As you prepare for your Thanksgiving holiday in LESS THAN TWO WEEKS, keep these important facts in mind:

• If your in-laws are coming to your home, stock up on Pepto-Bismol. And remember what Benjamin Franklin said: ”Guests, like fish, begin to smell after three days.” Hollah.

• If you’re the one traveling, make sure your vehicle has been well-maintained. I can’t overstate this enough.

• When you’re fueling up, use high anti-knock gasoline. You never know what kind of weather you will encounter.

• Many Americans enjoy spending hours swilling beer and watching football as a way of offering up thanks on this four-day weekend, so make sure your big screen TV is not on the fritz (which means not performing well, kind of like the Germans (i.e. fritz) in both WWI and WWII, when they got schooled).

• Don’t forget the most important part: dessert! Everyone loves pies–pumpkin, pecan, apple, sweet potato, blackberry, chocolate cream, coconut cream…There’s always room for dessert.

• But above all, avoid excessive gluttony.

• And remember what it’s all about, Charlie Brown–an annual tradition since 1863, when Lincoln proclaimed a national day of “Thanksgiving and Praise to our beneficent Father who dwelleth in the Heavens.”

This information was in the back of my August 21, 1953 Collier’s. At the time, as stated at the bottom, a vaccine was not yet ready. But there was HOPE. And there was follow-through. And thankfully, Jonas Salk produced an injectible vaccine. Along with the oral vaccine licensed in 1962, they reduced the worldwide incidence from an estimated 350,000 cases in 1988 to just 223 cases in 2012. 

It was a time before Big Pharma, the term for the enormous and ever-growing, ever-powerful pharmaceutical industry. RationalWiki points out three abuses of Big Pharma:

1. Trying to suck every penny out of the pockets of the sick, injured, dying, and hypochondriacs.

We’ve all been there, right? Several years ago, I was prescribed an antibiotic called Clindamycin post-root canal, which caused a C.diff infection, for which I was then prescribed ANOTHER bottle of pills to cure THAT, to the tune of  $400. As it turns out, it was completely unnecessary. Not familiar with C.diff? It’s like Satan raping you from the inside out, but without buying you dinner first.

Of course, there are drugs that legitimately aid us and even prevent death in many cases, but they are few and far between. There is no race for a cure; just a race for the dollar.

Families USA claims that: among the nine pharmaceutical companies examined in the report… all but one spent more than twice as much on marketing, advertising, and administration than they did on research and development… Six out of the nine companies made more money in net profits than they spent on research and development last year.

2. Inventing new maladies so people will buy more drugs.

Surely you’ve seen the commercial for pba (Pseudo Bulbar Affect) on TV. I’m afraid I’m gonna have to call bull$hit on this one:

3. Renaming old maladies so people will think their conditions are more serious, forcing them to  pay higher prices for prescriptions.

Remember in middle school when you learned Hitler gassed six million Jews, and that seemed like a TON? Well, that’s how many children are taking pills for ADHD, aka ADD, aka hyperkinetic disorder. When I was in school, they just called hyper kids “spaz.” Maybe ADHD meds work for some, but SIX MILLION seems a bit overkill.

Granted, muscular rheumatism isn’t as catchy as fibromyalgia is nowadays, but other conditions sounded much better in the way, way back. Depression is lame, but black dog paints a picture. I remember the volunteer at the humane society telling me very few folks adopted black dogs because they couldn’t read their facial expressions. Now that’s depressing.

And don’t get me STARTED on side effects…

Speaking of anal leakage, recognize this fellow?

pdxretro.com

Jerry Lewis hosted the MDA telethon nearly every Labor Day weekend of your life.  Do you think he would have signed on as host if he thought there wouldn’t be a cure 45 years and two billion dollars later? Doctor, please.

Chris Rock said it best in his stand-up routine: “What’s the last $hit a doctor cured? Polio? You know how long ago polio was? That’s the like the first season of Lucy...Ain’t no money in the cure, the money’s in the medicine…that’s how a drug dealer makes his money, on the comeback.”

Need more drug rant? Reference last year’s post: http://sanceau.com/2012/12/30/generation-medication/.

I like the vagueness of the token foreigner’s words, “my country” because that could mean anything. Perhaps he is a successful businessman, since he is well-dressed and has access to slick hair creams. I like his grand gesture as well. It’s like he’s welcoming Barbara Bush to Fantasy Island.

Perhaps some of you are programmed to be on the lookout for racism, so you can’t possibly enjoy this. Let’s find an opportunity to be offended; won’t that be fun? But break down his words; there isn’t anything pejorative there. He’s not represented in a demeaning way.  He’s not dressed in rags or carrying a water vessel on his head–or a towel–or a sombrero. He’s simply declaring that all countries can appreciate the merits of Convair. And if it still existed, perhaps I could, too.

I don’t suppose Santa would prefer a jiggling foot-high Jell-O mound to a batch of warm Tollhouse Cookies, but it’s better than nothing–and low on calories. Although I would never allow my toddler to sleep under a table for safety reasons, I can confirm that the pose is a common one for children, as though they were kneeling in prayer and simply toppled forward. My concern is the rodent in a cradle on the mantle. ‘Twere I Santa, I would question the hygiene of the home and pass on the gelatin altogether.

I started this blog nearly a year ago, while I had taken ill, and it was under the effects of Theraflu (which is now nonexistent on the shelves–thank you, crack addicts) and the advice of my hubby that I took to WordPress to express my concerns over two troubling world issues:

1. Baked potatoes should come with five toppings standard, like automatic windows in a new car.
2. Egg nog should be accessible to every American throughout the month of December.

As I reflect on that second nog-related post (http://sanceau.com/2012/12/29/egg-nog/), I realize that right here, right now (as Jesus Jones would say–or would be saying if he were culturally relevant), egg nog is abundant. It is, in fact, accessible. The shelves are stocked. What chapped my hide last year was that only four days after Christmas, it was gone. Disappeared, like some glorious Doug Henning trick.

http://www.made-in-england.org/doug-henning-rocks/

You remember him, right? The stache? The buck teeth? Anyway, R.I.P. Doug Henning.

The point is: it’s available, and I’m already over it. I’ve already gone through two cartons of it, and I’m plum nogged out. It’s so thick and rich, like Pepto-Bismol coating your tummy lining. But you bet your bippy come 12/29, I’ll have a sharp hankering for it. And therein lies the problem: sales peak on 12/26. We’re on the way to the tippy-top of nog sales; we’re waxing, brother. We’re waxing. But after 12/26, it’s a sharp wane, a steep cliff down to complete nog in absentia.

Oh. My. Gosh, you guys. I just found a picture of some nog I’ve never been witness to.

What is this brand? I’ve never heard of it. If I recall high school French class, that loosely translates to “how good, the milk of the chicken.” Correct? That’s not appetizing. Maybe I won’t want nog on 12/29 after all.

…you cannot look away.

When I was young, there was a dollar movie theater in town, where you could view not-so-recent movies or rescreenings of Ishtar. I also recall going skating on Wednesdays for dollar skate night. But I am not old enough to recall paying a quarter and a dime for a movie. This I cannot fathom. How much was a Coke? A nickel?

Nobody puts Baby in a corner, unless it’s a corner drug store. After performing the iconic lift scene with Johnny, Baby took a break with a malted down at Cunningham’s Drug Store. Looks like she had the time of her life.

The world is changing so quickly that sometimes it seems that digital film was available four score and seven years ago, but that’s not the case.  I have been documenting my life with amateur photography since I was in middle school, and I did not buy a digital camera until 2007. Seven years ago.

That means that eight years ago, I was still buying rolls of 35 mm film to shove into the cradle of my Pentax camera. There were spindles and sprockets, and sometimes they wouldn’t connect, and you could spend nine minutes trying to make sure that the flange which had the leader sticking out was in the right place. Take, dangit! Just take! 

You had to choose your shots wisely. I usually bought rolls of 24, but if I was livin’ large, I would buy the pack of 36. What a world of freedom that opened! How would I choose to spend those 36 opportunities? I damn sure wasn’t snapping pics of the food I ordered at restaurants.

And you don’t want to know what it was like to manually advance your frames. Talk about carpal tunnel in your thumb. Stupid lever. Do you know how high-tech I felt when I got a camera with a little motor that went “zzzhhh” to rewind my film for me when it was done? That was sweet. That was futuristic. Space age. Better than Instamatic. And speaking of Instamatic, do you remember these babies?

Yeah, that’s a flash cube. You had to PAY for a flash. And they were not foolproof.

Young people, you may not know this, but until recently, phones did not take pictures. I’m still getting used to cordless phones. In the way way back of this early century, every picture had to be intentionally composed and taken. Sometimes a week or two would pass, and I would pick up the camera to check how many shots I had left. See, that’s the thing. You could keep a roll of film in the camera for weeks. Or months. It was called rationing. Because guess what? That wasn’t the only expense you incurred. Once you had taken the shots, you had to take the roll down to the photo-processing center. And it was expensive. I paid $10 to get it done in a hour for every roll I took in college. And that was over 20 years ago. And I always bought DOUBLES so I could give copies to my friends. And that’s where all my tip money from waiting tables disappeared to…

But there were other risks: You had to hope you didn’t expose the film to light by accidentally opening the back door when you thought it was empty. Oops.

I spent an entire day in San Antonio, visiting the River Walk and the Alamo in the 90s, composing and snapping pictures, feeling pretty proud of my skills, only to discover when I got home that I had failed to load any film into the camera. 

I imagine there are plenty of professional photographers on WordPress who could (or have) written a twenty-page essay on the merits of digital photography. They’ll probably tell you that the Anthony Weiner incident could never have occured pre-digital because:

1. Who wants the staff at Fotomat looking at your dirty pictures?
2. Polaroid film was expensive. And the resolution was crappy. And they could still stink long after taking them. I remember peeling one apart and how it reeked of chemical so many years later. And you couldn’t send them by phone, even if you had stacks of Polaroid pics. 
   

I imagine there are also folks who praise Instagram. Having no smartphone, I’ve never used it. I don’t really like changing a picture, other than lightening/darkening or cropping it. I want it to be true to what it was, capturing that reality in that moment. I don’t do PhotoShop. But I have friends who swear by it. And many more who facebook their square-shaped Instagram shots with fancy filters. Do you realize Instagram wasn’t even launched until just over 3 years ago? It didn’t become popular until 2012. Folks, 2012 was 13 months ago. Yes, it was. Life is moving too quickly. I need to take a deep breath and go back in time, to a world where in the middle of every shopping center, reigned the familiar yellow roof. Come here and let us develop your memories!

http://www.genxtinct.com/2011/01/fotomat.html

Did you ever use the Fotomat? Did you ever work in one? Did they have a toilet in there? Didn’t it get hot when the sun was shining in your face? Did you keep copies of questionable pics and show them to your friends?

I’d be pretty miffed, too, if all I had to drink was 12 oz in a Coke bottle. What’s that–three sips? That’s like drinking one glass of wine, one Pringle, one chip with salsa. It’s just a tease. But no worries–as soon as school was out, the kids hit the corner drug store for (no, not anti-depressants) fellowship, gossip, and soda pop.

Toss ‘em back, girls. Finals are tomorrow and you’ll have to pull an all-nighter. And I’m not sure NoDoz has been invented yet. But take heart; in just two score years, the soda will be flowing like the River Thames.

http://www.slate.com/

SEVEN OUNCES! AM I READING THAT CORRECTLY? THAT’S A SHOT GLASS. But mercy, did it triple, quadruple, and whatever words there are for getting six times bigger. But that ain’t nothin’. Sonic sells the Route 44. Don’t you want to take the Nestea plunge into this cherry limeade?

Come to think of it, where’s the Route 66? Would that fit in the cupholder? Maybe, but it would dilute by the time I got home. Ugh! First World Problems!

Now, honestly, do you think they were only drinking one soda per sitting back in the day? That’s not what the soda companies wanted. When research in the 1930s showed that people’s blood sugar went down at 10:30am, 2:30pm, and 4:30pm, Dr. Pepper was all over that with their new slogan. Those of you who are slaves to the man have real jobs recognize these three times. I bet you get your caffeine on at 10, 2 and 4.

http://www.drpeppermuseum.com/

Yeah, there’s no way they just drank one. Think about it. If you’re on a date with Johnny, it only takes about three minutes to get through an entire bottle. Then what do you drink?

What did they drink before free refills? Did they order water? Did they just sit and get dehydrated for the next hour? There is no way I could eat Mexican food with only 12 oz to wash it down, especially if I just swallowed a serrano pepper.

Maybe they only drank one soda so they could save room for this:

I know; Shorpy is awesome.

I meant the ice cream, not the soda jerk. Although he looks dapper in his starched whites. Can you begin to imagine what that would taste like? Ice cream from a cow that ate grass, that roamed around on a farm, not pumped full of growth hormones or antibiotics, before the estrogenization of dairy, before man boobs and low T. Sorry, I’m off on a tangent. Where were we again? Oh, yeah. Soda. Could it get any crazier?

It has.

So what’s the answer? Where do we go from here?

http://www.artfire.com/

Oops. Nevermind. That’s actually a lighter.

I’m not mincing words today. If you have dropped your phone in a toilet, you are a dolt.

http://2or3lines.blogspot.com/

Times I have taken a phone into a public bathroom: ZERO

Why are any of you doing this? Who feels compelled to chat whilst voiding? (Don’t you hate that term when the doctor asks how often you void? Yeesh.) Women, aren’t your phones in your purse? Men, perhaps your phone is too big if it’s falling out of your small pockets. It’s not that smart if it keeps diving into a toilet bowl, is it?

Times I have dropped said phone in a toilet: ZERO

ZERO! Don’t get me wrong; I love multi-tasking, but this is not the time for it. Slow down, peeps. Don’t tinkle and text.

The truth is numbers one and two have really been getting some screen time lately in this country. I don’t think the nation has been so excited about elimination since Mr. Hankey, the Christmas Poo.

I don’t need to “enjoy the go.” I get in and get out. I have never taken reading material into a bathroom to spend time in there. Many folks have. More power to you. Maybe that’s really enjoying the go. I enjoy getting out. And by the way, I don’t need a cheeky British woman to talk to me about my bum. I don’t need an intervention to discuss the Cottonelle Care Routine.

Let’s talk about your busy leggings, instead.

But I do need a decent roll of tissue because dammit, this is America. Public restrooms are the worst. I realize they have to keep costs down, but don’t they realize if they only offer one-ply (I usually refer to it as “half-ply”) tissue, we’re just going to spend twice as long, spinning/yanking/tugging it down in three inch increments, like a nipped-out cat–until it falls to the floor like a cascading waterfall. I know you’ve heard people in adjacent stalls, struggling to liberate the paper from its receptacle. It sounds like the dryer when he-who-shall-not-be-named leaves his Leatherman in his blue jeans pockets. Don’t they realize less than a foot can take of care of business if it’s a decent quality tissue?

http://funnie.st/394626/best-of-toilet-paper-memes/23/

Perhaps you’ve heard about the conditions in Sochi. Evidently, some journalists found signs in their bathrooms saying: “Please do not flush toilet paper down the toilet! Put it in the bin provided.” No no no no! The toilet is a receptacle for waste. That includes paper. If your poo can go down it, so can paper. If not, you need to get another toilet. Because that is the toilet’s job. It takes the bad things away.

If you are a lady, you have no doubt squeezed into a public bathroom stall and no sooner hung your purse up on the hook (if there is a hook, God willing), when a sign screams at you, “No feminine products in the toilet!” And then an apologetic thesis paper follows on their pathetic septic system. Sorry, no dice. Items once in the body do NOT need to accumulate in tin bins or trash cans. That is nasty. N-A-S-T-Y. Public restrooms are a festering cesspool enough without the stench of rotting deer carcass hitting you in the face when all you wanted was to wash the gasoline off your hands. I am not down with septic tanks, people. Get with the city sewer system. Now that’s alliteration!

So why am I on my soapbox about this? Glad you asked. Well, last week I purchased a package of Charmin, and when I got it home and put it the RIGHT way (with the tissue OVER instead of under), I realized it was a transparent, scratchy Third World excuse for tissue. We subsequently checked all the rolls, and they were all like that. I made a call to Proctor & Gamble tout suite, as the squeaky wheel gets the grease, and my CSR sent a coupon to replace the purposefully cheapskate damaged product. So yesterday, I’m at the store, and after directing an elderly woman to the fabric softener (aisle 14), I realize I have a choice betwixt ultra-strong or ultra-soft.

I don’t know about you, but I have never in my life felt that I needed stronger tissue, that perhaps it was lacking in strength. A rough tissue is not what I need. Plush, perhaps. Not strong. And what exactly makes the difference? What do they add to one that they don’t add to the other? Why not marry the two? Sweet AND sour. Black AND tan. Why can’t it be both things? Sorry if this has been offensive, but I have to add this as yet another thing I DON’T GET.

These were my son’s menu choices yesterday at a local Mexican restaurant. Pretty run-of-the-mill stuff. The food is just mediocre, but we frequent it because the waiter does what seems to be nearly impossible these days in the world of self-absorbed, iPod-staring, adolescent servers: HE MAKES US FEEL WELCOME.

• He greets us, shakes our hands, and asks how we are doing.
• He brings us our drinks before we request them.
• He does the “check-back” at least three times.
• He keeps our drinks full.
• He SMILES. He’s super-good at this one, without being fake.
• He brings us to-go drinks without us having to ask.
• He shakes our hands when we leave (or if he’s putting in an order, he waves good-bye).

And so even though the food is pretty meh, the service is great. He never looks slammed, he’s never in the weeds, never appears overwhelmed. He’s got this. And because he’s got this, we tip him well every time.

But until yesterday, I had never realized how inappropriate the illustration on the kids’ menu is. A Mexican man salsa dancing with a frozen margarita? With salt on the rim? I’m not making this up.

Why isn’t it Sweet ‘N’ Low? With an apostrophe before and after the N? This bothers me. It stands for Sweet And Low, no? Not Sweeten Low. Saccharin be damned; it’s the grammar that concerns me. But isn’t this a cute ad? It’s enough to make me tear open a pink packet and pour it into my next cup of coffee.

http://www.nateduval.com/sweetnlowbirds?DokuWiki=

Years ago, when I was single and determined not to repeat the sins of the past, I made a list of what I wanted in the next (and final) man. I have misplaced said list, but I recall that one was that he did not drive a Miata (apparently there were Miatas in spades at the time, and ain’t nobody got time to rebuild the confidence of a man who’s overcompensating), that he did not smoke (I was tired of doing laundry that smelled like a bar), and that he could change his own oil (preferably in his truck). He also could not be vegan nor vegetarian, and he would have to be quick on the draw if Enya popped up on the radio, because Heaven knows I hate me some Enya. Change that station pronto! Apparently I’m not the only one.

But nowhere on that list did it require that he be a skilled yarnswoman or masterquilter or whatever you call one who sews things (other than Chinese minors in factories). When I did finally begin dating my now-husband, he met about 90% of that list. So I took him. Only after we were married, did I realize that a deer-hunting, guitar-playing, camo-clad Texas boy could also operate the pedal of a sewing machine. And when our son inevitably ripped buttons off his clothes or tore his jeans, my husband could fix it. Like Rosey Freaking Grier.

Okay, he wasn’t hunched over with a needle and thread on a shag carpet next to a gold couch, doing a self-portrait, but you get my point. On the seesaw of gender identity, the seesaw weighed heavily on the masculine. But he could still fix my hem of my Ally McBeal power suit if need be, so I could get back to my fluorescent-lit office job, bringing home the bacon and frying it up in a pan. Yep, that’s me in my Enjoli.

http://www.freerepublic.com/

But don’t go thinking we ladies all want sensitive men. We don’t. You can use tools, but you don’t have to be one. Mostly we just want to talk. Sit next to us and listen while we TALK TALK TALK incessantly about whatever is on our minds. Just nod and “hmmm” periodically and let us use up our daily word count, which is approximately 13,000 more words than yours. Case in point:

In an effort to distract myself from current health issues (apparently 40 is the new 110), I picked up a 50 cent copy of the April 2012 Country Living and start flipping through the pages of flea market finds, cedar gazebos, and vine-ripened tomatoes, in reds and green pretty enough to frame. I think about how great it would be to slice those babies up and shove them between bacon and lettuce.

I skip past Easter eggs covered with temporary tattoos of larks and butterflies. I pass a page on how to prettify your potting shed. I lament that I have no potting shed. And then I come to this. Are you kidding me? I like dogs, people, but are you freaking kidding me? This is nicer than my freshman college dorm wall-pull-out bed. This is nicer than my junior year’s papasan, which by the way, Pier 1 still sells. Because who doesn’t love the marriage of a satellite dish balanced on a wicker frame? BTW, do they sell pagers to go with them? And bottles of Clearly Canadian? And cassettes from Toad the Wet Sprocket?

If your dog is a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, then, yes, he needs a $70 monogrammed canvas bed or a $208 linen sleeper. Heck, why not get him a Select Comfort bed while you’re at it? To think of all those childhood Christmases I spent sleeping on a shag-carpeted floor with a sheet and a blanket at my grandparents’ house, and I could have had a doggie duvet? Psh!

Look, before my son was born, I thought my dog had hung the moon. I brushed his teeth, I took him jogging, I trimmed his nails, he slept inside my home. Now my two dogs stay in the backyard, free to run and irritate one another, lucky to get a daily pat on the head from me, along with a heartworm pill every month. That’s reality. I roll my eyes and scan the adjacent page. Apparently, this is the dog-themed section: Real meat? No corn, wheat, or soy? Are dogs gluten-intolerant now? My childhood dog ate his own poo. I can say with certainty that he’d be down with corn and soy. If your lifespan only averages a decade, I say live it up.

Now, I know two years have passed since this product came out, and folks are free to do as they wish with their disposable income. But viewing it, in combination with the plush dog beds, made me think how delighted a homeless person would be to enjoy either. Or someone in a Third World country, sleeping in a dirt hut, drinking contaminated water, feasting on seeds. I bet they’d love a plastic tub of Chicken Paw Pie (with real chicken paws!). The folks at http://www.dogfoodadvisor.com say the Hearty Beef Stew contains beef broth, beef, dried egg product, chicken, pea protein, potatoes, carrots, and peas, as well as many vitamin supplements. If it looks and sounds better than McDonald’s, it probably is.

So what’s in a Big Mac? Two all-beef patties? All-beef? Isn’t that the meat that lives forever? I’m sure it’s great, now that the pink slime has been removed. Remember this picture from last April’s big news story?

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/

That burger was from 1999. Yes, before the Twin Towers fell. Before any of today’s high school freshmen were BORN, that meat existed. Ew.

http://www.92citifm.ca/

And let’s not forget the bun, made of bleached white flour, with a dash of ammonium sulfate, ammonium chloride, and a whole lotta other junk I can’t pronounce. Plus four sesame seeds on top. Pair that with a square of rubbery processed American cheese and the Special Sauce (soybean oil, pickle relish, distilled vinegar, water, egg yolks, high fructose corn syrup, onion powder, mustard seed, salt, spices, propylene glycol alginate, sodium benzoate, mustard bran, sugar, garlic powder, vegetable protein, caramel color, extractives of paprika, soy lecithin, turmeric, calcium disodium EDTA), and you’re in business!

It’s enough to make you resort to a box of Triscuits!

The bonus is–your dog will eat Triscuits, too. But only the flavored kinds. Dogs are picky like that.

http://idinealone.blogspot.com/

Before the current era (in which people wear pajama bottoms to Wal-Mart), folks dressed up for work. They took some time. They put in some effort. And if you saw a man in a derby and a double-breasted suit, you knew he was somebody, earning money for a new pair of wing-tips.

Here’s an interior shot.

My favorite part of this one is the view outside the window; the man crossing the street, the jalopy idling at the crosswalk. When’s the last time you saw curtains in an office? Where are the monitors? Is that faux marble trim on the counter? And an ashtray for smoking inside the office?

How refreshing to see the calming images of The Grand Canyon and lakeside fishing, without those ridiculous motivational taglines beneath them. But why aren’t the pictures framed? Look at those employees: no emails to check, no online bill pay, no texts, no sexts for dang sure. Just envelopes and stamps, back when a stamp was THREE CENTS. And just a bit of trivia for you here: stamps cost three cents from 1933-1958. Yes, for TWENTY-FIVE years, stamps stayed the same price. Can you imagine that? By comparison, stamps were 44 cents in 2011, then 45 in 2012, then 46 in 2013. That’s the game we play these days. You can barely catch your breath before the rules change. And that applies to everything. You think WordPress will exist in 2025? Don’t count on it.