Actually, my first day wasn’t so bad. Well, except for the part where I went to the vehicle registration office, which was staffed by police officers, to get a parking pass and learned that both my registration and insurance cards were expired. Oops!!! And let me tell you now, offering them donuts and coffee in exchange for them looking the other way and ignoring violations does not work. Don’t try it! In my experience, it just makes them put the cuffs on tighter. Also, I fumbled a couple times when being introduced to other staff members. For some reason, the only words I could think of were, “It’s nice to meet you.” That was my response for everything—even if they asked me to repeat my name. “It’s nice to meet you,” I’d say with a grin. With one of the managers, I’m sure I said it at least seven times before she decided that I was a lost cause. In my defense, I was nervous. And even if you repeat it twenty times, at least you get credit for being polite. Another habit I’ve picked up from working on a military base is calling everyone sir…even when I’m speaking to females. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said, “That’s a nice dress, sir.”

Since parking on base is very limited, I have to get to work an hour and a half early if I want to find a spot on campus. My start time is 7:30 a.m. and I have to be there no later than 6:15 a.m. if I want a parking space that doesn’t have a sign threatening a mandatory life sentence if you park there without proper authorization and a signed note from the president and his mom. Seriously, if I get there one minute late, it’s like playing musical chairs with twenty cars aiming for the one remaining spot. However, even if I am the lucky one to get to the last spot first, because everyone else has guns, I’m always afraid to take it. I haven’t been to the gym in centuries, so there’s no way I’d be able to duck and roll out of the car and dart to the building in one piece. For me, it would be life or death. For them, it’s called a training exercise.

Four days after I started, I was sent over to the IT department to have my picture taken for my new badge. Because I had no idea it would take so long for this to be done, I’d worn my best clothes on the first day. The second and third day, my clothes were a few notches down from what I’d worn the first day. But by the fourth day, I was scraping the bottom of the barrel for outfits, my hair had started growing in from the fresh cut I’d gotten the weekend before, and a group of pimples had begun doing the Macarena right in the middle of my cheek. Despite all of this, I smiled like I’d just won a million dollars. As soon as the flash went off, I knew the photo wasn’t good. I was almost sure I hadn’t smoothed my eyebrows down, which was my fault for not flat ironing and applying some gel to them before I left for work. Immediately, I requested to have another one taken. After I was told that I couldn’t, I asked, “Would I win America’s Next Top Model with that picture?” The guy examined the photo, smiled, and responded, “No, but you might win America’s Next Top Deer Caught In Headlights.” At first I was disappointed, but then I looked at the bright side: at least I could win something.

Even though I just finished school, I learned that you can receive life lessons from the oddest of places. Before I made the hour-long journey home one evening, I stopped at the Dunkin Donuts on base for a coffee. My first mistake was asking for a café mocha. Apparently, they only serve mocha lattes and have absolutely no idea what you’re referring to unless you order that specifically. Oh, and they don’t use the word “mocha” to help guide you toward asking for the right item. Instead, they just look at you as if you have a knee cap on your forehead and let you figure it out for yourself. Once we got through that debacle, I asked the cashier if the drink was presweetened. She frowned and asked, “You want peach sweetener?” I shook my head and repeated my request. At this, she replied, “You need to learn how to talk better.” I pondered this for a moment and then thanked her for the advice. I mean, just because I have a degree in English, doesn’t mean I can’t accept words of wisdom from the Dunkin Donut’s staff. I was just happy they didn’t charge me for both the lesson and the latte.

All in all, I’d say I’m doing just fine. Although I’m not actually a part of the armed forces, being in the presence of so many military personnel makes me feel an extreme sense of pride and fulfillment. For once, it seems as if I have a real sense of purpose. Due to this purpose, I now iron and shower every day as opposed to every other day because I can’t let America down. And because resources are limited, I’ve learned some handy skills like how to make a computer out of two thumb tacks and a nickel. Actually, I didn’t really need the nickel. I just added that part so I could have a faster start-up and so my YouTube videos would play in high definition. I’ve also learned to make do with what I have. If I’m fortunate enough to get coffee, I don’t expect lids, cream, sugar, or even water. In fact, chewing on coffee grinds give you more of a jolt than any Starbucks drink I’ve ever had. Lastly, I’ve learned to buy groceries for a month with just $0.53 and a bobby bin. Isn’t life great? Michael Rochelle is in the army now.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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One of the most disappointing things about being a college graduate is that you don’t get better service at stores and restaurants for being so. I asked the fry guy for hot fries and tried to justify my request by showing him my cap and gown photo and he showed me his class ring and then told me his degree was in molecular biology and traffic cone placement. Let’s just say I had to make due with the cold fries. And don’t even get me started about Wal-Mart. There are absolutely no checkout lines dedicated to college graduates. Apparently, all they care about is whether you have 15 items or less. The other customers are no better. They have absolutely no respect and appreciation for my degree. The other day, I politely said to this lady, “Excuse me mam, I see you have 2 items and I have like 40, but do you mind if I scoot on ahead of you? I’m a college graduate.” She just looked at me. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. No respect whatsoever.

Despite this, the experience hasn’t been a total disappointment. Honestly, I don’t know whether my parents, grandmother, or I enjoyed the ceremony more. In fact, I was shocked when they called my name and my mother knocked me out of the way so that she could walk across the stage in my place. Part of me was happy that this happened because she certainly got more applause than I did when I finally got to walk across the stage after she was escorted out of the building. It’s really amazing how many times a person can be tazered and still remain standing. I’m so proud of her. Now she’s an internet sensation on YouTube and in order for me to reach her, I have to talk to her publicist first. In that case, me saying I’m a college graduate does get me faster service than me just saying I’m her son. I have no idea why. Hopefully, at the next graduation program, the school will provide more security and run background and credit checks before admittance. You can’t just let anybody in these days. Then again, maybe it’s not there fault that they didn’t know that. After all, they are partially accredited.

Another awesome thing about the ceremony was the pictures my father took. The day before, I’d stopped by to show him how to use the camera. Of course, my mother didn’t need assistance. She had a one-time-use camera with 12 pictures left and figured that one or two pictures of my graduation would be more than enough in case anything more important came up. When it comes to rationing out pictures, my mother doesn’t play. In fact, on that same roll is a picture or two of my birth and at least five of the checkout girl at the beauty supply store. I can’t blame my mother though. The girl is nice and very photogenic. I’ll post pictures of her one day when my mom uses the remaining ten pictures. I figure that by the time I get married, have a couple kids, get a house, adopt a dog, release my book, and go on Oprah, that will probably be enough events for her to want to use up the rest of the roll and get the pictures developed. If not, we’ll just have to schedule some more life changing events. Maybe I could move to Iraq or something.

Anyway, I was so impressed by the pictures my father took. He didn’t get his thumb in any of the shots and even I make that mistake sometimes. You’re not going to believe this, but the photos he took with the lens cap off were even better. For those, I don’t have to pretend to know what was going on at that moment. “You see that black picture right there? If you turn off the lights and squint really hard, you’ll see me right there. You see me? I’m the one dropping it like it’s hot on the stage.” Oh, and my dad did get some great shots of one of some guy’s back who was sitting a few rows ahead of him. With those pictures I say, “Ok, you see that guy’s back right there? Just pretend he isn’t sitting there. Yup, that’s me snatching the microphone from the speaker and giving a shout out to Ray-Ray and Pookie and dem.” By the way, being a college graduate, I probably should no longer use words like “dem.” From now on, even though it may require a little more breath, I’m going to use the full word—them.

I’d also like to note that having a degree in English does not mean that you can handle mathematical calculations any better. For some reason, everyone has decided to stop using their calculators to ask me if I know what one plus six equals. After using my fingers and toes—and sometimes those of friend or random person nearby—I still draw a blank every time. And in case you were wondering, I may have a college degree, but I am certainly not “Smarter Than A 5th Grader” in any way, shape, or form. Also, being a college graduate doesn’t make you any better at shooting pool. I was in total shock when I lost my shirt and my new car to a four-year-old last week. I’m telling you, just because she wasn’t tall enough to see over the table, doesn’t mean she didn’t have skills. And between you and I, I’ve even gone so far as to stop calling it “pool” because “billiards” sounds so much smarter—and it’s even better when you say it with an English accent.

On a serious note, it was awesome to finally achieve that goal. The look of pride on my mom’s, dad’s, and grandmother’s faces that day was priceless. When I began that journey seven years ago, I had no idea that I’d enjoy the experience as much as I did and that I’d work so hard that I’d finish with a 3.849 on a 4.0 scale which enabled me to graduate with magna cum laude status (with great honor/praise). On top of that, two days later, even though we’re currently in the midst of hard times economically, I was offered an amazing opportunity with a new job in a new city that could bring me closer to my writing goals. Needless to say, this is a very good period for me and I’m looking forward to the road ahead. When I wrote, “New Year, New You” a few weeks ago, I had no idea just how true that concept would be for me.

What I’d like to do now is challenge you to stretch yourself a little bit so that you can grow as well. As I’ve asked a few times before, what is that one goal you’ve always wanted to accomplish? Have you ever wanted to go to or finish school? Is there another line of work or another opportunity within your current job that you’d be happier in? Do you sometimes want to order steak instead of chicken? No matter what your goals are, aren’t YOU worth taking a shot at them? A good friend told me that I shouldn’t be afraid to do new things because what’s meant for me is for me. The same is true for you. There is always room to learn something new. There is always the potential to do and be better. What are you waiting on? As I told my former co-workers on my last day before I journeyed on to the new venture, never, ever, ever forget your value. See how smart I am?!?!

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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Well, if anyone asks what I was doing as we exited the year 2009 and entered 2010, like most New Year’s, I was responsible. I didn’t spend it watching the ball drop, and I wasn’t safely nestled in a ditch somewhere under a pile of snow. Instead, I was sleeping. Like most 30-year-old senior citizens, I’d gone to bed around 8 o’clock. Fortunately, I’d left the TV on and some of the commotion from those who were popping champagne bottles woke me up at about 12:15 a.m. It was then that I decided to pop my own bottle—Mountain Dew. Unfortunately, due to my lack of time at the gym, I spent about 30 minutes trying to open it. However, the point is, I didn’t give up. And if I can open a stubborn soda bottle after a little struggle and a phone call to the manufacturer, maybe it’s a sign that this year I’ll be able to do anything I put my mind to with a little determination, perseverance, hard work, and prayer. Maybe all the years of being told that I can do anything I put my mind to weren’t lies after all.

On New Year’s, like myself, most people set resolutions as to what things they’ll do differently than they’d done in the past. Myself, I’ve tried being more punctual, to stop procrastinating, and to eat better. For a few days, I ate only carrots and kale, got to work 20 minutes early and watched movies the day they came out as opposed to waiting a few weeks to see them. Actually, I didn’t do any of that stuff, but I had intentions to. However, this year, I’ve decided that as opposed to setting up all these goals that I’ll never reach—because there is no way I’m giving up Starbucks, even if I do have to choose between getting a cup of coffee or a tank of gas—I’m just going to work on being a better person in general. My theory is that this goal alone will help me in all the other areas I struggle with. Thus, instead of saying fowl words, I’m now going to incorporate the word “douche” into my vocabulary because I like it. For example, “My neighbor is a douche.” Or, worst case scenario, “You’re a douchey person.” See, I feel better already.

Although I haven’t set any concrete resolutions for this year, I have been listening to some self-help books that have encouraged me to visualize my goals as if I’d already achieved them. Thus, because I’ve seen so many photos of writers on the back of their books, I’ve decided to take a few of my own that I’d like to appear on the back of my book when it’s released in July of 2083. The problem is, whereas other writers’ photos make them look smart and make it appear that they were born to write, my photos all look like I’m the type of person who needs to have his credit card run BEFORE any services are provided. The good thing is, since the book isn’t done yet, I have time to buy glasses and get a fake beard to help cement my status as an author. And maybe I’ll even change my first name to Doctor to add on some extra credibility. Yes, from now on, I’ll be Dr. Rochelle. Yes, that should do it.

Recently, I saw a question that asked if I were any superhero, which one would I be. Remember when you were a kid and you thought that Superman, and the Power Rangers, and Barney were like the best things since sliced tomatoes? Do you remember how it seemed that everything was possible back then? Well, everything except my getting good grades. My mother would look at my report card and say, “6 A’s, that’s impossible!” Besides that, it’s awesome to think back to a time when there weren’t any bills or responsibilities. I never thought about being a superhero back then, but if I could choose to be one now, I wouldn’t want to be able to fly or move mountains with a single wave of the hand. Instead, I’d rather be the Mighty Bill Payer, paying my own bills with the blink of an eye. There’d be no bill that I couldn’t manage. Car notes, rent, student loans, I’d just wave my hand and they’d all be gone. Actually, now that I think about it, I’m already a superhero. Thanks to my shredder, as soon as the bills come in, I simply insert them into the slot and they just disappear. Voila! It’s magic. Now, if I could just stop the bills from coming in the first place, that would be awesome.

Moving right along, this year, I’d like to work on maintaining a more positive perspective. It’s easy to let things get you down—like starting college seven years ago and finally graduating at a time when even Wal-Mart and McDonalds aren’t hiring. In fact, I’ve even been turned down for volunteer opportunities. Apparently, I’m not eligible to be a big brother or a big sister and the Salvation Army says they aren’t recruiting at this time, which sucks because I had a uniform and gun all picked out for my first day. Despite this, I do believe that with perseverance, things just work themselves out. If you majored in chewing gum manufacturing or needlepoint, somewhere there is someone looking for just your background. And if you want love but you’ve been single for an extended period of time, like 20 years, you have to believe that there is someone out there for you—even if they live in a cave and don’t have access to electricity, running water, and the internet so they haven’t seen the 139 online dating profiles you’ve created. There’s still reason to believe that maybe one day they will. Right?

And when someone flips you the bird on the highway and you have no idea why, don’t let that ruin your day. Instead, just smile and wave back. If necessary, while you’re smiling, I even give you permission to say, “Have a good day, Douche,” as you watch them ride off into the sunset while you continue riding 10 miles an hour in a 50-mile-per-hour zone with your high beams on. Maybe they had somewhere important to go to. Like a two-for-one sale on scented candles or something. Let’s do things differently in 2010. How about we start with the things that we wanted to do in 2009 but never quite got around to? Maybe we could smile and hug more…that is, unless you’re in a rough neighborhood. If that’s the case, I’d avoid smiling at all costs. And you definitely don’t want to hug. Trust me, I learned that lesson the hard way. I should have known that guy wasn’t in the mood for hugging by the frown and tattoos on his face. But hey, you win some and you lose some. At least I tried. And at the end of the day, that’s all that matters. Right? I just hope that at some point he’ll give me back my wallet.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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For the past few weeks, I’ve been under attack by a force that has terrorized me for much of my adult life: acne. And we’re not talking just a blemish here and there. No, we’re talking a mutiny of pimples that are threatening to multiply and take over the world one citizen at a time. I’m serious. When people see me, they either quickly cover their children’s eyes or give them markers so that they can play connect the dots. Several clubs have even threatened to charge me for multiple admissions because of my new facial friends. Last week, a hospital asked me if I’d be so kind as to sign my zits in on the visitors log. Worst of all, I’ve gained like 10 pounds in pimples alone. Ok, maybe 10 pounds is exaggerating a little, but I can guarantee you at least 9 for sure.

The funny thing is that I don’t feel like I’m under any more stress than usual. I mean, the bill collectors aren’t calling any more frequently than they typically do, and so far I’ve held them off by offering them my mom’s and dad’s tickets to my upcoming graduation. I’ve even promised to immediately hand over any monetary gifts I receive that day. But, when I think about it, having acne isn’t all bad. If I’m ever attacked and I don’t have my mace or nunchucks on me, I can just yell, “Back off!” and aim a pimple at them. It’s very effective and it works against worrisome family members too. Test it out if you don’t believe me. The next time your mother corners you and tries to force you to wash dishes or take the trash out because you’re 38 and you need to learn some responsibility, just aim and squeeze! Twenty extra points if you get her in the eye.

Speaking of something getting in someone’s eye, I’ve recently seen several TV shows where a loved one had been cremated, and family members were saying their goodbyes by scattering ashes at the beach, in a field, or off the top of buildings with people watching below. It made me wonder if all that soot in the air is really smog. Maybe it’s really just Uncle Wilbur flying on his way to his final destination. There, it’s settled. From here on out, I’m not washing my car again. Who am I to rinse off Uncle Wilbur if he’s happy there? How selfish of me! Maybe he’s my guardian angel and that’s how he kinda hangs around. I don’t know this for a fact. I’m just saying.

And while we’re on the topic of washing, maybe we should no longer take showers either. As mentioned, showering could interrupt our bond with someone’s Uncle Wilbur or Aunt Myrtle, but choosing not to do so could also have other advantages. For myself, I like to shower with the music on. Most often I’m pretending that I’m not so much in the shower as I am preparing for my American Idol audition. Anyway, this one particular day I was doing the Michael Rochelle version of Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” when I could have sworn I heard something in the living room. I turned the music down for a moment and listened. Nothing. Without missing a beat, I began singing the bridge and was about to wow the crowd and graciously receive a standing ovation when I heard the noise a second time. Again, I turned the music down and heard nothing.

At this point, I assumed that maybe one of my neighbors was moving stuff around in their apartment. Although I know they pay rent and have the right to make a little noise every now and then, I didn’t appreciate them messing up my solo. I should really write a letter to the rental office or the mayor. Next time I think I’ll just call the police. Anyway, just as I began to sing yet a third time, I heard a voice yell, “Maintenance!” Slowly, I slid the shower curtain back enough for me to poke my head out and saw the source of the disturbance. A maintenance woman, and two guys from the gas and electric company were standing at the bathroom door! See, this is exactly why I need a house instead of an apartment. You just never know what intimate moments you’ll share with anyone who has access to a key. Initially I felt lucky that I hadn’t chosen a see-through shower curtain. Then again, since I’m still single, maybe if the shower curtain were see-through, I’d have a date tonight. Geez, I have the worse luck.

On a serious note, with the passing of Thanksgiving and my minor brush with death—even though the car would have had to have gunned it and knocked me into the street where I would have subsequently been hit by two trucks and parked on by a school bus—I’ve been thinking a lot about the things that I’m thankful for and enjoying them now while I have the chance. As we all know, tomorrow is not promised. In fact, the rest of the day isn’t promised. However, as opposed to thinking about this morbidly, why not use this fact as a spark to enjoy life a little more. Yes, I have acne. I went to bed last night with four zits and woke up with about twelve, but it could always be worse. I should be thankful that it’s just a few pimples that will eventually go away with the right combination of prescriptions and prayer as opposed to my having something more serious. Although the zits make me want to hide under the bed and cry a lot, based on some of the things other people are going through, they’re really no big deal. So what if people scream when they see me and quickly cross over to the other side of the street. It’s just a temporary condition and I can’t be arrested for it—again.

And as far as us not knowing what tomorrow holds, why not do or start planning to do the things you’ve always wanted to do today. If you’ve always wanted a degree in, say, the study of cheese steaks, why not jump online to see which schools have a program for that sort of thing and review the requirements for getting started. If you’ve always wanted a house because you’re tired of flashing the maintenance guy and him not reciprocating, start saving today in order to make that possible. And what if you wanted to be a model but you’re held back by a few blemishes? Well, until they go away, why not model your big toe or your left knee or something until you get the results you want? I hear ankles are very big in Germany—no pun intended. There’s no need to wait until the new year to start making changes in your life. If you start today, you’ll be well on your wait to seeing some sort of result tomorrow—unless you’re on acne medicine, then, supposedly, your time frame is about six to eight weeks.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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Next, they ask why I would do such a thing and how could I possibly have fun by myself. Well, at this age, people have responsibilities, so it’s not so easy to coordinate trips when people have to request days off from their jobs, and request time off from their spouses, and request time off from their boyfriends/girlfriends on the side, and still beat their children on a regular basis. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been turned down with this line, “Oh, no, Michael, I’m sorry. I can’t do Friday. I have to whip Little Davey that night. He just turned two and I can’t miss out on that.”

I enjoy my own company. For me, being single is not some form of affliction for which I should be quarantined or taken out back and shot. I like doing the things that I want to do at my own pace. Trying to coordinate other people’s schedules and likes and dislikes with yours can kinda put a damper on spontaneity. For example, when I got highly frustrated and began going into convulsions because I’d lost $40 in a slot machine, I was able to immediately run screaming out of the building to the nearest clothing store and bought some shirts to calm me down. I didn’t have to explain that change of plans to anyone. That’s what I call freedom. And when I went to the Absecon Lighthouse and struck up a conversation with 69-year-old Bayard, there was no one there to ridicule me for somehow finding the other oldest person in the world besides myself—whose birthday was the same day as mine—and striking up a conversation with him for hours as we talked about the good old days. And if anyone can talk about what life was like during the 1820’s or the Great Depression, it’s me.

Despite the fun times I have as a single person, there are some things you should know if you happen to be a loner. For instance, some restaurants will not let you have a table or a booth when you are just a party of one. Instead, they may force you to sit at the bar, or at the counter where they take money, or—if they really feel bad for you—in one of the stalls in the restroom. If you are fortunate enough to sit at the counter, don’t be surprised if people slide your plate over a bit so that they can use your space to set their purses and wallets down while they pay. One time, someone even asked to have a taste of my fries. It was the least I could do.

Also, when you sit at the counter or bar with the other random relationship-impaired rejects, the people on either side of you will inevitably have some form of cough. And it won’t be just a simple, one-time cough. It will be one of those whooping coughs from deep within that makes you cover your food from unidentified flying particles and forces you to wonder if you’ll go to jail or be sued for not performing CPR if the person doesn’t recover and starts to turn blue. You’ll then look at all the empty tables that the establishment won’t let you have and you’ll wonder if you can take them to court for discrimination or at least tell your momma on them.

In order to avoid all this drama, you could grab some random stranger or homeless person out front and ask them to join you. At that point, the establishment will have to seat you at a table and the waiter won’t be able to say in the loudest voice possible, “We have a party of one!” Of course, you might then be asked to pay for your new friend’s food too, so I would first ask the greeter if the voices in your head or your multiple personalities count towards the number of people in your group before rounding up a posse and doing a meet and greet with strangers outside the restaurant, but that’s just me.

If the establishment does allow you to be seated at a table by yourself, it will either be by the restroom where you’ll be exposed to various aromas each time someone enters or exits, or you’ll be seated in the center of the room where all the patrons can observe you in your full glory. When this happens, I automatically open a packet of mayonnaise and smear it on the sides of my face just to get it over with. Since you’re single, that type of embarrassing stuff is going to happen to you anyway where you’ll walk around all day not knowing that you’ve got ketchup on your forehead or spinach in your ear. Either you can be proactive and do it yourself, or you can wait for it to happen naturally. But don’t kid yourself into thinking you can be neat. It is going to happen.

Lastly, no matter how lonely you are or how good and comforting they look, DO NOT EAT THE PEANUTS OR PRETZELS FROM THE BOWLS AT THE BAR! Yuck! Just don’t do it. Save yourself the doctor’s office visit unless you need a couple days off from work and don’t mind having a near-death encounter to justify it. And don’t think it’s sexy to roll a peanut around on your chin, down your neck, across your chest, and into your lap. Trust me. It’s not. And it may even get you thrown out of the restaurant. Now, I don’t know this from personal experience, but it has happened to me a couple of times.

In my opinion, it’s important to keep your own personal comfort level in mind when you’re single and stick with it. Don’t let people scare you away from doing the things you want to do and enjoying life because you don’t have a plus one. In addition to having bad breath, low personal hygiene, and a horrid personality, not being out and about could be another reason as to why you aren’t meeting people. If you’re comfortable going to the movies alone, by all means, go. If you don’t have a problem getting dressed up and taking yourself out on a date to a fancy restaurant alone, then do so. Don’t let other peoples inhibitions cage you as well. Don’t wait until you find someone else whose schedule aligns with yours or until you find your soul mate before you start living. Now is the perfect time to get out there and get active. It’s one of the few times in life where it’s ok to be completely self-centered. Besides, those faces of horror and shame when you tell your friends all the things you’ve done by yourself are sooooooooooo worth it!!!

Michael Rochelle

Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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Anyway, recently I’ve been all caught up in the idea of my impending graduation. This all started when I began receiving boatloads of notices about the ceremony from my school. At first, these notices were fun because they made things official and I could finally tell the world, “I’m not lying. I really am going to graduate. And my school thinks so too.” Then I realized that all of the notices came with a formal threat and a price tag. “If you plan on graduating in the fall, submit an application along with a $30 fee,” “If you want your cap and gown, submit an application with a $40 fee,” and “If you want future emails telling you when and where the ceremony will take place, submit an application along with a $200 fee.” Whereas I used to get all warm and fuzzy inside when the notices arrived, now I just get all warm and sweat a lot before I raise my hands over my head as my school goes through my wallet. One day I fear the notice is going to say, “We have your mother. If you want her returned to you in time to attend your little graduation, submit an application with a $1,000 fee.” Yes, it really is like blackmail. Maybe I should call David Letterman to see what he would do.

Speaking of my mother, because she allegedly went through 43 months of labor to have me, I sometimes feel obligated to return the favor by answering the phone when she calls and by taking her around to interview the low-quality-care nursing homes I’ll be placing her in 20 years down the road. Hey, I’m doing my part. Some children don’t even give their parents any say. Don’t judge me! But I digress. So, I was picking up some DVDs that she’d ordered online from Wal-Mart when the alarm went off as I exited the store. I panicked as the store greeter approached me. I looked over my shoulder and saw my car off in the distance. For a brief moment, I thought about making a run for it. I’ve seen Cops. I was not ready for my close-up, and I was in no mood for a cavity search that day.

My underarms began to sweat as the elderly gentleman looked at me suspiciously and asked to see my bag. I handed it to him along with the receipt. He asked if I had electronics. I tried to speak, but my voice failed me. I just shook my head. He then asked for the names of the DVDs I’d purchased. Of course, I couldn’t remember. I mean, why should I have known the names of the DVDs just because I had paid for them and they were in my bag? The nerve! It wasn’t like I was on Jeopardy where I would get a prize for knowing the answer to those types of questions. I hadn’t studied. It wasn’t an exam. He looked at me skeptically and I explained that I was just picking them up for my mother but that everything in the bag was on the receipt. Just as I was about to demand my one phone call and to tell the greeter that I would take no further questions without my lawyer present, he let me go. Of course, the alarm went off again as I walked out the door. This time, I ran.

Speaking of running, I may need to incorporate more exercise into my daily routine—and not just when I’m running from the law. Recently I’ve been making more alterations to my clothes than a seamstress. In fact, one day at work I had to make a mad dash to the restroom with a pair of scissors so I could cut slits into my boxers because they were cutting off the circulation in my legs. Of course, I hated to ruin a nice pair of boxers, but it was either that, or have my legs amputated, and after some thought, I figured it’d be easier to buy new boxers than to buy new legs. I wouldn’t even know where to get new legs. On-line? Target? Family Dollar? I’ll just say this, they aren’t lying when they say that you’re metabolism starts to slow down as you get older. Here I am, enjoying the last weekend of my twenties and wondering if diet water and low-fat lettuce will be enough to sustain me for the rest of my life.

And, while we’re on the subject of age, I’ve learned that though we may get older in years, some of us never get older at heart. On the same day that I’d almost made my television debut on Cops, while pulled over on the side of the road, I saw a small turtle about to cross a six-lane highway. Immediately I went into hero mode and ran to save the turtle from what could have been its last stroll. Without thinking, I picked up the turtle by its shell, and somehow, instead of putting the turtle closer to the woods, I kinda sorta accidentally put it in the front seat of my car. For some reason I wanted to show my mother the turtle. Grinning, I called her to tell her about my new pet. Of course, my mommy said I couldn’t keep it because they carry germs and STDs. I told her that the turtle looked clean and that I was sure he’d used little turtle condoms, but she still said no. Thus, with all my hopes and dreams shattered, I put the turtle back in the woods, which I think was probably best for all of us. I already have plants and a fish that I sometimes neglect to feed, water and take out for walks. Because of this, I’m sure I’m just one phone call away from being reported to fish protective services. This is why I never let my fish use the phone, no matter how much he asks to.

Anyway, the moral of this story is to enjoy the grandness and the many wonders of life. I mean, one moment you’re about to go to jail for shoplifting at Wal-Mart, and the next you’re putting a wayward turtle back on the right track. Take a step back, smell the roses, and enjoy the sunny days while trying to find things to love about the rainy ones. Learn to find the humor in the small things because all of those small things put together equal all of the moments of your life. And ok, I’ll just say it. The other underlying moral of this story is, don’t do crack. However, I’m sure that was blatantly obvious.

Michael Rochelle

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The other day, I was at Kohl’s, minding my own business, trying on clothes in the dressing room, when a father brought two little girls into the stall next to mine. Hearing those shrill little voices brought a smile to my face—initially. But after two minutes of hearing them scream, I was ready to call my doctor to set up an appointment for me to be both spayed and neutered. However, before I could make that call, a leg began poking underneath the stall. Eventually, that leg was replaced by an arm and followed by a comment about my socks. As I waited patiently for the father to make the little girls get up off the floor—which was so dirty I’m surprised we all didn’t catch swine flu just from looking at it—I then saw two sets of blue eyes staring up at me. Let’s just say I’m glad that I’m one of those guys who always wear underwear. Although I totally appreciated the second opinions they gave on my outfit choices, the situation made me wonder about leash laws and the parents who don’t obey them. Usually, I like to undress in private. But if I’m going to be watched, I want to be paid and called “Chocolate Thunder” or “Cinnabon” just like everyone else. No freebies!!! Not even for kids!!! As I mentioned, we’re in a recession.

The next item on my agenda is writers who claim they will do an article or update their blog every week, getting you all wrapped in their little lives, but then a month goes by and…oh…wait a minute…my last piece was…hmm…maybe I shouldn’t speak on that. Let’s just forget I brought it up.

Anyway, my last article/blog had to do with my turning 30. Well, besides the fact that I can now be a spokesperson for Ben Gay and orthopedic shoes, I’m actually ok with getting older. What I’m not ok with is all of the changes one has to make when embarking on that journey. Now, as opposed to being able to order anything off the menu, I have to worry about calorie and salt content and whether my food choices will give me the trots. Instead of the menu reading “fries,” it reads “heart attack” and “hypertension” with a side of “indigestion.” And sure, I can have that piece of cake if I want to; but if I do, there’s a chance that I won’t be able to fit into my khakis—or my front door—later.

Moving right along, as you know, many people are all up in arms about the spreading of germs and bacteria. People who have never washed their hands before are now thrilled by the many wonders of soap and water. In fact, my job delivered bottles of hand sanitizer and alcohol wipes to all employees just the other day. I thanked them for their concern and asked for a gift card instead—they turned me down. But I digress. The problem with all of this extra precaution is that everyone hasn’t gotten the memo. This includes some of my favorite eating spots where the cashiers actually put on gloves before taking money and wear those same gloves to make food. Now, I have a heart. Of course, I’d hate to expose the non-friendly cashiers at the bowling alley to whatever fungi are romping around and playing hopscotch on my dollar bills, but I don’t really care to have those critters spread across my sandwich for extra flavor. I mean, it’s not relish. And all that time I was wondering why my fries tasted like old nickels. But, hey, maybe it’s not their fault. Maybe some sort of class or degree should be offered in proper glove usage. I certainly hope Obama looks into this.

Next, I’d like to make an observation about school and how it’s totally cutting into my quality TV-watching time. How am I supposed to keep up with current events—like Grey’s Anatomy—if I’m bogged down with homework? I realize that this is partly my fault for wanting to do something with my life and make some sort of contribution to the world, but don’t teachers realize the importance of our knowing whether Paula will show up and push Ellen out of her judge chair on American Idol? I mean, the study of Shakespeare and the Elizabethan Renaissance has its place in society, I’m sure, but that was like twenty years ago and no one is ever going to ask me a question about that during a job interview. However, knowing who got voted off Dancing With The Stars may be a good conversation starter and could help me to explain why I’m two hours late because I overslept due to watching it. And just to clarify, I’m not complaining. I’m just stating facts.

Lastly, I’d like to complain—make an observation—about my alleged “friends” on Facebook. A week or so ago, I made an innocent confession about my liking “Party In The U.S.A.” by Miley Cyrus and it was as if I’d announced that I’d gotten a Hannah Montana tattoo or something…which I haven’t…yet. Now, I’ll admit that there are some weeks where I’d like to vote the somehow-still-16 Miley Cyrus off the island, but I can appreciate a catchy hook when I hear one. I think what hurts the most is that no one would support me at what was obviously a very low point in my life. Don’t people know a cry for help when they see one? Well, anyway, it’s good to know who my real friends are. And between you and me, I know that YOU like it too. It’s ok. I’m not here to judge. You no longer have to hide your true feelings and whisper the lyrics from the darkest corners of your closet. After all, sing it with me, “It’s A Party In The U.S.A.”

Michael Rochelle

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All my life, 30 has been the age people have warned me about. No one says anything about turning 40, 50, or 60. Allegedly, at 30 your metabolism completely shuts down and retires to France. I’ve already been advised to be alone in the privacy of my own home because you can actually hear it cutting off at the stroke of midnight on your birthday. I guess the burgers and fries that I’ve gotten so accustomed to eating on a regular basis will soon be replaced by raisins and Metamucil. Just imagine all the fast-food restaurants that will go out of business due to my entering my fourth decade of life. And instead of me giving out words of wisdom and encouragement on my blog, it will be my back and my knee that give out. Oh the humanity!

Once I reach that milestone, I expect that people’s perceptions of me will change. As opposed to my being labeled “cool” when I walk across campus with my Hello Kitty lunch box, I’ll be called “immature.” People will then probably expect me to have life all figured out and to be full of wisdom instead of bumbling around the way I do now and getting all spacey when I see something shiny. As opposed to waking up each morning with my body fully intact, I’ll have to spend the first fifteen minutes trying to locate my pecs and abs. As it is now, I can already tuck my left chin into my pants and hold it in place securely with my belt. I’m sure that will just get worse as time moves along. And I’m also quite sure that no one will appreciate my mother riding me around the grocery store in a shopping cart anymore once I hit 30. Nope, I’m pretty sure the cut off for that sort of thing is 29.

Now, far be it from me to be a downer, but when you think about it, if I live to reach 90, I’ve already lived 1/3 of my life. However, if I only live to see 60, then I’ve lived half my life. HALF!!! It’s instances like this that remind me why I never liked fractions in the first place. On the other hand, though my being over the hill may mean that I won’t be able to star in the next installment of High School Musical, maybe I could land a starring role on Desperate Housewives. Move over Eva. There’s a new senior in town. But on a serious note, the fact that I’ll be turning 30 has given me a fresh perspective. I kinda see it as a new beginning. A reason to do those things I’ve always wanted to do but haven’t done because of lack or time, money, or warrants issued for my arrest in other states and countries.

In my opinion, 30 is not the end of the world as we know it. Instead, some feel that 30 is the age where a person becomes a full-fledge adult and your 20s are all just a trial run. Though my male biological clock may be ticking, I’m choosing to remain positive about it. In fact, a Google search pulled up hundreds of support groups for people who have taken the plunge and are aging rapidly—I mean, gracefully. One of the sites dedicated towards those of us who are up there in age says that we just get better with time, like wine and cheese. And who doesn’t enjoy cheese? Well, now that I think about it, in a few weeks when I’m elderly, I should probably avoid cheese. I hear it binds you. But I digress. Turning 30 means that my car insurance will probably be cheaper. And, I’ll finally get to point my finger at people and exclaim, “Do you know how old I am?” when I want to validate my point. I’ve always wanted to do that. On top of that, I’ll finally get to buy all those books geared towards 30-somethings without being turned away as a fraud at the register. Even better, I’ll be middle aged so I’ll get to have the new cars, clothes, and job that go along with the mid-life crisis. Yes, there’s just so much to look forward to.

Recently, after crying and spending an entire therapy session singing, “End of the Road,” one of my shrinks informed me that now is a great time to evaluate my life. You know, reflect on where I’ve come from and where I plan on going. In doing so, I realized that I still haven’t traveled to Los Angeles or Las Vegas like I’ve always wanted to. I still haven’t gone horseback riding. My novel is not yet complete. And most of all, I haven’t found myself just yet. I may now be an oldie but goodie, but the cool thing about turning 30 is that I’m still alive to do all of those things. Regardless of how anyone feels about the concept of aging, being able to wake up each morning is a blessing compared to the alternative. For myself, turning 30 is just the beginning and my best days are still ahead of me. There is still the potential for me to do all the things I wanted to accomplish when I was a little boy—back in the day, when I was young, and anything after 7 was past my bedtime.

Michael Rochelle

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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.

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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.

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