Monday, October 14, 2024

TIME TO DIG OUT MY FLUORESCENT ORANGE WARDROBE

 



I was telling one of my neighbors the other day I have seen more deer on my land and during my walks in the woods this year than in all of the past years combined.

“Well, I’ll bet you won’t be seeing any more deer now until at least January,” he said. “It’s hunting season, and the deer instinctively know it, so they’ll make themselves scarce.”

I could just picture the deer gathered around a calendar nailed to a tree in the woods and saying, “Yep, Bambi, it’s hunting season, all right. Come on, we’d better head on down to the hideout now and lay low until January.”

“Is it really hunting season already?” I asked.

My neighbor nodded. “Bow and arrow. Then in late October it’s muzzleloaders, and finally regular firearms. If you’re going out walking in the woods, you’d better wear bright red or orange, just to be safe. You don’t want to end up with an arrow in your butt.”

I groaned. Every year at this time, I have to don my Great Pumpkin outfit, which consists of so much fluorescent orange, I swear people all the way up in Quebec can see me.

Even worse, I also have to deck out my dogs in orange, especially since I was warned on more than one occasion that my Rottweiler looks like a deer from a distance. I’ve never seen an all-black deer with a tan face and a Sumo wrestler's body like my Rottweiler has, but then, I’m not a hunter.

So I bought orange vests, orange bandanas, and even orange collars for my dogs, just to be safe. If I could hook up flashing neon lights that spell out “DOG” and hang those on their backs, I’d probably do that, too.

Years ago, I used to bring a boom box with me on my daily hikes and blast rock-music so hunters would hear me approaching and not mistake me for a deer. I’d thought it was a pretty good idea…until I mentioned it to my husband one day.

“You go around making all of that noise in the woods?” he asked. “It’s a wonder the hunters don’t shoot you for scaring all of their deer away!”

That probably would explain why I thought I heard a bush cursing at me one morning.

The thing I like about deer hunters is they usually wear bright orange, too, so I can spot them from a distance and not be startled by them. Bird hunters, on the other hand, in their camouflage outfits, blend right in with the scenery and become invisible. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been out hiking and walked by a tree trunk that suddenly said hello to me. The first time it happened, I nearly needed a change of underwear.

Over the years, however, I have learned how to tell when hunters are around so I can keep an eye out for them. First of all, there will be pickup trucks parked along the edge of the woods. You can just about guarantee that for each one of those trucks, there will be at least one weapon-toting person roaming around.

And then there is the toilet paper. During hunting season, clumps of it seem to magically appear in the woods along the trails. I’ve never actually witnessed how the toilet paper got there (and I pray I never will), but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t due to the animals being on a sudden personal-hygiene kick, like those cartoon bears that wipe with Charmin in the TV commercials.

Of course, when there’s snow on the ground, it’s a snap to tell where the hunters are because their footprints are a dead giveaway. I don’t know if this is a proven scientific fact or not, but I have noticed, from years of studying hunters’ footprints in the snow, that most of them walk with their right foot turned outward.

I don’t know which is weirder…the fact that they walk with their right foot turned outward…or the fact I even noticed.

So as much as we hate to, my dogs and I will be wearing our bright orange ensembles for the next couple of months. That way, we hopefully will be able to make it through another hunting season with all of our body parts still intact.

That is, unless we happen to startle a hunter who's actually in the process of using some of that toilet paper (and by “startle,” I mean my dogs have really cold noses).

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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, October 7, 2024

DO YOU REMEMBER THOSE ORIGINAL ONLINE CHAT ROOMS?

 

I belong to a website called Reddit, which hosts groups pertaining to every topic imaginable – from unrequited love to cats doing crazy things and authors looking for publishers. Each group has moderators – people who decide which posts will or will not be allowed, particularly if the people posting don’t stick  to the main subject of the group.

I’ve joined several writers’ and authors’ groups on Reddit and so far,  they have provided a wealth of information. Any questions I might have, such as “What is the best way to promote your book when your funds are limited?” usually receive prompt, helpful responses.

When I was browsing on Reddit earlier today, I couldn’t help but think back to over 25 years ago when I bought my first computer and decided to enter one of the early “chat rooms,” where people who shared similar interests could gather anonymously online to discuss various topics. It was kind of like an early form of group texting.

The first thing I had to do was select the type of chat room I wanted to enter. The list was endless, with every topic imaginable:  Divorced Ladies, Married and Looking (for what?), Schmooz Fest, Fans of Elvis, Oldies Music and Authors’ Lounge, to name just a few of the hundreds.

I thought Authors’ Lounge sounded intriguing, so I checked out the description. It said it was a gathering place for authors, publishers, editors, literary agents, journalists, poets, and writing instructors to share their ideas. Encouraged, I entered the “room,” hoping to learn a few new things about writing.

Entering a chat room for the first time was sort of like being in one of those old western movies where you’re the stranger in town, walking into the local saloon.

 The authors’ chat room already had 19 people chatting in it, most of whom seemed to know each other. They had catchy little on-screen names such as, “Over-the-hill-Lil,” “YoYoBozo,” “DroopyDraws” and “Rubberduckie," and were in the midst of a heated discussion when I first popped in.

“It does TOO hurt to have an ingrown toenail removed,” one chatter was saying. “I can hardly walk!”

“Aw, you’re just a big sissy!” another wrote back. “I had all of my toenails removed on my right foot and was wearing my steel-toed work boots the next morning!”

“Hey, we’re not here to talk about your feet!” another chatter interrupted. “Is anyone here a Steinbeck fan?”

“Oh, shut up!” came the response. “Who cares about Steinbeck when my toe is swollen to the size of a banana?”

I sat silently following the conversation for several minutes, thinking I’d entered the wrong room. Not only was no one was chatting about writing, everyone kept using mysterious abbreviations I’d never seen before, like “LMHO” and “BRB.”  Finally, I couldn’t stand the curiosity any longer. I gathered my courage and typed my first question: “What do LMHO and BRB stand for?”

“‘Laughing my head off’ and ‘be right back’,” came about 10 replies. (Some of them also used “LMAO,” but I figured it might be best not to ask about the letter “A” in that one).

Another new chatter popped into the room. “Hello,” he or she said. “I’m 17 and I write poetry. My friends say I’m a real natural when it comes to writing. Anyone here know where I can get my poems published? What's your advice?"

“My advice is to learn to write something else!” came one suggestion. “You’ll never get anywhere with poetry.”

“Only sissies write poetry,” said the same person who’d just called the ingrown-toenail person a sissy.

“Yeah!  Learn to write true-crime stories,” someone else chimed in. “Nothing captures a reader’s attention like a decapitated human head rolling down a hill!”

“Eeeeyuuuw!” came another response. “That’s gross!”

“But I enjoy writing poetry,” the young writer defended. “I write all about love!”

“Love??” another chatter shot back (and I swear this is an exact quote). “Love is nothing but a big pile of doggie doo-doo.”

Finally another chatter dared to ask, “Is anyone here REALLY a writer?”

I was thinking the same thing. And there obviously were no moderators back then who were keeping the discussions limited to the main topic.

“I once wrote a biography about Princess Diana,” came one answer.

“And I have four novels on the bestseller list,” boasted another.

“Yeah, right, and I’m Stephen King’s twin sister, Stephanie!” said yet another. “I taught him everything he knows!”

“I can’t write and I hate reading,” another chatter wrote. “And I think all writers are really boring!”

“Then what the heck are you doing in this chat room?” came the immediate response.

“Looking for girls!” he answered. “Anyone here single and available?”

“Go to the ‘Looking for Romance’ chat room,” someone suggested.

“I just came from there,” he answered. “It’s full of other guys looking for girls!”

“My mother is single and available,” one chatter offered. “How old are you?”

“Fourteen,” he responded.

I’d seen just about enough. Foolishly, I decided to jump in with, “I write a weekly humor column. Anyone have any ideas for a topic I can write about this week?”

“Yeah, write about what it would be like to be decapitated,” said the aforementioned would-be ax-murderer. “Think of how funny it would be to run around looking for your head!”

“Dummy!” someone wrote back. “How could you look for anything if you didn’t have a head?”

“Write about that stupid woman on the reality TV show who married the multi-millionaire, sight unseen,” came another suggestion.

“She wasn’t stupid!” another argued. “HE was the stupid one!  At least she ended up with some money. All men are pigs!  As I said before, love is nothing but a big pile of doggie doo-doo!”

“Write about all of the crazy people you find in chat rooms,” came one last suggestion in answer to my question.

Not a bad idea. 

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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, September 30, 2024

WHEN IS IT JUNK AND WHEN IS IT A RARE COLLECTIBLE? DARNED IF I KNOW!

 

As I write this, I’m waiting for an auctioneer to drop by to evaluate the many boxes and plastic tubs of “stuff” in my basement and let me know what’s worth selling and what should be heaved into the back of a pickup truck speeding in the direction of the nearest landfill.

Naturally, I’m praying  he will unearth some long-forgotten item that will turn out to be a rare collectible worth thousands, maybe even millions, of dollars.

I know, I know, I’m a dreamer, but I blame it on that TV program, Antiques Roadshow. You know the one…where a bunch of posh-looking experts in expensive black suits appraise items brought in by people who have just cleaned out their attics and basements and are wondering if Aunt Alma's silver brooch might be worth a buck or two. 

Oddly enough, the items that look the worst – items that even the rats at the town dump would reject – usually are the ones that are worth the most money.

For example, a typical discussion on the Antiques Roadshow might go something like this:

EXPERT: “And what have you brought in for us to appraise today, Mr. Lynch?”

MR. LYNCH: “Well, I found this here old horse bridle in my great-great grandpa’s shed, so I thought I’d check it out.”

EXPERT:  (Pulls out a magnifying glass from his pocket and carefully examines the item) “Hmmm, very interesting. The markings on the leather clearly indicate this was the bridle used on Paul Revere’s horse, Brown Beauty, during his infamous midnight ride in 1775.”

MR. LYNCH: (Completely expressionless) “So, is it worth anything?”

EXPERT: “Well, if this bridle were to come up for auction, I expect it easily could sell for as much as $250,000. Are you looking to sell it?”

MR. LYNCH: (Still expressionless) “Nah. I think I’ll just keep it…for sentimental reasons.”

Let me tell you, if someone ever gave me news like that, I would pick up the appraiser, spin him around and then do cartwheels across the floor. And to heck with the sentimental value. I would unload the item on the first person who showed me a checkbook or a wad of cash.

Which leads me back to the auctioneer who is coming over here today. The last time I dealt with an auctioneer was back in 2006, after my mother passed away and left me her house and everything in it. Back then, I’d been certain that even her ugly ceramic table-lamp with the painting of a powdered-wigged man in knee-length breeches and long white stockings on the front was worth a fortune. Every time I looked at him, I pictured dollar signs all over his pale, pinched face.

And the statue of the reclining frog with a lily pad covering its privates, well, I was positive it just had to be a piece of rare folk art. Even the free set of dinnerware from Grand Union supermarket my mother had collected piece by piece every week for over a year, surely had to be valuable. I mean, the last time I’d seen a Grand Union anywhere, men still were wearing polyester leisure-suits.

So by the time Art, the auctioneer, showed up at my mother’s, I’d fully convinced myself he was going to finance my future vacation in Hawaii.

He started out in the garage. In the corner, in all its glory, sat an old-fashioned, 1920s green-enamel woodstove, the kind with a big oven in it that also was used for cooking. Surely, I thought, he would gasp with delight when he spotted it.

He barely gave it a glance. Instead, he rushed over to my dad’s old workbench and picked up what looked like something that should have been buried years before.

“Wow!” he gasped. “An old electrical meter!  That is really cool!”

I just stared at him. “But what about this old woodstove!  I’ll bet it’s worth a fortune!”

He shook his head. “Not really. They were popular a few years ago, but they’re not now. Nobody seems to want them anymore. They take up too much space and weigh a ton.”

Still not discouraged, I led him into my mother’s house and pointed out her porcelain and fine-china teacup collection. One of the cups even was a souvenir from Queen Elizabeth’s coronation.

“Isn’t this a great collection?” I practically gushed.

Again, he shook his head. “Those aren’t very popular any more, either. And neither are most collectible plates, like from the Franklin Mint.”

Looking past me, he rushed over to the bookshelf, where he picked up some worn-looking old books my parents used to read to me when I was a kid. Most of the covers were hanging on by mere threads. I was afraid if he even so much as coughed on them, he would reduce them to a pile of dust.

“Now these are worth something!” he said.

I honestly thought he was joking.

He also liked the stack of linens in the linen closet, but barely glanced at the pair of Murano Italian glass swans. And the portable bar in the living room didn’t impress him even half as much as one of the big, crooked-looking wine bottles that was standing on it.

So now I think I more clearly understand how this “keep or toss” idea works. I won’t show my vintage Rogers flatware in its original velvet-lined case or my 1977 Princess Leia doll to the auctioneer who’s on his way over here today.

However, I’ll make sure he sees my broken avocado-colored wall phone with the rotary dial, and my rusty old manual lawnmower with the dented blades.

 

#   #   #

NOTE: I wrote this blog several days ago but didn't post it until now. The auctioneer has come and gone and he took about 9 big plastic storage tubs of my items with him to auction off at his next public auction (Oct. 18, 2024). Mostly they were the newer collectibles, all still sealed...non-sport cards, action figures (Star Wars, Avatar, Lord of the Rings, The Walking Dead, Sons of Anarchy, etc.), over 100 comic books, Garbage Pail Kids, Pokemon, still-sealed Lego sets and more! The auction will be held on Friday, October 18, at 5:30 PM at 48 Airport Road in Concord, NH (I believe it's the union hall with the big parking lot across from the airport & the armory). If you would like to check out the items that will be sold at the auction, you can see them here:

AUCTION - OCT. 18, CONCORD, NH 

My items start on row 49 of the photos and go all the way down through row 54. I know they are only "stuff," but it really makes me sad to see them go. My late husband and I collected many of them together over the years and had a lot of fun in the process. But without him, they are just "things" now. So I'm trying to be brave and allow other people to enjoy them! Hopefully, they also might brighten someone's Christmas this year...     

I think my husband would like that.










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Monday, September 23, 2024

SOME BASEMENTS JUST WEREN'T MEANT TO BE ORGANIZED

 

Now that my mold problem in the basement has been resolved, I rummaged through several old trunks and plastic storage tubs down there last week and tried to make some sense of why things were stored the way they were.

For example, in one storage container there were 10 different Star Wars action figures, a set of kitchen knives, a book about Babe Ruth, an old electric drill, a singing Santa figurine and a swimsuit I’d last worn when I was 19.

Why, I wondered, would those items all be grouped together in the same container when they had about as much in common as a jellyfish and a camel?

So I decided I was going to arrange everything stored in the basement into similar groups and then give each group its own container. At least then I would be able to find items more quickly. I mean, if I were about to bake something and wanted to dig out my old cookie-cutters, I'd be more likely to locate them in a container marked “Baking Accessories” than buried beneath items like pillowcases, dog toys and VHS tapes in the bottom of an unmarked container.

Filled with enthusiasm and determination, I opened one of the approximately 75 storage tubs I intended to organize.

Almost immediately there was a problem. Instead of separating the items into categories, I sat back and read every old card and letter I found. And when I came across a folder of old photos, I just had to look through all of them. 

I was particularly intrigued by a series of photos I'd taken years ago during yet another one of my 1,125 diets. Before I actually began the diet, I'd posed for a "before" photo while wearing a stretchy blue leotard. Then every time I dropped 10 pounds, I'd pose for another photo in the exact outfit to show my progress. There were nine photos in all, beginning at 235 lbs. and ending at 145.  They reminded me of that old movie, "The Incredible Shrinking Woman."

Unfortunately, they also reminded me of  “The Incredible Aging Woman.” The more weight I lost, the more my face and body sagged in every photo, until I pretty much resembled a cross between a Shar-Pei and a basset hound in a leotard. 

Suddenly I needed a break from organizing because I was craving cookies.

I also found a framed photo taken at my high school’s winter semi-formal. My date was a nice-looking guy from a high school across town. He was very quiet and shy, and barely said two words all night. In the photo, the way we were posed and the expressions on our faces reminded me of that farm couple in Grant Wood’s American Gothic painting. The only thing missing was the pitchfork.

A few years later, I saw in the newspaper that my “quiet and shy” date from that night had been arrested for shooting his roommate.

In the third container I opened, I found some of my late husband's things...many of which puzzled me.

For example, there was a gallon-sized Zip-loc bag that contained eight men’s wallets, all old and worn-out. I searched through them, hoping to find a $20 bill or two, but all I found were long-expired credit cards and driver's licenses.

To be honest, when I first saw all of those wallets, I wondered if my husband might secretly have been moonlighting as a pickpocket, so I was relieved that everything in them had his name on them and not some stranger's. One wallet was so old, there still was a photo of one of my husband's ex-girlfriends from the 1960s tucked in it…the same petite, shapely, dark-haired ex-girlfriend he’d once mentioned bore a striking resemblance to Annette Funicello. 

All I can say is his ex's body parts didn’t look quite so perky or Annette-like after I shoved her photo through the paper shredder.

I also found the spare keys to every car my husband had owned since his 1969 VW Beetle, along with his first pair of bowling shoes, a brightly patterned Mexican poncho and a big, puffy fur hat with furry ear flaps. It resembled one of those hats Russians wear in Siberia, and was made of some kind of real animal fur that fell out in clumps the moment I touched it. 

I thought it was a strange thing for my husband to own because he'd always been the type who complained about being hot even in mid-winter, and usually wore his spring jacket in February.

I’d never seen him wear that hat even once…probably because he was afraid our dogs would catch a whiff of it and attack him.

In the next container, on which the lid was warped and didn't fit very tightly, I found several stuffed animals, a cast-iron frying pan (covered in rust), formerly white Go-Go boots (also sporting some rust, thanks to the pan), a vintage Monopoly game and…

The world’s most hideous-looking spider on steroids.

That put an immediate end to my desire to organize anything down in the basement ever again.

I figure if I want to bake cookies and need my cookie cutters, I can always run down to the store and buy some. 

Even better, I'll just use a sharp knife to hack out some designs in the dough and call it creativity.

 #   #   #


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, September 16, 2024

I'VE SEEN (AND WORN) SOME PRETTY CREATIVE HALLOWEEN COSTUMES OVER THE YEARS

 


October always has been one of my favorite months. There’s just something about the crisp air, the brightly colored leaves and the pumpkin population-explosion I love. 

I also love Halloween, the national holiday for sweets lovers (I’m pretty sure my dentist loves it, too). But even though mountains of free toothache-and-bellyache-inducing candy are my equivalent of heaven, I honestly enjoy the Halloween costumes even more.

While searching for something in the basement the other day, I found a trunk filled with my old Halloween costumes. The moment I pulled out the first one, I was transported back to my childhood.

When I was a kid, my Halloween costumes never were store-bought or something predictable like a witch, a ghost or a princess. No, my mother, who was a talented seamstress, always designed and sewed original costumes for me.

One year I was a female Zorro, wearing a black skirt, hat, cape and boots and carrying a fake sword. Another year, I was a firefly, complete with wings that were covered with tiny blinking lights that hooked to a battery pack, which, back in those days, was considered to be both innovative and “ooh” inspiring. And then there was my Spanish senorita costume...a gown with layers of red and black satin ruffles trimmed with gold sequins and accessorized with a rose-adorned tiara with a lacy black veil (mantilla).

But as clever as I thought my costumes were back then, they couldn’t hold a candle to many of the costumes I’ve seen since, especially when I lived in a busy neighborhood where it wasn’t unusual to have at least 100 trick-or-treaters on Halloween night. I swear, some parents must have spent months thinking up and creating some of those costumes for their kids. 

I remember one girl who came dressed as a dining-room table. The cardboard table was adorned with a white tablecloth, dishes, silverware and napkins, all solidly glued down. Popping up through a hole in the middle of the table was the girl’s head, which was decorated like a centerpiece of colorful flowers. I was worried the poor kid would kill herself trying to get down my porch steps because there was no way she could see her feet.

Then there was the boy whose costume was a giant box of Corn Flakes. The box was covered with fake blood and the boy was holding a big plastic knife, also with blood on it. Confused, I asked him what he was supposed to be.

“A cereal killer,” he answered in a tone that told me he was insulted I’d even had to ask.

Another little boy came as a giant tooth with a smiley face painted on the front. The top right side of the tooth had a prominent cavity in it that actually was a good-sized hole. 

“Just put the candy directly into the cavity,” his mother said with a shrug. “It’s where it’s going to end up in his real teeth anyway!”

One girl, a teenager, was dressed in a skeleton costume. The puzzling part was she also was wearing high heels, an evening gown, dangling rhinestone earrings with a matching necklace and bracelets, and a long, glamorous-looking brunette wig.

“Let me guess,” I said as I handed a candy bar to her. “You’re supposed to be the skeleton of a rich woman?”

“I’m not a skeleton,” she answered. “I’m a fashion model.”

Her companion was a girl who was wearing an old bathrobe, baggy flannel pajamas, big pink hair curlers and fuzzy slippers. She had white makeup smeared all over her face and an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth. “I’m my mother,” she said, before I even could ask. 

But there was one costume that really scared me, and I’ve never figured out how it was made. I opened the door to see a tall, headless guy dressed in a long black cloak. Tucked underneath his arm was a decapitated head. I figured the guy’s real head was somewhere up in the neck part of the costume, and there probably were eyeholes in it so he could see. As I searched for the eyeholes, the decapitated head under his arm suddenly moved, looked at me and said, “trick or treat!”  I was so startled, I jumped. That had to be one of the most creative costumes I’ve ever seen.

No, I take that back. The award for creativity has to go to three college-aged guys who, on the spur of the moment one Halloween night, decided they’d like some candy. I opened my door and there they were, not wearing costumes, but kneeling on my porch, their hands clasped in front of them.

“Trick or treat!” they shouted in unison.

“I’m not giving you any candy,” I said. “You’re not even wearing costumes.”

“Yes we are,” one of them said, smiling broadly. “We’re three praying mantises.”

Heck, I then felt obligated to give them the candy just for originality.

Where I live now, in the middle of the woods, I’m lucky if I see 10 trick-or-treaters on Halloween. And when I do, they usually are dressed like one of the Marvel superheroes, so the days of creativity and imagination seem to be gone.

My faith partially was restored last year, however, when I saw what appeared to be two trick-or-treaters (one in the front and one in the back) sharing a very cool, very realistic-looking deer costume, come walking up my driveway.

I thought, “At last! Something different instead of Spider-Man, Iron Man or Wolverine!”

But for some reason, when I opened the door, waiting for them to come get their candy, the kids in the deer costume dashed off into the woods.

Go figure.

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(This was the last costume my mom ever made for me. It was back in the '80s, when I was invited to a Halloween party and decided I wanted to go as a rock star. It was a glittery copper in color. I thought the wig she included was pretty cool!).



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, September 9, 2024

SPENCER'S ALWAYS WAS MY FAVORITE STORE IN THE STEEPLEGATE MALL...UNTIL...

 

 

I really miss the Steeplegate Mall in Concord. The last time I was in Concord and saw it, now just a shell of its former bustling self, it pained my heart (either that or it was the burrito I’d eaten for lunch).

How well I remember buying Star Wars toys in the toy shop or hanging around in the pet shop…until their supply of crickets and other insects they’d kept out back for reptile-feeding purposes somehow got loose and ran rampant. From what I heard, Radio Shack ended up with most of the creepy crawlers paying a surprise visit, which probably contributed to the store’s early demise. The pet shop also mysteriously disappeared not too long after that.

But if I had to choose, I’d say Spencer’s was my favorite store there. I had been receiving the Spencer’s Gifts catalog in the mail for years, so I was really excited to explore an actual store with the same name.

I wasn't disappointed. The moment I set foot in the place, I felt as if it had been created especially for me – a.k.a. the lover of weird, unusual, racy and humorous stuff. My eyes grew wide as they scanned the crowded shelves of character masks, action figures, stuffed animals, games and joke items. There also was an area of X-rated “toys” and greeting cards, and a rack of T-shirts and posters that featured everything from TV, music and movie icons to witty and/or risqué sayings and illustrations. The store’s jewelry also was unique for that era – nose rings, tongue and navel studs, and even spiked leather chokers.

But my go-to area always was the 50%-off section, where the store displayed its marked-down items and I never failed to find a great bargain.

Year after year, I continued to frequently shop in and enjoy Spencer’s…that is, until the humiliating day that ruined everything for me…

I was having a good time hunting for bargains, as usual, and was excited to find several marked-down items that were on my “must-have” list, such as a talking Darth-Vader bank. Finally, with my carefully selected items in my arms, I headed toward the check-out counter. That was when I spotted another display of more sale items near the store's entrance and headed over there.

On one end of a makeshift, temporary shelf was a collectible doll marked down from $25 to $9.98. I lifted the doll to get a closer look, and when I did, the shelf acted just like a seesaw when a big guy is seated on one end and a petite woman is on the other…and the big guy suddenly decides to jump off.

I saw the merchandise go flying off, but I just stood there, frozen, still clutching the collectible doll and the other items I wanted to buy. A loud crash and the sound of glass shattering pretty much told me I’d caused a not-so-minor accident. I felt something warm and wet on my feet, which I immediately assumed was blood. Not daring to look down because I feared I’d see a few of my toes separated from my foot, I panicked and did the last thing I wanted to do at that moment…I screamed.

That’s when I happened to catch a glimpse of the mutilated remains of a lava lamp lying on the floor near my feet. Slimy blue lava-lamp innards and pieces of glass were everywhere, including all over my new shoes. To my relief (and utter embarrassment) I realized I wasn’t bleeding after all.

Just about everyone in the store came rushing over. The first one to arrive was a young female employee – I think she might have been the manager – who ended up sliding right past me on the blue oil slick that once had been a clean floor.  

“Are you okay?” she asked, doing a really bad impersonation of Tara Lipinski as she slid back toward me.

“I’m fine,” I managed to squeak in reply, my cheeks nearly bursting into flames.

Mops and buckets appeared, courtesy of another employee, and the clean-up began. One thing about lava-lamp innards, however, was the more the employees mopped them, the more they seemed to spread out. As the little blue pond rapidly transformed into an ocean, I sensed the employees were getting frustrated.

For one thing, there was a life-sized cardboard cut-out of the movie character, Austin Powers, right near the entrance, and every time someone walked past it, the cut-out figure, which contained a motion detector, would shout, “Crazy, baby!”

During the mop-up procedure, good old Austin Powers cried, “Crazy, baby!” every time a mop moved...until one employee finally muttered, “Oh, shut up!” and carted Austin off to parts unknown.

Meanwhile, I just stood there, holding my breath and waiting to hear, “You broke it, you own it!” or “You’ve damaged our floor beyond repair and you'll have to pay for a new one...or you'll hear from our lawyers!”  

When I couldn’t bear another minute of waiting to find out what my punishment (or sentence) was going to be, I plucked up the courage to ask the female employee what she wanted me to do.

She cast me her very best constipated smile and said, “Everything’s under control. You’re all set, so you can leave now, if you’d like.” She then laughed and added, “And don’t ever come back!”

To be honest, I really didn’t want the doll that had caused the whole lava-lamp fiasco, but seeing there no longer was a shelf to set it on, thanks to me, I felt obligated to buy it. I walked over to the register, leaving blue tracks across the floor as I did, and paid for my purchases. Then I bolted out of the store and never looked back.

Ever since then, whenever I’m anywhere near a lava lamp (which isn’t very often, thank goodness) I nearly break out in hives.

So believe me, I'm praying those lamps never become all the rage again.


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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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