The Frylight Zone
I worked at McDonald’s for more than five years, beginning when I was 16. I got a lot out of it: good work habits, free food, lots of new friends, and I got experience managing a restaurant and people. I remember how tough it was for me at first; a girl yelled at me on my first day as I was being trained. I came home and said, “‘I’ll never catch on to fries! I want my paper route back!’” At least I was my own boss when I delivered newspapers.
But things eventually worked out and I use the positives of my McDonald’s experience to this day. But once I went off into the world of sports television, I figured I’d never work at McDonald’s again. I used to have recurring nightmares that I was back as an adult being trained by teenagers. It was sort of like an inside-out “Back to the Future.”
Cue Rod Serling’s spirit, because recently I entered…The Frylight Zone.
I’m now doing public relations work as an assistant on the McDonald’s account. It’s amazing how things can come full circle. McDonald’s is a unique place because many of its high-ranking executives started on fries, behind the counter or on the grill section. Because of that, McDonald’s likes to put its white-collar workers in the stores to show them what it’s like in there. So I recently worked two full shifts in two different stores.
The first big difference was the equipment; everything is done a lot faster now. Another change is there are probably three times as many products now as when I worked there in the 1980′s, and that’s a lot of information and procedures for workers to remember. The other biggie is that the majority of the customers are in their cars; I never worked a drive-thru before….until now. And while procedures are still regimented to insure quality food and a clean workplace, the restaurants seemed looser as far as atmosphere. We used to wear the Marine-style hats over the middle of our heads and we had to loudly acknowledge our boss’s production calls: “give me three Macs on the turn. Three Macs on the turn!” That isn’t the case anymore, because food is made to order now.
I worked as a “presenter,” the person who gave the order to the customer at the second window after he paid at the first. I got double takes galore as people tried to place me; it was quite humorous after a while, actually. But the best was when a woman pulled up after the lunch rush.
“Has anybody ever told you that you look just like a sportscaster from channel 9 named Jeff Grayson? I don’t know what happened to him.”
“Well, that’s me.”
She was stunned that I was working at McDonald’s, but I explained that I was doing some PR work and seeing what life is like these days at the restaurants. She was very nice and complimented me on my on-air performance and wished I were still in my old job. Then I handed the food to her, thanked her and told her to stop in again.
I was about 70 pounds lighter when I worked at McDonald’s, 85 if you go back to when I started. Yes, that was a long time ago. I forgot what it’s like to be on your feet for eight hours–keep in mind, I spent a few getting customer feedback, so I wasn’t actually on my feet all that time–and I felt sore afterwards. People work hard there, and I met some who were on their way to their second jobs.
For two days I got a few stares and I even heard some kids say, “‘that’s the sports guy on fries.’” It’s safe to say that I never expected to work inside a McDonald’s again, but it was fun.
Just don’t ask me to do my paper route again.
Seeing the light
It’s not news to those who know me, but I’m probably one of the least handy people of my generation. Whether it’s from lack of confidence, effort or experience, I’m not exactly a skilled craftsman. Building, constructing, fixing, adjusting, tightening, loosening, drilling, sodering, and sawing aren’t my favorite verbs.
Not everyone can make a perfect model airplane, but I never really cared to try. But I have to try some tasks because it’s the right thing to do. I tried one the other night because I wanted to see if I could, but it also had to be done for safety reasons.
Yes, we had a burned out headlight on our car. I bought the bulb and even called my Honda service department to see if he could do it, but he said he’d have to charge about 35 dollars in labor. He added that even he, a licensed mechanic, has had trouble taking them out and replacing them.
Great.
But it had to be done and I had to try, so I followed the manual’s directions and got started. I even got my hands full of grease and dirt. I actually got things disassembled and was on the right track, but the bulb was so full of gunk that I thought it was hopeless. After about 35 minutes, I got even more discouraged: I had disassembled the wrong parts. How did I know? Because I tested the lights and the ones I was working on were fine.
I went back to the manual and realized I had been looking at directions for side lights, not the front ones. Now I was mad, but I had to march on. It took an hour of reading, re-reading and trying, but I finally got things going. All of a sudden it happened: I DID IT! I FIXED IT! THE HEADLIGHT WORKED AGAIN!
Now I had to reassemble the parts I screwed up, but I did that pretty easily. I couldn’t believe it: I FIXED SOMETHING! I felt like I had assembled the whole car myself. I guess my whole problem with trying things goes back to my youth when I began a lifetime of clumsiness and accidents. I became afraid of breaking parts or smashing something to pieces.
But now that I’m feeling like Mr. Goodwrench, anything’s possible. Just don’t ask me to do the passenger side, because that one’s supposed to be REALLY tough.
Following orders
Most of us have to earn being a boss. It took me several years at the Golden Arches before I went from taking orders (from co-workers as well as customers) to giving them, and it took even longer before I went from going on tv stories to deciding which ones to cover.
But I live with someone who seems to think that being a big cheese is a birthright. Actually, I guess it literally has been for two-plus years. Yes, our daughter has got her game plan down every single day. What’s even more remarkable is that I listen and obey each command as if I were the subserviant one here. Wait a minute! She’s the child! Doesn’t she know that?
Our daughter begins each day wanting one-on-one time with her mom, usually anywhere from 20-40 minutes. She lets her know what she wants to eat, describing her choices with one syllable force (“see” is cereal, “nuk” is milk, “joo” is juice, etc.) that feel like volcanic eruptions before 7 a.m. if she isn’t pleased by the service.
Then I come in to replace my wife and the fun really starts, because our daughter knows she’s dealing with a caveman. “Cow” means ‘get me on the counter immediately.’ “Wah” means ‘Please place a waffle in the toaster and get some syrup on the side.’ “Show” means ‘After my breakfast, I’d like to watch a television show and I’ll tell you which one.’
There are also strict orders about climate control during the winter months. “Aw” means ‘Turn off the fireplace. I’m warm enough, thanks.’ “Cow” now has changed to ‘I’d enjoy this program more if you held me in your lap on the couch.’ It’s like learning a new language with a tough teacher, except this time a two-year-old has the Teacher’s Edition with all the answers. How did I become Mr. French and she gets to be Uncle Bill?
Sometimes I’ll catch myself running around trying to please her and I think of what Jerry Seinfeld says about being a father. (I know, he’s my often-quoted sage). Seinfeld has said that babies know that their main role is to eventually replace us, so we’d better get used to no longer being our house’s main attraction.
I’m trying to walk the line between pleasing our child and overdoing it. I don’t want her to think she can snap her fingers to get her way. I’d write more but she’s waking up and I may need to have milk ready.
DOH! Now she’s got me in the palm of her hand without even one syllable.
‘Round and ’round we go
Once again I begin with an apology for not writing more often. Plenty of things are happening but that’s no excuse. I’ve heard from people who I’ve never met before and they want more entries. So here we go.
I actually remember riding the merry-go-round when I was little. I especially recall wearing a stars and stripes hat–it was shaped like the soul hats of the ’70′s that Phil on “American Idol” sports now–while riding in Washington on a family vacation. Each time I came around, my dad tried to take my picture (and my brother’s, who was riding next to me) and each time the person in charge of the ride pulled my hat over my face. It was a lot of fun.
Now I’ve become the dad trying to take the picture, although I got to stand next to our daughter on her very first ride as my wife tried to get the snapshot. Our daughter was a bit scared, a little puzzled and a tad eager as she went ’round and ’round on her giraffe. She started to get the hang of it and seemed to enjoy being the jockey, holding on as we turned and smiling more each time. My wife was able to get two great shots that captured the joy of our girl’s first amusement park ride.
She seemed to have an even better time when her mom stood next to her and I said hello on each turn. Now she’s become the carousel pro and has figured out that getting advance tickets is the way to go to beat the long lines. (I was almost as proud of her for not having a tantrum while we waited to buy tickets).
I know there’ll be a day when our daughter will think she’s too cool for the merry-go-round. I know she’ll have more fun on the scary rides than I will, but I’m more than happy to watch her enjoy this one for quite a while.
You know you’re a stay at home dad when…
I don’t quote his standup routine, but I’ve always liked Jeff Foxworthy. He’s a guy who stays focused on one general theme that everyone laughs about and he seems like a normal guy.
I’ll leave it to others to ponder my normalcy, but I’ll take a page from Mr. Foxworthy’s approach.
You know you’re a stay at home dad when…….
You make catty remarks to yourself about other stay at home dads who annoy you.
You’re the only guy at playground Tuesday and no moms talk to you (maybe those dads heard my remarks and skipped town).
You can’t understand why your daughter’s shirts have the buttons wrong.
You actually hope to change diapers more often because of your daughter’s ”plumbing issues.”
You can’t sleep in the middle of the night because songs by “The Wiggles” and “Sesame Street’s 25th Anniversary” play over and over in your head.
90 percent of your everyday conversations are to yourself.
You know the names of each Wiggle character and his corresponding shirt color (just stop singing in my head!).
You look at the clock and think about coordinating nap times instead of asking when SportsCenter begins.
You dress your daughter in an outfit that actually matches.
You dress your daughter’s doll in an outfit that actually matches.
You and your wife spell half of your vocabulary because you fear your daughter will figure something out. (e.g., “Did you pack the J-U-I-C-E?”).
Your don’t care that your daughter leaves ketchup on your face when she puts her head on your shoulder.
You get excited about being able to calm down your daughter when she’s upset. (Tap, tap, tap the back).
You drive by the library and see a sign for a father-daughter dance and dream of the day when the two of you will go.
The Flying Burritos
I went to a basketball game with a good friend of mine. The Timberwolves hosted the Phoenix Suns, currently the NBA’s best team. On this night, the Wolves ended the Suns’ 17-game winning streak. Good stuff, and I don’t just mean dunks.
During timeouts, the Wolves organization worked very hard to entertain fans. They had a contest where a fan had to throw a giant burrito into a garbage can. He got a prize for the first, second and third burritos successfully tossed, but the contest was over if he missed at any time. The third successful burrito toss meant 400 free burritos for fans. The entrant missed, but the host gave everyone a chance by tossing it himself. 400 free burritos became a reality.
Burritos dropped from the arena’s ceiling attached to parachutes. Being the college graduate that I am, I actually expected hot burritos wrapped in foil to come down from 200 feet above the arena floor. Instead, the parachutes were attached to coupons good for a free burrito at the establishment.
To the tune of the theme from “Apocalypse Now,” the burrito parachutes fell like skilled skydivers into the seats. I watched grown men leap, lunge, reach and jump for the neato burrito deal. My friend and I didn’t snicker; we thought it was hilarious. We also liked watching the Suns watch this whole scene. They smiled at the festivities, although they probably should’ve been listening to their coach. Flying burritos! I would’ve just been happy to get the parachute because my daughter would’ve enjoyed that alone.
Burrito toss. Burrito parachutes. Burrito mania in coupon form. No burrito-induced sprained ankles from fans leaping on stairs, however.
When I was really young, my Halloween costume was the “Frito Bandido,” a character named for a corn-chip lover complete with sombrero, mustache and poncho.
If I just could’ve reached a parachute, I could’ve swapped a Frito for a Burrito Bandido. Neat-o! And I know who should be a future sponsor if the burritos are dropped into a pool.
Speedo.
A perfect ten
It’s a cold world out there these days: as one of my sportscasting pals says, the current temperatures are colder than a gravedigger’s (posterior). It’s also a cold world in the broadcasting business, but I’ve got to keep on truckin’ even when the deck seems stacked against me from a job perspective.
However, it is a warm and fuzzy world when it comes to how much I enjoy spending time with our daughter. She is two now and getting more fun every day. She’s also getting smarter, which is getting dicey because daddy-o is getting nervous because she’s getting more and more of what I say that used to outfox her. Get it?
She turned two on a recent Monday, and counted to ten a few days later. I’m not saying that I should get her an application to Oxford, but I was impressed. The girl counted to ten! I don’t think my favorite team winning a championship would have me grinning as much as when she got from one to ten in a few seconds flat.
I received some job news recently that was a bit of a downer, but I was feeding our daughter dinner pasta at the time and she was happy as a clam…or clam sauce. Whichever it was, it was hard to be too torn up about the news. When my phone call ended, our daughter wanted to read books with us. I got two great reminders about priorities and it was a two-year-old who did the teaching.
I love the old episodes of M*A*S*H*, the ones with Trapper and Henry. My favorite line from those early shows is a scene where villain Frank Burns tells a patient he’s going to count to three and expects the patient to give up his teddy bear or something before he gets to the final number. Frank begins the count.
“One, two….”
Hawkeye stumbles upon the scene and says, “Showing off again, Frank?” Priceless.
To think our daughter’s already five times more advanced than Frank Burns as she teaches me perspective.
Cage match
I don’t watch “The Apprentice” or “The View,” although I used to watch the former regularly. The only “The” show I watch is “The Office,” but I have taken a sadistic satisfaction in the Donald-Rosie war. Why? Because we finally have two public figures who aren’t letting press releases do their talking. They’re unrehearsed, unscripted, unrelenting, and often unreasonable–but they’re genuine and not politically correct.
Now, don’t get me wrong: I think Donald should stop calling Rosie a slob who talks like a truck driver. His material should be saved for a Comedy Central roast. And Rosie? I actually can say that I miss the good old days when she was a VH-1 VJ. Now we’re treated to her courageous stands against Kelly Ripa, Donald, American Idol, and Tom Selleck.
Donald, Ward Cleaver told his son Beaver in 1962 that when you laugh at yourself, you take the other person’s fun away. Why couldn’t you have done that 45 years later? You’ve got more money than the free world, a beautiful wife, and you can actually say that you own Miss Universe. So knock off the name-calling and make up so you can go on “The View” to promote “The Apprentice: Fresno” next season. I hope Star Jones is on the same show.
Long time, no write
I guess I’m really writing this to myself because I don’t expect there to be any readers of my blog remaining. That’s what happens when you stop blogging for almost four months. My bad.
The truth is, I stopped for two reasons: I was spending my writing time doing a column for the Minnesota Vikings’ website and secondly, I can be a world-class procrastinator.
Now the season’s over. I’ve returned and hope to once again make my entries shorter but numerous.
I watched the President’s State of the Union address last night. I find it amazing that despite the horrible things that some members of both parties say about each other, they all smile and shake hands when the big kahuna comes walking down the aisle. I know it’s the leader of the free world coming your way, but the congressmen and congresswomen reminded me of the classic suck-ups satirized on “The Office.”
As a sportscaster, I’m prohibited from asking the athletes I cover for autographs. A big no-no and it’s universally known within my industry. (I have an industry!). But here are legislators–you know, people who create legislation that can go on the chief executive’s desk for approval or veto amid intense debate that often becomes personal–asking him to sign what looked like playbills. Sign this! Take a picture! Please! Here I am!
It just seemed so…office politics. I guess even people in politics have office politics, although it made me wonder why we don’t see this conciliatory side of things more often. These days, it’s just a he said on CNN, she said on FOX, he said on MSNBC and they all said on Meet The Press.
I just hope that after programs were signed, hands were shaken and pictures were taken, everyone got back to doing the business that they’re there to do. Then us voters will be happy to suck up to all of them. But the cynic in me says we’ll have plenty of insults and insinuations first.
It’s good to be back…….is anyone out there?
Giving the best that I got
I’ve been a solo act for a few weeks now; I should say, solo stay at home parent. While my wife brings home the bacon, I try not to pork out while taking care of our 20-month-old daughter (I often finish her uneaten food). There are so many great things about this experience from my point of view, but I feel bad for my girls: they miss each other terribly.
It’s fun to bond with our girl, who learns things every day. She now says syllables for words, and I get a better understanding of what she wants. I’m not panicked when unexpected events come up, and diaper changes aren’t a traumatic thing anymore (truth be told, I’ve been pretty good about that aspect for quite a while).
I’ve tried to take her out out of the house a bit; my wife signed us up for some reading days at the library, which gives our girl a chance to interact with little ones and parents. She loves to share toys with everyone and I’ve found that she’s quite a charmer. I know that every parent says that about their child, but she really does have a winning personality. She’s just so innocent and has a real sweetness about her, and people she’s never met get a real kick out of her.
We went to the Mall of America yesterday; she’s such a good baby and I thought she deserved to see Legoland, one of her favorite places. There are always kids and parents around and she loves to try to put pieces together. She had a great time again, and the best part was watching her share lego pieces with people of all ages. She had more fun doing that than anything else. She’s a young Robin Hood of sorts.
It’s a little intimidating to go to events and places when you’re about the only male around. I applaud women who continue careers after becoming mothers but I can tell you that there are plenty who still stay at home, because I see them when they’re out and about. The malls, grocery stores and libraries are definitely their turf–and I have to try to blend in, even though I clearly don’t. But our daughter is the great equalizer. Even though I feel out of place as the only dad around, her pleasant disposition shows that I/we must be doing something right.
It’s also a role reversal at home when the breadwinner returns from a long day at the quarry. I have to say that I felt a bit like Edith Bunker last night: my wife came home late after a long project, but I had dinner waiting as she walked in. She got to spend time with our daughter, although naturally it wasn’t enough for either of them, and she got a meal without waiting. I felt proud for pulling it off, but my respect for housewives grows by the minute because they’ve done it day after day and year after year; I’ve only done this for a few weeks and boy, do I have a long ways to go.
Then after dinner, I must relinquish our new remote control; the breadwinner deserves peace and quiet, and she deserves to watch her favorite shows. So here I am, caring for our daughter, making dinner, and watching “Project Runway”?
I use my spare time to e-mail people and work on my freelance gigs, and I also pick up all the toys and books our little tornado blows through each time she plays. But I think it’s going okay. I’d better stop now because I need to do some laundry.
How does everything get done?
