McDonald's? Yes.

I worked at McDonald's. It's true. This isn't a trick. I'm not secretly talking about McDonald's Insurance or McDonald's Appraisal. I'm talking about McDonald's as in Big Macs and Happy Meals.

Training was held down in the basement of an old hotel. Video upon video was watched, we were sized for our uniform and speakers shared their motivational experiences. We were then herded out the doors with a positive perspective that somehow, we were now going to be making the world a better place just by getting drive through orders correct.

I arrived around 2:45pm for my first day of working in Ronald McDonald Land. I was pleasantly happy that my shift began in the late afternoon; allowing me to sit and wait for it all day long. After having the intensive training in the basement, I was ready. I knew what to do and I was eager to get started. I punched in by holding my time card just as I was shown and then headed up to the front counter. As soon as I stepped up to the hi-tech register, I was bombarded by McCustomers ready to eat. Carefully, I pressed in their orders and stared back at them through my McVisor to make sure they were finished. Their money was taken, change was counted back. I turned around and picked up their food, placed it on the tray and managed an artificial smile. So it went. Order after order. I was busy. Between orders, ketchup packets were to be stocked out front, tables wiped off, trays collected. But the real enjoyment didn't come until my 15 minute break. I watched in complete fascination as food was prepared. I watched as hamburger patties were squeezed and plopped out of a tube. Everything was down to a science. From the mustard pre-programmed to squeeze the perfect amount to the pickles which looked like carbon copies. Never before had I seen so many pickle slices that were the exact same shape and size. How is this possible? Have you ever seen hundreds of cucumbers that are the exact same size and shape? I examined as chicken nuggets were dunked into the fryer. I watched as french fries were salted in the very way we were shown on a VHS tape. "It's easy to get the perfect amount of salt on our french fries. Simply turn the salt shaker to pour out the salt while your arm moves to create a giant M!"

At the end of my break, I was assigned to work at the window. The McCrew did a great job of completely bagging the orders for me so that all I had to do was throw in the condiments and accessories to enjoy a great meal. I patiently watched as recipients of those stuffed brown bags rummaged through the contents to be sure I wasn't lying about what was in there. Sometimes I'd receive a preoccupied, "thanks", other times, nothing more than an eyebrow raise.

My shift was finally nearing the finish line. I was handed a McBroom and directed to the dining area to begin cleaning up. Once that task was finished, I wheeled out a bucket of stinky suds with a mop. I squeezed the mop out and plopped it on the floor. "People do this for years...." I thought to myself. Plop and mop. Plop and mop. I worked slowly and lost myself in thoughts of something better. I leaned on the mop handle as I watched a McCoworker empty the sloppy trash. "Let's get done so we can get out of here," my manager enthusiastically cheered. I plopped and mopped a bit faster as I imagined getting home and stepping into a hot shower to wash off the sin of the work day.

I arrived at work the very next day at the very same time. I punched in the same way, took orders the same way and watched the food preparation the same way on my same break time. My lips pierced together and my eyes wide, I giggled inside while watching the "chef" scratch his arm before grabbing a McBun. The pickles were still the same shape and fries were still salted in the shape of a giant 'M.' At the end of my long day of observation, I again plopped and mopped.

The third day I watched as the afternoon approached. My shift, as previously, began at 3 pm. 3'Oclock came and went. 4'Oclock. The phone rings and I smile as if I sell used cars and walk out the front door while it continues to ring. I had a great afternoon swimming and relaxing. When I finally check my messages, no questions were asked. I was instructed to bring in my uniform and pick up my paycheck. Early the next day, I walked into McDonald's with a slight smirk. A check was handed to me and I handed back my folded clothes. "Here's my costume," I said flatly.

I sat back in my car satisfied that I may now scratch "work in a fast food chain" off my list of things to try out. I opened my check. "$32.00!," I exclaimed. "Oh, KariAnn! What are you going to do with all that money?"

The First Lesson

The third school day of first grade dragged on so very slowly. I watched the clock with great anticipation. It seemed as if things were finally starting to move along now that lunch was over. There were only two more hours to go.

After today, I would posses a talent. I would inform everyone that I, KariAnn, can play the piano. Mother had showed me how to walk there after school. She even bought me a book bag with colorful music notes sharply printed on it.

The last bell of the day finally rang. My heart began to beat more easily now as I knew nothing could hold me back from leaving. I wanted to hurry and get outside before all of my classmates had climbed in with their mothers to go home. I wanted so badly for them to see my book bag. They would see that it was a special book bag.

Once outside, I walked slowly enough for everyone to see my bag with music books in it, but fast enough so that other students could tell I was walking over to the piano teacher’s house. Her home was just across the street from the elementary school…perfect.

I reached the walkway and glanced over my shoulder once more. I looked at my book bag. It seemed so appropriate that it was going up this very walkway with me. When I reached the door, my little hand firmly knocked on the screen door. I allowed myself to make a powerful sounding knock; I had such an important purpose to be there.

Mrs. Abbott warmly opened the door. Her round face was soft. Her short, gray hair was delicately curled.

“I’ve been expecting you,” her voice was smooth and kind.

I walked in using the most sophisticated walk possible for a six year old. I climbed up on the piano bench. It was so comfortable for me. I knew right away that I had to be a natural piano player.

Mrs. Abbot sat down next to me in a folding chair. She smelled like softly perfumed lotion. It lightly tickled my nose.

She let out a soft chuckle as she looked down at my feet. I looked at my feet, too. To my horror, I realized that my feet did not quite reach the peddles! My face stung with embarrassment.

Her laughter soon stopped and she got things started. I was so eager to learn, I quickly forgot about my short, little legs. I didn’t use the peddles that lesson anyway.

Throughout the lesson I tried to the best of my ability to do exactly what Mrs. Abbot told me to do. I wanted her to see that playing the piano was my own special talent.

My lesson was only 30 minutes long. It went by so terribly fast. But I knew that next week at that same time, I would be able to come back, carrying my book bag.

A new coop for Cluck-Cluck

Some time ago, I was driving a new, four-door car in a tiny section of Arizona. I was in the tip of the north-west corner of the state. A small stretch of freeway in Arizona lasting about ten minutes, one must drive through it to get from Las Vegas to Utah. I'm driving along enjoying new car smell and some loud music. The next thing I know, there's a police officer with his lights blazing. Nearing the end of day, his lights were bright and I wondered what on earth I was getting pulled over for as I knew I wasn't speeding.

The gentleman in the stiff uniform and mustache walked up to my window. "Hey there," he said as if establishing some sort of a friendship. "I pulled you over today because it looks like your front driver and passenger window are tinted a little bit too dark."

I was completely floored. He pulled me over for that? There are elderly people in rest homes getting abused, children getting abducted and murderers running lose. Yet I get a ticket for my window tint? I decided that since my car was completely new with its temporary plates, I may have a chance at going to court and playing the "dumb blonde" card.

On a hot July day, I drove out to the Arizona Indian Reservation to plead my case. I pulled up to the Moccasin Court. I looked down at the ticket with the address on it. I looked at the Moccasin Court. I looked at the ticket with the address on it. I looked at the Moccasin Court. Confused, I carefully parked my car on the gravel and slowly walked up to the double-wide trailer door. I used the toe of my shoe to politely nudge the chickens out of the way. Should I knock? Feeling cautious that I was intruding on someone at the wrong address, I slowly opened the door. Upon entering, I noticed a type of help desk window, if you will. The window was in the area where I would suspect the entrance to a kitchen would go; complete with laminated formica of a burnt-orange color.

"Can I help you?" a polite woman asked. I showed her my ticket as if showing a wound or injured body part to a doctor; with hesitation. She quickly ripped it out of my hand and said, "Oh yes, we've been expecting you. Have a seat in the court room." "Where's that?" I asked, eyebrows raised. She firmly pointed behind me. I turned around to see a set of flimsy accordion doors.

I slid the doors open to a room with about 10 folding chairs. "Aaahhh....The living room," I thought. At the front of the folding chairs, sat a judge's bench. Surrounding the bench were all of the necessary seats for a formal court proceeding. I walked towards the front of the living room and sat down in front of the bench. I was the only person around. It was quiet and I started wondering if I was on some television show. Perhaps a show in which a camera was taking all of the images from my face and people were laughing at me. I'd sit in this living room of folding chairs for a long time and then someone would eventually come out. We'd all laugh about how funny it'd be if this was really a court house. They'd slap me on my back for being such a good sport and pay my ridiculous ticket for window tint just for being on their show. Then I'd be on my way.

Wishful thinking came to an abrupt end when I saw the officer that pulled me over come into the courtroom to join me. I could not believe that this officer had the time in his schedule to actually come to the double-wide trailer, kick the chickens out of the way and sit here to make sure I paid for having dark windows during my ten minute visit to Arizona. We sat in silence on opposite sides of the living room. Me by the front window, him closer to the master bedroom.

We weren't tortured with the awkward silence before too long when a bailiff type individual entered from where the laundry room would be; behind the judge's bench. He looked directly through me and said in the most official tone I have ever heard, "All rise." The officer and I both rose and I looked around to see who else was there. No one. So ALL two of us rose. In walked a very official judge complete with black robe. The stern look on his face told me right away that he takes his job very seriously. I glanced at the officer and his stern look told me that he wanted me to pay for my crime. I was mystified that nobody in this situation broke out in laughter. How could they keep such straight faces when it looks like a couple of kids playing court?

Despite my efforts, I had to pay the maximum. It only makes sense for me to pay the full amount so that they can afford to build a coop for the chickens to be safe.

Enid

Last week I was given an opportunity to leave my cynical attitude outside so that I could remind myself about some of the deeper things in life.

Grandma walked steadily and carefully down the long hallway to visit her friends in the rest home. Each of her steps were taken skillfully as her ninety year old hand wrapped around a cane for balance. Visually impaired, she still managed to walk right up to the vending machine. "Is there any chocolate in there?" she asked me. "Yes grandma, Hershey's." "I need to get two bars, please." She held out her shaky arm for me to rummage through the small black purse that was draped over her forearm. Once the candy bars had been purchased and they successfully fell from the machine and broke in half, we continued our long journey to the end of the hallway.

Upon arriving to our destination, strange smells filled the air. Awkward silences lingered in the atmosphere and the faint sound of televisions blurred throughout the hallway. All five foot four of me towered over grandma as I opened the door for her to walk into her Aunt Violet's room. After visiting with Aunt Violet and convincing her that the Hershey bar wasn't a comb, Grandma visited with another friend, Wanda. She broke off a piece of chocolate and placed it on Wanda's tongue. I watched as Wanda's face instantly turned from confusion to satisfaction. "I'll be back to visit soon," Grandma promised as she slowly walked out.

"I need to visit my dear friend, Enid," Grandma stated. We walked towards her friend's room. A friend I never knew well. As we scooted along, I was given the rundown on Enid. The two of them had been friends ever since grade school. Now, both ninety years old, they have many years behind them. We turned into Enid's room. A small, frail body lay in bed. Enid's mouth agape, I tried to hide my shock as it was evident that she was ready to move on. She stared blankly into the air, blinking only when her eyes began to dry. I looked at Enid's eyes and wondered what all they had seen over the past century. Wars, inventions, births, deaths, joys, sorrows. Grandma didn't hesitate as she walked directly up to Enid's little body. She tucked Enid's hair behind her ears and ran her crooked fingers down the side of her face. "Bless your heart," Grandma quietly said. She wrapped her spotted arms around the delicate lady and buried her wrinkled face into her shoulder. "Goodbye, Enid," she said matter-of-factly. I stood off to the side telling myself to think about NFL, chocolate cake or snakes; anything to help dissolve the lump in my throat. Then cautiously, as if laying down a newborn baby, Grandma released her arms from Enid and decisively walked out the door without looking back.

I followed after her and we quietly walked down the sterile hallway without saying a word. Grandma's labored breathing let me know that she needed to stop and rest. I placed my hands on her rounded shoulders to stop her. Her walking stopped and she looked up at me through watery eyes. "Grandma," I said, "I don't think you're going to see your friend again. Are you okay?" "Yes," she answered firmly, "Let's go get some ice cream."

A heartfelt thanks to those that make me a better person.

I would just like to take a moment to thank my new roommates, the Cockroach family and the Earwigs. I've never lived with someone before that encourages me to be my best on a daily basis. No more leaving dirty dishes sitting around, no rumpled up clothes on the floor. Crumbs? Forget it. You'll never find one on my kitchen floor or counter. I pour cereal over the sink and scrub the stove after each use. I never knew that I could be so happily encouraged to take the garbage out every single time I walk outside. It's so rare that all my flashlights have batteries. After accidentally stepping on one of the roach kids in the night, I stocked up on energizers at Sam's Club. So, thanks again.

Top 10 Things I Secretly Enjoy (Shhhhhh!!)

1. Seeing certain stores go out of business. I just want some of these places to "learn a lesson."
Maybe now they'll figure out that they are too over priced and have such terrible customer service that they can't survive a dip in economy. (Aahhh-curcuit city-choo!!)

2. Seeing people pulled over. Haha!

3. Reading celebrity gossip online. I love being reminded that even if I had millions of dollars I'd still have problems in my life.

4. Seeing someone create a scene in a store because they're upset about something. Makes me look like an angel.

5. Leaving notes on car windshields that read, "I know about it" or "I know what happened."

6. Flushing public toilets with my foot no matter how out of the way they put the flusher to discourage that. I'm flexible, thank you. I'm not touching that.

7. Hearing children cry because they didn't get their way.

8. Taking enough from a continental breakfast for lunch.

9. People mentioning that they enjoy reading my blog.

10. Going to bed w/out brushing my teeth. I'm an adult. I can do what I want.

You never own a cat, you just learn to get along with each other.

Sylvester kept scratching in his litter box. Over and over and over and over. What makes the situation maddening is that he kept doing it in the night. The incessant scratching, scraping and tearing of the litter box liner is enough to drive a person to the brink of insanity when they’re trying to sleep. I knew right away that the reason for this had to be a UTI. After a visit to the vet, it was discovered that he had no infection, blockages or any other problems; purely a psychological problem. The veterinarian assured us that the “idiopathic” condition was actually quite common. How do we fix this? Well, first of all, I find out that all stress must be reduced from his life. STRESS? Are you kidding me?! What the hell is stressful about sleeping in the sun and eating when you feel like it without worrying about weight gain? Following the veterinarian’s recommendations I made sure that Sylvester had access to see out all windows to enjoy unobstructed views of the outdoors. He is to receive full attention when he asks for it. After three weeks of telling Sylvester how much I love him and that he IS good enough, smart enough and that people like him, the symptoms returned. So back to a different veterinarian we go. One urinalysis later, the other vet explains that there’s a UTI. He recommends amoxicillin. Luckily, I had some stuck up in the medicine cupboard from Mexico. Nothing says I’m cheap like breaking open amoxicillin capsules from Tijuana and dividing the contents with a razor blade into what you think is the right dosage, mixing it with fruit juice and squirting it into the back of your cats’ throat while holding him down in the corner of the bathroom. In addition to the medicine, I have been told through many different sources that if I want this problem to cease, whether idiopathic or otherwise, I must do the following:

-each of my two cats must have their own litter box

-provide plenty of distilled water from the freshest source

-maintain a perfect view from every window

-use a combination of wet food and dry

-feed him cat food that you must have a prescription from the vet to purchase ($$$$)

-allow him to spend time outside AND inside when he chooses

-give him anti-anxiety/psychotropic drugs

So there I am, at Wal-Mart with my cart full of stimulating new toys, a new litter box, multiple bags of cat litter, a water fountain for cats that circulates the water through a filter and keeps it purified, supplements and treats. As I wandered up and down the aisles looking for anything else I should grab, my mind raced back to when I got Sylvester. I clearly remember the morning I told my then-boyfriend that I wanted to go get a cat. It was something like this: “I just love cats, they are so easy to maintain. They practically care for themselves!”

Smoking or Non?

Elaine's salad. (My cole-slaw in upper right back ground.)

"Small town America," I told Elaine. We had been planning our drive from Toronto to Phoenix for weeks. Looking forward to a road trip, I explained to Elaine that our theme would be about small towns. We'd stop and eat or take a break in mostly small towns across the country.

After driving straight from Toronto to Illinois, we decided it was time for some lunch. I threw open the GPS and called a "mom and pop" joint. The two of us were both craving a huge, fresh salad. The kind gentleman assured me that they had all types of salad and a variety of foods. Upon arrival, we were both taken aback when asked "smoking or non?" I think the look on my face won us the award of as-far-away-from-smoking-as-possible. We opened our sticky menus and began looking at the variety. "Shucks, we're too early for the senior special...that doesn't start for a few hours," I said. Looking at the menu, I found it quite amusing that this particular restaruant offered greek, italian, mexican and traditional american fare. Fascinating. I countined to glance through the multi-page menu through sips of water in a dirty, cloudy cup. Once our selections were made, our waitress approached the table. "You have got to be kidding me," I thought, "A stereotypical 'madge." Madge looked as if she was in her mid 40's, yet the cigarettes had added about ten years to her thin face. Her stringy ponytail hung stiffly at the nape of her neck. Looking down at me, her blue eyeshadow stood out strongly. I knew right away that "Madge" was popular in 'her time.' But now, she visits the local bar on her nights off where she spends her tip money on cheap beer and some guy named, 'bub' gives her attention. I ordered the "chef's special salad." What came next was all the validation I needed that we had officially chosen a 'mom and pop' joint. Madge stared down at me over her notepad and said, "Ya know that salad don't have no meat in it." I assured her that would be fine. My choices of soup to accompany my meatless salad would be chicken noodle or a slit pea with beef broth. "Just fruit instead," I suggested. The look on Madge's face would suggest that I had just broke wind. "We got cole-slaw," she offered. I accepted the cole-slaw and it was quickly brought to me in a filmy, clear plastic ice cream dish. Yum, salad before my salad.

Out came our salads and we instantly began dissecting them. Elaine's chicken salad seemed to be created with processed chicken strips, cheap tortilla chips and Costco cheese shreds. Oh yes, and a few shreds of lettuce. My chefs special salad was colorful enough, but flavorless. I reminded Madge that my salad was missing the hard boiled egg. She quickly brought out a hard boiled egg which had been pre-sliced in half for me. The gray yoke stared up at me as if apologizing. We quietly crunched on our bagged lettuce in a bowl and watched as smoke swirled in the air. As each person walked in, he was greeted on a first name basis. It was as if everyone was waiting for him to get there. Once we paid and stepped outside, I realized how great the fresh air felt. We jumped back on the freeway eating trail mix and oreos out of the back seat.

10 Things I'd Tell My Clients if I Could Get Away With It

10- Please don't wear cologne for me. (Old Spice makes me dizzy.)
9- You really should have a doctor check that out.
8- Mmmmm....European foot odor.
7- No need to tell me that you're on a diet or working out. Quit making up excuses for you body, I really don't care about it.
6- When you've stopped breathing and you're clenching your fists, quit telling me to go deeper.
5- I'm not a "masseuse!"
4- No, my hands do not get tired.
3- Yes, I had to go to school for this.
2- Hair grows there?
1- Whoa! I haven't seen an anklet since 1985! And on a cankle, too!

When You're Strange

Inside the Queer Lounge


It's the Sundance Film Festival and I am to promote the movie, "When You're Strange." Not only do I know nothing of The Doors other than the fact that Jim Morrison has died, but I'm supposed to be telling people the specifics of the documentary and openly discuss the controversial issues of the late 60's. I do some quick research on youtube.com to update my "Door IQ." I'm quickly reminded what a troubled and derranged individual Mr. Morrison is.

I bundle up like an eskimo and sweat in the car while driving to Park City. Upon arrival, I notice that I must park over a mile away from where I'm working. I put posters, tape, buttons, postcards, staple gun, hot tea, camera, cell phone and the idea of a desk job in my bag and start hoofing it up to the Main Street area. When I arrive, I'm sweaty, yet strangely frozen. A wonderful sensation. The crowds are absolutely insane and I immediately feel underdressed. Apparently I forgot my fur coat and Chanel sunglasses which cover my entire face so that nobody can see that I'm a celebrity. Nothing says "sundance!" like high heels on icy streets.

So there I am, for five days....freezing, handing out crap and pretending that I think Jim Morrison is hot. I am informed that if I get tired, I can hang out in the "Queer Lounge." I snub the idea at first, but as soon as my toes are numb, I look into it. The heavy doors are ornate and intricate. Upon entering, I am instantly greeted and directed upstairs. To my surprise, there is free coffee, tea, cookies and pomegranate juice. The decor is like I imagine the playboy mansion to be. (Not that I sit around imagining what that looks like, but if I did, it'd be the Queer Lounge.) I sip a hot beverage and mingle a bit. Those cookies were great, too. "These queers know what's up," I thought. After the refreshment, I head back out into the cold. The crowds are even crazier now. I over hear someone mention it's because Johnny Dep is in the area. Not only did I find Pirates of the Caribbean to not be the least bit amusing, but I'm also running late for an appointment. I hurry along to meet others.

I met quite a few celebrities this year. I guess they were all excited about the movie or something. Therefore, giving me an opportunity to feel important. (I thoroughly enjoyed it when my husband personally asked Paris Hilton if she could tell us who the most overrated celebrity at the festival is. She giggled and said she'd 'tell us later.' She's so smart.) I suppose the only person I'd ever really be star struck over is Paul Newman. And, well, he's dead.

I headed over to the premiere of the movie. There were hundreds of people and I was allowed all sorts of VIP access. Not knowing who they were, I met the remaining band members from The Doors and took their pictures with the free items I gave them. When it was time for the movie to start, I was offered a ticket. Yes, a ticket that thousands (not hundreds) of people try to get. I politely turned it down and drove home.

Just in case you forgot what a psycho Jim Morrison is, too:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z7ZucE_olEs&feature=PlayList&p=6457CA4831D81225&playnext=1&index=7

In a Hurry

Some time ago, a friend of mine made a comment to me. It was a beautiful Sunday and I was fulfilling my usual Sunday morning routine of cutting out coupons from the newspaper. My friend, Leo, called to “check in” with me as usual on this day. “What you up to?” he asked through nibbles of Atkins peanut butter cups. “Just cutting out coupons,” I responded flatly. Then came the comment…”Sometimes I think you’re just in a hurry to get old,” he said. I could picture him sitting on his couch surrounded by his dogs, patting each one on the head with approval. That’s when it hit me, I AM in a hurry to get old. Nothing says comfort to me like a cat in my lap while wearing a thick pair of warm socks.

A few months ago, my husband and I attended a meeting at a senior citizen center. As we exited our meeting and stepped into the main area, I peaked into the dance hall. I watched with envy as adorable couples held each other close and shuffled to the brassy tones of the live jazz band. Each pair of lovers looked content, as if they were satisfied with life.

I can’t seem to help it. I love watching “feel good” movies, baking bread, researching ancestors, wearing clothes for comfort instead of style, playing card games, going to bed early in the winter, putting a jigsaw puzzle together, writing to loved ones on paper and relaxing in lawn chairs. I drink tea each morning, read cookbooks and get bent out of shape when I don’t have Kleenex in my car.

On my 2nd, 29th Birthday last month (wink wink), I shared my feelings with my husband. His response? “I wouldn’t be in a hurry to get old if I was you,” he said bluntly. “Oh? Why not?” I asked. His reply was to the point and the conversation came to a total end; “What are you going to live off of?” Oh yeah, I hadn’t thought that far. So until then, I’ll just keep enjoying fast food napkins in my glove compartment instead of Kleenex in my back window.