Monday, July 7, 2025

I MISS THE OLD-FASHIONED SOAP OPERAS

 


I grew up watching soap operas (now called daytime dramas), mainly because my mother was hooked on one called Search for Tomorrow. Back in the 1950s, Mom, wearing her crisp cotton housedress and apron, would drop whatever she was doing and rush to sit in front of the TV the minute her favorite soap opera popped on.

In those days, Search for Tomorrow’s heroine, Joanne, who also wore crisp cotton housedresses (and her hair in a bun), was a kind-hearted woman who listened to everyone's problem over coffee and did a lot of crying into lace-edged hankies as the ever-present organ music played in the background.

And what made poor Joanne so upset? It usually was her wayward daughter, Patti, who did such unforgivable things as flunk a math test at school or stay out 20 minutes past her curfew.

“That Patti is such a brat!” my mother, shaking her head in disgust, would say after each show. “If I were Joanne, I would ship her off to a boarding school!”

I’m pretty sure there were other reasons for Joanne’s daily flood of tears. For one thing, she and her husband were forced to sleep in twin beds (thanks to the strict television censorship back then), which probably would be enough to depress anyone. 

I really enjoyed watching soap operas back in the 1950s and ‘60s because the characters had fairly normal lives and normal everyday problems to which just about everyone could relate. I mean, an entire episode back then might feature such pulse-pounding subjects as not having enough money to buy a birthday gift, or accidentally making two dates for the same night. 

But over the years, the soaps evolved so much, they soon bore no resemblance whatsoever to any life that could be considered even remotely normal.

If Search for Tomorrow were to premiere today, Joanne would have a name like “Skylark” and be a former stripper with numerous ex-husbands, two current lovers (one of whom is half her age and used to date her daughter), and six children, each fathered by a different mystery man - at least one of whom is an alien from another planet or a thug who is heavily involved in organized crime.

Joanne’s wayward daughter Patti probably would be a neurosurgeon with one of the current popular "anna"-suffixed names (e.g. Brianna, Arianna, Adrianna, Gianna, etc.), who has multiple personalities and a child who hates her so much, she runs off to live with a cult leader she met online and ends up in a remote cabin in some town with a made-up soap-opera name like “Evergreenville.” 

Soap operas, after all, are famous for naming towns after trees and adding “ville” to the ends of them.

Years ago, if you missed an episode or two of a soap opera, it was no big deal. That’s because back then, a day in the life of a soap-opera character lasted about 95 days in real life. If you tuned in to an episode in July and then didn’t watch the show again until Christmas, you still could pick up the plot pretty much where you’d left off.

Nowadays, however, soap-opera storylines move so swiftly, if a character has a baby (adopts a baby, steals a baby, finds an abandoned baby) on Monday, it’s a safe bet the baby will be shaving by Friday.

I realize that modern soap operas are supposed to reflect the changing times, but I can’t help but wonder how many of us actually live in a town where every available bachelor looks like a male model and is either a doctor, lawyer, police officer, firefighter or a detective?

Frankly, over the years, the more I watched soap operas, the more annoyed I became with certain things about them. For example, the characters’ lack of morning breath. I don’t know anyone who can wake up out of a dead sleep in the morning and roll over and talk nose to nose with his sweetie without making her eyes water. And miraculously, the sweetie always awakened in full makeup, complete with false eyelashes, and her hair looking as if she just stepped out of a beauty salon. The woman must have slept sitting up. If I ever wore false eyelashes to bed, no doubt they would fall off during the night and stick to me somewhere else, like under my nose, and I’d wake up looking like Hitler.

Another thing that always annoyed me was the characters’ unknown children who always seemed to pop up during the program’s ratings slumps. These children ranged in age from less than one year to over 30, depending on what the main characters needed at the time. Whenever a long-lost child was going to be added to the plot, a typical conversation would go something like this:

“Why, Dr. Hunkyman, I’ve been working for you for three years now, and I had no idea you had a 25-year-old son!”

“Neither did I, Julianna, until his mother, a woman I met way back when I was suffering from amnesia after a train wreck in Mapleville, texted me last week and told me about him. I can’t wait for you to meet him. After all, you’re both about the same age and I know how lonely you’ve been since your husband died tragically in that volcano eruption in Tobongo during your honeymoon. Perhaps this is fate.”

Alas, when my favorite soap opera, All my Children, was canceled after I’d faithfully been watching it for about 112 years, I was so crushed, I vowed never to watch another soap again, and switched over to reality talk-shows like Jerry Springer and Maury Povich. 

A normal day on Maury’s show often featured a young woman who'd asked four or five guys to take paternity tests so she could determine which one had fathered her baby. And one of those "lucky" fellows inevitably would end up having Maury point at him and shout his famous daily line..."You ARE the father!" to the cheers and applause of the audience members.

But then there was the woman who was up to man number nine and still hadn't found a DNA match for her child.

Maybe soap operas weren't all that far-fetched after all.


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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, June 30, 2025

I THOUGHT THIS JOB OFFER WAS A JOKE...

 

I was just reading about how the actress Lana Turner was discovered while drinking a Coke at a soda fountain, and how Marilyn Monroe was discovered while working in a munitions factory.

Well, this might come as a surprise to many, but I was “discovered” while walking from a soda fountain in downtown Manchester, NH, where I’d just had a grilled-cheese sandwich and a Coke for lunch, and was returning to my job at a nearby department store.

I was 21 at the time, during the era of the mini-skirt, platform shoes and long, shaggy hair…all of which I had. And let’s just say I didn’t exactly have a body for mini-skirts, especially since my “thunder thighs” rubbed together when I walked. In fact, I lived with the constant fear the friction from all of that rubbing eventually would generate a spark that would cause my pantyhose to burst into flames.

Anyway, just as I reached the store where I worked, a man approached me. He looked about 45, was short in stature and wearing a business suit.

“Have you ever thought about becoming a model?” he asked me.

I laughed. “Yeah, right!” Then I reached for the door handle.

“No, I’m serious,” he persisted. He reached into his pocket and handed me a business card. “I run an advertising agency and I’m always looking for new faces for my ads. Give me a call.”

And with that, he was gone.

I was back upstairs in my office before I even glanced at the card. It looked legitimate, but I was smart enough to know anyone could get business cards printed. I figured the guy probably had ordered a thousand of them so he could dole them out to impressionable young women and then lure them into his dungeon in his basement...or worse. I rolled my eyes and tossed the card onto my desk.

A few minutes later, my boss came over to talk to me about some paperwork he wanted. As I retrieved it for him, he spotted the business card and picked it up.

“How do you know Rick?” he asked me.

“Rick?” I repeated.

He pointed at the name on the card. “He’s done some advertising work for us. Nice guy.”

My eyes widened. “You mean he’s for real?”

He gave me a puzzled look. “Of course he is. I mean, he owns the advertising agency. In fact, he’s already working on a Christmas campaign for us. Never too soon to start.”

He then grabbed the folder he needed and walked off.

My thoughts ran wild at that moment. Was I really model material? And what would I model? Certainly not swimsuits. Maybe something like muumuus? Hospital gowns? Arctic parkas? And why had I never seen this Rick guy before if he had been doing advertising work for the store? Maybe he’d always come in on my day off or after my shift ended?

My curiosity finally got the better of me. I picked up the business card and called him.

Rick sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. And, he said, he already had an assignment in mind for me…a shoot for a sewing-machine advertisement.

Sewing machine?  My first thought was how on earth was I supposed to model that? My second thought was the poor guy couldn’t have picked a worse candidate to promote anything to do with sewing. I’d flunked sewing class in school because I couldn’t sew a straight line even after a gazillion attempts. I finally gave up, and my motto then became, “If I can’t glue it, I won’t do it!”

But I wasn’t about to pass up an actual modeling shoot. It not only sounded exciting, it also paid real money.

Rick and I shared some lengthy phone calls, where he explained more about himself, the firm, the pay scale and more. Then he told me the sewing-machine shoot would be held that Saturday morning. When he gave me the location’s address, in a small town called Goffstown, and then added, “Oh, and bring a nice nightgown,” I was confused…and just a bit apprehensive. But I agreed. Then I made sure to tell a bunch of people the time and place where I would be on Saturday…just in case I went missing.

When my mother asked me why I had to bring a nightgown for a sewing-machine ad, I honestly couldn’t give her an answer.

“Maybe I’m supposed to be someone whose wardrobe was stolen and all she has left is her nightgown, so she now has to sew some new clothes?” was the best I could come up with.

My mother laughed. “Do you really think it’s something that far-fetched?”

To be honest, I had no idea what to think at that point.

The Saturday morning of the shoot, I spent a long time getting every hair “just right,” and then spent even longer on my makeup. I didn’t know if there would be someone there to do my hair and makeup more professionally, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I then packed a white cotton nightgown with tiny pink flowers on. It had short, puffy sleeves and a gathered neckline.

When I entered the small studio, I froze. All I saw in the room was a bed surrounded by floodlights and some camera equipment on tripods. My first thought was it looked like a set-up to film an X-rated movie.

Rick, smiling, walked over to greet me. He then introduced me to a tall, dark-haired man about his age and said, “This is Bob, the photographer.”

Bob eyed me as if I were a side of beef at a meat auction. His expression told me he probably was accustomed to photographing Sports Illustrated swimsuit models, not someone who would be the “before” picture in an ad for cellulite removal.

“Well, let’s get started,” Rick said. “Time is money.”

I hesitated, still staring at the bed. Finally, I just had to ask what it had to do with a sewing machine, which, by the way, was nowhere in sight. I honestly feared that at any second, some muscular guy wearing only a towel was going to enter the room and stretch out on the bed.

“Oh!” Rick said, in response to my question. “The advertisement is for a company called White Sewing Machines. So I thought it would be clever to show you dreaming about a ‘White’ Christmas! After the photo is taken, we’ll insert a dream bubble over your head with a photo of the sewing machine in it.”

My sigh of relief was obvious. It finally all made sense to me.

“Now go into the bathroom over there and put on your nightgown,” he said.

When I emerged from the bathroom, both Rick and Bob stared at me in a way that told me they weren’t exactly thinking, “Wow! She looks great!”

“Did you borrow that nightgown from your grandmother?” Rick asked.

I wondered what he’d expected…a sexy negligee with cleavage? After all, I was supposed to look like a woman who was dreaming about sewing machines, not dreaming about becoming the next centerfold in a men’s magazine.

Bob walked up to me and promptly messed up my hair.

“That looks better,” he said. “It looked too neat for someone who’s supposed to be asleep and dreaming.”

I wished he’d have told me that before I’d spent an hour styling it that morning. Heck, I could have just crawled out of bed and not even touched my hair if he wanted a genuine “bed-head” look.

The shoot went smoothly, especially since I had to do nothing but close my eyes and lie in bed for 20 minutes. And I got paid for it! Talk about easy money.

And here is a photo of the actual newspaper ad, which is old, stained, yellowed and faded, but it at least will give you an idea of what it looked like. I wasn’t pleased with my messy hair, which made me look as if I had a long beard, but I did think the whole concept was pretty clever.

 


I ended up working part-time for Rick for over a year. He even hired me to help him with writing jingles that were aired on local radio stations. I wasn’t very good at it, however. The store I still clearly recall attempting to write my first jingle for was Tren Furniture.

Their previous jingle, sung to a slow, jazzy tune, was “The trend is to Tren, at 177 Wilson Street,” repeated over and over again. However, Tren moved their store's location to Mammoth Road, so they asked Rick to come up with a fresh new jingle for them.

Rick turned the project over to me. “Write this jingle,” he said. “And I need it by 8 AM tomorrow morning.”

Nothing like being rushed.

I was up all night working on that jingle, and finally came up with this gem:

(Sung to the tune of West Side Story’s “I Like to Be in America” song).

I like to be at Tren Furniture,

        So much to see at Tren Furniture,

              On Mammoth Road is Tren Furniture,

           Every abode needs Tren Furniture.

 

Gee, I can’t understand why the store turned it down.


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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, June 23, 2025

MY UPDATED VERSION OF THE TORTOISE AND THE HARE

 

A friend and I went hiking in Bear Brook State Park last week, and as the trail wound around the shoreline of Hayes Marsh, my eyes scanned the water. I knew there were turtles in there and because I’ve always loved turtles, I really wanted to see one. But the only thing I spotted was a bullfrog…and about 10,000 mosquitoes…8,000 of which immediately swarmed us and then dive-bombed at every tiny bit of exposed flesh they could find.

Thinking about turtles reminded me of an incident that happened back in the late 1970s, when my husband and I were riding down Route 28 in Allenstown one afternoon. On the side of the road was a large black object, round and about the diameter of a vinyl LP record. My husband slowed down (there were no other cars within sight in either direction at that moment) so we could get a better look at the mystery object.

Suddenly it moved. That’s when we realized it was a huge turtle…and it was planning to cross the road, where a brook beckoned from the other side.

“Quick! Pull over!” I shouted at my husband. “That turtle will never make it across without help. The speed limit is 55 here!”

“Which means most of the cars will be zooming by at about 70,” he said as he steered the car over to the side of the road.  I immediately leapt out.

Well, the ungrateful reptile not only refused to accept my assistance, it also let me know it was a snapper…a snapper with an apparent affinity for shredded human flesh, and a neck that extended like a Slinky to over a foot long.

When I saw a line of cars approaching at a rapid clip in the distance, I attempted to scare the turtle back into the grass by stomping my feet at it. When it started to retreat in that direction instead of out onto the road, I breathed a sigh of relief.

My relief was short-lived, however. The turtle decided to take a detour…directly underneath our car. I waited for it to emerge on the other side, but when it didn’t, I knelt down to see where it was. I spotted it behind the front tire on the passenger’s side. It looked pretty comfortable, as if it were thinking, “Gee, it’s so nice and peaceful under here, I think I’ll stay for awhile.”

 My husband, who still was sitting in the car with the window down, was unable to see much from his vantage point.

“I saw you stomp at the turtle and make it head back to where it came from,” he said to me. “So I guess it's safe now. Come on, let's get going.”

“Um, not quite yet,” I said. “The turtle sort of got sidetracked and crawled under the car. And I think it might have decided to take a nap there.”

The look my husband gave me told me he thought I was kidding. When I didn’t laugh, he got out of the car and knelt down to look underneath it.

He stood up and frowned. “Great. I’m not about to just sit around here all day waiting for some turtle to decide when it wants to move. Besides that, we’re going to be late for my dental appointment.”

“I sure hope you’re not thinking about running over it!”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. Let’s look for a branch or a stick or something we can use to coax him out. Maybe if I find a stick, he’ll try to bite it if I poke him with, then he’ll latch onto it and I can just drag him out. Snappers are famous for their super-strong jaws.”

It sounded like a long shot to me, but I figured we had nothing to lose at that point. The closest area to us was a field, so our hunt for branches turned up nothing. My husband, however, found an old cornstalk.

“You can’t use that to move a big turtle,” I said to him as he headed back to the car with it. “It’s too flimsy.”

“It’s better than nothing,” he said.

He then stretched out on his stomach on the asphalt on the driver’s side of the car, so he could attempt to nudge the turtle out into the grass on the passenger’s side.

As I stood and watched him, I couldn’t help but laugh. Every time he shoved the cornstalk underneath the car, it came back out shorter, where the turtle had snapped off a piece.

We were so engrossed in our efforts to move the turtle, we barely noticed the state trooper when he pulled up behind us. He got out of his cruiser and stood, his hands on his hips, silently watching my husband poking the cornstalk underneath the car.

“Having car trouble?” he finally asked, probably thinking he’d seen some bad mechanics in his day, but never one who’d tried to use a cornstalk to repair a vehicle.

My husband, failing to conceal his embarrassment, crawled out and stood up. “Actually, we’re having turtle trouble,” he explained. “We pulled over to help this big snapper get across the road and now it’s decided to take a nap under the car.”

The trooper got down on one knee and peered underneath the car to verify our story. He then stood up, rubbed his chin as if deep in thought and said, “Yep. He’s a big one, all right. But I don’t think you’re going to convince him to move with only that cornstalk.”

Then, to our bewilderment, the trooper started to laugh…really hard. I mean, he acted as if he’d just been told the funniest joke he’d ever heard. Sure, the situation was pretty amusing, but it definitely didn’t warrant nearly hysterical, tear-inducing laughter.

“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to utter between guffaws, “but it just dawned on me that your car is a Volkswagen Rabbit! I can’t help but think about that old fable, The Tortoise and Hare, where the slow turtle beats the fast rabbit in a race!”

I personally thought the trooper was pretty clever to come up with that analogy, but my husband’s expression told me he’d just about had his fill of turtle talk for one day.

Maybe it was the trooper’s laugh, which did kind of sound like a hyena’s, that scared (or annoyed) the turtle, but the snapper suddenly emerged from under the car and headed straight out onto the road. The trooper was swift to react, however, and dashed out to halt the approaching traffic. He stood on the center line, his arms outstretched, as the turtle leisurely strolled across the two lanes.

The trooper slowly shook is head, laughed and said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”

A man in the first car rolled down his window and asked, his tone filled with awe, 'What the heck is that thing?" When the trooper told him, he said, “Can’t you just carry it across?”

The trooper answered, “Not if I want to go home tonight with all 10 of my fingers!”

When the turtle finally reached its destination, cheers could be heard, and the traffic once again began to move. The trooper wished us a good day and went on his way.

“Well, we’ve done our good deed for the day,” I said to my husband as we finally  climbed back into our car.

“Yeah, but now we’re over a half-hour late for my appointment,” he muttered. “And my shirt is filthy.”

“I guess the turtle defeated the rabbit again,” I couldn’t resist saying, even at the risk of causing valid grounds for a divorce. “Just like in Aesop’s old fable.”

When I later related our adventure to one of my friends, she said, “They should put up one of those 'Turtle Crossing' signs in that area as a warning,”

Her husband looked at her and rolled his eyes. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard! What good would signs do? The turtles wouldn’t know that’s where they’re supposed to cross. They can’t read!”

Give me strength…

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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, June 16, 2025

WHAT'S IN A NAME? EVERYTHING!

 

The other night I was thinking about some of the "unusual" names people have come up with for their children. Granted, many of them might be considered unique and creative…while others probably emotionally scarred the poor kids for life.

The names that immediately popped into my head, however, were last names. Considering surnames are inherited, I suppose I really can’t blame the parents for those.

Take, for example, many years ago when I had a nosebleed that wouldn’t stop even after I stuffed my nose with tissues, so I ended up paying an emergency visit to Concord Hospital. The doctor who was assigned to examine me suddenly appeared through the opening in the curtain that surrounded the bed.

“Good morning,” he greeted me. “I’m Doctor Blood.”

I couldn’t help it. Even in my less-than-pleasant situation, I giggled. I honestly thought he was kidding.

“Seriously?” I asked when I noticed his somber expression.

“Yes, seriously,” he said as he leaned closer to inspect my nose.

“Your first name isn’t Peter, is it?” I asked.

He gave me a curious look. “No, it’s Horace.”

The reason why I asked him about Peter was because back when I was about eleven, I’d seen a British horror movie called Doctor Blood’s Coffin. It was about a crazed doctor named Peter Blood who reanimated corpses by paralyzing innocent victims and then transplanting their still-beating hearts into the decomposing bodies. The movie gave me nightmares for years because it was my first introduction to zombies.

So having someone named Doctor Blood treating my nosebleed didn’t exactly calm my nerves…especially when he announced he was going to use nasal cauterization to stop the bleeding. This basically involved shoving a hot poker up my nostril and burning the blood vessel to seal it off. I couldn’t decide whether to leap up and run for my life, or to stay and search for hidden cameras…because I still wasn’t convinced I wasn’t the victim of some elaborate hoax.

But as it turned out, Doctor Blood stopped my nosebleed and I wasn’t transformed into one of the Walking Dead in the process.

Another surname I definitely would not have enjoyed being cursed with belonged to one of my husband's co-workers, whose last name was…Hoar. And he pronounced it exactly the way it looks.

I hate to admit it, but if I had been his fiancée, as the wedding day grew closer I’d probably have said something like, “I love you, honey, I really do, and I honestly want to marry you…but is it okay if I keep my maiden name?”

I often wondered how his wife managed to deal with her married name. I mean, I doubt I ever could have felt comfortable being called Mrs. Hoar, or even worse, having someone call out to me by only my last name in public. I’m certain all heads would have turned in my direction. And imagine the children being referred to as the little Hoars?

Fortunately, the Hoar family took their name in stride and even joked about it when they so often were mercilessly teased. I really did admire them.

Surnames, as I previously said, are inherited, so children can’t blame their parents for those. But first names are a whole different story.

I think one of the earliest worst offenders I can recall was the late singer/musician Frank Zappa, who named his four children Moon Unit, Dweezil, Ahmet Emuukha Rodan, and Diva Thin Muffin Pigeen (no, I didn’t misspell Pigeen, but it does kind of sound like what you might call a French bird).

The story I’ve heard about Dweezil, however, is there was a nurse who absolutely refused to write down that name on his birth registration. So out of sheer frustration, Zappa finally told her to write “Ian.” But the baby still was called Dweezil, no matter what the paperwork said.

Now that I think about it, the earliest strange names I can recall hearing here in New England actually belonged to a Puritan Reverend named Increase Mather and his son, Cotton Mather. Back in the 1600s, most men had Biblical names like John, Nathaniel and Matthew, so I can imagine how Increase and Cotton must have stood out amongst their peers.

I’ve also noticed that over the years, the spelling of traditional names has become more creative. Like when one of my friends named her baby boy Kryss, and another named hers Jaymz. My first thought was, “Those kids are going to have to spend their whole lives spelling out their names for people.”

And then there is one of my current neighbors, Jerrame. Most people mispronounce it “Jer-aym,” when it’s actually Jeremy.

“My mother ruined my life!” he often jokingly laments.

I must confess I also was guilty of taking a bit of creative liberty with my dog Wynter’s name. When I adopted her during a raging blizzard one February, her name was Rosalind. I didn’t think the 100-lb. Rottweiler looked like a Rosalind, so considering the weather, I changed her name to Winter. But whenever I messaged someone and mentioned her, I realized how confusing her new name could be.

Such as on a 95-degree day in mid-July when I’d write something like, “Winter really is stressing me out today,” and the person wasn’t even aware I had a dog. I probably sounded as if I needed a long vacation. So I changed the spelling to Wynter. But now I always have to spell her name whenever I call the vet or they search for her under “Winter” and then inform me they can’t find her file (which I can’t understand because she’d be in the Breslin file, wouldn’t she?).

So you can imagine my utter shock when a couple of years ago a new family moved in right next door and introduced me to their toddler, Wynter, emphasizing it was spelled with a “y.” 

I blurted out, “That’s my dog’s name! And I even spell it the same way! What a coincidence!” 

Let's just say they didn’t look too thrilled to discover their dainty little girl shared a name with a hairy, drooling Rottweiler.

“We wanted her to have a unique name,” the wife said somewhat tightly.

After that, I briefly considered changing my Wynter’s name to “Deeojee” (say it out loud for the full effect), but I didn’t want to further traumatize her…or the vet.

Truthfully, if I had to give an award for the most creative spelling of a name I’ve ever seen, it would have to go to the parents of a woman I saw on a newscast not long ago. The announcer pronounced her name “Erica.”


I forwarded it to my neighbor, Jerrame…just to make him feel better.


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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, June 9, 2025

MY APPLIANCES ALWAYS KNOW WHEN THEIR WARRANTIES EXPIRE

 


My last gas range, a Magic Chef, lasted over 25 years. The only problem with it was it had pilot lights. I can’t even remember how many times I woke up to the smell of gas because one of the pilot lights had gone out overnight. It got to the point where I was afraid to scuff my slippers against the rug, for fear I’d create static electricity and end up blowing my house (and myself) somewhere into the stratosphere.

Even worse, the pilot light in the oven always seemed to go out the most often – maybe because it was at floor-level and my flabby legs created a big draft whenever I walked past it. It was located way in the back of the broiler drawer, so whenever I had to relight it, I had to lie on my stomach on the floor and stick my head all the way into the broiler. If I’d have happened to die while in that position, I’m pretty sure my death would have been ruled self-inflicted.

So when my current house was built, I vowed to get a “modern” gas range that didn’t have pilot lights. I was pleased to find not only the perfect stove, but a complete Frigidaire appliance package that included the stove along with a dishwasher, refrigerator, and a washer and dryer, all for under $2,000.  

I remembered Frigidaire from way back when I was a kid, and it seemed to be a reliable brand. In fact, my grandmother had the same Frigidaire refrigerator for over 30 years. She never referred to it as a refrigerator, however. She always would say something like “Go get some milk out of the Frigidaire” whenever she mentioned it.

So I bought the appliance package and felt confident that all of the appliances probably would outlive me.

Alas, I was in for a big letdown. After only three years the dishwasher died and I was forced to invest in a new one.

And the minute the clock struck midnight on the final day of the gas range’s extended-warranty, it transformed into Satan's appliance from Hell. I turned on two of the burner knobs one afternoon as I was cooking lunch, and they snapped right off their stems. Then when I tried to order replacements, I learned they weren’t being made any longer. I finally bought some knobs on Ebay that had the same product number, but they didn’t fit. So I was forced to tape the old knobs back on with duct tape. Not exactly a chic look for my kitchen.

And twice within the following three years, I had to replace the oven’s igniter, the gizmo that sparks the gas flame. Each time it needed to be replaced, the service call cost me over $250.

The third time the igniter failed, I was about to bake cookies. I turned on the oven and waited for it to reach the proper temperature so I could shove the pan into it.  About two minutes later, I heard a loud “POOF” that made me jump. I looked at the stove, and through the glass door I saw a wall of flames shoot from one side of the oven to the other. Just as quickly, however, everything seemed fine, and I baked my cookies with no problem.

Had I been smart, it might have dawned on me that flames shooting across the inside of an oven couldn’t be a good thing – especially if I had been reaching into it at the time.

Sure enough, that “poof” turned out to be the oven’s final gasp. It refused to light after that.

When the repairman told me it needed yet another igniter, I refused to replace it. It was the oven’s third strike…and as far as I was concerned, three strikes and it was out, permanently benched. It officially was a lemon, not worthy of any more of my time or money.

So I went shopping for a new stove…and spent most of my time gasping in horror at how much the prices had increased since I’d last purchased one.

Not only that, I learned that even if I did buy a new gas range, the store’s delivery people weren’t allowed to install it or disconnect my old one. I was told they would drop it off in my garage or on my front porch and I would have to call my propane company to disconnect the gas from the old stove and then hook it up to the new one.

I hate to say it, but my propane company is in the bad habit of scheduling appointments and then canceling them at the last minute. So for all I knew, by the time someone actually would show up to connect a new stove, it probably would be considered a vintage collector’s item.

So I came up with what I thought was the perfect alternative.

I ordered a toaster oven online that not only toasted, it also baked and broiled, and even had a convection-oven feature and a rotisserie. The burners on my kitchen stove still worked fine, so I figured all I needed was something I could use for baking. The toaster oven sounded as if it would fill that void, and for only $59.

The only problem was the box it came in turned out to be about three times larger than the actual oven inside. Once I unpacked it, I was disappointed to see how small it was. I mean, instead of roasting a whole chicken on the rotisserie as I’d imagined, I doubted I’d even be able to fit a couple chicken nuggets on it.

I also was able to bake only three cookies at a time. They came out fine – golden and crisp. But my favorite recipe usually yielded two dozen, so baking the entire batch of cookies took me most of the night. And my trusty old casserole dish was too big to fit into the toaster oven, so I had to find a smaller dish…like from Barbie’s Dream House collection.

To my relief and delight, my friend and her husband gifted me with a much larger, state-of-the-art toaster-oven for my birthday. I've used it nearly every day since and it’s been great.

Much better than the crummy oven in my gas range ever was.

Speaking of which, just out of curiosity the other day, I turned on the old oven to see if maybe it somehow had miraculously been reincarnated and revived after its prolonged period of rest.

Nothing at all happened…not a “poof,” not a sputter, not a cough…nothing.

But I think I really ticked off the spider that’s living in it.

 

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









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Tuesday, June 3, 2025

I HAVE MY DOUBTS ABOUT THE AUTHENTICITY OF THOSE "BEFORE" AND "AFTER" PHOTOS IN ADVERTISEMENTS

 

I’m learning the hard way that losing weight when you’re a senior citizen has its pros and cons. The pros are I have more energy and can fit into a smaller dress size. 

The cons all have to do with my skin. No longer does it have the ability to spring back. It just hangs on me like wet laundry.

I’ve been able to hide all of the loose skin on my body by tucking it into my underwear, but unfortunately I can’t do the same with my face, which now flaps in even the slightest breeze. It looks totally deflated, kind of like a balloon that landed on a cactus.

When I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror the other morning, I wondered whose shriveled old face was staring back at mine. I concluded it had to be the ghost of Methuselah’s sister.

But I’d recently seen some videos on Facebook where several elderly women, whose faces had more wrinkles than an unmade bed, magically were transformed into smooth-skinned beauties merely by using cosmetics in a deceptive, camouflaging way. So I toyed with the idea of seeking help from a professional cosmetician to learn a few of those tricks.

However, I abruptly came to my senses after I recalled an incident from many years ago when I underwent a cosmetic makeover that had less than a stunning outcome. Much less.

And that was back when I, unlike now, barely had any wrinkles or sagging at all.

On that day, I’d been browsing in Jordan Marsh’s Bedford store when a 30-ish looking employee at one of the cosmetics counters flashed a very white smile at me and asked, “How would you like to look 15 years younger? I can show you how with our special line of cosmetics! It will take only a few minutes.”

Immediately, I felt ancient. Did I, I wondered, look that desperately in need of rejuvenation? And what about the makeup I was wearing – the makeup I’d so carefully applied before going shopping? Did it look as if I’d inherited it from my great-grandmother? Or even worse, did I look like my great-grandmother?

Intrigued, I laughed and said, “If you can make me look 15 years younger, I’ll buy everything you’re selling!” 

Her eyes lit up like 100-watt bulbs. “Have a seat!”  She waved her hand in the direction of a tall stool.

As she leaned toward me to study my face, I couldn’t help but notice that her own makeup was well, just a tad on the heavy side…as if perhaps she’d applied it with a trowel. Her eyeshadow was the color of robins’ eggs, her cheeks were bright red and her perfume was so overpowering, if a family of skunks had walked through the cosmetics department at that moment, I wouldn’t have been able to smell any of them. I fought the sudden urge to get up and run for my life.

She handed me a moist towelette and told me to wipe off my makeup. “I like to work on a clean canvas,” she said, “just like any good artist!”

I grabbed the towelette and scrubbed. When my original layer of skin finally peeked through, the clerk seemed stunned.

“My goodness, you’re a pale one!” she said. “I don’t think even our lightest shade of foundation is going to be light enough for you.”

“Then maybe you should get some of that white stuff mimes use on their faces and try that on me,” I joked.  

She wasn’t amused

She grasped me by the chin and turned my head to one side. “Hmm. I see a lot of lines around your eyes and crinkles above your top lip,” she said. “Those are signs of dry, aging skin. You never should apply makeup without first using a good moisturizer.”

Previously, I’d never thought much about my wrinkly eyes or my pruned-up lips. Now, thanks to her, I was feeling like a giant sheet of crepe paper with eyeholes.

“I think the peach and rust shades will work best for you,” she said. “They will wake up your dull skin and bring it to life. The older you get, the more vibrant the colors should be because skin tends to look lackluster, uneven and washed out as we age. And brighter shades of lipstick will make your teeth look whiter in comparison.”

I quietly sat there as she went to work on my face. The more I thought about my washed-out skin, drab teeth and unsightly crow’s feet, the more I thought that maybe I should forget about the makeup and just head straight to the nearest cosmetic surgeon’s office.

“There!” she finally said after about 15 minutes of dabbing, smearing and painting. She stepped back and smiled with obvious satisfaction. “If I do say so myself, you look wonderful, vibrant!  So refreshed, so much younger!”  She handed a mirror to me.

I grabbed the mirror, expecting to see a teenager looking back at me. But as I stared at my reflection, I was rendered speechless (which, for me, was a rare occurrence). My makeup was vibrant all right. In fact, it was more like neon. My wrinkles no longer showed because they were buried beneath a thick layer of foundation and powder. My lips had been drawn larger than their true shape and then filled in with a bright orange gloss to make them look fuller. My eyes were lined in a deep, smoky gray, and my cheeks were a dark peach all the way up to my temples.

“So…what do you think?” the clerk eagerly asked.

“I think I look as if I should be standing on a street corner and calling out to sailors,” I blurted out.

Again, the woman displayed no sense of humor whatsoever.

I left there without purchasing anything and made a mad dash out to the parking lot. All the while I prayed no one I knew would see me before I was able to leap inside my car and hide.

But as luck would have it, I was within only a few feet of my vehicle when I came face to face with a former neighbor.

“Long time no see!” she said, giving me a brief hug. She then stepped back and stared critically at me. I held my breath, waiting for her next words, which I felt certain would involve some reference to the Ringling Brothers.

“You look amazing!” she finally gushed. “Younger than ever! Come on, fess up! You’ve had a few nips and tucks done, right?”

I didn’t answer her. I was too busy digging my credit card out of my purse and running back into the store.

I hate to admit it, but all of the cosmetics I purchased that day still remain unused and currently are buried somewhere in the dark recesses of one of my closets.

Maybe this would be a good time to find them and finally give them a try.

Now where did I put my trowel?


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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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