I think I can say with almost absolute certainty that anyone reading this has had to set up "security questions" for an account online somewhere. They're usually pretty terrible. When you go back to that myspace page 4 years later just to check it out, you'll inevitably have lost your password, and a question will pop up like this:
What is the name of the third animal you owned?
For me, that could be: a goldfish, one of four dogs, one of two ferrets, one of three hamsters, one of 6 chinchillas, or maybe I was trying to be clever when I made it to prevent any hackers from seeing pictures of my greasy 13 year old self by saying "hair lice."
Here's what my brain does with a set of your generic security questions online.
What elementary school did you attend?
-That could be either Monte Vista, Jordan Ridge, or my house. You pick.
What is the name of your favorite pet?
-What do you think? Do you honestly think that I had trusty Rover by my side as I wandered through the fields with my bb gun, making rafts and forts and mud castles and stealing veggies from the grumpy next door neighbor? As previously mentioned, a veritable horde of animals has entered and exited my house. And I was fond of lots of them.
Where did your parents meet?
-A wedding. Somewhere. I know that.
Where did you go for your honeymoon?
-Not applicable. I can think of lots of places I would LIKE to go, however. That would still not be a good question, though.
What street did you grow up on?
-Jarred Road or Greasewood Drive.
What was the name of your third-grade teacher?
-I actually do remember this one! Her name was Mrs. A-------. I know this because I only went to public school for two years. Good. I can use this one. But what if I need two more?
What was your first job?
-Well, I've been mowing the lawn for years now. My other jobbish skills include weeding gardens, cleaning bathrooms, using fabled devices like brooms and mops, and spraying febreeze. I volunteered at a kids camp as a counselor, maintenance crew member, and program coordinator. My first "salaried" job was as a soccer ref for little kids. Depending on how "sneaky" I want to be it could be any one of those things.
What was the name of your childhood best friend?
-Again. Not stereotypical farmboy childhood with best friend Jeb and trusty dog Rover. Here's what my life looked like with accompanying social circles until I was 13:
Age 1-4: I was born in Utah and spent my first years drooling on the floor and crapping my pants. My best friends were the foodmom and the beardface. Until my little brother came flying into my life. According to my parents, I slapped him in the face the first time I saw him (cuz, you know, somebody else was getting attention instead of me for several days. And when I found out who it was, I took action. The attempt failed, and I've been trying to complete my vengeance ever since...)
Age 5-8: Still living in Kearns. I had a friend down the road named Trevor who I liked because he had a Nintendo 64. Those babies were hot items when I was a kid. I had other friends at my church in Salt Lake too. So picking one is kind of not possible.
Age 9-13: Moved to Riverton. Not a huge move, but enough to be away from the people I knew in Kearns. The first day we moved there Ben and I went to the nearby park and found a group of kids our age playing. We had to go back shortly for dinner, and we asked them if they'd still be around when we got back. They said they would....but we never saw any of them again. I had a smattering of homeschool friends, but a bestie never really emerged.
So there you have it. I could just pick Ben to make things less complicated, but then when I get to the point when I need to remember my bestest friend in the whole wide world, I wouldn't remember who on earth I thought he was when I made the account.
-What was your dream job as a kid?
So, you're telling me every kid wants to do one thing, and one thing only for several years? So incredibly long, in fact, that it's imprinted on their minds until the day they die and realize with the very last breath they take that they never got to be a botanist in a cute little shop in Florida? Give me a break. Yes, I wanted to be an astronaut, but I also wanted to be a marine biologist, spiderman, a jedi, a nuclear physicist, a marine, and a writer. Would you dare to insinuate that I was so narrow-minded as to only want one thing in life?
I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know if you have any particular pet peeve security questions.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Stop it
Who takes the opportunity to open their minds?
I cannot answer that question, but I feel compelled to ask it, because even though I reside in a university for the time being, I feel that many here have not done so yet.
In fact, I think the opposite has happened. Instead of "expanding my horizons" or some other American Dream bullcrap, I feel as though I'm actually being encouraged to enter a box. The only time my horizons are open is when I'm born. Anything is possible, but the possibility of change decreases with age. You become somebody in particular. You enter adulthood with a set amount of likes and dislikes, passions and pet peeves, loves and hates. And you become more easy to categorize.
It's easy to call children loud, annoying, and playful, but that's because they are just beginning to learn to emulate us. They enjoy a far greater range of things because they don't have a slew of expectations and fears and "personality traits" screaming in the back of their minds.
And for some reason, we tell them they can be "anything they want to be" on Sesame Street, and when they get to college, they need to get a job, keep the job, and retire at 65 with a beach-front house in Florida. Don't miss Parcheesi on Fridays.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is:
Why on earth is the world hell-bent on lying to me?
Why can't it just tell me right off the bat that I should seek a nice, steady job, a nice, safe house, and two and a half nice children? And why would I want a kid with a severe genetic defect?
All joking aside, I guess it's because we all want to feel like we have some degree of freedom in what we choose, yet so many of the things we want to choose are frowned upon once we reach our twenties. It's literally taking metaphorical candy from a baby.
Thus, you should tell me that if I do want a stable, easy life, I should pursue an engineering degree, find a nice, happy wife that's good at cooking, and have two kids plus a one-legged one. And a golden retriever.
And then tell me the things I should be worrying about. Once I'm dead, no one will remember what degree I got, how much money I made, or what I told my teacher I wanted to be in sixth grade. Maybe they'll remember my kid with one eye, but that's irrelevant.
But they will remember the impact I had on them as people. So, maybe, we need to encourage our kids to be for somebody else, instead of being for themselves.
Stop telling me to be what I want to be. It's a lie, and you know it.
I cannot answer that question, but I feel compelled to ask it, because even though I reside in a university for the time being, I feel that many here have not done so yet.
In fact, I think the opposite has happened. Instead of "expanding my horizons" or some other American Dream bullcrap, I feel as though I'm actually being encouraged to enter a box. The only time my horizons are open is when I'm born. Anything is possible, but the possibility of change decreases with age. You become somebody in particular. You enter adulthood with a set amount of likes and dislikes, passions and pet peeves, loves and hates. And you become more easy to categorize.
It's easy to call children loud, annoying, and playful, but that's because they are just beginning to learn to emulate us. They enjoy a far greater range of things because they don't have a slew of expectations and fears and "personality traits" screaming in the back of their minds.
And for some reason, we tell them they can be "anything they want to be" on Sesame Street, and when they get to college, they need to get a job, keep the job, and retire at 65 with a beach-front house in Florida. Don't miss Parcheesi on Fridays.
I guess the point I'm trying to make is:
Why on earth is the world hell-bent on lying to me?
Why can't it just tell me right off the bat that I should seek a nice, steady job, a nice, safe house, and two and a half nice children? And why would I want a kid with a severe genetic defect?
All joking aside, I guess it's because we all want to feel like we have some degree of freedom in what we choose, yet so many of the things we want to choose are frowned upon once we reach our twenties. It's literally taking metaphorical candy from a baby.
Thus, you should tell me that if I do want a stable, easy life, I should pursue an engineering degree, find a nice, happy wife that's good at cooking, and have two kids plus a one-legged one. And a golden retriever.
And then tell me the things I should be worrying about. Once I'm dead, no one will remember what degree I got, how much money I made, or what I told my teacher I wanted to be in sixth grade. Maybe they'll remember my kid with one eye, but that's irrelevant.
But they will remember the impact I had on them as people. So, maybe, we need to encourage our kids to be for somebody else, instead of being for themselves.
Stop telling me to be what I want to be. It's a lie, and you know it.
Friday, October 4, 2013
How to Make your Local Cashier Happy
I work part-time in a cafe funded by the university.
For the most part, it's a pretty good job. I'm on my feet the whole time, I don't smell like fast food when I'm done, and the students are nice.
Mostly.
Here's a few ways to really make your local cashier really happy.
-DON'T IGNORE THEM.
Whenever people come in to buy something, I ask them how they're doing. Most of the time people will respond. Sometimes they'll engage me in a short, lively conversation that makes us both feel better. But sometimes they do this:
How rude.
I honestly try to invest in every person that comes in, even if they're only getting some ice water. If you don't want to talk much, just give a couple of terse answers and I'll leave you alone. But for some reason a cashier is an alien or something that can't be associated with. It bums me out, and it makes you look like a jerk, so even if you're just super shy you could at least say:
I'm good.
And pay me, and walk out.
-Don't shoot the messenger!
Things happen. Prices change, managers switch regular daily deals, equipment breaks down. It's up to me to notify management of any problems, but beyond that I can't magically fix the soda machine. I don't have the qualifications, the tools, or the permission to fix it. I'm sorry, I truly am, but please just go talk to management if you're really that upset about your diet coke being gone.
-Use your brain.
I don't know why this is an issue, but sometimes people blatantly ignore signs that say something isn't ready. I've had people come in, see the sign that says
CORN DOGS ARE NOT READY.
And they reach around the sign and grab a corn dog.
They buy it, leave, and come back later complaining that it's frozen. With several teeth marks in it that make it look like they let a beaver go at it.
So we have a new procedure.
We ask them where they got it.
If they say:
"Behind the not ready sign."
Then it's their own dang fault and NO REFUND.
I can't magically un-freeze things either. I'm just a 20 year old college student working at minimum wage to pay rent and sell you corn dogs
-Unfold your money.
This should be a no-brainer, but it really ruins my day to have somebody grab a soggy dollar bill that's been smashed in his back pocket all day to pay for his corn dog.
Here's why:
1. It's disgusting.
Be nice. Be happy. Love on a cashier near you.
For the most part, it's a pretty good job. I'm on my feet the whole time, I don't smell like fast food when I'm done, and the students are nice.
Mostly.
Here's a few ways to really make your local cashier really happy.
-DON'T IGNORE THEM.
Whenever people come in to buy something, I ask them how they're doing. Most of the time people will respond. Sometimes they'll engage me in a short, lively conversation that makes us both feel better. But sometimes they do this:
How rude.
I honestly try to invest in every person that comes in, even if they're only getting some ice water. If you don't want to talk much, just give a couple of terse answers and I'll leave you alone. But for some reason a cashier is an alien or something that can't be associated with. It bums me out, and it makes you look like a jerk, so even if you're just super shy you could at least say:
I'm good.
And pay me, and walk out.
-Don't shoot the messenger!
Things happen. Prices change, managers switch regular daily deals, equipment breaks down. It's up to me to notify management of any problems, but beyond that I can't magically fix the soda machine. I don't have the qualifications, the tools, or the permission to fix it. I'm sorry, I truly am, but please just go talk to management if you're really that upset about your diet coke being gone.
-Use your brain.
I don't know why this is an issue, but sometimes people blatantly ignore signs that say something isn't ready. I've had people come in, see the sign that says
CORN DOGS ARE NOT READY.
And they reach around the sign and grab a corn dog.
They buy it, leave, and come back later complaining that it's frozen. With several teeth marks in it that make it look like they let a beaver go at it.
So we have a new procedure.
We ask them where they got it.
If they say:
"Behind the not ready sign."
Then it's their own dang fault and NO REFUND.
I can't magically un-freeze things either. I'm just a 20 year old college student working at minimum wage to pay rent and sell you corn dogs
-Unfold your money.
This should be a no-brainer, but it really ruins my day to have somebody grab a soggy dollar bill that's been smashed in his back pocket all day to pay for his corn dog.
Here's why:
1. It's disgusting.
2. I have to unfold it and put it away, which can take a while depending on how rumpled it is.
3. If it's soggy...and it's been in your back pocket...then, well, butt-sweat.
I don't want to touch your butt-sweat. I might put on a latex glove to handle your butt-sweat. I am well within company policy to wear gloves while handling money, and if it teaches you something in the process, then good. I won't be snarky about it, because it's never my job to be rude or annoyed with a customer, but hopefully you'll catch the hint. Hopefully.
I hope this has been food for thought. Like I said, 90% of the people I see everyday are really nice to talk to and serve. There's just a few bad eggs that kind of make working miserable sometimes. Please don't be that guy.
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