Tuesday, July 30, 2024

EVERYONE SEEMS TO BE BUYING NEW TIRES LATELY!

 

I’m not sure if it’s due to too much summer heat or what, but it seems as if everyone I talk to lately has recently had to buy four new tires for their vehicles, which can be pretty pricy, depending on the size.

I hardly drive anywhere, so my tires probably will need to be replaced due to dry rot, if anything, at some point. But I clearly can recall a flat tire I had back in 2002 that led to the purchase of not just one new tire, but all four.

I was in a hurry that day to get to the post office before it closed, so I rushed out to my car, jumped in and started to back out of the driveway. That’s when I heard a loud scraping sound…a fingernails on the chalkboard kind of sound. Even worse, the steering wheel suddenly felt as if it weighed 500 pounds.

I pulled the car back into the driveway and got out to have a look, even though I had absolutely no idea what I was looking for, or what I’d do when I found it. Still, I figured that unless I was dragging a dead body underneath the wheels, it couldn’t be all that bad.

But alas, there on the front passenger’s side, was the flattest tire I had ever seen. Not only was it flat, it also was hanging off the rim. I just stood there staring at it, as if I thought it somehow was going to miraculously re-inflate itself so I still could make it to the post office. When nothing happened, I called AAA.

The AAA guy, driving a tow truck large enough to tow a Greyhound bus, arrived within 15 minutes. Silently, he jacked up my car, removed the flat, and slid on the tiny “donut” spare tire. Everything was going along smoothly until he began to tighten the second lug nut. That’s when the car slipped off the jack and landed right on his foot – or so I thought. I held my breath and closed my eyes.

But instead of the screams of pain I’d anticipated, the guy said, not sounding the least bit flustered, “Your driveway is too soft.”

I opened one eye to discreetly check out his foot and was relieved to see it still was attached to his body and wasn’t crushed or grossly disfigured.

 “Your back tire has a slow leak, too,” he added. “You’d better go get some new tires, pronto. Oh, and I’d advise you not to go any faster than 45 miles per hour on that spare tire. It’s not made for high speeds.”

So I headed to Sears for two new tires. The problem was, there was no way to get there without traveling on Route 28, where the posted speed limit at that time was 60 mph. That meant most of the drivers averaged about 70-150 mph.

I crawled down the highway at 40 miles per hour, just to be extra safe. I had no idea what would happen if I did go over 45, but the AAA guy’s tone of voice had implied it probably would involve a lengthy stay in intensive care.

Visions of my tire disintegrating into a pile of rubberized confetti and my car wrapping itself around a tree in a pasture full of angry bulls made me drop my speed even a few notches lower, despite the fact that a long line of cars was tailing me by that time. When two of the cars finally seized the opportunity to pass me, one of the drivers gave me a hand gesture that did not exactly translate into “Gee, you’re a really terrific, safe driver!”

A hundred years later, I finally pulled into the parking lot at Sears. I heaved a sigh of relief. 

“I need two new tires,” I told the clerk. “The cheapest ones you have.”

“Let’s go outside and take a look,” he said, smiling. I led him out to my car.

He checked all four tires, scribbled down a few things on a pad of paper, and said “hmm” a lot. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during all of my years on this earth, it’s that “hmm” rarely leads to anything good.

“You actually passed inspection with these tires?” he asked. “I’m surprised you could even stay on the road with them, they’re so slick. They barely have any tread left on them!”

I glanced at my back tires…my nice, smooth, shiny tires. They looked just fine to me.

“Then what you’re telling me is I’ll need four new tires, instead of only two?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

He nodded. “We have some nice all-season Michelins on sale for $69.99,” he said. “They’re guaranteed for 65,000 miles.”

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing…not just because I knew my car never would last another 65,000 miles unless the “new-car fairy” came along and reincarnated it, but also because the clerk had said, “$69.99.”  Heck, for the sake of one lousy penny, wouldn’t it have been easier for him to just drop all of the “9s” and say they were 70 bucks each?

At the time, there was a highly publicized, nationwide recall on Firestone tires due to complaints about the rubber treads separating from the underlying steel belts. So keeping a straight face, I said to the clerk, “No, I don’t want Michelins. I really prefer Firestones.”

He rolled his eyes, groaned and laughed. “You don’t know what kind of week I’ve had, thanks to those darned tires!  If I never hear the name Firestone again, it will be too soon!”

So I went with the Michelins. Granted, spending $280 I hadn’t planned on spending, especially for something as boring as tires, didn’t thrill me, but I figured I had little choice. So what if I had to cut corners and eat a lot of canned spaghetti and Ramen noodles for a while?  At least I’d be able to drive myself to the Dollar Store on safe tires.

Back inside Sears, the clerk began to ring up my work order. “That will be an additional $9.99 per tire to balance them,” he said. “And $3.99 per tire for valve stems. And $7.50 per tire for our road-hazard agreement. Oh, and another $1.50 per tire for the disposal of your old ones.”

While I stood there, my mouth hanging open as I mentally tried to add up all of the extras, the clerk took a phone call.

“No, sir,” he said, shaking his head and rolling his eyes once again. “Only the Firestone tires are being recalled. You don’t have to return your mud flaps. I’m sure they’re perfectly safe.”

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing. For some reason, the thought of “killer” mud flaps really struck me funny. When the clerk hung up the phone, he started laughing, too…and he was still laughing when he told me my final total for the tires was $371.88.

The guy sure knew how to ruin a good laugh.


                                                          #   #   # 

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.



 




Posted by at No comments:

Monday, July 22, 2024

SUMMER AND SALMONELLA...HOW HAVE I MANAGED TO SURVIVE THIS LONG?

 

The other day I read an article I thought was a great incentive for losing weight... because it instantly made me want to quit eating. 

It said that each year there are approximately 76 million cases of food poisoning and food-borne illnesses in America. And the best (worst?) time of year for outbreaks is right now...the hot summer months.

The article went on to list methods of prevention, such as never leaving food unrefrigerated for longer than two hours, and cooking it until its inner temperature reaches a minimum of 160 degrees.

All I can say is I’m pretty sure I should have been dead years ago.

Back when I was in grammar school, I used to carry tuna-salad sandwiches in my lunchbox, which I kept in my desk.  There was nothing in the lunchbox to keep the sandwiches cold, like an ice pack. And in May and June the classroom usually was about the temperature of the planet Mercury. 

My sandwiches just sat around from the time I left home at 7:30 in the morning until I finally ate them at noon. According to the article I just read, the tuna salad should have been so full of live bacteria by then, the sandwich could have jumped out of the lunchbox and danced across the table. 

In my younger days, I also drank eggnog, and when my mother baked cakes, I licked the cake-batter bowl and the beaters, not even knowing (or caring) that both contained raw, and perhaps deadly salmonella-infested eggs.

And speaking of eggs, I remember one summer when I visited Jill, a friend of mine who lived near London. We left her house at 7:00 one morning for a full day of sightseeing, and didn’t stop to rest until about 2:00 that afternoon.

“I’m starving,” I said to her as we plunked down on a park bench.

Jill smiled, reached into her handbag and pulled out two egg-salad sandwiches in plastic wrap. “I made these before we left this morning!”

It was the best egg-salad sandwich I’d ever eaten. And even though it had been sitting in the bottom of a purse for seven hours, it didn’t bother my stomach a bit.

Perhaps it’s because ignorance was bliss back then. 

Nowadays, however, the subject of food poisoning has become so widespread, I find myself growing more and more paranoid about everything I eat. And in the process, I'm probably driving everyone crazy.

For example, I read that a group of people at some church picnic in another state all got deathly ill from eating bruised tomatoes.

I’d never really considered tomatoes to be any sort of health threat before, but after I read that, I found myself carefully studying them for bruises, even though I wasn’t even sure what a bruised tomato looked like.  I felt a little indentation on one in the supermarket the other day, so I took it over to the produce clerk.

“Is this just a harmless dent or do you think it might be a potentially life-threatening bruise?” I asked him.

The look he gave me told me the only thing he thought was dented was my head. 

And then there’s fish.  Fresh fish should have no odor whatsoever, according to an expert on TV.  “If fish has any fishy smell or even worse, it smells like ammonia, it’s old!” the guy said. “Don’t eat it! Toss it out!”

As a result, I have sniffed so many fish, I feel like an otter.

But the food that has me the most frightened is chicken.  I blame Chef Emeril Lagasse, who was cooking chicken on a TV show one night.

“When you handle chicken,” he said, “be sure to wash your hands right away. Also, wash the counter, the utensils, the dish you put the raw chicken on, and anything that came within 10 feet of it!  And then wash everything all over again! You can’t be too careful with chicken. It can be full of deadly salmonella bacteria.”

Chicken always has been one of my favorite foods, but every time I’m about to cook it now, I feel as if I should be wearing a hazmat suit. And after I touch it, I'm tempted hose myself and the kitchen down with Lysol. I’m always afraid I might miss cleaning a spot on the counter, and the chicken bacteria in that one spot will rapidly breed and then run rampant and overtake the kitchen, kind of like a bacteria coup.

So just to be on the safe side, from now on, everything I put into my oven is going to be cooked at a bacteria-annihilating 550 degrees.

But first, I think maybe I should go check the batteries in my smoke detectors.


                                                     #   #   # 

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.


 


Posted by at No comments:

Monday, July 15, 2024

I'M WAVING THE WHITE FLAG AT HEAT AND HUMIDITY

 

I’m writing this on day number 1,211 of a non-stop heatwave, with temps in the mid-90s and humidity at sauna levels. Actually, it’s been “only” 11 days, but it seems much, much longer. In fact, because there’s no break in sight and I’m part Native American, I’m seriously considering offering my home for sweat-lodge ceremonies.

I know people joke about the frequently uttered, “It’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,” but it’s true. I can remember vacationing in Las Vegas when it was over 100 degrees Fahrenheit, and I barely felt it because the air had zero humidity. Sure, the inside of my nose got so dry from a lack of moisture, it cracked and bled nearly every day, and my skin resembled an iguana's by the end of the week, but that’s a whole other story.

Humidity has been my mortal enemy for decades. Why? Loads of reasons. It’s sticky. It makes the air so heavy, it’s like trying to breathe through syrup. And it causes skin to become so constantly damp, I have to keep checking my armpits for toadstools. 

It’s one of the reasons why whenever my friends who have moved to Florida invite me to come down for a visit, I react with the same enthusiasm as if they’d invited me to bathe in a tub of shark bait and then go skinny-dipping with a family of Great Whites.

Still, I have friends on the West Coast who find it hard to believe New Hampshire actually has humid weather.

“But you live in New Hampshire!” one of them said when I complained about the tropical weather. “Georgia and Florida have humidity.  New Hampshire is cold and dry…like Canada!”

I invited her to come here for a week of “cold and dry” in mid-July, so she can see for herself.

Although I have plenty of valid reasons why I don’t like humidity, first and foremost is my hair. Humidity either can make it look as limp as wet spaghetti or as frizzy as Albert Einstein’s. I can freshly wash and blow-dry it, and even manage to get a little curl into it, but the minute I step one foot outside during the months of June through August, the humidity attacks any semblance of a hairstyle and beats it to within an inch of its life. 

And forget about makeup staying on during humid weather. My eyeshadow migrates into the creases on my eyelids (and believe me, I have plenty of creases) and ends up looking as if I painted stripes on them. Lipstick slides right off my lips and ends up somewhere on my chin.

Another problem with humidity is bread. I don’t like keeping bread in the fridge because it makes it too hard, so I keep it in the breadbox. 

I still can remember the day my husband didn’t look too pleased when he came home from work. 

“I ate half of the sandwich you gave me for lunch today before I noticed that part of the bread was green!” he’d complained, clasping his stomach.  “I think I might wake up dead in the morning.”

“You’ll live,” I told him. “Mold is like penicillin.”

On one TV newscast, some doctor was saying that when the air is humid, perspiration can’t evaporate, so it stays on the skin, preventing the body from cooling. 

I didn’t need an expert to tell me that. My clothes usually stick to me with so much suction during the summer months, I practically need the Jaws of Life to get out of them. I even had to stop wearing colored patterns because the dye was coming off on my skin and making me look as if I were covered in tattoos…or varicose veins.

And every summer back when my husband was alive, we ended up with a white bathroom – not because it was painted that color, but because of my husband’s fear of getting a fungal foot-infection, like athlete’s foot. One night, I saw a mysterious white cloud moving up the hallway. I tracked it into the bathroom, where I found my husband vigorously shaking powder onto his feet.

“You have to be sure to keep your feet really dry in this weather,” he explained between coughs from all of the powder dust. “Humidity can give you such a bad case of athlete’s foot, your toes can rot right off! It happened to a kid I went to school with.”

I cringed as I pictured that poor, toeless kid. “Hand me the powder.”

I hate to admit it but I’d probably suffer a lot less every summer if I weren’t so cheap (make that frugal) when it comes to running the central air-conditioning. Every time I hear it kick on, I imagine my electric meter spinning like the cherries on a slot machine and making “cha-ching” noises.

Another aggravating problem in the summer humidity is the sweaty toilet. That’s because the water in my well is spring-fed and super cold. When my toilet tank fills up after a flush, the icy water meets with the hot, damp air in the room and the tank sweats. Sometimes it even drips down and forms a puddle on the bathroom floor.

When I asked a plumber about it, he suggested, “Buy one of those fuzzy toilet-tank covers to absorb the moisture, then it won’t drip.”

Easy for him to say. The last time I saw a fuzzy tank-cover anywhere, Sonny and Cher were still newlyweds.

But the summer dilemma I’m now facing is how to get my vitamin pills. The brand I use can't be purchased anywhere locally so I have to order it online. On the bottle’s label it says, “Keep in a cool, dry place and away from heat.”

That’s just about impossible if I order them this time of year. My mailbox, which is at the edge of the road in the blazing sun, gets so hot, I have to wear oven mitts to open it. So those vitamin pills would be given their last rites after only 30 seconds in it. And I don’t think the postal vehicles are all that cool inside either. At the rate I’m going, if I have to wait until cool and dry weather before I order my vitamins, I’ll be too old to remember what they’re for.

I guess I have no choice other than to be patient, endure the humidity, and count the days until September, when the air once again will turn crisper and cooler and I will be in my glory.

But for now, with at least another six weeks of hot weather to suffer through, I will just have to resign myself to the fact I’ll be spending a lot of time looking like a tattooed Albert Einstein, eating green bread, feeling weak and tired due to a lack of vitamins, and watching my toes rot off…probably because they will be submerged in a puddle on the floor whenever I sit on the toilet.

 #   #   # 

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.


 


Posted by at No comments:

Tuesday, July 9, 2024

AS IT TURNED OUT, SKYLIGHTS WERE NOT A VERY "BRIGHT" IDEA

 

Whenever I see a new house under construction and notice skylights being installed, I cringe. Hopefully, times have changed, but back in the 1980s when my husband and I thought it would be “cool” to have skylights in our newly-manufactured mobile home, little did we know they would end up making our lives a living hell. 

For one thing, all three of the skylights in our home began to leak after only three years. The one in the bathroom was the first…and the worst.

I’ll admit I was the one who thought having a skylight directly above the bathtub would be great…lying back, relaxing and soaking while gazing up at the stars. Too soon I discovered, to my disappointment, my hot baths steamed up the skylight in about 10 seconds flat, so I saw absolutely nothing through it.

The view also became obscured if my husband didn’t regularly climb up a ladder and keep the outside of the skylights free from dust, pollen and pine pitch. And the fact the skylights were considered sources of “natural” light and therefore took the place of regular ceiling lights, when there was a heavy snowfall and they got buried, it was like living underground with the Mole People (note: for those of you "youngsters" The Mole People was a pretty corny 1950s sci-fi movie about an underground civilization of very pale creatures). 

OUR MOBILE HOME WITH THE SKYLIGHTS
CIRCA 1988

On the hot evenings in the summer when my baths were in cooler water, so the skylight didn’t get steamy and the view was clear, too often the Concord National Guard would do fly-overs, as part of its nighttime helicopter-pilot training.

It made me uneasy because I felt certain the Guards could look down through my skylight and into my well-lit bathroom and see me lying back in the tub. I imagined them pointing and saying things like “Quick! Get me a harpoon!”

However, the bathroom skylight eventually did offer me at least something to look at as I soaked – ugly brown water stains on the white ceiling. At first, I sprayed a sealer on the stains and then painted over them, but it didn’t take long for them to seep through again, even browner an uglier.

When it got to the point where I would lie back in the tub and make a game of guessing what shape each water stain on the ceiling most closely resembled (one of them looked just like a three-legged horse, and another like a cigar-smoking turtle), I knew the time finally had come to call a roofing company.

The representative said the problem was the flashing around the skylights and also the fact shingled roofs offered little protection against them leaking. By the time he was through with his sales pitch, he'd convinced us to switch to a galvanized steel roof. The thought of no more shingles blowing off in the wind, no more snow piling up on the roof, no more leaky skylights, and a warranty that neither of us would live long enough ever to see expire, really appealed to us. We were hooked.

 The price, however, was another story.

“I can sell a bunch of stuff on eBay,” I said to my husband. “I figure if we sell all of your power tools, all of my jewelry, the TV and your coin collection, we can at least afford the down payment. By the way, do we really need two cars?”

So we called the roofing company a few weeks later and signed our lives away.

 “If we order the materials tomorrow, they should be here in about three weeks,” the company representative told us. “Then there are several other homes ahead of yours. But we’ll call you and let you know exactly when we’ll be over to do the work.”

One morning only a few days later, I crawled out of bed and walked into the bathroom. As I stood there in my nightgown, yawning and scratching assorted body parts, I glanced up at the skylight and saw a man standing there on my roof!

That’s when I vaguely recalled hearing footsteps overhead earlier, while I still was in bed. But because we’d always had squirrels running across our roof, I’d just figured the critters had gained a few pounds.

I panicked. With two skylights in the living room and one in the bathroom, I suddenly felt as if I were the star of a peepshow. 

I dashed back into the bedroom and discreetly peeked out through the blinds. I could see the roofing company’s truck parked in the driveway and figured they probably were taking dimensions. I rushed to get dressed so I could head outside and see what was going on. Under the circumstances, I didn’t think taking a shower or a bath beneath the skylight would be such a great idea…not unless I wanted to risk making the guy on the roof fall off from laughing so hard.

When I finally emerged from the front door, I saw three men – two on the roof and one standing on the ground. They stopped to stare at me.

“You’ve been home all this time?” the guy on the ground asked in a way that made me suspect he was worried about what I might have overheard.

“Yeah, but I was sound asleep,” I said. I noticed they’d already done some work on the roof, which surprised me. It made me wonder if I’d been asleep or in a coma.

“Turns out we didn’t have to order the materials after all,” one of the guys on the roof explained. “So we figured we’d get this job done today, seeing it’s the smallest one we have to do.”

I smiled, thinking how shocked my husband would be when he came home that night and saw the new roof already on our place.

By the end of their workday, the crew had completed about 75 percent of the roof, which I thought still was pretty impressive. They said they would be back bright and early in the morning to finish the job.

But as it turned out, they didn’t return the next day, nor the next, or even the day after that. Why not? Because the moment they said, “We’ll be back,” the skies opened up and exploded with so much rain, I was afraid the mobile home might float away.

And which 25 percent of the roof didn’t they finish before the rain? The area surrounding the bathroom skylight, of course.…which meant the relentless rainfall added an assortment of new stains – one of which resembled a headless scarecrow – to the existing collage on the ceiling.

But I did discover there was one good thing about the skylight being located directly over the bathtub – when the ceiling started to drip, at least I didn’t have to go search for a bucket.

Did the new roof put an end to the leaky skylights?

For a while. Then they all started to leak again. But we discovered we weren’t alone. We talked to several other people who also had skylights, and every one of them said theirs also had leaked at some point.

So my current house has no skylights, and never will, unless a meteorite comes crashing through the roof.

Still, now when I’m soaking in the tub, I do kind of miss seeing the shapes of the ceiling stains overhead…especially the cigar-smoking turtle.

 #   #   # 

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.

+

Posted by at No comments:

Tuesday, July 2, 2024

REMEMBERING MANCHESTER'S OLD NOTRE DAME HOSPITAL

 

I took a trip down Memory Lane last month, only to discover this particular “lane” had turned into a super-highway.

All of my doctors are affiliated with Concord Hospital, so it’s rare that I set foot in any other hospital. But a couple of weeks ago, I decided to visit a friend who was a patient at Catholic Medical Center (CMC) in Manchester.

I hadn’t been anywhere near that hospital in years, so I had no idea what to expect. As I headed over to Manchester’s West Side, my mind drifted back to the early 1970s, when I’d had surgery at CMC – back when it still was called Notre Dame Hospital and many of the nurses were nuns.

The hospital wasn’t very large back then – only one brick building – and there was very limited parking, like for about 10 cars.  Visiting hours ended strictly at 8 p.m., preceded by warnings over an intercom telling visitors they had only five minutes to leave. Fortunately, when I had my surgery, my room was on the ground floor, so my visitors would leave at 8 p.m. and then go stand outside on the grass and continue to talk to me through the open window.

And back then, all of the nurses – those who weren’t nuns, that is – wore caps. The different styles of the caps, I was told, indicated which nursing school the nurses had attended.  I guess each school had its own distinct cap, kind of like a sports uniform.  For some reason, most of my nurses wore strange little white caps that looked like upside-down cupcake papers with a ruffle around the edge and a black band around the middle.  I wasn't certain which nursing school they hailed from, but I suspected it might also have been affiliated with a baking school.

I hadn’t known it beforehand, but on Sunday mornings, the hospital played religious music over the intercom system. When I woke up that first Sunday morning after my surgery and heard what sounded like a choir of angels right above my head, I panicked, thinking I'd died and gone to heaven.

And later that same day, I’d awakened from my nap to see a nun sitting by my bed and praying.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, looking concerned.

“Pretty good,” I said, wondering if she knew something I didn’t.

“My sister recently had exactly the same surgery you had,” she said.

“Really? Is she okay?”

“No, she died.”

Let’s just say the nun’s bedside manner didn’t exactly inspire a great deal of cheer or optimism. And if that weren’t bad enough, she asked me about my marital status.

I smiled. “I’m engaged to be married.”

“Oh? Are you both Catholic?” she asked.

“No. I’m Russian Orthodox and he’s Irish Protestant.”

“Dear me,” she said, shaking her head, “that will never work. A Russian and an Irishman? And two different religions? You’re doomed to fail. You should break off the engagement right now, before it’s too late.”

From that point on, I referred to her as Sister Pessimistic.

The most embarrassing moment after my surgery occurred when another nurse came into my room and announced, “I’m here to give you a suppository.”

I looked up to see a girl named Bette I’d gone to high school with. I didn’t know which was worse – having a girl I’d sat beside in English class give me a suppository, or requesting a different nurse and ending up with Sister Pessimistic, who’d probably tell me her brother had suffered a slow and painful death after getting a suppository that caused an intestinal blockage.

I opted for Bette.

Anyway, last month, when I finally approached CMC to visit my friend, my mouth fell open. The place had become a miniature city. There were new traffic lanes, traffic lights, parking areas and buildings. I felt overwhelmed just looking at it.

By the time I parked the car, hiked up the hill to the street and waited to cross it, then found the main building and the information desk, I felt as if I’d run a marathon…and looked it. The fact it was about 110 degrees in the shade that day didn’t help.


While I was there, I noticed the nurses weren’t wearing anything on their heads. I was kind of disappointed because I’d been hoping to see one of those cupcake-wrapper caps again. I also didn’t see any nuns.

Even so, all through the visit, I couldn’t help but think Sister Pessimistic, who’s probably about 115 years old by now, still was lurking somewhere in the hospital and would leap out from behind a curtain and say to me, “You look hot and out of breath! My cousin looked exactly the same way you do just before he dropped dead!”

I’m pleased to say my friend received excellent care at the hospital and now is home and doing well.

And the last time I checked, I also still was breathing, despite Sister Pessimistic’s predictions years ago.

Knock on wood.

  #   #   # 

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.



Posted by at No comments:
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)