It’s Never Too Early To Start Smoking Camels
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Forget Sunny D: Embrace A Frozen Margarita
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.
That Really Chaps My Hide
I’m not mincing words today. If you have dropped your phone in a toilet, you are a dolt.
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.
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?
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.
One Week And Counting
Passport To Refreshment
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.
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.
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 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?
Oops. Nevermind. That’s actually a lighter.
Hungry Eyes
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.
Thirty-Five Cent Flick
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?
When LBJ Locks You Into His Steely Death Stare…
…you cannot look away.
All Nogged Out
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:
- Baked potatoes should come with five toppings standard, like automatic windows in a new car.
- Egg nog should be accessible to every American throughout the month of December.
As I reflect on that second nog-related post (https://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.
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.
Christmas Mold
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.
In My Country, Too, We Like Its Speed
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.
Countdown to Thanksgiving
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.
- 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.”
I Don't Get It 