Monday, March 3, 2025

IS THIS PROOF I'M NOT HUMAN?

 

I know I have written about some pretty crazy things on here over the past 20-plus years, but I honestly think this one will rank right up there in the top five, perhaps even the top three.

It all started when I was toweling myself dry after my bath the other night, and happened to look at myself in the full-length mirror – something I usually avoid at all costs because at my age, I have to protect my heart from enduring any sudden shocks. But I’ve lost quite a bit of weight in the past few months and wanted to check what my body looked like.

I might mention here that my weight loss wasn’t intentional, it was circumstantial, due to a number of factors. Back in 2022, when I had Covid, I lost my sense of taste. It has returned only slightly, so just about everything I eat still tastes like wet cardboard. If I put a lot of salt on it, it helps a little – but only to the point where everything then tastes like salty wet cardboard. So a lot of times, I don’t even bother to eat.

Also, I have a lot of food allergies, so my two main protein sources have always been chicken and eggs…until recently. Thanks to the bird flu now, I need to strike oil on my property to continue to afford to buy the chicken and eggs. So I’ve cut back…way back.

As I stared at my body in the mirror, I saw what I’d anticipated I’d see – saggy skin that looked as if someone had let the air out of a balloon. That’s the trouble with losing weight when you’re old – the stretched-out skin stays stretched out and doesn’t snap back the way it once did…kind of like the waistband on a pair of 10-year-old underpants.

Anyway, something didn’t look right about my body, which was nothing new, but I could tell something looked weirder than usual. I couldn’t, however, figure out exactly what it was. After a few minutes of unspeakable torture caused by staring into the mirror, it finally dawned on me…

My belly button was gone!

I’m totally serious here, no joking. Where the perfectly round indentation with the tiny mole on it once adorned my torso, there was nothing but a vast wasteland of skin.  Panicking, I searched every nook and cranny, every wrinkle and fold.

Nothing. No indentation, no mole, nothing. My navel officially had disappeared.

Of course, I had to rush to Google it to find out if anyone else had suffered from a similar trauma, or if I should be contacting Guinness at that moment. I was relieved to see I wasn’t alone…there were other navel-losing sufferers who were as panicky as I was, asking what would cause it.

Unfortunately, there weren’t too many explanations. The first one was obvious – weight gain might cause the navel to be hidden beneath the fat and therefore go missing. Well, I hadn’t gained, I’d lost, so I ruled out that one. Then it said an umbilical hernia could cause the navel to retract. I felt my stomach for lumps or bumps. I felt nothing but flatness. And finally it said that rapid weight loss could cause the navel to shrink into oblivion, but it didn’t explain much about it.

At least none of the reasons sounded life-threatening, which was a relief. But still, losing my navel wasn’t something I could take lightly. After all, I’d had it since...well, before birth.

My friend Pauline made the mistake of calling me at that moment, and I immediately blurted out, “I lost my belly button! It’s gone!”

There was silence on her end. Then she asked me to repeat what I’d just said.

“I’m serious!” I cried. “My belly button is gone! There’s nothing but blank skin where it used to be!”

She burst out laughing. “You really need help, you know."

“Yes, I need help! Help finding my belly button!”

My late husband always used to shake his head and say to me, especially after I said or did something strange, “Sometimes I seriously believe you were beamed down here from another planet.”

Well, if he were here right now, I’m pretty sure he’d be saying this finally is all the proof he needs to verify his suspicions.

Alas, I keep checking my stomach to see if there is any sign of the lost navel making its return. There’s nothing yet. So I’ve been trying to convince myself I don’t really need it anyway. I mean, it’s not as if I’m planning to get a piercing there or I’m suddenly going to buy a bikini. And I really don’t miss having it as a collection site for the lint from my sweatshirt.

Therefore, no one ever will know I have no navel unless I mention it to them.

Speaking of which, in response to a question one of my friends asked me...no, I won't be hanging up "missing" posters around the neighborhood.


 #   #   #  

                                                      

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, February 24, 2025

RECALLING THAT UNFORGETTALBE ED SULLIVAN SHOW - 61 YEARS AGO

 


NOTE: I first posted this back in 2016, after I attended the concert of a Beatles tribute band called Studio Two, and decided to post it again this month to commemorate the Beatles' first appearance on the Ed Sullivan Show back in early February of 1964...a mere 61 years ago!




The other night, a longtime dream of mine finally came true – I saw a Beatles concert.

They weren’t the real Beatles, of course, considering that two of them are no longer with us, but they, Studio Two, a Beatles-tribute band from New England, were the closest to the real thing I’ll ever see.  Their onstage look, mannerisms and sound were an amazing recreation of the original Beatles.

As I sat there, reliving the songs I still knew every lyric to, even after more than 50 years, my thoughts drifted back to February 9th of 1964 and the day that forever changed my life.

It was the day the Beatles first appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show.

I remember it as if it were yesterday.  All that week, I, along with my friends Sue and Dee, had been counting the minutes in anticipation of the big event.  Finally, after what seemed like 20 years, there they were - John, Paul, George and Ringo in crisp black and white on my family’s 21-inch TV screen.

Wide-eyed with anticipation as we waited for the Beatles to sing their first note, Sue, Dee and I collectively held our breaths.

“My goodness, they’re ugly!” my mother said, breaking the spell. “And their hair!  Don’t they have barbers in England?”

My father was too busy laughing at them to comment.

However, to us, three impressionable young teenagers, it was love at first sight. Their voices, which were difficult to hear above all of the screaming girls in the audience, sounded like the voices of angels to us, from their very first note.

“Paul is gorgeous!” Sue sighed, clasping her hands over her heart.

“Ringo is cuter!” Dee argued.

“You can have both of them!” I said. “I’ll take George!”  Actually, I was going to choose John until, “Sorry girls, he’s married,” flashed across the screen during his close-up.

“How on earth can you tell who’s cute who isn’t?” My father, who had momentarily caught his breath after laughing, asked. “You can’t even see their faces under all of that hair!  Ringo’s nose is the only thing that sticks out!”

The three of us turned to glare at him.

Just as we looked back at the television, the cameras were zooming in for such a close-up of Ringo, we actually could see his nose hairs. When he shook his head while drumming, causing his mop of hair to fly in all directions, Dee, overcome with way too much postpubescent emotion, let out such an ear-piercing scream, she nearly shattered the windows.

“God, I hope the neighbors don’t call the police because they think we’re murdering someone over here!” my father muttered. 

Beatlemania officially had arrived.

I spent the next two years hopelessly in love with George Harrison. The guys I’d previously had starry-eyed crushes on at school suddenly became invisible to me.  I mean, they had either short or greased-back hair, didn’t speak with British accents, and wore penny loafers instead of Beatle boots. They just weren’t “cool” any more.

Sue was as obsessed with Paul McCartney as I was with George. We didn’t doubt for a minute that fate would bring the four of us together someday, and when it did, Paul and George would fall madly in love with us at first glance and beg us to marry them. Yep, Sue and I had our futures all planned out.

We spent every penny of our babysitting money on Beatles records, posters, magazines and trading cards. Every inch of my bedroom wall that faced my bed was covered with posters of George. My favorite was a life-sized one of him standing with his arms folded and his eyes staring directly at me. I’d lie in bed and look up at his pictures while listening to my favorite Beatles record, “Do You Want to Know a Secret?” – one of the few on which he sang the lead. Then I would drift off to sleep and have romantic dreams about becoming Mrs. George Harrison.

When Sue and I learned that the Beatles were going to be in concert at the Boston Garden that September, we nearly needed CPR. Just the thought of the two men of our dreams being only about 50 miles away from us made us hyperventilate. But it might as well have been 5,000 miles, because we knew there was no way we’d ever be able to attend that concert.

However, one very lucky girl named Diane, who went to our high school, did go, and she instantly became a hero. First of all, she told us she had an excellent seat. Then she said she desperately wanted to get the Beatles’ attention, so she flung her camera at the stage…and Paul actually looked directly at her! Sure, her parents were upset she’d smashed a perfectly good camera, but as far as all of us were concerned, a camera was a small price to pay for actual eye-to-eye contact with one of the Beatles.

I hate to admit it, but the thought of Diane being within actual sight of the Beatles was too much for me to bear. I was so envious, it made my stomach hurt, and I couldn’t even concentrate on my schoolwork for the next few days. It’s a good thing Diane didn’t actually touch one of the Beatles, because I probably would have flunked out of school.

I also was envious of Sue, who made a lot more money babysitting than I did. She saved every penny until she was able to afford black leather slacks, matching Beatle boots and a leather Cockney cap.  She even surrendered her long hair to a Beatle-style cut. When she wore that outfit and faked a British accent, you’d swear she was the fifth Beatle.

I, on the other hand, managed to buy only a woolen Cockney cap (in a bright blue and green plaid), which I wore even in 90-degree heat.

As I sat at the concert the other night, I closed my eyes for a few minutes and pretended I was a teenager again and that the Studio Two band members actually were the Beatles.  And for a moment, I felt a strong urge to scream.

But at my age, I was afraid I might rupture something.


                                                                    #   #   #

                                                                  

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, February 17, 2025

I DIDN'T WANT TO CREATE A CROP OF MUTANT EARTHWORMS

 

I was in Walmart the other day and noticed for the first time as I walked by the pharmacy, a medication disposal box for the public. It had a sign on it that said they were sorry but it was full. I guess a lot of people have been getting rid of their old drugs lately.

I do think it's a good idea as well as convenient that old pills and medications now can be dropped off for proper disposal at designated police stations or in medication disposal boxes at pharmacies and other locations. For one thing, it’s a safe way to get rid of pharmaceutical products that could be a danger to both society and the environment.

I sure wish these conveniences had been around years ago, however, when I really needed them.

Back in the early 1970s, when health-insurance companies usually paid 100 percent of medical bills, I developed the habit of rushing to the doctor’s office whenever I had even a minor ache or pain.

Looking back now, I realize I probably overdid it. I mean, I once saw the doctor because I had a painful hangnail. Another time, and I’m totally serious here, I rushed to the doctor’s because I had weird blue spots on my hand and thought I might have a problem with my circulation. It turned out to be ink from a permanent marker. It’s a wonder my insurance company didn’t dump me.

Still, I wasn’t half as bad as this woman, Charlotte, a former co-worker of mine. She used to schedule a battery of medical tests for herself every year during her vacation, just so she could spend the week in the hospital. I once asked her why on earth she’d want to waste all of her vacation time in the hospital.

“Because I can relax in bed all week, watch TV and have three meals personally delivered to my room, all free of charge!” she said. “How can you beat that?”

Considering one of her tests was a G.I. series that included a barium enema, I wasn’t the least bit tempted to try her free-vacation idea.

Back in those days, not only did most insurance companies pay 100 percent for treatments and tests, there also was no limit to the length of time you could spend in the hospital. If you gave birth to a baby and wanted to stay there until he was old enough to walk, you could. If you preferred to have an outpatient test done as an inpatient, you could do that also.

As a result of my monthly visits to various doctors, I amassed quite a collection of medications for just about every body part or ailment. I had pills for headaches, cramps, toothaches, heartburn, hives, constipation, diarrhea, 17 assorted rashes, and lumbago. Most of the time, I’d fill the prescriptions and then shove them into the cupboard “just in case” I needed them.

Which was why one night as I was digging through the top shelf of a kitchen cupboard I rarely used, searching for a set of glasses I’d kept up there since my wedding, I discovered what looked like a small pharmacy tucked away in the corner. There were dozens of prescription bottles up there, most of them still full and all of them long expired.

My first instinct was to flush them down the toilet. But then the thought of their toxins entering the ground through my leach field out back and turning earthworms into mutant junkies that robins would eat and then become so drugged, they would fly head first into trees and buildings, made me veto that idea. I also knew that tossing pills into the trash wasn’t a good option either. So I called the local pharmacy and asked the pharmacist what I should do with about 5,000 assorted really ancient pills. He told me to bring them in and he’d properly dispose of them for me.    

I opened every prescription bottle, which took most of the night and half of my fingernails because I had to wrestle with all of the childproof caps, and emptied the pills into a gallon-sized plastic bag. I nearly filled it to the top.    

Photo courtesy of Cottonbro Studio

The next afternoon, I grabbed the bag and headed toward the pharmacy. That’s when it suddenly dawned on me that if, for any reason, the police had to stop me and they discovered a big bag of pills of every color of the rainbow sitting next to me on the front seat, I’d probably end up spending the rest of my life sharing a prison cell with some axe-murderer named “Amazonia.”

“Why didn’t I keep the pills in their prescription bottles?” I muttered, thinking back to every episode of the TV show “Cops” I’d seen where the driver they’d pulled over had protested, “I’m not a drug dealer! Honest, officer, I don’t know WHERE that half-pound sack of pills in the glove compartment came from!” as they slapped the handcuffs on him and charged him with illegal possession and intent to distribute.

My knuckles were white on the steering wheel as I drove down the highway at the exact posted speed-limit. The entire time, my mind was reeling. Were my tires bald? Was my muffler hanging off? Was my neighbor’s cat clinging to the front grille? I didn’t want to draw any attention whatsoever to my car. The fact that the pharmacy was located right next door to the local police station didn’t help ease my tension.

By the time I pulled into the parking lot at the pharmacy, my upper lip was glistening with nervous perspiration.

The pharmacist’s eyes widened when I handed the bag of pills to him. “Wow! That’s quite a collection you have there,” he said. “It kind of looks like a bag of trick-or-treat candy!”

All the more reason why I was relieved to be rid of it.

Flash forward to this century. Insurance companies now are so strict, not only are they very selective about what they will or will not cover, procedures like gallbladder surgery, which used to require at least a week’s stay in the hospital, now are done during the patient’s lunch hour…and then the patient heads right back to work.

As a result of the insurance companies cutting way back on their benefits, I have learned to bite the bullet and not rush to the doctor’s office every time I sneeze or have a gas pain. And I can’t even remember the last time I needed a prescription, so my closet no longer is cluttered with bottles of unused pills. So I guess there's at least one plus side to the changes.

Still, I can’t help but wonder where poor Charlotte is spending her vacations nowadays.   

                                                     #   #   #

                                                                  

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, February 10, 2025

I WAS WISE TO MY HUSBAND'S EXCUSES...BECAUSE I INVENTED MOST OF THEM!

 

I have to admit that when it comes to appointments with doctors and dentists, I will make just about any excuse to get out of going. Like when I was about 10 years old and tried to convince my mother to cancel my dental appointment by faking I was sick. To add realism to my fib, I rubbed some baby powder on my face so I would look pale and be more convincing.

Unfortunately, I overdid the powder and ended up looking more like a mime than a pale, sick person. My mother mercilessly teased me about it for years…many, many years.

And even after all of that effort, I still had to endure the torture at the dentist’s.

I hate to say it, but my late husband acted very much like a kid when it came to his medical appointments…only he was a full-grown adult, not 10 years old.

I still remember one particular incident when he had an appointment for his six-month checkup with his endocrinologist. And true to form, he didn’t want to go.

“I feel lousy,” he whined to me about two hours before his appointment. “I’m going to call the doctor and cancel.”

I was unsympathetic. I mean, I already was familiar with most of the tricks he usually used when trying to weasel his way out of a medical appointment…mainly because I was the one who’d originally invented the majority of them.

“The fact that you’re feeling lousy is a good reason why you should keep the appointment,” I said to him.

A few minutes later, he called out to me from the bathroom as I walked up the hallway, “I think I’m going to be spending a lot of time in here. We’d better cancel my appointment.”

Again, I offered him no sympathy. “Then you'd better move things along faster, or we’re going to be late.”

During breakfast, after he spilled his morning coffee on his shirt and swore he had nothing else to wear – and I pulled a freshly washed one out of the dryer and handed it to him – he finally sighed in defeat, grabbed his keys and we went out to his van.

 He turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. He tried again. Still nothing.

“I think the battery is dead,” he said with a lot more pleasure in his tone than someone with a dead battery normally would have.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “Did you sabotage something just to get out of going to the doctor’s?”

He climbed out of the van and checked a few things. “The hatchback wasn’t shut tight,” he finally said. “When that’s open, the overhead light stays on. It must have killed the battery. I wonder why it was open? I swear, I haven’t even touched it.”

I was relieved he wasn’t in the van at that moment because he would have noticed my guilt-ridden expression. Maybe he hadn’t touched the hatchback, but I had – when I’d been searching for a bungee cord in the toolbox in his van the morning before. In my defense, a hatchback door on a van is…well, pretty darned heavy.

“I guess that does it,” he said, shrugging and releasing an exaggerated sigh worthy of an Oscar. “We’ll never make it to my doctor’s appointment in time now. We’d better call and cancel.”

The man was beginning to sound like a recording playing in the continuous-loop mode. I actually wondered if everything going wrong might be an omen…that maybe I should just give up, take his advice and cancel his appointment.

But I quickly dismissed the idea. I wasn't about to let him get away with it that easily.

“Well, I have a car,” I reminded him. “Hop in, and let’s get going.”

“I hate driving your car,” he said. “It’s really uncomfortable.”

“Then I’ll drive.” I searched my purse for the key and couldn’t find it. So I figured it was in the pocket of one of my jackets, hoodies or sweaters...somewhere.

“Do you have your key to my car?” I asked my husband.

“Uh, I don’t know where it is offhand,” he said. “I think it might be in one of the drawers in the bedroom. There’s no time to go looking for it now.”

That was when I happened to notice the keys on the key ring still in the van’s ignition…and my car key was one of them.

I grabbed the keys and hopped out of the van. “Hurry up, get into my car.”

We arrived at the doctor’s 10 minutes late. The doctor wasn’t pleased…not because we were late, but because the first thing she did was weigh my husband, and he had gained six pounds. 

Suddenly I realized the reason for his reluctance to see her.

“That’s a pound a month since the last time you were here,” she said to him. “I really would like to see your weight go in the other direction, especially since you’re diabetic. I’m going to put you on a special high-protein diet.” She then turned to look at me. “And I’ll give you a menu plan that will help you prepare his meals.”

The menu plan turned out to be about as thick as a dictionary and needed someone like Wolfgang Puck to interpret many of the ingredients. On the way home, I spent over $100 on groceries for the new meal plan.

And that night, my husband turned up his nose at the very first meal I cooked, saying he wouldn’t even feed it to our dogs because they would take revenge on him afterwards and attack him. He then got up from the table and announced he was going to Wendy’s for a triple cheeseburger and fries.

He got as far as the door before I said to him, “Well, you’ll need my car because your van’s battery is dead, and I still have your key ring, remember?” I smiled sweetly at him. “So I guess you’re not going anywhere. Now come sit down and eat your broiled haddock and spinach.”

Sometimes fate really does work in mysterious ways.


#   #   #

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, February 3, 2025

MY WINTER JACKET SHOULD HAVE BEEN GIVEN ITS LAST RITES AT LEAST 10 YEARS AGO

 

I own two winter coats. One of them I wear when I’m going to a public place like a mall or a restaurant. The other is a hooded jacket I wear when I walk the dogs or shovel snow. I bought both of them about 20 years ago when Burlington Coat Factory first opened in Concord. 

Needless to say, the walking-the-dogs jacket is a lot less stylish but much warmer than my dressier coat. I also wear it more often, mainly because my total lack of a social life means I have no reason to wear the nicer one. 

And my dogs couldn't care less what I wear...unless I spill gravy on it.

The other day, as I was about to walk the dogs, I put on my warm jacket and then shoved my usual must-haves into the pockets: phone, keys, pepper spray, dog treats, tissues…and one by one, they landed on the floor. I took off the jacket and checked the pockets. When I stuck my hand into the left one, my fingers came out through the bottom hem.    

THE ACTUAL LINING OF MY OLD JACKET

I wasn’t surprised. Little by little I had been noticing the jacket’s shredded lining, holey pockets and the zipper that got stuck more often than it zipped (because it kept getting caught in the aforementioned shredded lining). But I tried to ignore the signs of impending doom. I guess I hoped the jacket somehow would miraculously repair itself…kind of like the way iguanas are able to grow new tails.

Considering the fact I barely can thread a needle, I decided the time had come to buy a new winter jacket – particularly one with pockets that still were attached to it. So I reluctantly went shopping.

I soon discovered that late January really wasn’t the best time to shop for warm clothing. Even though the recent temperatures had been cold enough to give a polar bear goosebumps, the clothing displays in most of the stores already were featuring Bermuda shorts, halter tops and lightweight spring jackets.

Any winter coats I did see were clustered together on “sale” racks and looked as if they had been Christmas returns – probably because, judging from some of the styles, the people who’d received them as gifts had been too embarrassed to be seen wearing them in public.

When I finally did find a jacket that met my criteria – mid-thigh length with a warm lining and hood – it was size XS petite, which meant that even if I could manage to squeeze any of my body parts into it, the sleeves still would come to just below my elbows.

Discouraged, I headed home and convinced myself to try to repair my old jacket. The results were so crooked, bunched up and hideous looking, the only place I’d ever wear that jacket again would be in the woods…after dark.  Even then, the nocturnal wild animals probably would point at it and laugh.

When I later went shopping again for something other than a new jacket, I happened to notice two racks of ladies’ winter coats as I walked through one of the stores. Even though I wasn't optimistic, I checked them out.

There, amongst the too thin, unlined woolen coats and the too bulky quilted ones, I spotted the perfect jacket. It was long, soft, and was lined with an inch-thick layer of black, fleecy material. Even the hood and sleeves were fully lined for extra warmth. I tried on the jacket without even checking the size. To my disbelief, it fit perfectly.

Suddenly I knew how Goldilocks had felt at the Three Bears' house.

I finally looked at the jacket's tag. It was described as “faux” shearling and “faux” suede, and was priced at $129.99. To me, that seemed like a lot of money for so much “faux” stuff. The price also immediately kicked it up a few notches to a “going out to dinner” jacket instead of a “walking the drooling and fur-shedding dogs” one.  Not that it mattered anyway. At that price, I couldn’t even afford the hood.

That’s when I noticed a big “SALE” sign at the far end of the rack. I took off the jacket and rushed over to a clerk for a price check.

The sale price was $48. That still seemed too expensive to me, mainly because I’d paid only $29 for my last jacket. But I liked this one so much, I splurged and bought it. I mean, in the grand scheme of things, $48 seemed like a small price to pay to prevent a frostbitten navel...or worse.

The new jacket turned out to be the warmest and most comfortable one I’ve ever worn. 

There's only one problem with it, however. Whenever I wear it, my dogs go crazy. One sniff and they growl at it, then jump all over me and nearly knock me down.

Puzzled, I checked the jacket’s materials listed on the inner label. I thought maybe it actually contained real shearling instead of the “faux” variety – or maybe even some recycled animal fur, and that was what was aggravating them.

Well, unless there is an animal called “100-percent polyester,” the jacket seems fine.

So now I have a nice new jacket to keep me warm when I walk the dogs. The only problem is I’m afraid to wear it anywhere near them. If I do, I have the feeling it might end up shredded and with the pockets ripped off, just like my old jacket. Only this time it won’t be from natural causes.

If my dogs' behavior continues, I might have no choice other than to buy a different winter jacket.

I figure July, when the stores start to display their Christmas items, will be a good month to go shopping for it.

#   #   #

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, January 28, 2025

MORE STRANGE EXPERIENCES SHOPPING AT WALMART, INCLUDING THE ATTACK OF THE KILLER MARGARINE

 


Last week, I wrote about some of my “interesting” experiences while shopping at Walmart. This week, I will tell you about two more, both of which happened last year, only three months apart. But before I do, I thought I would give you the link to a previous post on here from three years ago when I wrote about one of my most embarrassing moments ever…which just happened to also be at Walmart…just in case you haven’t read it yet and might be interested!

 https://sallybreslin.blogspot.com/2022/07/this-had-to-be-queen-mother-of-all-my.html

 

Last May, on an unusually hot and humid day for that early in the year, I had just spent over an hour shopping in Walmart. With my cart heaping, I finally headed to the checkout. I was only one aisle away when alarms that sounded similar to air-raid sirens started to blast.

I wasn’t alarmed (pun intended) because I’d heard warning signals blasting in stores before, usually when someone accidentally opened an emergency-exit door.  So I continued my trek toward the registers…until an employee stopped me.

“That’s the fire alarm!” she said. “Please exit the store immediately!”

I had just spent an hour picking out, among other things, perfectly ripened vegetables and perfectly cut meats, along with a dozen eggs I’d carefully inspected to make certain had no cracks or chicken poop on them. So there was no way I was going to leave the store without every one of those items.

I didn’t smell any smoke or see any flames, so I figured I still had time. “I’m all done shopping,” I said to the sales associate. “It will take me only a minute to pay for this stuff, and then I’ll be out of here.”

“No, leave your cart right where it is,” she said, her tone stern, “and get outside now!”

“Should I take my cart with me?” I asked, hoping I hadn’t wasted all of my time and energy only to have to head home empty-handed. Besides that, I reasoned, if the food was just going to perish in the flames anyway, then why couldn’t I take it?

She gave me a look that told me she thought I was pretty much…well, an idiot.

“Only shoplifters leave the store with a cart full of items they haven’t paid for!” she said.

I suppose she had a point.

So, reluctantly I left my cart and exited the store, along with many other shoppers, all of whom also had abandoned their carts in the middle of the aisles. The store looked as if a spaceship had swooped down and beamed up all of the shoppers, leaving only their carts helter-skelter everywhere.

Outside, the heat was oppressive. There was only one shady area – a long strip of dirt  with a couple of trees growing in it – surrounded by asphalt. Within seconds, the employees made a beeline for that area and then gathered like a herd of cattle underneath those trees, while we customers were left to stand out in the blazing sun. I would have gone back to my car to sit and wait, but my car’s ancient air-conditioner doesn’t blow cool air unless the car is actually moving. And I wasn’t about to head home without my groceries unless I saw actual flames and smoke pouring out of the store.  

The fire department arrived and firefighters rushed into the building. Many of the customers who’d been standing outside gave up at that point and left. The fact they were soaked with perspiration and looked on the verge of passing out, might have had something to do with it.

But I still wasn’t ready to totally abandon my cart, which was sitting somewhere near the Maybelline cosmetics…and probably breeding a colony of salmonella bacteria by then. The thought did cross my mind that if the store really was on fire, then the meat I’d so carefully selected, with just the right amount of marbling in it, probably would end up being a little too well-done to suit my taste anyway.

But I still clung to the hope everything would be okay.

After about 20 minutes, the firefighters finally exited the store and announced “all clear.”

It turned out to be just a false alarm.

I was prepared to trample anyone in my way as I dashed back into the store to track down my cart. To my relief, it still was sitting exactly I’d left it. A lot of other carts also were still sitting where they had been abandoned …but not everyone returned to claim them.

I could just imagine what “fun” the employees had trying to put all of the items in those carts back where they belonged…except, that is, for any ice cream.

I think it pretty much needed to be administered its last rites by then.


The second incident happened three months later, in August. I like to bake everything from scratch, so I use a lot of lactose-free margarine. Well, when I arrived at the butter and margarine cooler, the whole section on the left side of it looked as if it had just fought in the Great Battle of the Butter...and lost. Either that, or it had been attacked by a marauding gang of margarine and butter addicts. The packages were open and caved in, and sticks of margarine, several with no wrappers on them, were lying everywhere.

Needless to say, I decided to go to another store to buy my margarine.

The next week, when I returned to Walmart to shop for groceries, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The margarine looked even worse! I picked up one of the packages and it was so limp and soggy, it actually fell apart in my hand. There was no way, I thought, employees in that department couldn’t have noticed such an obvious ongoing problem. If they did, then they apparently just didn’t care about it.

It reminded me of that old 1970s TV comedy, Chico and the Man, where whenever the main character was asked by his boss to do something extra, he would refuse and say, “That’s not my job!”

So once again, I left Walmart with no margarine and was forced to buy it elsewhere – for 65 cents more per package.

That same night, I received the usual e-mail from Walmart, which they send every time I shop there, asking me to fill out their questionnaire about my shopping experience. If I did, they said I would qualify for one of their many gift-card awards, valued anywhere from $100 to $1,000.

Usually I just delete those questionnaires, but I was so aggravated about the margarine situation by then, I filled it out…and vented. I knew it probably wouldn’t even be read by an actual human, but it still was good therapy to at least get it off my chest.

The next day, to my surprise, an actual human from Walmart did call me and left a voice mail, apologizing about the margarine and the “mess” and thanking me for bringing it to their attention. He said they discovered a problem with condensation in that cooler and were remedying the problem. In the meantime, he said he hoped I would continue to shop at Walmart, and if I wanted fresh margarine, it temporarily would be located in a bunker across from the faulty cooler.

I wasn’t familiar with the term “bunker” in a supermarket, so I immediately imagined military personnel guarding the margarine in an underground shelter.

When I did return to the store, sure enough, crisp, sturdy packages of my favorite margarine were neatly stacked in the cooler. Relieved, I bought three packages. When the cashier rang them up, I said, “It’s so good to see decent margarine again. It was really bad for a while there."

She said, “I know. After a customer reported it, they found all kinds of gross mold in and behind that cooler due to a problem with the condenser, and they had to replace the whole thing.”

I found that bit of information very interesting, especially since at that time, the Boar’s Head deli-meat recall had been all over the news because of an outbreak of Listeria, which sickened at least 60 people and killed 10. The cause of the outbreak was determined to be unsanitary product-preparation areas…but also condensation, mold and excess moisture in the cooler.

My first thought was the soggy margarine in the moldy cooler easily could have escalated into something just as serious. My second thought was that under the circumstances, I think the store should have thanked me much more appropriately for possibly saving the lives of millions of their customers (okay, maybe more like about 15 or 20).

So, Walmart, I’m still waiting for that $1,000 gift card…


                                                                  #   #   #

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)