I don’t work at McDonald’s, but I plan on telling anyone I meet that I do. Quite frankly, I’m sick of explaining what eCommerce is. And I’m tired of laying out what an Email Operations Analyst does. This is not proper party conversation. I don’t want people to get whiplash while they look around the room for someone else to talk to.
Now, imagine this. A 28 year old tells you they work at McDonald’s. Oh, you think. As a manager. Nope, afraid not. I’m a floater. Oh, you say. You work the different stations around the McDonald’s? Sort of.
You see, I travel the country working at a different McDonald’s each week. It’s not a normal position, but I worked it out after I graduated from high school. Think of it as creating your own major in college. And my college is McDonald’s.
I travel from coast to coast, seeing what there is to see of America and meeting new and interesting people at every stop. In fact, this summer I plan to work my way down the Mississippi from Lake Itasca in Minnesota past the Mississippi Delta (which is actually an alluvial plain). Did you know that the McDonald’s in New Orleans sell a special secret Bouillabaisee?
Once I work up the savings, I’ll find my way over to Europe and serve golden fries to the old country. From Riga to Paris to whatever else is in Europe, I’ll be there to put a smile on their face.
Really, the ultimate goal is to make it onto the McDonald’s Olympic Champion Crew. To serve the athletes in the Olympic Village their favorite tasty McDonald’s treats. In a way, I’ll be winning my own gold metal right along with them.
I don’t work at McDonald’s. But, honestly, doesn’t it make for much better conversation?
[Photo by AdamL212]
I realized today that I have a terrible search engine ranking for “Aric.” And I would be sad about it, if this guy weren’t beating me so handily. Success!
Oh no, you guys! Something is seriously wrong with our good friend, Tylenol! Not only did he lose his spot on the varsity football squad due to his poor academic performance, but he has spiraled into a deep depression after he and Cindy broke up! Not only that, but Tylenol’s parents totally took away his car for a month after they found weed in his jacket pocket. Also, he has the mumps.
Feel better, Tylenol.
I’m on to you, Xcel Energy. Something is amiss with the power lines in my neighborhood. As an estimate, the power goes out about 12+ times a year in my house. And I’m not talking about little reset-the-clocks power blips. Although those are frequent as well, and I have given up setting the clocks on the stove and coffee maker.
No no, Xcel Energy. These are full on out-for-a-couple-hours power outages. But the human mind is faulty. Like that unicorn that caused the last power outage? That might not be totally accurate. And so, I’m keeping a log.
You’ve forced me to do it, Xcel Energy. I’ve taken up an old fashioned pen, since my modern electronic computer won’t work without your precious power juice. I have also acquired lined paper, which is bound by metal and is not fed into an electric printing machine. I’ve put pen to paper, and I’m keeping track of your major annoyances.
This is in ink, Xcel Energy! And not the erasable kind. I’m not fooling with any sort of pencil/graphite dispenser here. This is permanent and personal.
So here we are, Xcel Energy. Me with mounting proof and you with no way to defend against the record keeping methods of old. So far? One power outage. According to the log, thats one power outage every three days! While that trend may not hold, I’m ready in the case that it does.
And that call that comes in as soon as the power goes out, Xcel Energy? That’s me. And every phone call is another entry in the log. Pray I don’t go over my minutes.
[Photo by J.Grillo]
Okay, relative stranger. Some event in the past has deemed a vocal greeting necessary when we see each other. I would be happy with a simple head nod, but fine. We won’t argue the point that we can honor each other with the brief use of our vocal chords.
But there is no reason for you to use my name in your greeting. Because I sure don’t remember your name.
You know how I was coming out of the bathroom and you were on your way in? We didn’t see each other for more than a split second and my name was already shooting out of your mouth. How the hell did you do that? I can’t even remember my own age given a calculator and five minutes.
When you say my name, I don’t suddenly think we have some kind of special bond. I think you’re some dude trying to make me look stupid. And maybe I am stupid. But I don’t need a reminder in the form of friendly greeting.
We can continue to go through the ritual of our vocal greeting. That’s fine. But keep my name out your damn mouth.
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