Monday, December 16, 2024

LONG IN THE TOOTH BUT SHORT IN THE BANK

 


The other night as I was flossing my teeth while gazing into the bathroom mirror, I noticed two small black spots on two of my bottom teeth. I grabbed my toothbrush and brushed them, hard. But the black spots remained.

So now I'm concerned I might be sprouting a crop of cavities, which actually doesn't surprise me. I mean, it's been a while since I've had a dental checkup. 

That’s because my situation is similar to the couple's in The Gift of the Magi. It's the story about a husband and wife who were too poor to buy Christmas gifts for each other, so she cut off and sold her long hair to buy him a chain for his pocket watch, not knowing he'd sold his watch to buy her some decorative combs to wear in her long hair.

Based on the same type of irony in that story, I figure I would have to yank out all of my teeth and put them underneath my pillow, then hope an incredibly rich and very generous Tooth Fairy would pay me a visit...so I could afford to see a dentist.

I hate to admit it, but I actually miss my old dentist, Attila the Driller. Ever since he left the practice, I haven’t been able to keep track of the number of dentists who have come and gone. I’m surprised the office doesn’t have revolving doors – or a conveyor belt with dentists sitting on it.

The last time I had an appointment, due to the unexpected loss of a filling, I had no idea which dentist would appear. I was hoping it would be the one I’d had during my previous visit because he'd inflicted a lower degree of pain than most of the others. But as luck would have it, a totally new guy entered the room.

My immediate thought was, “Great – another one I’ll have to train,” because I have certain pet peeves whenever I have a dental appointment. One of them is not getting the water suctioned out of my mouth fast enough, so I either have to swallow it or choke. Another is x-ray overkill. One night I sat down and calculated just how many dental x-rays I’ve had over the years and I lost count at 550. I figure that by now, I should be able to get a job standing at the top of a lighthouse and guiding ships at sea in the dark of night…with just the glow from my head.

Anyway, this new dentist took one look at the hole in my tooth (a front one on the bottom) where the filling had fallen out, and the first words out of his mouth were, “Let’s get an x-ray.” 

I groaned. “Can’t you just replace the filling?”

He shook his head, “I want to know exactly what I’m dealing with first.” He then explained he had the latest state-of-the-art digital x-ray equipment that practically was radiation-free.

So, although reluctantly, I allowed the tooth to be x-rayed. The fancy new equipment enabled me to see the tooth on a screen right before me. And what I saw resembled the underground tunnel system in one of those ant farms the toy stores used to sell when I was a kid.

“Hmmm,” the dentist said, which I knew from years of experience never was a good sign. “It appears you had a lot of hidden decay underneath the filling that fell out and it’s now decayed all the way into the pulp of the tooth. In fact, you’re also forming an abscess.”

He then began to list all of the procedures and paraphernalia I would need to salvage the tooth. It sounded like an inventory list from “Dental Supplies R Us.” The final total was approximately the equivalent of a down payment on Windsor Castle.

“I’m going to do something called the cold-tooth test on your other bottom teeth,” the dentist then announced.

In the gazillion dental visits I'd had in my life, I'd never heard of such a test. But my gut immediately told me it probably wasn't going to be fun.

“It involves putting a freezing-cold substance on one tooth at a time,” he explained. “When you feel the pain in the nerve, I want you to raise your left hand. When the pain ceases, I want you to lower your hand.”

His explanation did nothing to make the test sound any better. I think the words “pain” and “nerve” might have had something to do with it.

Sure enough, he pressed something that felt like an ice cube against the first tooth.

“Arrggh!” I cried and jumped as the nerve in my tooth viciously stabbed me in protest.

“I said to raise your left hand,” he tersely reminded me.

I raised it.

“Now lower it when the pain goes away,” he repeated, removing the freezing device, or whatever it was called, from the tooth.

I lowered my hand.

He then did the same thing to the next tooth…and the next.  Each time he did, I shouted, “Arrggh!” And each time, he scolded me and reminded me to raise my hand.

By the fifth tooth, I was ready to raise my hand…somewhere directly between his eyeballs.

"I think you should change your last name to Grey,” I muttered when the test finally was over.

The dental assistant burst out laughing.

The dentist, however, just sat there, looking clueless. “You mean like in Grey’s Anatomy?” he asked.

The assistant laughed even harder.

“No,” I said. “Like in that novel, Fifty Shades of Grey, where the main character, Christian Grey, is a sadist who enjoys torturing women!”

“Oh,” he said, his expression serious. “I guess I may have to read it, then.”

I then asked him when he could do the work on my tooth.

“I don’t do root canals,” he said, shaking his head. “I have an endodontist who does, but he's here only on certain days of the month.”

I also knew from experience that just saying the word “endodontist” added at least another $500 to my bill. After all, the guy was a specialist. And anyone who's "special" at anything is expensive.

“I don’t have dental insurance,” I said. “So I doubt I can afford all of this.”

“Well,” the dentist said, “your only other option is to have the tooth extracted and then get a partial denture."

“And how much is that?” I asked.

“Oh, only about $2,000 to $3,000."

I didn't know which planet he hailed from, but in my world, the word “only” is reserved for amounts like $10 or $20, not $2,000 or $3,000.

Even worse, unlike my old dentist, this one didn't accept time-payments. In fact, there was a notice posted in the waiting area that said if you couldn't pay for your visit on that same day, then to reschedule your appointment for a day when you could!

Alas, I had to visit my bank and apply for an equity line of credit to pay for the root canal and crown. The interest rate was around three percent at the time. It's now up to 10.5 percent. So most of my payments thus far have gone straight toward the interest.

I suppose when I finally finish paying off the loan for my last dental procedure, then I’ll go have these two black spots on my teeth checked out.

That is, if I still have any teeth left.

 #   #   #


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, December 10, 2024

STILL NO TREE TO DECORATE THIS YEAR...

 


One of the Christmas traditions I’ve enjoyed the most throughout the years is decorating the Christmas tree.

When I was a kid, my mom and I would go to a tree lot and pick out a “perfect” one, then Dad would come home from work and set it up. Mom and I then would spend the evening meticulously decorating it. My mother had a degree in art, so believe me, the tree had to look worthy of a museum display. Every ornament had to be exactly the same distance from the end of each branch, and any crooked tinsel just about caused a coronary. But I still enjoyed every minute of decorating. I also loved the smell of a freshly cut tree because it gave the house that true Christmassy scent.

In my family, “artificial” was a four-letter word when it came to Christmas trees. My mother considered them to be an insult to the word “tree,” even a sacrilege. The shiny silver ones that were all the rage back when I was a kid did not, in my mother’s opinion, bear any resemblance whatsoever to an actual tree…unless maybe you were an alien from the planet Zebulon. In fact, she had a theory the trees originally were created in an attempt to recycle all of the discarded aluminum foil that people used when roasting their Thanksgiving turkeys...because once all of that fire-resistant foil reached the town dump, it couldn't be incinerated.

So just about every Christmas over the years, I’ve had a real tree. I must confess however, that in the late 1990s I did lapse for a while when I gave in to all of the excitement over the new fiber-optic Christmas trees with built-in, color-changing lights in their branches. I couldn’t wait to buy one.

Ours was stunning, especially on its built-in rotating base…until the base started making noises similar to those of a race car grinding its gears. That’s when “Peace on Earth” took on a whole new meaning. The fiber-optic tree is now resting in peace with my spiders in the basement.

I still can remember when $5-$10 would buy a live Christmas tree that rivaled the one at Rockefeller Center. And I also remember the first time my husband and I went to a tree farm to chop down our own tree and were shocked when it cost us an "outrageous" $20.

Nowadays, $20 won’t even buy a Christmas branch. In fact, one of my friends spent close to $100 for a real six-foot tree only two years ago. The thought of paying that much for something that’s a needle-shedding fire hazard that will be brown and bald within two weeks has forced me to scout out trees on my own land instead of purchasing one. 

Besides that, I'm cheap.

Unfortunately, although I own nearly eight acres of woodland, finding anything that closely resembles the shape of a Christmas tree is rare. That’s because I have very few fir trees. But I have loads of these weird-looking pine trees that all have nice full branches at the bottom, then halfway up they have an area about two-feet long or more with no branches at all. I don’t know if it’s hereditary, if it’s just the specific type of tree they are, or if they’re all victims of some sort of strange pine-tree balding affliction, but there’s no chance any one of them ever will become finalists in a “prettiest Christmas tree” contest. 

Still, I suppose I have to take into consideration they’re free, so I’m getting what I pay for.

Every year I usually scope out a tree on my land far in advance of Christmas, like in June, and then I keep a close eye on it all year until mid-December…when I chop it down.

I actually had a row of four decently shaped pine trees growing along the road in front of my house. They were only about six-feet tall and although not as full as I’d have liked, they at least didn’t have the typical bald areas on them. So I was certain I’d be all set for Christmas trees for the next four years.

But then the town decided to clear away all of the trees and bushes along both sides of my road. And in the blink of an eye, my precious trees were reduced to piles of wood chips. I was so devastated when I saw their remains, I still refer to the incident as “Pine-pocalypse.”

It took a lot of tromping through the woods and becoming intimately acquainted with every species of tick in New Hampshire before I finally found another tree that might be suitable for Christmas. It was barely five feet tall but full, and I imagined it would look much nicer once decorated. So I kept a close watch on it, making certain no birds sat on it (or worse), no squirrels climbed it, and no deer nibbled on it.

Then the drought struck. And by September the tree had turned a lovely orange-yellow color from top to bottom. There wasn’t even one green needle left on it.

Did the other trees surrounding it look the same way?

No, of course not. That would make too much sense.

So I guess it’s time to venture down into the basement and dig out the old fiber-optic tree (if the spiders will allow it) and see if  it will respond to CPR. I figure I always can drown out the grinding noises the base makes if I crank up the Christmas carols to about 120 decibels.

 #   #   #


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, December 3, 2024

I DIDN'T EVEN GET TO MEET JUDGE JUDY!

 

 

Lately it seems as if every time I mention something that upsets me (examples: the electric company cut an entire row of my trees right down to the ground instead of only trimming the branches as they’d informed me they would; my neighbors’ dogs got loose and attacked me, causing some serious bruising; FedEx tossed a huge package into the woods on my property and I had to climb down into a water-filled gully to retrieve the soggy box), my friends usually respond with, “You should sue them!”

I’ve never sued anyone before, but I’ve been called into court as a witness on several occasions, and although the experiences were interesting, I wasn’t particularly fond of how the defendants’ lawyers always tried to make me (and any other witnesses) sound like someone who either was delusional, high, or a bigger liar than Pinocchio.

The last time I was a witness in a lawsuit was about 15 years ago in small-claims court. I had no clue what to expect because it had been ages since I’d set foot in a courtroom, but visions of TV judges like Judge Judy and Judge Joe Brown kept popping into my head.

When I entered the courthouse, I had to pass through a metal detector, which I’d expected, but then the guard emptied the contents of my purse…which I hadn't expected. While he sorted through endless candy wrappers, wadded-up tissues, lint-covered lipsticks that had lost their caps, and photos so old, I was wearing a paisley mini-dress and platform shoes in them, I made a mental note to clean out my purse.

Later, as I sat in the courtroom and nervously awaited my turn on the witness stand, I soon discovered the most entertaining part of the whole experience...watching the cases ahead of mine.

One of them involved a landlord who took two of his tenants, a married couple, to court because they hadn't paid their rent in months. When the judge asked the couple why they hadn't, they said it was because their refrigerator was leaking and rotting the floor underneath. And even though they had asked the landlord several times to replace the refrigerator with a new one, he’d ignored them. So they, in turn, had decided to ignore paying their rent.

When the judge asked the landlord if he intended to replace the refrigerator, he said no, because he'd solved the leakage problem…by putting a bucket under it.

I couldn't help but wonder what kind of fridge was tall enough to fit a bucket underneath it…one of those old-fashioned iceboxes on legs? No wonder it was leaking. It probably had been delivered by a horse and wagon.

The judge then asked the landlord, "So you think it's perfectly normal to have a bucket underneath the refrigerator?"

The landlord shrugged. "It works."

The judge, looking annoyed, ordered the two parties to step out of the courtroom for a few minutes and try to calmly settle their differences by arriving at a compromise. He then told them to return later and inform him of what they had decided. 

The sound of their raised voices coming from outside the courtroom door a short time later, however, gave me the feeling the only "new" thing the tenants were going to end up getting was a bigger bucket.

Then there was the case of the electrician who hadn't been paid by the contractor who hired him to do the rough-in electrical work on a house he was building.

The questioning went something like this:

Judge: Did you hire this man to do the electrical work on a house you were constructing?

Contractor: Well...not officially.

Judge: Did he do the work?

Contractor: Yes.

Judge: Did he complete the job?

Contractor: Yes.

Judge:  Was his work satisfactory?

Contractor: Yes.

Judge: Are you going to pay him?

Contractor: No.

Judge: Why not?

Contractor: Because I didn't sign his contract, so I didn't have a binding agreement with him.

Judge: But you still allowed him to do all of the electrical work on the house?

Contractor: Yes.

Judge: (Holding up a piece of paper) Is this the contract?

Contractor: Yes.

Judge: (Studying the contract) And you didn't sign it?

Contractor: (Looking irritated and rolling his eyes) Do you SEE my signature anywhere on there?

The expression on the judge’s face all but guaranteed what the outcome was going to be…the contractor not only was ordered to pay the electrician, the judge also included the interest the money could have been earning in a high-yield CD…probably just to teach the contractor a lesson about eye-rolling in court.

Unfortunately, by the time I took the stand two hours later, the judge was in an even less pleasant mood, especially since I also was there in reference to a case concerning another shady contractor.

During the questioning, when I made the mistake of offering a comment to clarify something I’d previously stated, the judge snapped at me, "Ma'am, do NOT speak until you're spoken to!"

After that, I was afraid to open my mouth.

"You? Afraid to talk?" a friend of mine later said when I told her about my day in court. "I'd have paid to see that!"

And if that weren't bad enough, I was informed I might have to testify in yet another case concerning the same aforementioned contractor because the lawyer said that I, an elderly person, probably would be taken more seriously.

Luckily, I wasn’t contacted again.

So what do I think about my friends’ current advice to sue everyone who does me wrong?

Heck, if the lawyer and judge considered me to be elderly and too outspoken way back then, now they probably would think of me as just some senile old hag…someone who can’t see well enough to tell the difference between the neighbors’ dogs and a family of overfed raccoons. So why would I even attempt to sue anyone?

On the other hand, I do have the feeling I’m becoming one of those proverbial “grumpy old ladies,” in my old age…so you never know when or if I just might be tempted to reconsider.

Especially if I can meet Judge Judy.

 #   #   #


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, November 25, 2024

I STILL BELIEVE THIS SANTA WAS REAL...

 

I realize my readers usually expect to find humorous stories on here when they check out my blog, but just for this week, I’d like to print something serious. It’s a story I wrote for the Chicken Soup for the Soul books back in 1998, and it’s been reprinted many times since. But what made me think about it now, after so many years, is I recently received an email from the grandson of the “Santa” in my story, telling me how much his family appreciates what I wrote about him.

His email made me feel good…really good.

But what struck me the most about his message was how fate must have inspired him to write to me at this particular time in my life…because ironically, I once again am battling alopecia, just as I did in this story…

 

THE DEPARTMENT STORE SANTA

 

“Why are there so many different Santas?” I asked my mother, tightly clutching her hand as we walked along the icy downtown sidewalk in Manchester on the day after Thanksgiving. I was five years old.

“They’re all Santa’s helpers,” my mother answered. “The real  Santa is at Leavitt’s department store. You remember visiting him last year, don’t you?”

I nodded, not doubting for a moment he was genuine. Most of the Santas everywhere else, especially the ones ringing bells on the street corners, had scraggly cotton beards, heavily rouged cheeks and drooping, padded bellies. They bore no resemblance whatsoever to the Santa in one of my favorite picture books, The Night Before Christmas. But the Santa at Leavitt’s department store – well, he looked as if he had just stepped right out of one of the pages.

“Can we go see Santa today?” I asked. “Please?”

“Next week,” my mother answered, glancing at her watch. “I promise.”

But only five days later, I found myself on a cold table in a doctor’s examining room.

Wide-eyed, I stared at the doctor as he spouted a lot of medical terms I didn’t understand…until he said, “She’ll probably lose all of her hair.”

“You’re mistaken,” my mother responded, shaking her head, “I don’t want to offend you, but I’m going to take her to a specialist for a second opinion.”

And she did. Unfortunately, the diagnosis was the same.  I had a form of juvenile alopecia, a condition that would cause most or all of my hair to fall out.

Mine, much to my mother’s dismay, fell out quickly, not gradually. I can remember watching her choking back tears every time she found a clump of my long curls lying on the floor or scattered on my pillowcase…or when she brushed my hair and it came out by the handfuls. I also remember hating my reflection in the mirror and angrily refusing to believe my mother when she assured me my hair would grow back.

Understandably, I didn’t have much Christmas spirit that year. Although I felt fine physically, the sight of myself looking pale and bald made me want to stay in my room and hide under my bed.  So when two days before Christmas, my father enthusiastically invited me on our annual father-daughter shopping spree to pick out gifts for my mother – an event I’d always looked forward to – I told him I didn’t want to go.

But Dad could be persuasive when he wanted to be. He convinced me that without my help and suggestions, he probably would end up buying my mother the most hideous Christmas gifts in the history of the world.

Solely for the sake of salvaging my mother’s Christmas, I agreed to go shopping with him.

Downtown, the throngs of shoppers, cheerful Christmas music and thousands of twinkling lights made me temporarily forget my problems. I actually was having a good time and enjoying myself…until Dad and I decided to stop for a cup of hot cocoa.

“Hi, Lou!” one of the customers greeted my father when we walked into the coffee shop. “Say, I didn’t know you had a little boy! I thought you only had a daughter!”

I burst into tears.

It actually wasn’t the guy’s fault. I mean, I was wearing a tan-colored jacket, slacks, boots and a brown and tan cap, all strictly for warmth. There was nothing pink or frilly on me.

My father quickly ushered me out of the coffee shop and we headed toward Leavitt’s department store.

“I have just the thing to cheer you up,” he said, forcing a smile. “A visit with Santa. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Sniffling, I nodded.

But even as I stood in line in Leavitt’s toy department, where Santa sat on a regal, red velvet throne trimmed in gold, my tears still wouldn’t stop.  When my turn finally came, I shyly lowered my head and climbed onto Santa’s lap.

“And what’s your name?” Santa asked, smiling.

Still not looking up, I carefully pronounced my full name – first, middle and last – just to make certain he would be able to find my house on Christmas Eve.

“And what would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?” he asked.

My tear-filled eyes finally met his as I slowly removed my cap and revealed my naked scalp.

“I want my hair back,” I told him. “I want it to be long and beautiful, all the way down to the floor, just like Rapunzel’s.”

Santa cast a questioning look at my father and waited for his nod before he answered me. 

“It takes a long time for hair to grow, sweetheart,” Santa said. “And I’m very, very sorry, but even Santa can’t speed things up. You will have to be patient and not lose faith. Your hair will grow back in time; I promise you it will.”

At that moment, with all of my heart, I believed his promise.

And ten months later, when my hair finally did start to grow back, I was convinced it was due solely to Santa’s magic.

The years passed, and after I graduated from high school, I got a job as a switchboard operator at Leavitt’s department store. All of my co-workers were friendly and helpful, but one employee went out of his way to make me feel welcome. He was a retired professional boxer named “Pal” Reed, the store’s handyman and jack-of-all-trades.

Pal had a knack for sensing when an employee was feeling sad or upset, and he did everything he could to help. While I was learning how to operate the switchboard and trying to memorize all of the departments, employees’ names and their extension numbers, I felt so frustrated and overwhelmed at times, I announced I was going to quit. Pal bought me a box of chocolates to lift my spirits, then asked if there was anything he could do to help.

He was so easy to talk to, I felt as if I had known him for years. And because of him, I didn’t give up.

During my first Christmas season at Leavitt’s, I went to the stockroom one afternoon to get some gift boxes on my way back from my lunch break. There, standing in a corner with his back to me, was the store’s Santa, getting ready for his annual arrival in the store’s toy department.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” I said, embarrassed I had interrupted him while he was dressing. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you.”

Santa quickly put on his beard before he turned to face me. At that moment I realized he was the same Santa I had told my Christmas wish to…fourteen years before. 

But no beard or long white wig could conceal his true identity…

He was Pal Reed.

He smiled knowingly at me, then nodded and softly said, “I remembered you the minute I heard your name…and I’ve never been more thrilled to see such a beautiful head of hair.”

#   #   #


PAL & HIS WIFE




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Monday, November 18, 2024

TRYING TO BE POLITICALLY CORRECT HAS MADE BUYING GREETING CARDS A REAL CHALLENGE FOR ME

 

I’ve always been in the habit of sending greeting cards (the ones still printed on actual paper) not only for people’s birthdays and anniversaries, but also for holidays like Christmas, Easter and Thanksgiving. 

But nowadays it’s becoming more and more of a challenge to pick out a great card. For one thing, I can’t tell you how many times I have stood in front of a rack of greeting cards and searched for just the right one until my back muscles were in such knots, my legs went numb. And then, after finally finding what I considered to be the “perfect” card, I’d flip it over and see a price of $6.99.

Let me tell you, when you’re someone who grew up buying cards for only 25 cents each, a price like $6.99 is enough to induce severe lightheadedness. After all, a card is nothing but a piece of folded paper. For that price, I could by an entire ream.

And buying cards is even more difficult and complicated nowadays due to all of the emphasis on political correctness. I enjoy buying humorous cards and they, of course, just happen to be considered the most likely to be offensive.

Years ago, I simply would go into a store, grab a card and if it made me laugh I’d buy it. Now, however, I find myself carefully analyzing everything about the card.  Can the wording be misinterpreted or misconstrued and be considered offensive? Does the photo or illustration signify something other than its intended meaning? Or even worse, does the card have some hidden, underlying message I’m too prehistoric to understand?

It’s downright scary.

Take, for example, when I recently was searching for a humorous anniversary card to send to my friend and her husband. There was one that featured artwork of a couple posing in positions similar to those of body-builders.

The man and woman were dressed like Tarzan and Jane, but the male had a big pot-belly and super skinny legs with knobby knees, and the woman had saggy boobs, an abundance of cellulite and bare feet the size of canoes. And for some unknown reason, a chimpanzee displaying a shocked expression was sitting behind the guy and looking up at his butt. The card wished a happy anniversary to the “King and Queen of the Jungle.” 

I laughed at the image and was ready to bring the card to the checkout, but then a few doubts crept into my head and I hesitated. My first thought was if I sent that card to my friend and her husband, would they think I was insulting their appearance? And could referring to their homestead as a "jungle" be misinterpreted that I think their house looks or smells like the monkey cage at the zoo?

The more overthinking I did, the more “what ifs” I came up with, until I decided to buy a nice, generic-looking card with flowers on the front and only “Wishing a wonderful couple a very happy anniversary!” on the inside.

No, not at all humorous…but safe. 

And then there was the humorous birthday card I also decided against, even though I’m ashamed to admit it did make me laugh. The card purposely was made to look as if it had been lying on the floor and stepped on. Inside, it said, “Sorry for the condition of this card, but I just grabbed it and ran because the customer next to me farted!”

However, without any warning, a little “politically correct” voice suddenly popped into my head and said, “Are you really sure you want to buy that card? Someone might think you’re making fun of people who suffer from stomach ailments that cause embarrassing and uncontrollable gaseousness in public.”

So once again, I ended up choosing a “safe” alternative.

My friends probably are beginning to think I’m suffering from a personality disorder that is robbing me of my sense of humor.

No…I’m just a coward.

But I don’t think I’m alone in my struggle to be more politically correct when it comes to buying greeting cards. Not long ago I was in one of the area pharmacies and suddenly remembered I had to find a birthday card for one of my friends and mail it out right away or she wouldn’t receive it in time. I headed over to the greeting-card aisle, and there, standing in front of the exact section I wanted (humorous birthday), was a man with a little girl who looked about five or six.

I pretended to be interested in some adjacent get-well cards as I waited for him to select a card and move on. But after five minutes, I began to get the feeling I was in for a long wait.

“Daddy!” the little girl whined. “Hurry up!”

“I can’t find the right card,” he said, picking up yet another one and slowly studying it.

“But you already read every one of them!” she protested.

“I know, but I didn’t find a good one for Mommy yet, so I’m going to read them all over again,” he said.

I figured I’d better shop for the other things I needed and then return.  

Ten minutes later, I still was circling the greeting-card aisle…and the guy and his daughter still were there. I was beginning to feel like a vulture waiting for something to drop dead.  

Finally, I decided to give the father a not-so-subtle hint. I moved right next to him and reached in front of him, excusing myself and grabbing birthday cards at random in case there was a slim chance I might be lucky enough to find a decent one. If I didn’t, I figured I’d probably still be there at closing time.

“They’re all pretty bad,” the guy said to me in a tone that told me I should value his opinion and not even bother to look at any of the cards.

The little girl scowled at her father, then grabbed a card and moved toward me. “Can you read this pretty one for me?” she asked.

I guess she’d totally given up on him ever succeeding in finding a card by then and was hoping I would intervene.

I took the card, which had a photo of dozens of colorful candles all ablaze on the front and read it to her. It said, “Hey, babe, if you want to have a really hot time on your birthday, just wait until I get there!”

“I like it!” the little girl fairly squealed with delight. “That’s the one I’m getting for Mommy!”

“Um…” I said, “I don’t think this one is the best card for you to give to your mother.”

“Yes it is!” she insisted. “I want to give her that one!”

Her father snatched the card out of my hand. “No. You’re not giving this one to Mommy.”

“It might be a good one for you to give to her, though,” I blurted out, chuckling, hoping to help him finally choose a card.

“No, that wouldn’t work,” he said, not looking the least bit amused. “We’re divorced. I’m a single parent.”

Oops. 

Maybe if I live to be about 110, I'll finally get the hang of all of this politically correct stuff.

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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, November 11, 2024

THANKS TO MY DEBIT CARD, I MISSED THE SHOE SALE

 

When I took my daily walk last week, I noticed that my feet felt as if they were walking uphill, even though I was on a completely flat surface.

The minute I got back home, I took off my walking shoes and examined them. The back edges of the heels on both soles were so worn out, I practically was walking on my socks.

I wasn’t surprised, however. I faithfully walk more than 15 miles every week and I bought my current pair of shoes back in 2023. So I've racked up a lot of mileage on them.

That night, I searched the Internet for another pair of walking shoes exactly like mine and was shocked to discover the price had gone up $30 since the last time I'd purchased them. I was determined not to pay that much, so I continued my search. An hour later, I finally found a pair on sale for only $10 more than I’d previously paid. And luck was on my side because the sale was ending in an hour. I’d found the shoes just in nick of time. 

I filled out the order, then entered my debit-card number and the expiration date.

 TRANSACTION DENIED flashed on the screen. 

I tried again. Ditto.

So I checked my online account. Nothing looked suspicious and I had more than enough money in it to buy the shoes.

Two more failed attempts later, I finally raised the white flag. I knew I had no choice other than to do something more stressful and more painful than wearing barbed-wire underwear.

I phoned my bank’s 24-hour customer-service line.

To my relief, it didn’t take too long to be connected with an actual human. I had to sit through only 12 choruses of some song that sounded as if it were being played on a toy piano, and a mere eight advertisements for a credit card that would give me 2-percent cash back on every purchase. But if I didn’t pay off the balance every month, I’d get hit with an interest payment of 26-percent. 

Call me a skeptic, but those odds didn’t exactly entice me to rush to fill out an application.

The customer-service woman asked me several questions to verify my identity. She then said that before she could access my account and provide me with any information, she was going to phone a code number to me that I had to repeat to her.

I tried to tell her I still was using a landline that didn’t even have call-waiting, but she too quickly sent the code number, which went straight to my voice mail. So I wasn’t able to access it unless I hung up, dialed the voice-mail phone number and then entered my home-phone number and PIN, which, on a good day, would have taken about a year and a half.

When I explained all of this to the woman, she responded with, “You really don’t have a Smartphone?” Her suspicious tone told me I probably had just become a suspect instead of a victim. 

“The reception is terrible where I live,” I said. “That’s why I still have a landline.”

“Then I can’t send you a text, either?” She asked in a way that made me feel as if she thought I should be hanging around with Wilma Flintstone.

“Not unless you know how to send a text through an old-fashioned landline.”

She then said she was going to have to ask me more security questions. I expected the usual, "What's your favorite movie?" or "Who was your first-grade teacher?" but instead, the questions were all about my other accounts and transactions at the bank, dating all the way back to when the Pilgrims first landed at Plymouth Rock. Finally, she trusted me enough to share some information with me.

“It seems your account was frozen because someone named McAfee attempted to make an unauthorized purchase,” she said.

“That would be McAfee Security,” I said, “my computer’s virus protection. Every year at this time they automatically take out my annual fee. It’s a legitimate purchase.”

“And exactly how much is that fee?” Her suspicious tone returned.

Maybe it was just my imagination, but I thought she sounded a bit disappointed when I answered with the correct amount. Maybe she'd been thinking she was about to bust an international ring of debit-card hackers led by me, “Big Mama Breslin.”

“So now you can remove the hold on my debit card?” I asked her.

“Sorry, but no. You weren’t able to repeat the code number back to me and I’m not allowed to issue you another one today, so now I'm not authorized to change anything in your account.”

I looked at the clock. The shoe sale was over. Someone else was going to be jogging in my new shoes, while I probably was going to end up walking in my bedroom slippers.

“Then what do you suggest I do next?” I asked.

“Well, you can call back tomorrow morning and we can try again because it will be a different day. Or you can visit your nearest branch in person. Or…” she lowered her voice, “there’s one other thing you can try that I think might work more quickly.”

Her tone sounded so mysterious, I was afraid to ask. Visions of myself sharing a prison cell with a giant of a woman with biceps the size of tree trunks and “KILLER” tattooed across her forehead immediately sprang to mind.

But the customer-service woman simply told me to log into my online account, click onto “send a secure message” and write that I’d authorized McAfee’s payment and the amount, and then request to have my debit card unlocked. She also gave me a case number to add to the message, which she said might help to speed up the process.

So I tried it, figuring I had nothing to lose at that point. Five hours later, I received a response from the bank, apologizing for the inconvenience and informing me my card was all set to use again.

I was relieved, but also discouraged. I mean, although I was really grateful to the bank for being so cautious about my debit card, the fact remained that I’d missed out on the shoe sale and now would have to pay at least $89 for another pair.

The next day, I once again browsed online for shoes and was surprised to see a pair just like mine on sale elsewhere for even less than the ones I’d unsuccessfully tried to order. I immediately ordered them, then held my breath as I entered my debit-card number.

It was accepted! (Exhale!)

I honestly haven’t felt that relieved since the time I rushed to see my doctor because I was experiencing tightness and discomfort in my chest and was convinced I needed open-heart surgery.

After I underwent a variety of tests, the doctor said, “Well, my diagnosis is…you need to buy a bigger bra.”

Yep. Definitely a big relief...in more ways than one.


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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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