Tuesday, March 24, 2026

AT LAST, THE END OF THE INTERNET SAGA...BUT I THINK I COULD USE SOME VALIUM!


 

Finally…the rest of my Internet story!

I think.

After I practically set up camp in my driveway so I wouldn’t miss the UPS truck, the much-anticipated, new high-speed modem finally arrived. But instead of excitedly tearing the box open and immediately installing the device so I could get back online, I treated it as if it had just been retrieved from the septic tank.

The problem was, I wasn’t eager to go through all of the trouble of reading the instruction booklet and installing the modem, only to face yet another failure to get my Internet working again. Yes, I was being pessimistic, but after years of failing at just about everything I’ve had high hopes about, I had an excellent reason to be doubtful.

It was late at night before I finally gathered the courage to attempt to install the modem. Step by step, I carefully inserted cords and cables into the appropriate slots according to the instructions, then entered the designated key number, password and customer number to activate the machine. A graph with a horizontal blue line appeared on my laptop’s screen. It said that once the blue line made it halfway across to the 50-percent mark, to press the “next” key.

I was hopeful because I’d actually managed to get the graph on my laptop, which I felt meant I must have done something right. So I sat and waited for the line to move. And then I waited some more…and even more. Twenty minutes later, the line still was stuck on zero. A fish that had been out of water for 20 minutes had more movement than that blue line. The booklet also said the modem itself should display a blinking blue light while loading.

The light was white…and not blinking. Not even as much as a teeny flicker.

So I repeated the steps…six times.

The blue line never budged. And neither did the white light, which remained whiter than white.

The back page of the booklet listed a toll-free number to call if I had any problems or questions.

I stared at the number, refusing to call it, denying that I needed help. The modem had to work, I told myself. There was no other option.

An hour later, I finally surrendered and called. The technical-support guy walked me through every step I’d just been through about a dozen times. The too-familiar graph with the blue line appeared on my laptop’s screen once again.

“When the blue line reaches 50-percent, please let me know,” he said.

I chuckled under my breath as I thought, “Good luck with that, buddy! I hope you packed a lunch, because you’re going to need it.”

Five minutes later, he asked me how far the bar had moved.

“It’s still on zero,” I said, actually feeling somewhat pleased that he, a professional, also had failed. It made me feel like less of a dimwit who couldn’t follow directions.

“Oh...” he said, his tone already admitting defeat. "Then I will have to schedule a technician to come to your house to troubleshoot the problem.”

“When?” I asked, rolling my eyes.

Following a period of silence while he checked, he said, “Two weeks from tomorrow.”

“Two weeks! Are you serious?”

“Yes, Ma’am. Will you be available between 11 AM and 2 PM?”

No, because I’ll probably have died from stress by then!

I didn’t realize I’d groaned out loud instead of actually saying anything, until I heard the sound escape my lips.

“I apologize,” he said. “If there is a cancellation before then, I will let you know.”

I seriously doubted anyone would cancel. Heck, even if I were suffering from a severe attack of appendicitis on the day of my appointment, I wouldn’t cancel, mainly because I didn’t want to have to wait another month to get my Internet service back.

But to my surprise, three days later, an employee called and said a technician would be at my house that Thursday between 11 AM and 2 PM.

I wanted to feel excited and hopeful about getting my Internet back at long last, but once again, I wasn’t overflowing with optimism.

Nevertheless, I was ready and waiting at 11 AM on Thursday. The dogs were secured in the laundry room, the dust bunnies behind the sofa all had been vacuumed up, and I was fully dressed and groomed to a “presentable” level.

By 2:30, there still was no sign of the technician. That’s because, unbeknownst to me, my Internet provider had been sending me e-mails, telling me he was running late.

I couldn’t believe they actually were sending e-mails to a customer who had no Internet service. I mean, if I’d have been able to receive and read their e-mails, wouldn’t that indicate I didn’t need a service technician anymore?  Yeesh!

Finally, I guess they got tired of me not confirming their e-mails so they switched to phone calls. For all I knew, they probably also had tried texting me first, which would have been interesting, considering my phone is still an old-fashioned landline.

The first call I received, the employee asked me if I’d seen their technician yet.

“Nope, still no sign of him.”

“We’re trying to track him down,” she said. "He's not returning our calls."

The fact they couldn’t even find their repair guy did little to lift my spirits.

Their next call was at 4 PM. They had located him, they reported, and he was on his way…between 5:00 and 7:00 PM.

By then, I figured if there existed an award for customer patience, I’d be in the running for the top honors. Never had I dealt with a more confused, inept, poorly-coordinated business…and believe me, I’ve dealt with some real doozies over the years. 

At 6:45 PM, I received a call from a guy who said he was the manager of technical support. Not surprisingly, he apologized and said his guy wasn’t going to be able to make it after all because it was getting too dark, but he would be over at 8 AM on Saturday.

He actually wanted me to get up at the crack of dawn on a Saturday? That was just too much to ask of me. The word “patience” no longer existed in my vocabulary. But before I could open my mouth to respond, the manager said, “Your address looks familiar. Wasn’t someone already over there recently?”

“Yes, two weeks ago,” I said. “But he couldn’t figure out what was wrong.”

“That’s because he told me he wasn’t able to get up on your roof.”

That did it. I was through being “Mrs. Nice Guy.” And I wasn’t about to protect his employee who'd obviously lied to him.

“He certainly did get up on my roof…and he changed the transceiver on the dish! I should know – I held the ladder for him!”

And I was subjected to a full view of his butt crack in the process! 😂

The manager’s tone told me he wasn’t pleased. “Hmm, I see. Then I’ll personally be over on Saturday morning to take care of the problem myself.”

I didn’t know whether to thank him or to send him a sympathy card.

I actually doubted he would show up. And even if he did, I also doubted my Internet problem would be resolved when he left. But most of all, I wasn’t pleased I’d been placed in the middle of that awkward situation between him and his employee.

So, after getting up at 6:30 AM on Saturday so I could await his impending 8 AM arrival, by the time the clock struck 8:30, I was feeling angry enough to bend steel in my bare hands.

The manager made the mistake of showing up at that precise moment. He greeted me with a broad smile and a cheerful “Good morning!” when I opened the door.  I responded with only a grunt and a look that instantly could have frozen molten lava.

He set to work, checking the cable and modem behind the sofa, checking the cables outside, checking the cables in the basement. He used the app on his phone to test the signal, of which there was none. I just kept silent and sat watching TV the entire time.

When he mentioned to me he’d been working on satellite dishes for over 20 years, a small ray of hope dared to enter my brain. But I immediately dismissed it because it made me realize that if this guy couldn’t figure out the problem, then I definitely was doomed.

I finally broke my silence and told  him I was thinking about getting rid of the satellite dish and switching to Starlink, which was compact, cheaper, and had more than double the gigabytes I currently was getting.

He said I’d never "get rid" of the dish because his company didn’t remove them or even move them. They were there for life, he said, even if I switched to another provider. “That’s because to remove the dish would involve replacing shingles, etc. on the roof afterwards, and we don’t do that. We just need the transceiver back from the front of the dish, that’s all. The rest stays.”

So my house always will have dishes on the roof – permanent ornaments – one for the Internet and one for the TV, unless I want to climb up there and take them down myself. Somehow, I don’t think they will add any value to my property when I want to sell it.

The manager also told me my trees out back were growing too high and probably would be blocking the signal in another year or two. He just had to add that trees cost about $1,000 or more each to chop down.

And I have "only" eight acres of them.

A few minutes later he finally announced he’d found a gap in the cable and had repaired it. Sure enough, I turned on my laptop and my Internet service was back! Even better, the Internet speed test showed it was 56, higher than it ever had been. I had to pinch myself to make certain I hadn't dozed off, which, considering all of the sleep I'd lost getting up early and waiting for repairs, wouldn't have surprised me.

I later called the billing department to let them know I wasn’t about to pay for a month of service I never received. They were fine with that. I also asked them to reinstate my original monthly discounts that had been canceled, along with more gigabytes. They were fine with that, too. And they even threw in an extra $30 for my inconvenience.

I was satisfied, but I knew the real test would come when I saw how the new high-speed modem performed in bad weather. With the old modem, I always lost the signal during rain or snow, so I’d had to schedule my work days around the weather. Now, with the new state-of-the-art modem, I was anticipating a drastic change for the better.

Mother Nature must have heard me because the next night it both rained and snowed. Before the storms, I tested the Internet speed again. It was 55, still good.

Alas, during the snowstorm the speed plummeted to around 0.06. Sloths on sleeping pills were faster. I couldn’t even get into any websites at that speed. During the rain that followed, the speed rose to a whopping 2.

So all I have to say now is Monday is trash-pickup day here. If anyone is looking for a brand new, high-speed modem, check my trash container. I have a feeling it just might be sitting on top of 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.




Monday, March 16, 2026

THE SAGA OF THE DEAD INTERNET CONTINUES...

 

Last week, I told you about the loss of my Internet and how, after a week of waiting, the technician from the satellite-dish company finally arrived to troubleshoot and hopefully restore it to working condition, mainly to save my hair…because I was tearing it out by the roots at that point

However, I just had received a voice mail from my Internet provider saying their technician wouldn’t be able to make it and the appointment would have to be rescheduled. So who, I wondered, was this guy standing on my doorstep? Some imposter trying to invade my home and steal my valuables, like my jewelry box filled with treasured pieces from Walmart’s couture collection?

So, as I eyed him suspiciously, I asked who he was.

He told me his name and said he actually worked for DirecTV, but he moonlighted for other satellite-dish providers, and had received a call to head to my house ASAP because it was an emergency.

It sounded plausible to me. Plus that, I was desperate. I probably would have allowed a guy wearing prison orange and carrying a toddler’s “my first tool-kit” to enter my house at that moment if I thought he could get my Internet working again.

The guy came inside, took one look at my modem and said, “That’s so old, I don’t even know how to check it out. The new ones, I just use an app and it tells me what’s wrong. Yours isn’t even Wi-fi, which means I’ll have to check it out manually.”

He emphasized the word “manually” as if he thought my modem contained some highly infectious disease. 

When he pulled out his phone and called his supervisor for instructions, I began to sense I might be in trouble.

He then used my laptop to punch in a bunch of stuff, pull up a chart and study it.  “You’re not getting a signal,” he said, frowning, as if he were telling me something I didn’t already know. “Is there a way for me to get out back so I can check out the dish?”

Actually, there really wasn’t…because I hadn’t shoveled the snow away from any of the gates leading out to the backyard. I’d already worked hard enough shoveling out the front, just so he could get into my house. Then I remembered the big overhead door at the back of the garage. My husband had insisted that the back door be as large as the front ones so he could buy a riding mower, tractor, bulldozer, or whatever, and drive it right out back into the yard. As far as I knew, the door had been used only once in 15 years.

So I led the guy out back through the garage. He stood outside in shin-deep snow and with his hands on his hips, gazed up at the satellite dish on the peak of the roof.

“No place to safely set my ladder down so I can climb up there,” he said, casting me a “why didn’t you shovel out every inch of snow surrounding your house, so no matter where I chose to put my ladder, I would be safe?” kind of look.

But I did recall the last time one of the technicians had been over and said he wasn’t allowed to climb on the roof unless he had a partner with him, for safety reasons. This guy, however, didn’t seem to care.

“I’ll get the ladder and see what I can do,” he said.

I stood there, praying he was insured. The roof still was buried under about eight inches of snow. Not a great place for him to go for a stroll. And this guy wasn’t exactly petite or possessed a svelte, gymnast’s sort of physique – more like a linebacker’s.

He returned with the ladder, put it up against the side of the house, and then set foot on the first rung. The ladder wobbled.

“I’ll hold it for you,” I immediately volunteered, mentally calculating when I’d last paid my homeowner’s insurance-premium.

When I moved in to hold the ladder and looked up, I was treated to a close-up view of a full moon. I’m talking about what’s more commonly known as “plumber’s crack” or “builder’s bum,” as his pants slid down to about mid-cheek as he climbed. I honestly had to bite my lip to keep from laughing…and involuntarily shaking the ladder.

Once he was up near the satellite dish, I noticed his legs were trembling…badly. It made me hold my breath and pray…a lot. He managed to change the transceiver on the front of the dish, then climbed back down. By then, I was pretty sure my hands were permanently frozen to the aluminum on the ladder.

Then back into the house we went to check the signal, of which there still was none.

He scratched his chin and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Let me check the cables,” he said.

At least those were at the front of the house…where I had shoveled.

Unfortunately, because I also have DirecTV, and a second satellite dish, there were cables merging everywhere. I wasn’t too concerned, however, because hadn’t this guy just said he worked for DirecTV? Certainly he’d know which cable was which, right?

Wrong.

As he pulled and jiggled four different cables, he asked me to go back inside and shout out to him when my TV went off.

Years seemed to pass before the guy finally admitted defeat, said he couldn’t figure out what was wrong and told me to call the company and request a new modem – a high-speed one with built-in Wi-fi. He said they would send over another technician to install it, and by then, the snow probably all would be melted, so things would be easier for him.

The fact he’d hinted that the spring thaw might arrive before the next technician did, didn’t exactly fill me with a burst of confidence about getting my Internet restored anytime soon. I got the distinct impression the modem wasn’t something the technicians routinely carried around with them in their repair trucks – which didn’t make a whole lot of sense, especially since this guy did bring a new transceiver with him. That would be like a plumber showing up with something like a fancy new toilet, but no plunger or snake.

But none of it really mattered anyway because the sad truth was I still was stuck with a non-working Internet.

In the blink of an eye, the guy was gone. He left the heavy overhead back-door in the garage wide open, as well as the front door to my house. He left my sofa, which contains two one-ton recliners, pulled away from the wall (the cable comes up from the basement through a hole cut in the floor behind the sofa, for reasons I’ve yet to figure out). He left tracks of wet snow, mud and road salt all over my floors and carpet, and even behind the sofa.

The guy obviously intended to give me a hernia.

I restored the house and garage to some semblance of order before I picked up the phone and called the satellite/Internet provider. To be honest, I’d rather have been getting my armpits waxed than making that phone call because I already knew what to expect…endless time spent listening to recorded music that sounded like something kindergarten students had learned to play on toy pianos, and then finally speaking to a technical-support person with such a heavy accent, I’d be lucky to decipher every fourth or fifth word.

I was right.

The guy who answered won the award for having the thickest Indian accent yet. Not only couldn’t I understand him, he seemed to have as much trouble understanding me. When he asked me to verify my phone number, he couldn’t comprehend what “zero” meant. So I tried just saying the letter O. That didn’t work either.

Finally, I just blurted out, “I need to order a new high-speed modem with built-in Wi-fi.”

He took a moment to look at my file, then said, “First, you have to cancel your appointment with us.”

I thought I’d misunderstood him, so I asked him to repeat it. He said the same thing.

“Um, I don’t have an appointment with you,” I said.

“Yes, this morning. You have to cancel it.”

“But I already had the appointment. The technician was here all morning and just left a few minutes ago.”

“No, no one reported to us that they went to your house.”

“Then how would I know I’m supposed to order a new modem?”

Once again, I wondered exactly who the guy was who’d come to my house.

“You must cancel the appointment,” the man on the phone once again emphasized.

By then, I was so confused, I felt as if I’d just entered the Twilight Zone.

“I don’t understand,” was all I said. Because, well, I didn’t.

He repeated the statement for the umpteenth time, his voice growing louder and with more emphatic enunciation (as if that would help). Clearly he was becoming irritated.

“I’m sorry, but I'm still confused,” I said. “You're not making any sense to me.”

My response was a dial tone.

It dawned on me he must have decided I had violated the company’s zero-tolerance policy regarding any rudeness toward its employees, which gave him the authority to end our call as abruptly as he saw fit. At that point, I was happy my two dogs were the only witnesses to the colorful language I was muttering.

Had I been a drinking woman, I’d have taken a big swig of something 100-proof to gather some liquid courage before I called the company again. Never had I dreaded anything more...especially if I ended up being connected to the same technical-support guy.

To my relief, a woman answered, and her accent was mild. She explained to me that canceling the appointment was just a formality so I wouldn’t be charged the $95 for the service call, mainly because the technician had failed to solve the problem with my Internet.

Sounded good to me. Now why couldn’t the guy who’d just hung on me have explained it that way?

She also said she would order the new modem for me.

“When will the technician be over to install it?” I asked.

“No one will be over to install it,” she said. “It will be delivered to you with instructions so you can install it yourself.”

Me? You want me to do it? Are you sure?”

“Yes, Ma'am. But first, you have to switch over to our higher-priced monthly package. Your new modem will require the updated package. And once you switch, none of your previous discounts will apply any longer.”

My mouth fell open. Three weeks earlier, I’d just negotiated with them to reduce my monthly bill from $86 to $60, while also allowing me 20-percent more gigabytes per month. And I was very proud of myself for that accomplishment. Now all of it was gone? I hadn’t even seen the lower price on my bill yet, it still was so fresh.

“That’s not fair,” I said, making sure my tone remained calm and even. “You promised me a loyalty discount and now you’re taking it away just because a piece of your equipment failed? I’m being punished for something beyond my control?”

Silence followed, which made me think I’d done it again. I’d, heaven forbid, spoken rudely to an employee.

But then she responded.

“I will approve another discount for you,” she said. “Call me back after you successfully have installed the modem and then I will activate the lower price. Until then, however, you still will have to pay the regular rate.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, especially the "successfully" installed part, considering my past experience with anything electronic. “How long will it take to receive the modem?” I dared to ask.

“A week to 10 days.”

I had to clench every muscle in my body to prevent myself from saying something that might cause her to hang up on me, such as “How would YOU like to wait another week to 10 days for YOUR Internet service to return? And I’m not going to pay you a cent! I haven’t had any service since February, so what are you charging me for? Air?”  But I kept silent.

And it nearly killed me.

So I have no choice now, other than to impatiently sit here and wait for the new modem to arrive. And all the while, I’ll be wondering just how badly I’m going to mess up the installation…and who will discover my body, tangled in a mass of cords and cables, lying on the floor...behind the sofa.

Next week, I’ll continue this saga...I hope!


#   #   #

 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.




Monday, March 9, 2026

I'M CONVINCED THIS WINTER IS TRYING TO KILL ME

 

I apologize for not posting anything on here last week, but the fact that this winter nearly has beaten everything around here (especially me) to within an inch of its life is the main reason why.

Forget the fact I did so much snow shoveling in a three-week period, my fingers now are permanently curled into a position that keeps me fully prepared to grab a shovel and run outside whenever the need arises. The actual reason why I couldn’t post a blog last week is because one of the 2,300 snowstorms we’ve had so far this winter killed my Internet satellite dish…and as of this writing, it’s still resting in peace.

Where I live, cell-phone reception is so weak, I have to stand out in the middle of the road and dodge oncoming trucks just to get half a bar for a signal. Therefore, I own only a very basic cell-phone that does nothing but allow me to make and receive calls. So I carry it with me in case of an emergency, such as if I were out driving and an escaped, rampaging bull attacked my car. Other than that, it’s pretty useless. So that leaves me only an old-fashioned landline and my Internet satellite hookup for communication with the outside world while I’m at home.

As of February 26th, however, the Internet’s satellite dish, located on the very peak of my roof and aimed at the Milky Way, finally raised the white flag and shouted, “I’ve had enough of being buried up to my transceiver in snow out here in the wind and sub-zero temperatures 24 hours a day, freezing my bolts off, just for you! So I’m turning in my official resignation, effective immediately!”

They say you never realize what you’ve got until it’s gone…but believe me, I realized it right away…and panicked. No Internet? How was I supposed to check my auctions on Ebay? My book sales on Amazon? My current standing against my competition on Klondike Solitaire? My bank balances? 

And worst of all, how was I supposed to listen to my favorite song 25 times a day?

But because my Internet service never has been reliable up here in the wilderness anyway, I told myself to just calm down and be patient, that it would come back, as it always had in the past. Sometimes it took only a few minutes. Other times, a few hours. But it always came back.

Except this time.

The next day, after the longest 24 hours in the history of mankind, I suspected I was in big trouble when I turned on my laptop and a pop-up on the screen said, “Sorry, no Internet. Try again.” So I tried again…and again…and then again. Finally, I took a deep breath in an effort to emotionally prepare myself to face what I knew from experience was about to be the worst torture any human being ever should be forced to endure.

I had to call my Internet provider and ask for technical support.

As I sat there on hold, I prayed for strength and courage…but most of all, patience, especially when the recorded message informed me the company had a zero-tolerance policy for rude behavior or inappropriate language directed toward its employees.

That, of course, made me wonder why they needed to even play that sort of a message in the first place. I mean, how often did customers go off on them…and why?  My heart began to palpitate.

I wasn’t surprised when I finally was connected with an actual human and I barely could understand his thick accent. I explained to him that I’d had no Internet for the past 24 hours, not even a flicker, and yes, I had checked the connections, unplugged the modem to reboot the system, and even replaced the Ethernet cable with a brand new one (I keep a supply in my desk, solely for that purpose). Despite that, he had me repeat the steps all over again, which involved moving the sofa away from the wall because there, for whatever reason, was where the company installed my modem’s cable 15 years ago.

When there still was no signal, after he’d instructed me do everything short of a spiritual dance to make it return, he then uttered the words every corpuscle in my body had been dreading to hear: “We will have to send a technician to your home, Miss Sally, to determine the problem. And you will be expected to pay the service fee of $95.”

I wanted to point out that I had been renting the equipment from them for over 15 years, to the tune of nearly $3,000, so why should I have to pay a fee if it failed? But I remembered their zero-tolerance policy and held my tongue, mainly because I was so desperate. “How soon will someone be here?” was all I said.

“Do not worry, I will write this up as an emergency so you will not have to be inconvenienced for very long. Please hold for two minutes while I schedule your appointment.”

As I waited, I had the feeling that because it was Friday, no one was going to show up until Monday, which made me feel panicky all over again. How would I survive the weekend? What if someone bought one or, heaven forbid, ALL of my items on Ebay? How would I even know?

Finally, the technician returned. “Do you have any means of writing?” he asked. “Please take down this information.”

I grabbed a pen and waited.

“Your appointment has been set for March 5th between the hours of 11:00 AM and 2:00 PM, he said. "Will you be available then?”

I was too stunned to respond. “A whole week away?” I finally blurted out. “Do you really consider that an emergency appointment?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“You don’t have anything sooner?”

“No, Ma’am.”

“But I can’t go that long without the Internet! I work from home! What am I supposed to do?”

“I apologize,” he said. "But you must wait."

Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling extremely cheerful or optimistic after the call ended. The thought of waiting a week for a technician to arrive felt like an eternity. And almost immediately I was bored. After all, in addition to checking my items on Ebay and my books on Amazon, I had a daily schedule to keep – online chats with my friends, watching videos and influencers online, researching highly important information on Google, and playing Scrabble against the formidable robot named Finn on Pogo. How was I going to survive? What would I do to occupy my time during those long, cold winter days and nights? Clean my house?  Lord, no.

The path to the propane tank
after only the first storm
As it turned out, I was too busy and too exhausted to be bored on those days leading up to the appointment because I spent countless hours shoveling – especially after the blizzard. And my propane company made it even more “fun” for me by insisting I keep the underground propane tank’s lid and fill-pipe free and clear of snow at all times, along with a direct path leading to it, in anticipation of their “impending” delivery.

So after each storm, there I was, shoveling the equivalent of the Appalachian Trail out to that darned propane tank.  

And then there was the plow guy I’d hired online, sight unseen, who, because I couldn’t afford his “deluxe” package (or anyone else's regular package), plowed only one side of my driveway after each storm. As he left the driveway, he would lift up the plow on the other side and not plow it. So I had to shovel that side myself. I mean, he already was there, so would it have killed him to put the plow back down on his way out? 

Probably.  Because chivalry is dead.  And if this winter's weather continues for much longer, I'm pretty sure I will be, too.

Anyway, on March 4th, the day before the technician was scheduled to arrive, another snowstorm swooped in and dumped five more inches. I received a voice mail from the Internet company, reminding me of my appointment and emphasizing that my driveway should be cleared well enough to allow their truck easy access to my house.

As luck would have it, my plow guy ghosted me. Even worse, my only communication with him since I hired him had been through Facebook messaging. I didn’t even have a phone number so I could call to ask him if he was buried under a snow bank somewhere. So, without thinking, I reached for my laptop to see if I could dig up a phone number for him.

“Sorry, no Internet. Try again.”

Old habits die hard.

I didn’t dare chance waiting for the plow guy any longer, so I grabbed my trusty shovel and headed outdoors. I didn’t care if the technician arrived the next morning to find my frostbitten, lifeless body lying in the middle of the driveway – just as long as he fixed my Internet.

At 10:00 the next morning, the day I had been anticipating for what seemed like 100 years, the technician phoned and said he would be arriving earlier than planned. “I should be there in about a half-hour. Is that okay with you?” he asked.

Okay?! Was he kidding? If I knew how to do cartwheels, I’d have done a string of them across the kitchen floor at that moment. I had expected him to be late, making me sit and wait all day, as most of the repair people usually did, so I didn’t hesitate to tell him the earlier he arrived, the better.

At 10:30, I made a quick dash outside to salt the ice on my walkway because I wanted to make certain the technician remained upright long enough to repair whatever needed to be repaired. When I came back inside, I saw I had a message flashing on my answering machine. It was the Internet provider, saying the technician had been delayed and would have to reschedule the appointment, so to please call them back to set up another date and time!

What the…?! I just stood there, my mouth hanging open. The “early” technician suddenly had been delayed to the point where he couldn’t even make it for the appointment at all? What on earth had happened after he called me? Plenty of visions popped into my head at that point…all of which would have felt right at home in a Stephen King movie.

I was snapped back to reality when my doorbell rang.

Puzzled, I answered it to find a tall, husky guy standing there. “Hi!” he said. “I’m here to check out your satellite system. I understand you have no Internet access?”

I stared at him as if he’d just sprouted a second head, which probably made him think I’d taken too much medication or something.

What happened next was totally bizarre…

 

(Sorry, but a very kind friend is letting me borrow his Starlink-Mini portable satellite-kit to get online, so I will have to post this now and continue with the rest of the story next week!  Until then, wish me luck. I’m pretty sure I’m going to need it, mainly because, and I hesitate to admit it...I did end up violating the company’s zero-tolerance policy! 😉).


#   #   #

 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.








Wednesday, February 25, 2026

MY CAR'S INSPECTIONS USUALLY REQUIRED TAKING OUT A PERSONAL LOAN UNTIL...



I have mixed feelings about my state’s mandatory annual car inspections being suspended (at least until April, the last I heard).

Part of me feels relieved because having my car inspected every year always has been a source of great stress for me, right up there with scheduling a dental appointment. I’m talking about heart palpitations, clammy hands, dry mouth and nausea. The only difference between the two is with a dental appointment, it’s the physical pain I fear. With the car inspection, it’s pain in my wallet.

My biggest mistake with my past car inspections was I always had the dealership conduct them. And the dealership never failed to find some expensive part that “urgently” needed replacing. I never managed to escape without forking over a minimum of $350, and that was on a good day.

Still, although saving money every year sounds fine to me, another part of me fears that if there no longer are any more mandatory auto inspections, I might not be aware of any impending doom until my car does something like drop its entire exhaust system in the middle of a four-lane highway or lose its brakes just as a moose dashes out in front of it.

Three years ago, however, I finally smartened up and began to suspect the dealership just might be taking advantage of me. About eight months after one of the aforementioned inspections, my car's oil light popped on as I was heading home from shopping. Concerned, I pulled into the first auto-repair garage I spotted.

“When’s the last time you had the oil changed?” the mechanic asked me after checking it.

I shrugged. “I have no clue. I figured it was something they automatically took care of during the inspection every year.”

“Obviously not,” he said, frowning. “The oil is supposed to be dripping off the dipstick when I check it, not sticking to it like tar.”

He said I was lucky because he had some spare time before his next customer was due to arrive, so he could do an oil change.

Relief flooded through me as I took a seat in the waiting area while the mechanic set to work.

Unfortunately, my relief was short-lived.

It seemed like only seconds before he came into the room and said, “Ma’am, come here, please. I want to show you something.”

Years of experience had taught me that whenever a mechanic utters a sentence that begins that way, it’s never a good thing.

He led me to my car, which was up on the lift, and started wiggling some kind of rod that looked as if a good sneeze would cause it to fall off.

“Your tie rod is broken,” he said. “If you hit a bad frost heave or pot hole with it like that, you could risk losing your steering.”

My eyes widened. The road up to my house was comprised of nothing but frost heaves and pot holes. I imagined what it would be like to suddenly lose my steering on that road. Visions of my car dangling by two wheels over the side of the Catamount Pond bridge weren't exactly comforting because swimming never was one of my best assets...especially while wearing jeans, boots and a winter jacket.

“I’m sorry, but I won’t have time to do the job today,” the mechanic said. “Can you bring the car back tomorrow morning?”

“You actually want me to drive that deathtrap home?” I asked in disbelief.

“It should be OK as long as you take it easy,” he said.

“Easy?! You haven’t seen the road to my house! It has so many frost heaves, it looks like the roller-coaster track at Canobie Lake Park!”

“OK, then,” he said. “If it makes you feel better, you can leave the car here and I’ll have my son drive you home.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice. So his son drove me to my house and then zoomed off.  I’d barely walked to the front door, however, when I noticed his car coming back up the driveway.

“Forget something?” I asked him.

He smiled. “Yeah, you! My dad just called me. Your car is ready.”

I just stared at him.

“He changed the oil, put in two new tie rods and then did an alignment. It’s all set.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. I figured his father must have been a former member of Mario Andretti’s pit crew. Either that, or he was like Samantha on “Bewitched,” where all he had to do was twitch his nose and “poof!” the car was fixed. 

When we returned, the father showed me proof of the work he’d done, probably because I couldn’t conceal my skeptical expression – which probably resembled that of someone who’d just witnessed a magic trick and wanted to know where the magician's hidden props and wires were.

Even better, his price was so cheap, I had to ask him twice if he was sure that was all he wanted. 

He laughed. “I can charge you more, if it will make you happy.”

It then dawned on me that because he was so speedy, the labor fee, which usually was the most expensive part of any job (no matter what the profession) probably totaled about $25.

After that, I vowed he would do the annual inspections on my car, and the dealership could kiss my big fat…annual checks goodbye.

The only problem was, my newly discovered mechanic retired that winter and moved to Florida. I was crushed.

Was I discouraged enough to return to return to the dealership?

Heck no.

I found another mechanic in the area and for the past three years, my annual inspection has cost me a mere $39.

The reason for that, however, just might be because I drive an average of only about 1,000 miles per year. The older I get, the less appealing driving seems to me - mostly because I value my life.

On second thought, maybe my car will do just fine without an annual inspection after all…unless the tires get dry rot from lack of use.

I can relate.

 

#   #   #

 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.







 




Wednesday, February 18, 2026

I WASN'T MEANT TO BE A SWAN


Several of my friends have daughters or granddaughters who attend ballet classes and are winning awards at various dance competitions throughout New England.

I really admire (and envy) those young, flexible, graceful girls. I like to think that years ago I could have been one of them, and the truth is, I actually did try. But my efforts were met with limited success.

Extremely limited.

Back in my younger days, from age four to 15, I studied ballet at the Evelyn Howard Dance Studio, which was located on the second floor of the Manchester YMCA. In retrospect, I think poor Miss Howard must have had the patience of a saint to put up with me.

At my very first ballet recital, I was a butterfly. I basically had to continuously flap my arms, which were draped in a thin, glittery cloth to resemble wings, and flutter around a girl named Susan, who was a rose. Susan was dainty and petite, while I was, well…jumbo petite...always big for my age. Susan looked so cute in her little rosebud hat and rose-petal dress, neither of which could have stretched far enough to fit over any of my body parts, I felt very un-butterfly-like next to her.

I think I'd probably have felt a lot more comfortable if I'd have been able to portray something less delicate than a butterfly...like a killer bee. 

But I still continued to show up for class each week, desperately trying to become more light on my feet. Miss Howard also was determined to correct my habit of standing with my knees together, which made me look knock-kneed. But no matter how much she tried, my knees always seemed to have a mind of their own, as if they had magnets attached to them.

Many recitals followed, which my poor parents faithfully suffered through. I was, among other things, a firefly with battery-operated light-up wings; a pixie dressed in all green satin; a Hawaiian dancer in glow-in-the-dark hot pink; and a cinnamon stick in pale pink and red stripes, which, considering my figure at the time, made me look more like a barber's pole. 

But what I really longed to be and dreamed about was becoming a dancer in a major ballet like Swan Lake. For one thing, the advanced ballerinas’ class, unlike my class, had a guy in it...Michael. 

Michael had long dark hair and was very fit. He also was the first guy I'd ever seen wearing tights. And I gasped out loud the first time I watched him effortlessly lift one of the ballerinas over his head as if she were made of feathers. At that moment, my goal became to eventually become one of those ballerinas. I totally ignored the fact I was about as graceful as a buffalo and poor Michael probably would need hernia surgery after he tried to lift me. But I was determined.

Fortunately, my parents always had encouraged me to follow my dreams...so they generously continued paying for my ballet lessons.

When I turned 13, I finally gathered the courage to ask Miss Howard if I could join the advanced group so I could be included in the studio's annual performance of  Swan Lake. 

“But the ballerinas in that class are all en pointe," she said.

My blank expression told her I had no clue what en pointe meant.

“They wear toe shoes," she explained, "not ballet slippers like you do.”

“I'm sure I can dance in toe shoes!” I said, even though I’d never even tried one on.

So Miss Howard agreed to let me give the toe shoes a shot. I soon discovered the human body wasn’t built with feet that were meant to walk on the tips of their toes. Even worse, I had a few extra pounds to carry around on my stubby toes, which didn’t help.

“You’re not a real ballerina until you’ve had a blister on every toe,” Miss Howard told me, smiling knowingly when I complained about the pain. I was beginning to think that nothing, not even being lifted by Michael’s strong arms, was worth the torture of having to limp for the rest of my life.

As I teetered around in my toe shoes, with my legs bowed out so I could keep my balance, I looked more like a bullfrog about to leap at a fly than a Swan-Lake-worthy ballet dancer.

But on the bright side, at least my knees weren't knocking.

Miss Howard finally made a suggestion that saved my feet (and probably my dignity). “Why don’t I let you be in a ballet, but you can wear ballet slippers instead of toe shoes?” she said. “As long as they are white, like the other girls’ shoes, when you’re onstage, no one will know the difference.”

I was so relieved and grateful, I felt like kissing her feet. But seeing she was a longtime toe dancer, I figured her toes probably still were covered in blisters.

Ballet classes were easier after that, mainly because I didn’t have to worry about keeping my balance or hiding my pain, and could concentrate on attempting to perfect the dance steps.

Soon, I actually became a member of the corps de ballet, which was a group of about 25 ballerinas…and Michael.

I even had the chance to talk to Michael after every class, which I enjoyed. He told me that his buddies teased him endlessly about studying ballet, but he was the one who had the last laugh. After all, he said, how many other teenage guys could say they were surrounded by 25 girls wearing nothing but leotards every week?

He had a point.

Unfortunately, I never did get to perform in Swan Lake, but I came close. I performed as a sylph (a mythological fairy-like being) in the ballet, “Les Sylphides,” with the corps de ballet, and wore a flowing white dress and a crown of flowers.

Michael, who played The Poet, was one of the lead dancers in the ballet, and my cousin Carla was selected as the prima ballerina who performed alone with him in the pas de deux in the spotlight. They moved so gracefully together, I watched in awe...and swallowed a severe case of jealousy.

Of course, my cousin couldn’t have hit 100 lbs. on the scale even if she were soaking wet and wearing a necklace made of rocks, but that was besides the point. I think even at birth I weighed more than she did when she performed in that ballet. And she was so effortlessly lifted by Michael, you'd think she'd been pumped full of helium beforehand.

After my stage debut with the corps de ballet, I gave up on my dream and switched to tap dancing and flamenco dancing. Clomping around and stomping my feet seemed more up my alley than trying to be a graceful swan.

There have been many times over the years, however, when I've thought about studying ballet again and maybe fulfilling my dream of finally performing in Swan Lake. But then I'd hear my back creaking like a rusty old hinge and decide not to risk ending up in traction.

Whenever I'd mention to my husband my desire to someday still pursue that dream, he always tried to be encouraging and would tell me to go for it. But then one day, when I was in my 40s and still hadn't done a thing to make my dream come true, I think he finally got fed up with hearing me talk about it.

“Well, if being in Swan Lake is still on your bucket list,” he said, obviously struggling to still sound encouraging, “then stop procrastinating and give it your best shot. But I think maybe you should consider setting your sights a little lower and strive to be something other than a swan in the ballet, something less challenging. I mean, aren't there any other creatures in the lake besides swans? You know, like maybe a frog...or a mosquito?”

I took the hint and never mentioned it again.

#   #   #


FOOTNOTE:  Back in the 1970s, my husband started a new civil-service job and he would come home each night and tell me about all of the new and interesting people he was working with. One guy, who was a highly respected Vietnam veteran and a decorated war hero, particularly impressed him.

"He's so down-to-earth, with a great sense of humor," my husband said. "And he's SO helpful while I'm trying to learn everything at work, I feel as if I've known him for years. I can't wait for you to meet him and his wife!"

That meeting turned out to be a real surprise for me...because the war hero was Michael!

Talk about a small world...

To this day, even though my late husband has been gone for nearly 14 years, and Michael and his wife have moved away, I still keep in touch with them twice a month with our marathon phone conversations, and they always make me laugh.

But I have to confess, there still are times when I'm tempted to ask Michael if he would do me a big favor and lift me, the failed swan...just once! I think it might qualify me to finally cross it off my bucket list, don't you? 😂