sailed. Sandi, on the verge of tears, said she wasn’t about to stay in Norfolk all day without Steve because there was no point in it, so we headed back to the airport and asked the agent when the next flight back to Boston would be leaving.

“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” she answered sweetly.

Sandi and I glanced at each other, then back at her.

“But we already have tickets for the 5:00 PM flight to Boston today,” Sandi pointed out, showing her ticket to her. “That’s still okay, right?”

The woman shook her head. “I’m so sorry, but that flight’s been canceled due to what I believe is a mechanical issue. As I said, tomorrow morning is the soonest.”

Panic immediately struck me. I had only about $5 in my purse and I had no idea how much Sandi had, but I doubted it was enough for us to get a hotel room for the night.

And at that moment, I really, really resented Steve.

As it turned out, Sandi had only $20 with her, along with a maxed-out credit card, thanks to previously charging our plane tickets. The agent at the counter overheard us discussing our lack of funds and how upset and uncomfortable we were about being stuck overnight in a strange place. She interrupted our conversation and said she knew of a nearby motel where the rooms were only $19.95 per night. She added that the place was nothing fancy, but had hot water, clean beds and a TV, and would fit into our budget. She even offered to call ahead and reserve a room for us, if we’d like.

We decided it would be better than hanging around in the airport for countless hours, so we agreed. She asked for our names, then called the motel and reserved our room. She also gave us her business card and said to call her if we had any problems. We didn’t have enough money for a cab, so we hopped on a local bus to the motel.

It wasn’t until we were settled in our room that Sandi and I realized just how hungry we were. We pooled our remaining money, which was only a couple of dollars, then went out walking in search of a grocery store or a convenience store. We bought a loaf of bread for 35 cents, a jar of peanut butter for 45 cents, and a box of Pop Tarts for 49 cents. The motel had free coffee and tea in the lobby, so we we figured we'd drink tea.

Later, as I sat eating a peanut-butter sandwich with my very depressed friend in some cheap motel in Norfolk, Virginia at 6 o’clock on a Saturday night, I couldn’t help but think about the thousands of other things I would rather be doing at that moment...like eating steak, mashed potatoes and a big slab of chocolate cake.

Just as I was about to remove my makeup and get comfortable for the night, there was a knock at our door. Sandi and I just stared wide-eyed at each other.

I got up and looked through the peephole and saw two men standing outside. “Yes? Can I help you?” I asked them through the closed door.

“Are you Sally and Sandi?” one of them asked.

Sandi and I were really puzzled. But suddenly Sandi’s eyebrows rose. “They must be friends of Steve!” 

Before I could even open my mouth to tell her she wasn’t making any sense, that it would be impossible for Steve to know where we were (heck, even WE didn’t know where we were), especially since he was out at sea somewhere, Sandi flung open the door.

“Hi!” one of the men, a tall blonde, said cheerfully. “We’re your dates for tonight!  Dale, a friend of ours who works at the airport, sent us. She felt sorry for the two of you, being stuck here alone in a strange place all night, and thought you might like to see a little of Norfolk.”

Sandi slammed the door in their faces.

“Sandi!” I gasped. “Why did you do that?”

“Who does that woman at the airport think she is?” she huffed. “What does she do, run a dating service on the side?  She must really think we’re hard up!  Besides that, I came here to see Steve, not to date some stranger!”

“Well, at least we can be civil to them,” I said. “They’re only trying to be nice.”

But Sandi wasn’t listening to me because by then, she had grabbed the phone and was dialing the number on the card Dale had given to us. I thought for sure she was going to give the woman a piece of her mind, but instead she interrogated her about the two men – who they were, what they did for a living, and basically if they were perverts. Dale assured her they were gentlemen with good careers, and if nothing else, they would treat us to a nice meal.

I think the word “meal” was what convinced Sandi not to be quite so hasty about sending the two guys away. Just the thought of having to eat another peanut-butter sandwich made from generic peanut butter when we could be enjoying something that didn’t stick to our tonsils, probably would have been enough to convince us to accept dates with Dracula and the Werewolf right about then.

Sandi hung up the phone as I dashed back to open the door. Fortunately, the two guys still were standing there. “Sorry about that,” I said, smiling sheepishly. “It’s just that you caught us totally off guard. Why don’t you give us a few minutes to freshen up and we’ll meet you out in the lobby, okay?”

If I do say so myself, Sandi and I looked pretty stunning when we finally were ready. I, my hair long and shaggy and teased high on top, with bangs down to my nose, was wearing my navy-blue bell-bottomed pantsuit, which actually was styled to look more like a dress with pants, while Sandi was resplendent in her knit mini-skirt and vest with a white ruffled blouse.

The guys, we learned, were Henry and Jim. They were old… like in their thirties old. And they were dressed old, too. Jim, a photographer, had long black hair and a goatee, and was wearing a tweed jacket with (are you ready for this?) a white silk ascot around his neck. He also smoked a pipe. Henry, the blonde, was a high-school teacher, clad in a turtleneck sweater and a tweed jacket. Sandi and I, barely 20, felt as if we were going out with our fathers.

They seemed nice enough, though, so I figured I would try to make the best of the evening, but Sandi had other ideas. As we rode toward what we thought was going to be a restaurant, Sandi, in the back seat with Jim, sat facing the door, her arms folded and her eyes staring out of the window. She didn’t say a word. Poor Jim tried everything short of ventriloquism to get her to talk, but had he been sitting in the back of a hearse with its occupant, he would have received a warmer response.

After what seemed like 20 years, we finally arrived at our destination…a coffee house. No food, just coffee.

“They have great poetry readings and folk singers here,” Henry said enthusiastically as he held open the door for us.

I actually heard Sandi groan.

We sat on high stools at a tiny table where there soon were mugs of steaming black espresso in front of each of us. The problem was, I didn’t like coffee unless it had about a half-cup of sugar and a pint of cream in it. I took a sip of the espresso to be polite, and felt the enamel being stripped from my teeth. Meanwhile, my stomach was rumbling so loudly as it begged me for some decent food, I was pretty sure it would drown out the poetry reading.

Henry was sociable, and soon we were engaged in a pretty interesting conversation. Despite our age difference, I was surprised to discover we really did have a lot in common, probably because his job as a high-school teacher kept him up to date on what was cool with the younger generation. I honestly was beginning to enjoy myself, despite the hunger pains.

Meanwhile, Jim still was struggling (unsuccessfully) to get Sandi to talk to him.

A folksinger came out onto a small platform and began to sing. After only about ten notes into his song, Sandi suddenly stood up and announced to Jim, “I want to go back to the motel, NOW!”

Many of the other patrons chuckled, totally misinterpreting her statement as having a more...seductive...meaning.

Jim just stared at her for a moment, then calmly said, “Well, at least now I know she can talk.”

The four of us rode back to the motel in complete silence. Even Henry and I were afraid to speak at that point. The car barely had pulled into the motel parking lot when Sandi jumped out and bolted for the door. I muttered an embarrassed apology and thanked the guys, then followed her inside.

A few seconds later, Henry came to our room and told me how much he’d enjoyed our too-short date and how, if I were from the Norfolk area, he definitely would ask me out again…alone. For some unknown reason, Sandi snapped a photo of us. Maybe she wanted it as evidence in case I mysteriously vanished during the night. 

“How could we EVER have been dumb enough to go out with those two losers?” Sandi complained after Henry left. “And gee, what big spenders!  Coffee!  Big deal!  The worst part is that now I feel as if I’ve betrayed Steve!”

“Somehow I don’t think that ignoring a guy all night and treating him like dirt qualifies as a betrayal,” I said.

The next morning, Sandi and I eagerly headed to the airport to board our plane back to New Hampshire. To my relief, Dale wasn’t working. I figured that if Henry and Jim had given her a full report about their date with us, she’d probably have assigned us seats in the baggage compartment.

Sorry to say, Sandi and Steve’s relationship turned out to be doomed to failure.

But not even a year later, Sandi once again convinced me to accompany her on a visit to see her new boyfriend…in Washington, DC.

And that trip was even worse.

On the bright side, at least as long as Sandi kept finding boyfriends in other states, I was able to see the country free of charge.

Just don’t ever talk to me about peanut butter...


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




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Tuesday, July 21, 2026

DO THESE THINGS AGGRAVATE YOU IN SUPERMARKETS?

 

As I was waiting in the checkout line at the supermarket the other day, I found myself mentally compiling a list of all the things about supermarkets that often irritate me. By the time it was my turn to cash out, my list of pet peeves was longer than the roll of toilet paper in my shopping cart.

I have titled my list “It’s Inevitable.”

IT’S INEVITABLE…

·         That the shopping cart you select will secretly have been welded to the other carts in its row and will either squeak, wobble, need a front-end alignment, or maneuver with the ease of a bulldozer with its brakes on.

·         That when you enter the supermarket, there will be no customers whatsoever in the checkout lanes, but the moment you’re ready to cash out, people with carriages loaded to the ceiling suddenly will emerge from behind the displays and, with the speed of Kentucky Derby competitors, make beelines for the registers 

·         That when you buy a basket of strawberries or blueberries, the fruit on the top will look as if it leapt right off the pages of an award-winning cookbook, while the stuff on the bottom will either be moldy, shriveled, or resemble something you scraped off the bottom of your shoe at a dog park.

·         That when you're in a hurry because you suddenly remember you were supposed to pick up your mother after her hairdresser's appointment 20 minutes ago, the customer in front of you will say to the cashier, "The sale sign said those cans of corn were three for $2.00 but you  just charged me 79 cents each for them!" This will force the bagger to frantically run up and down every aisle in search of the sale display...and you will not see him again until he is old enough to collect Social Security.

·         That products geared toward the elderly, such as arthritis pain-relievers, will be on the topmost shelves and require an Olympic pole-vaulter to reach them.

·         That when you’re the third person in line at the deli counter, the first person will order a pound of cold cuts and nothing more, but the second, when asked by the clerk, “Will there be anything else?” will keep answering yes until he has enough coleslaw, potato salad, baked beans and Swiss cheese to supply an Osmond Family reunion.

 ·         That at least once during your shopping excursion, a customer will completely block the aisle with her cart while she stands there and reads the caloric content of all 300 varieties of Campbell’s soup.

·         That the package of meat that looked so bright red under the store’s lights will look gray when you see it under your own lights at home and will have, concealed beneath the top layer, at least one slab of fat-encrusted meat that looks as if it came from a cow old enough to have belonged to Teddy Roosevelt.

·         That there always will be at least one child sitting in a cart in the checkout line and screaming as if he were being attacked by a pack of wolves because he wants a bag of M&Ms, while his mother silently envisions sticking pins into a voodoo doll of the person responsible for displaying so many tempting treats within children's reach.

·         That the ladies at those “free sample” tables will offer you products you’d otherwise never even have considered buying, such as organic seaweed chips and pistachio-encrusted Limburger cheese balls.

·         That the store will always smell of bread baking, even when there is no one working in the bakery department.

·         That when a severe craving for a specific food drives you to make a special trip to the store in the dark of night or during a blizzard, the item you’re drooling for either will be out of stock, permanently discontinued, or have an expiration date of 2010.

·         That the cashier will select the most embarrassing item from your cart and hold it up and shout to the manager, “Hey, Mr. Smith, isn’t ‘Bombs Away’ extra-strength laxative on special this week?” while everyone in line smirks knowingly at you.

·         That when an item won’t scan, the cashier will contort into no fewer than a dozen Nadia Comaneci/Simone Biles gymnastic positions in an attempt to make it do so, just to avoid ringing it up manually.

·         That someone with a cartload of items will push their way into the express line and argue, “I have 19 identical cans of tuna and five identical jars of mayonnaise. That’s only two items!”

·         That once you pay, tuck the receipt into your billfold, zip your purse and sling it over your shoulder, the employee at the exit door will spot the one un-bagged item in your cart and insist upon seeing your receipt to prove you paid for it (I usually get stopped when I buy bottled water in the stores that don't bother to put a circle sticker on it to show I paid. All I can say is if I were indeed a shoplifter, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't want to risk spending time in jail for something as boring as water!).

·         And finally…that the $150 worth of food items (like curried lima-beans au-gratin) you bought when you were so hungry, your stomach thought your throat had been cut, will make you feel nauseated when you look at them the next day.

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




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Monday, July 13, 2026

I THINK I'VE FIGURED OUT WHY SO MANY OF THOSE PSYCHIC HOTLINES SUDDENLY DISAPPEARED

 

A few weeks ago, the daughter of a good friend of mine visited an area psychic and said she was very impressed with the reading she received.

It made me think back to the late 1990s and early 2000s when it seemed as if every other TV commercial was advertising some psychic hotline or another for people to call and learn (for a mere $3.99 per minute) what the future held for them.

Then suddenly, at the height of their popularity, the majority of the hotlines seemed to vanish.

Back then, I remember being really curious about psychics but I was too cheap to spend any money for a reading. So just for the heck of it, one night I Googled “free psychic readings.” Up popped more than 25,000 pages (25,801, to be exact) of supposedly “authentic” psychics, with 12 listed on each page.

All I can say is if there really were that many psychic people running around in the world during that era, nobody’s private thoughts were safe.

A large number of the psychics were offering free introductory online readings to lure people into hopefully getting hooked and craving more, which they then would have to pay for, of course. Nevertheless, my curiosity lured me into exploring a few of them.

The first psychic I checked out was called Zelda. Her web page said: “Zelda knows all and sees all, therefore, you do not even have to type your question below, though she prefers it if you do. Please ask questions that can be answered with yes or no.”

The next line puzzled me: “Your free advice is randomly chosen…according to reputable scientists.”

I envisioned a bunch of Einstein-looking guys sitting around a table and pulling random answers out of a hat to help out Zelda.

Shrugging, I typed a question: “Will I be successful and make a lot of money this year?”

Zelda responded with, “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

I then asked, “Will I also enjoy good health?”

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” came the answer once again.

So just to test her, I asked her a trick question: “Will a tidal wave hit my house and wash it out to sea?” (I live on top of a big hill nowhere near the ocean).

“You can bet your last dollar on it!” Zelda answered.

Zelda, I decided, was nothing more than an electronic version of the Magic-8 Ball.

Just as I was about to exit her site and try another one, something else popped up on the screen. “Zelda has another prediction for you,” it said. “You will feel and look much younger once you have taken HGH, the human growth hormone, for several months. Click here to order.”

Apparently Zelda wasn’t making good enough money as a psychic.

I visited another website that offered a free tarot-card reading. The site spread out some cards face down on the screen and instructed me to select three: one for my past, one for the present, and one for my future.

I chose three cards, as instructed, and they flipped over. One of them, a creepy-looking devil with gigantic horns, made me suspect my reading might not end up being entirely rosy.

The reading for my past began with, “You have proven by your past actions that you are the type of person who is extremely restless and doesn’t like to stay in one place or with one person for very long.”

I laughed. At the time, my husband and I had been living at the same address for nearly 30 years.

The reading for the present described me as an ill-tempered, physically strong person who wouldn’t think twice about challenging someone to a fistfight. It made me sound like Arnold Schwarzenegger in The Terminator.

Again, I, one of the world’s biggest wimps, had to laugh.

My future, however, turned out to be no laughing matter.

“You will have an unexpected turn of bad luck,” it said. “You are doomed to suffer a period of misfortune and failure. Outside influences will make things even worse and more difficult for you.”

“I’ll bet it was that creepy devil card,” I muttered. “Heck, if my future’s going to be that bleak, maybe I should just give up right now and go jump off a bridge or something.”

At that moment, Zelda popped up again. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Still unclear about my future, I found another tarot-card reader. This one asked me to select six cards. When I saw another devil card amongst the six I'd chosen, I figured my fate was sealed…my future was going to be nothing short of a disaster.

But to my surprise, the reading was all positive: “This will be a year of great happiness and success,” it said. “Whatever you set your mind to accomplish, you will succeed beyond your wildest dreams. Good things come to good people, and your time has arrived! Enjoy it!”

I actually was beginning to feel optimistic until the psychic added, “I also see a baby in your future! In fact, you may already be pregnant!”

I laughed so hard, I suffered a hot flash.

Now that I think about it, I just might be able to figure out why all of those “authentic” psychics suddenly disappeared...if I were them, I think I might have gone into hiding, too.

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




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