08.23.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 5:44 pm by wmrj
As I believe I have mentioned before, I consider myself to be a reasonably reasonable person within reason. That being stated, I’m sitting in the middle of a Starbucks in Richmond, VA taking in all the sights. And by sights, I mean couples. As I sit here—alone, I’m thinking about how earlier this week I was told for the 15 millionth time this year, all by different individuals, that they weren’t looking for a relationship. Instead, all they wanted was a little “fun.” And by fun, they mean they’d like to hump someone’s leg every once in a while without the prerequisite dinner and a movie. And after having a little “fun” with you, they’d like to move on and hump the next cankle whenever and wherever they so desire without the confinement and hassle of your measly little feelings being involved. Hmph.
I have to admit, the first couple of times I was told that I was not being considered for a permanent position but instead was classified as “fun for now,” I was a little disappointed. Here I am, an independent, 22-year-old young man—ok, 29-year-old—with slightly less than above-average looks and an almost degree in an unspecified major from a moderately accredited university—my counselor tells me to just show up at graduation and they’ll just pick something fabulous to put on my diploma. All I know is that my degree won’t read “Chicken Wing Specialist” as I’d previously requested. But I digress. With what I and so many other single individuals have to offer, it forces you to wonder, why are we just good enough to be placed on layaway, but not the right fit to be fully invested in for the long haul?
The part that bothers me the most about this no strings dating trend is that you go into the situation a loser and are almost guaranteed to come out of it a loser. Before you’ve even exchanged names, email addresses, urine samples, and social security numbers for background checks, these individuals have already figured out that they’re not interested in YOU long term. Despite the fact that you have the cutest button nose and you can recite all of the American Idol winner’s names in 12 different languages, it’s almost a guarantee that your scene in their life is just a cameo because you won’t be returning for the next season. It’s like having Simon Cowell tell you at the end of each date that your performance just wasn’t good enough. After all, it’s just fun, right?
I realize that times are changing and sometimes we need to be flexible in order to not be left behind. Society has even coined a term for this no-stings-fun mentality: friends with benefits. I don’t know about you, but I already have some of those in my life. They’re called co-workers and we all have Blue Cross and Blue Shield—for now thanks to health care reform. Despite the different meanings of “friends with benefits,” both forms can be linked to a doctor’s office visit. If your friend has benefits, they can simply set up a doctor’s appointment. But if you indulge in a little too much “fun” with your friends with benefits, you may end up NEEDING to set up a doctor’s appointment. If that ever happens, my advice would be to wear sunglasses, a hat, and a fake mustache when you anonymously go to the free clinic where they can’t inform your real doctor of your little “situation.” Not that I know from experience or anything, but when you walk in, they give you a number and this little cup and then you take it to—never mind.
For myself, I’m not sure I could deal with the casual nature of these types of relationships. For instance, I recently asked one of these no-string culprits that I’d been waiting to connect with for about a month if they had free time to hang out one day. There response, “That’s fine,” as if I were the cable guy who’d asked if a 3-to-5 time slot would work for them, or if I were some waiter who’d run out of steaks and wanted to know if chicken was ok. There wasn’t any excitement on their part and that totally killed it for me. I guess because they weren’t looking for anything serious, it didn’t matter whether they spent the day with me, my neighbor, or Sammy Davis, Jr. That bothers me.
Since the point of having “friends with benefits” is so that there are no ties, I guess people have the freedom to enroll in as many “benefits packages” as they’d like. However, I’m sooooooo not interested in introducing myself and retelling the story about how my mom mistook me for the dog a couple times when I was a baby over and over again each time I meet someone new to go over the benefits “plans” and “coverages” they have to offer. In fact, I’ve prerecorded my answers to the standard questions like where I’m from, what I do, and what I’m looking for. When asked, I simply tell them to wait a second, pass them my IPod, and then hit play. I can’t tell you how much breath I’ve saved with this simple gesture. Let’s just say I’ve saved more with this technique than I could have by switching to Geico.
Now, far be it from me to pass judgment on anyone. In fact, I’d rather gnaw off my kneecap and use it as a Frisbee before I’d ever look down upon you. However, my personal feeling is that the more people you expose yourself to in an intimate nature for fun, the less value a potential partner may see in you in terms of a relationship. At that point, you’re just a “good time gal/guy.” For instance, let’s say you’re at a party and some village idiot decides it would be fun to use the karaoke microphone to ask the crowd how many people you’ve been with in the room by a show of hands. If all 300 individuals raise their hand except for your grandma, could you really blame someone for not looking at you as relationship material when you are finally ready to settle down? That example is a little extreme, but I do have several friends that enthusiastically point out their conquests each time we go to a club, get together, or church. Let’s just say there are some preachers who should be very ashamed of themselves—but I’m not judging.
Taking this view further, I’ve started bowling at least twice a month. Each time I go, my friends tease me because I don’t have my own bowling shoes. Instead, I have to rent a pair of the well-worn, multi-colored ones that have been around the block a few times. Now if it’s socially unacceptable for me to wear second-hand shoes that have been used by many feet, shouldn’t the same rules apply to having a second-hand partner that is dating—ok, mating—with more than one person? Yuck!!! Furthermore, many of us buy houses instead of renting, and purchase cars instead of leasing because we don’t want to invest a lot of money into something that will never be ours. That being stated, why do we feel it’s ok to invest a whole bunch of time and energy into a rent-a-boyfriend or a loaner-girlfriend who will probably never be interested in progressing to the next level?
In my lowly opinion, if both parties are ok with the no strings rule, then I say do it till you’re satisfied. However, for myself, I want to feel something. I need conversation. I need to not see you on a date with boyfriend number two at a fancy restaurant when all you’ve ever done with me was order something off the dollar menu from the Burger Barn. And I don’t know how well I’d do with the boundaries of a solely physical relationship. To not know whether I’d get happy birthday wishes or a get-well card from someone I’m so intimate with when those times arise would probably do more emotional damage than the good I’d get from the physical aspects of the connection. If the person I’ll eventually order off EBay and I are happy in each other’s company, I’d like for us to be able to share that with one another and revel in that feeling without restraints. I need more than a bunk buddy. I don’t want to not date you long term because you’re clinically insane but settle for the physical aspects because I’m lonely and you live across the street. Besides, what would animal control say if they knew you were mating and hadn’t been spayed and/or neutered? And what would our kids look like? Ewwwwww.
In closing, I’m taking a stand for those of us who still believe it’s possible to find that certain something out there, whatever it is. It may be difficult and a little frustrating at times when you keep being side lined by those who aren’t on the same page as you are in terms of relationships, but hang in there. There is hope. And if you don’t believe me, grab a coffee and look around. Actually, just look around your work place. If someone has chosen to date-and-mate with some of THOSE individuals, someone is sure to settle for you and me—eventually.
Access my full blog: www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: www.justmichael.net
Permalink
08.10.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 2:44 pm by wmrj
As some of you may know, in about two weeks I’ll be starting my last semester of undergrad. Allegedly, in December I’ll be getting some form of degree in English after approximately 40 years of pop quizzes, presentations, and final exams. All of the laughter and tears—mostly tears—have led up to this finale. It’s like American Idol where I’m Paula Abdul and it’s just starting to register that I won’t be returning next season. I’ll walk across that stage, get a rolled-up sheet of paper that won’t really be my degree, but instead will contain a question that if I don’t answer correctly will have me labeled as the weakest link. I’ll phone a friend for help, and then because I don’t have any friends, I’ll have to settle for whoever answers when I call 411 for assistance. Of course, they won’t know the answer to what color yellow and blue makes either and I’ll be relegated to being an assistant bagger at a Dollar Store for the rest of my life..
Of course, I’m being just a tad bit dramatic. But the reality is, because it can’t be completed within a few weeks, finishing school has always been a long-term goal. I never thought my degree would be just around the corner and a few blocks up. It seemed like school would always be a part of my life like taxes and Big Macs. For me, getting a degree was like this unattainable urban myth like receiving a check from Publishers Clearing House. I mean, I’m a veteran at this school thing. People who started school after me have already graduated, set up fraudulent internet businesses, and retired to Columbia where they are safe from any legal actions.
For the last seven years I’ve watched other people raise their hands when professors asked who’s graduating this semester. It was never me. In fact, a few of my teachers stated they thought I’d already crossed that threshold. Now, I can neither confirm nor deny that I’ve walked across the stage during a commencement just for pretend. However, I can say that I will give Michael Hartley his degree when I actually get one that has my name on it instead of his. (Michael, I’m sorry for any confusion my accepting your degree in your absence may have caused, but your cap and gown was a perfect fit.) Even worse, I’ve seen the look on people’s faces when they ask me how school is going and I tell them that I still have 3 or so years left before I complete the two-month degree program from a partially accredited university. Actually, I think my graduating has less to do with any effort on my part, and more to do with the fact that those individuals probably petitioned Congress to pass a bill where I’d have to graduate or else.
Seriously, I’ve been putting a lot of thought into my next move. I mean, what now? Do I go straight into Grad school? Since I’m not independently wealthy and would have to go further in debt for more education, is Grad school worth it? And if I do end up applying for Grad school, do I continue my writing path, or do I do something that’s more translatable into the work world like an MBA or something of that sort? In my opinion, an MBA would be helpful in case the writing thing doesn’t pan out. However, others feel that my pursuing an MBA, which isn’t my true passion, would just make me put off my writing pursuits just that much longer. In the words of Janet Jackson:
Soap opera says,
You’ve got one life to live,
Who’s right?
Who’s wrong?
I’ll give you a minute or two to stop dancing. Go ahead. I’m patient. After all, I’ve waited 7 years for my degree, I guess I can wait for you to finish doing all those 80’s dance moves. Actually, I’ll take a moment to do the robot myself. Go Michael! Go Michael! It’s your birthday!
It’s times like these that I wish I could call the Psychic Friends Network and have them use their expertise and infinite wisdom to help guide my steps and direct me as to what I should do. I had this conversation with an acquaintance the other day and he strongly advised me that if writing was my passion, I needed to put my all into it and not worry about having an MBA to fall back on. He said that I’d be successful if I just went for writing wholeheartedly and to look at Tyler Perry and Terry McMillan as examples. I explained to him that they are the exceptions and for every successful writer there are a million who struggle their whole lives and never get that big break. I could see me now with no home and selling copies of my book and funnel cakes from the trunk of my car. He considers me not to be forward thinking. I consider my view to be realistic.
That being stated, I’d like to open up dialogue with my readers—ok, my reader—as to what you think I should do, whether you’ve been in a similar situation, and how it worked out in the end. What is your opinion of MBA programs and how they aide a person in being successful throughout their lives? Do you know of anyone who has an MBA? If so, what are they currently doing professionally and was the pursuit of an MBA their original goal or a fallback plan?
People always ask me what I want to do with my life as far as writing is concerned. As an English major, if you don’t want to teach, people don’t believe that there’s anything else you can do to make a living. My goal is to prove them, and myself, wrong. This blog is just the beginning—hopefully. I’ve always wanted to be a columnist where I could write whatever I wanted. Think Carrie from Sex and the City except without the strappy sandals, expensive dresses, and due to a severe dating drought, without the sex. I want to write articles about me crying because some guy flipped me off on the interstate. I want to write about the cashier at the supermarket who yelled at me because I got $60 cash back from my debit card when the limit was $50—I don’t know how I would have known that, but apparently I should have and I’m a disappointment to the entire human race because I didn’t. I want to touch people. Make them smile. Make them think. My ultimate goal is to be a staff writer with a magazine, newspaper, or marketing department. In addition, I want to write novels, poetry, scripts, and other creative forms of media as well. In fact, you’ll be happy to know that I’m on page 215 of a novel I’m working on right now.
Yes, these are my goals. I’m a writer who will graduate in December 2009 with hundreds of thousands of other graduates searching for work and competing with more experienced and possibly more educated individuals searching for jobs in the middle of a recession. On the surface, the prospects don’t look good. However, I’m a positive person and I’m going to hold my head high, walk across the stage, accept my diploma, and head straight to the unemployment office while I’ve got the momentum. Just kidding. But keep me in your thoughts and prayers as I prepare to embark on the next chapter of my life. Thus far, graduating from college will be one of my biggest accomplishments yet. In fact, I’ll be the first college graduate on my mother’s side of the family, and I’ll be one of a small few, if any, on my father’s side. That’s huge. The pressure is on, not just to be successful for myself, but to be an example to others so that maybe my nieces, nephews, and pets won’t have to work so hard or and can have someone to look up to. I’m blazing new trails. From now on, just call me Harriet Tubman.
Access my full blog: www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: www.justmichael.net
Permalink
08.03.09
Posted in Uncategorized at 8:42 pm by wmrj
Some people are born with common sense. Other people are just born. I’d like to think that I have a good head on my shoulders and that I have the ability to reason and use good judgment. As a matter of fact, my shrink always agrees with my logic. It’s like I talk and he/she/it just nods his/her/its head right along with everything I say for the whole session as I lay there nude on the couch. The reason I say he/she/it is because the verdict is still out. However, it’s what my insurance would cover and it’s very convenient to have my sessions in the middle of a McDonalds.
Despite all of this, because of random things like cell phone radiation, the price of tea in China, and a healthy fear of swine flu, my version of common sense, which my team of doctors ensure me was installed when I was hatched, sometimes functions intermittently. For instance, the other day I was at Wal-Mart with my parole officer—also known as my mother—when I saw a matching coffee maker, toaster, and iron being sold as a set for $20. Now, I don’t know why this interested me so much. I already have a toaster and an iron, and I don’t drink enough coffee to brew my own. Besides, someone has to keep Starbucks in business and I take on that responsibility with pride. But there is just something about being in a Wal-Mart that makes you evaluate taking home things you don’t really need or want. I’m surprised I haven’t left with a kid yet. I mean, they are reasonably priced and all, and the ones from Cambodia are on sale this week.
Anyway, so I see this matching iron, toaster, and coffee maker set and it was as if I’d never seen a more perfect combination since peanut butter and jelly, the iPod and music, or cell phones and free daytime minutes. Though I’ve probably seen about 60 billion coffee makers in my life, this particular one took me back to my childhood as it beckoned for me. It practically called my name and said, “Take me. I’m yours, Big Daddy.” I couldn’t resist the temptation. I had to touch it. I just had to know how it worked despite the fact that my parole officer/mother had strictly forbade me to touch anything, even if I was going to buy it. I carefully removed the unit from the shelf and began to investigate where the water went in. It was then that my beautiful day took a turn for the worse.
They say that curiosity killed the cat. Well, I can’t speak for this alleged cat because I never saw an autopsy report, but I can say that curiosity did lead to the demise of a coffeepot. I had tilted the coffee maker just enough to find out how it worked, when the coffeepot dislodged itself from the holder and fell to the floor in slow motion. My life flashed before my eyes and I screamed out, “NOOOOOOOOO.” In my experience, Wal-Marts are typically loud places. Well, not when you break something. Then, you could hear a pin drop, or in this case, a coffeepot.
As the coffeepot smashed to the ground, my first thought was to grab my mother’s hand, leave the cart behind, and run. Unfortunately, this wasn’t possible because the whole incident had been witnessed by millions of customers who had come from miles around to see what I’d done. They encircled me. They pointed and shook their heads disapprovingly. Somehow they knew that I didn’t even need a coffeepot and were questioning why I had picked it up in the first place. Fleeing was pointless. I knew the other patrons would rat me out for some lint and a pack of Skittles. In addition, my parole officer had already begun removing her belt and giving me the “I’m about to beat your behind right in the middle of this store” look. She’d never been on TV before and thought that a public flogging would be an easy way to make the nightly news. I was humiliated.
After my mother received straight 10s across the board and a standing ovation for successfully executing one of her famous five hits with one swing lashings, I pulled up my Superman underoos as quickly as I could. With the fear in my heart of having to pay for the merchandise, or forever being banished from Wal-Marts across the nation, I searched for an employee to report the incident. When I found a lady whom I thought to be one, I asked, “Do you work here?” She snarled, “What do you need?” I knew right then that if I admitted that I was the culprit, she’d have me out back in front of the firing squad within a matter of minutes and I just couldn’t allow that to happen. I mean, how would my parole officer have gotten home. I decided that the less information I gave, the better off I’d be. After all, I have my whole life ahead of me. “That coffee pot over there just fell and broke,” I said. Now, this wasn’t exactly a lie. It did fall. And maybe it did have a little assistance from me, but the Bible says nothing about withholding information being one of the 10 commandments. As far as I’m concerned, as long as I didn’t eat from the tree of knowledge, which they also sell at Wal-Mart, I was fine.
Therefore, the moral of this story, which I’m sure you’ve guessed by now, is wear clean underoos, because you just never know. Speaking of you just never know, several people have asked when it is that I post my blog so that they’ll know what day to check for updates. My goal is to post at some point over the weekend so it’s safe to check each Monday. Today I got a tad bit behind, but I’ll do better in the future—especially when I get up to like three readers because it will be more professional of me to have some type of system and to display a certain level of responsibility, which will work in my favor when I purchase those kids from Cambodia.
Until next time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, which pretty much gives you free reign to do whatever you like.
Michael
Permalink
