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

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

Ten years ago I purchased a bed. Last week, I put it together. Wait, before you start judging, let me explain. At 19, one really doesn’t get the whole logic and theory behind the need to connect the headboard to the bed frame. At 29, however, something just kicks in and makes you want to tackle all these little challenges that you just lived with before. No lie, this year I’ve done things I’ve wanted to do all my life. I dusted my lamps. I changed the vacuum bag. I killed a spider without calling my mom OR dad to come over as backup and encouragement. Nope, I tackled this challenge on my own. Last but not least, I learned that everyone in the world isn’t Black by simply cleaning off my TV. Imagine my surprise to learn that Barbara Walters AND Madonna are White. No, really, they are. You can’t argue me down about this one. Maybe you should clean your TV screen too.

Ok, so let me be honest with you. The real reason I connected the headboard to the bed frame was not because I’d finally gotten to that item on my to-do list after 10 years. Instead, I’d finally gotten tired of my old bed frame clanking every time I made a move for the remote or got up to go to the bathroom. After years of having my neighbors think that I’m a tad bit more “active??? then I really am at 2 in the morning, I decided to upgrade before I was voted off the island by the rental office and labeled with offensive names that I wouldn’t dare say in public or in this blog. Imagine explaining to your neighbors that you really aren’t a (insert appropriate word here), and that you just have an over active bladder. All this time I thought their sneers were because I had my own blog, not because they thought I was a “man of the night.???

Anyway, I purchased the bed frame from Value City Furniture—an experience all in itself—and decided to stop at Lowe’s to get screws and stuff to attach the headboard because I was told that there weren’t any in the box. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Lowe’s, Home Depot, or any other store of that nature, but, for one, they are huge. You could be lost in there for two months before a search team would find you. And two, there are sharp things everywhere that could injure a clumsy person like me. I can see the headlines now: Young male gets arm caught in key making machine before being strangled by a set of mini blinds. More news on this breaking story at 10.

So, I ask the lady at the door where the screws are, and she says, “Over in hardware.??? I say, “Isn’t the whole store hardware???? I thought it was funny, but apparently having a sense of humor IS NOT a requirement for working at Lowe’s. I eventually leave the store with 16 screws, 8 washers, and 8 nuts—not including the two I…wait a second…my mom might be reading this…so 8 nuts. As luck would have it, when I got home and opened the bed frame box, guess what I found: screws and nuts. Trip to Lowe’s wasted. Thank you Value City Furniture employees for being so well informed about the products you sell. And if there are any readers of this blog who are employees of VCF, of course, I don’t mean you. You’re wonderful. Keep up the great work!!!

Anyway, with all the bed frame pieces laid out in front of me, I immediately got to work. I followed the instructions step-by-step and had the frame together within a matter of minutes. Next, I opened the pack of screws and saw that the tops of each were rounded and there were no holes for me to use one of my handy-dandy screwdrivers. I was so disappointed because I never get to use my screwdrivers and I’d really like to get my dollar’s worth. But, “No problem,??? I said to myself. “Let’s assess the situation. What would Barrack do???? I reached for my hammer to bang the screws into my wooden headboard. Despite my best efforts, the screws refused to work with me. I then grabbed a pair of pliers, and that’s when the magic happened.

Forty-five minutes later, I had three blisters and one screw completed. 3 ½ hours later, my whole hand was one big blister and all of the screws were in place. I was so proud of myself for starting a project and seeing it through. I wasn’t even worried that my hand needed to be amputated because of all the manual labor. Instead, I just ignored the throbbing and patted myself on the back because I was a big strong man with tools and everything. My biological father would have been so proud—even more proud than that time when I was 28 and I finally learned the difference between golf and basketball. Imagine my shock when I learned that Tiger Woods didn’t play for the Clippers. You learn something new every day.

The point of all this, and I do have one, is that we, as individuals, can do anything we set our minds to. If Oprah can be the most powerful sorceror in the world, and Barrack can be president, why can’t I put my bed frame together? After that accomplishment, the sky is truly the limit. Now, I finally believe that all things are possible. I can’t even begin to explain how good this realization feels. The only thing to do now is set another big goal for myself. Hmm…maybe I’ll vacuum.

Today I’m going to try something different. Usually, I try to keep my writings humorous. However, with the recent deaths of well-known individuals such as Michael Jackson, Steve McNair, Farrah Fawcett, and the Oxy Clean guy, reality doesn’t always seem so funny. But in addition to the deaths of celebrities with whom we’ve never shared the same air, taking a brief gander at the local newspaper or the nightly news will reveal that people are dying right in our front yards and it’s not due to bouts of cancer, drug use, heart attacks, or bad choices. Instead, the cause of one’s demise could be that person sitting beside you on the bus, or across from you in a business meeting. It could be the person you pass before entering a store, or the person you accidentally cut off in traffic that may decide whether you’ll make it to see the next day or not.

On Saturday, I stopped at the local liquor store. Now, I hate the use of “liquor store??? because it has a bad connotation regardless of whether you drink responsibly or not. And if something horrible happens at such an establishment, the victim is looked at as a lesser person than they would be looked at had they been assaulted in a grocery store. It’s almost like we blame the victim for being in a liquor store in the first place. Anyway, I pulled up in front of the store and noticed that the lights were out. There were people standing out front. It wasn’t until I got out of the car that I noticed about 60 roses taped to the outside of the front door. I then noticed that the people, who I thought were just congregating outside, were signing posters and shaking their heads in disbelief.

When I approached the crowd, I asked what happened. At that point, I hadn’t yet peeked through the glass door to see the blood on the floor less than three feet away from where I stood, or the various broken bottles that remained in the same spot where they’d landed two nights before during a senseless altercation. I was told that the owner, a man I’d seen each time I stopped at the store, had been killed in a robbery less than 48 hours earlier. Two masked gunmen, at some point, had been standing in the exact same spot where I was standing before they took the store owner’s life. And for the victim who had gone to work that Thursday just as he had done for years since he purchased the establishment, he, too, had stood where I was standing to open his business for the day. Of course, he had no idea that day would be his last.

His car still sat in the parking lot where he’d parked it.

I will never understand how a person could kill another human being. What reason does anyone have to end another person’s life? And how does one live with themselves after committing such an act? How does one eat, sleep, or watch TV after killing someone? It’s sad to think that we live in a world where a person can strive to do the right thing and live there life the right way, but be murdered because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time, or because they had more than what others are willing to work to earn, or for some other senseless reason.

I’m not sure how to end this because, as I read the paper about the 5-year-old who was struck by a stray bullet discharged from the gun of a 17-year old, the shootings of the police officers who were simply responding to a domestic violence report, and the 26-year-old who was found shot to death in his car at a park, it appears that these incidents are becoming the norm. With each occurrence, the shock value decreases as we become more and more desensitized and began to expect these types of things to occur. In fact, after being told of the store owner’s death, one former patron asked a Baltimore Sun reporter who was covering the story if “the store was going to open.???

So, no laughs this time around. Instead, I’m hoping and praying for change and a miracle. My heart goes out to anyone who’s been affected by these or any other senseless acts of violence. To those of us blessed to have seen this day, please be careful and stay positive through these trying times in which we live.

So, we’re in the midst of the technology age. We have gadgets that fit into the palm of your hand that can hold thousands of songs, games and videos. There are GPS systems that can tell you the best route to go to avoid traffic and your mother-in-law. And these devices know when you don’t follow instructions. How many times have you heard “You missed your turn, dummy,??? from the same voice that lovingly guides you to your destination as long as you do exactly what she—I’ve named mine Shirley—says? Oh, and let’s not forget about Twitter, Facebook, and MySpace where you get the latest greatest updates about anything and everything that your family, friends, and coworkers are doing at any given time including whether their last trip to the restroom was successful or not. Every few minutes you’ll get an alert that says, “That last one was a doozey. Whew, I really didn’t think I’d make it out alive. By the way, if you happen to be at the Kmart on route seven, you may want to avoid the restroom. I’m telling you this for your own good.???

Recently, I went out on a date where it took two months for our schedules to line up where we could have one-on-one time. Translation: It took two months for my date to make the time for us to have one-on-one time. Now, I know you’re wondering why I would wait around for two months for someone to make time to get to know me. Well, I was really interested in the person and I figured that maybe my date really was just that busy. I mean, I get busy too. If Desperate Housewives is on, don’t even think about calling me. And, on top of that, I have a life. The plants need to be watered. The fish has to be fed. The bookshelf needs to be dusted. And somehow I’m still supposed to find time to squeeze in my two sit-ups for the month. See, I’m busy too. Yup.

Anyway, so after a two-month waiting period, I finally got to hang out with my date. I thought it would be magical. I showered and everything. I expected fireworks. I thought I’d see my date and Karen Carpenter would start singing, “Why do birds suddenly appear, every time, you are near? Just like me, they long to be, close to you.??? I thought we’d talk about our hopes and dreams. And if Karen Carpenter was busy, (well, she did kinda die a while back so odds weren’t very good that she would have been available), I expected the birds to sing, and violins to play in the background. I mean, there was so much I wanted to know about my date. I just wanted to talk. Share a secret or two. Put down my big manly armor and be vulnerable for a moment.

But before I had a chance to get comfortable, the competition for my date’s attention began. Contrary to what I’d hoped, there were no birds chirping or sounds of violins. Those sounds were replaced by the sound of my date’s phone chirping and the typing and texting that followed. After a few minutes I said, “You finally got me here and you’re going to spend the time texting???? My date replied, “I’m not texting. I’m on Facebook.??? I guess, on some level, this was supposed to have made me happy that I wasn’t being ignored for some measly little text messages. Instead, I was being ignored for Facebook and all of its urgent messages about how jalapenos don’t go well with waffles. What a relief? Call off the firing squad.

As much as I enjoy technology, I have to say that I’m starting to agree with some of the experts about how it’s affecting the way we deal with each other when we’re up close and personal. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to relate to people unless we’re sitting behind our computer screens or hiding under our beds with phone in hand. We get confused when we actually see someone’s mouth moving—oh my gosh, it talks. I picture these texters, Twitters, Facebookers, and Myspacers pulling up to a drive-through, being asked to place their order, and them getting all confused about what to do. “Umm, are you supposed to be talking to me? Can’t I just text you my order? I’m going to need to speak to your manager.???

Although I mentioned the texting/Facebook issue, my date continued to type like it was nobody’s business throughout the few short hours we spent together. I’m not sure how to feel about that. Maybe Facebook has some policy that says messages that aren’t checked within two seconds of delivery will self-destruct. Or, maybe there’s some type of fine imposed if you don’t read and respond to messages immediately. Or, maybe all those gym bunnies really don’t like working out, but go to the gym every day because it’s a part of their sentence for not commenting on their Aunt Mabel’s status update about her taking shots of Metamucil.

A couple of my friends say I should take my cue from the movie He’s Just Not That Into You or get used to the fact that I’m just not that interesting and I have the looks and personality equivalent to a pile of dog poo. Now, I can neither confirm nor deny this allegation, but I think that, at the least, they could have compared me to something a little cuter. But seriously, as we walk around with our phones and IPods that can make breakfast, spank the dog, and drop the kids off at soccer practice, aren’t we as people getting more and more out of touch due to the many technologies developed to keep us in touch? What do you think?

So, I was taking a one mile hike to pick up my car from the mechanic the other day. Apparently cars need routine maintenance and they get very upset when you don’t do stuff like change the oil or give them gas. Well, you learn something new everyday. Now, I could have called a friend to have driven me, but I’ve always tried to be independent. If I can do it on my own, then that’s what I do. Also, I thought it be a good opportunity to get some exercise. You know, get the blood pumping and the sweat pouring so that maybe I’d fit into the super-sized trunks I bought by the end of the summer. Hey, I have goals. Anyway, I had my earphones on and was in my own world enjoying the music when the unthinkable happened. I was involved in a drive-by.

They say that your life flashes before your eyes when you’re involved in potentially deadly situations. I can confirm that this wasn’t the case when a red SUV passed me at about 40 miles an hour and pelted me with a water balloon and kept going. No harps began to play sad music as a montage of fragments of my life came and went. And I didn’t see God, Jesus, or the Pearly Gates. Instead, there was the initial shock of it all, then the embarrassment, then confusion, and then the feeling of water—or what I hope was water—running down my leg.

At the time, I didn’t know whether to laugh or be upset. Fortunately, I was just picking up my car and wasn’t on my way to do something important where it wouldn’t be in my best interest to look like I’d wet-wet on myself. I mean, how would I have explained that on a job interview? And would they have believed me if I told the truth? Actually, if I were on my way to an interview, I could have said, “You see how dedicated I was to being here? I didn’t even stop to use the restroom???? Oh, and did I mention how badly it hurts to be hit with a water balloon hurled at you from a moving car? I’m sure the impact was nothing in comparison to the atomic bomb or anything, but it did leave a bruise which will probably make me loose my modeling contract with Flaws-R-Us.

After making sure that my cell phone had not gotten wet, I decided not to be upset. It really wasn’t worth the energy. By the time I awakened from the stress induced coma, the car was long gone so there was no one to shake a fist at—or a select finger—and I just would have looked dumb if I started yelling “Why???? in slow motion like they do in the movies. Instead, I counted my blessings that it was just a water balloon and not a glass bottle, or a rock, or a tarantula for that matter. In fact, I began to feel presidential as I wondered if what I felt was anything like what President Bush felt when that guy flung shoes at him. Fortunately, in my case, the assault with a deadly balloon wasn’t replayed over and over on CNN and YouTube—at least not yet. When Barbara Walters comes calling, I will say, “No comment.???

The incident reminded me of how sometimes life literally tosses things your way and you just have to adjust. Sure, I’d rather the assailant had thrown something more useful like a sausage biscuit, pair of Nautica jeans, or a wad of cash, but they didn’t. As opposed to letting it ruin my day, I stopped waving to all the cars and yelling out “Jesus loves you??? as they passed by and kept it moving. In fact, I stayed as far away from the cars as I could and used a twig, a Sprite can, and three blades of grass to build a shield to protect myself from any future assaults. Once I got home, I used that shield to make an awesome pair of pants and a matching hat. Hey, it’s a recession. A man’s got to do what a man’s got to do. Don’t judge me!

As I move forward with life after being involved in a drive-by, I will continue to keep my head up no matter what life hurls at me. I will also continue to find the humor in every day events because it is my belief that this simple act will help keep me sane—or so my shrink says. Imagine how stress free the world would be if we smiled instead of cursing someone out because they cut us off on the highway or took the last biscuit at the buffet. In those instances, you just have to wonder what the most powerful being in the universe would do. As a matter of fact, I’m going to send Oprah and email right now to ask her.

Having a blog is like having your own reality show, except you get to do the editing yourself. Fortunately, you don’t see what I look like when I wake up in the morning, and you don’t have to experience the after effects of me eating something that doesn’t agree with me. Come on, we’re all friends here. You can tell me if you have disagreeable bowels. If we can’t talk about that, then what can we talk about. And if you think about it, you having irritable bowels is what’s helping keep all those wonderful people at Charmin and Scott employed. You have to at least be able to see the benefits in that. But I digress.

It was just a few weeks ago when I came up with the idea of having this blog and I’m excited about how much it’s grown. Believe it or not, there’s a huge demand from my one reader for me to continue adding installments—which also could be called episodes—on a regular basis. In a sense, it’s kinda like a job. If I don’t perform well, my reader may toss me out on my keister and get a new Michael Rochelle to replace me, and we wouldn’t want that would me? So here it goes.

Every now and then, I try to impart a few pearls of wisdom to those around me. This is one of those times. Maybe I’m getting older—actually, I’m almost certain that I’m getting older—but I’m beginning to look at life a little differently than I did when I was young … uh, younger. As some of you may know, this will be a big year for me. I’ll graduate from college, finish my book, and reach one of the few age milestones I have left. Though I won’t confirm or deny any allegations regarding my alleged age, let’s just say that I foresee discount coffees in my very near future. But anyway, I’ve done a lot of thinking about my past and where I’d like to go moving forward, and as scary as it is to delve into the next chapter of my life, it’s just as exciting.

Before I divulge this revelation, I’m going to need you to come a little closer to the screen so I can whisper. Closer. Just a little closer. There are some nosey people in the world and this is just between you and me. Ok, can you hear me now? Good. The truth is, I’m not perfect. I know it comes as a shock, but I am flawed. I don’t have it all figured out. I make mistakes. I trip. I stumble. I fall down and sometimes I lie there for a second before I brush myself off and get up. Sometimes this is because my back or my knee has given out, which comes with age, but sometimes it’s because I’m human, and as a human, I’m fallible.

I wish I could say that I had all the answers, but I don’t. Career wise, there is this big question mark as to whether I should continue the accounting path or step out on faith into a writing related field once I graduate in December/January. School wise, I want to move on to a graduate degree, but I’m unsure as to whether to continue the writing path, which is in my heart, or to do the smart thing and move on to something more business related in case the writing thing doesn’t pan out. And with love, or the lack thereof, I’m tired of seeing myself make the same mistakes over and over again. And even if they aren’t exactly the same mistakes, why am I overlooking all the signs—and sometimes the tattoos—that spell things out clearly when the person doesn’t see the beauty in all that is Michael Rochelle … cause I’m special damnit!!!

Although I know I won’t be able to find a quick and easy answer to the meaning of life overnight, I know there are some things that I can do to make myself an overall better person. Ok, since we’re friends, let’s all promise to not get stagnant, to keep on progressing, and to make wise choices. Let’s look challenges in the face, hold our heads high, and laugh as we tackle each and every one of them. However, if the challenge is your spouse, manager, professor, parents, or slumlord, you may want to alter the laughter part until you’re safely at least two states away so they won’t catch wind of your gloating.

Seriously though, since we’re right in the middle of 2009, why not make the latter half better than the first? Even if you had a horrible day yesterday, tomorrow is a new one, right? We are people of value and potential to do and be whatever we want. The sky is no longer the limit. Instead, the limits are set within our own minds. No matter what other people see in you, it’s about how you see yourself that’s important. That being said, let’s free ourselves from the bondage that has been self imposed and bestowed upon us by others. I believe we can all do this. I know I have your support and you, my one reader, have mine.

Here’s to bigger and better things moving forward!!!

Now that the weather is warming up, it appears people’s hearts are too. Relationship statuses have been changing left and right. Over the past week or so, I’ve had one friend get engaged, and another to stop calling her situation a “situation??? and is now proclaiming to the world that she is in love. And though I usually am against having relationships with lesser beings, I have one friend who is sure that he and his ferret are meant to be together. Personally, I’m happy for them. It’s 2009. Who am I to judge? Maybe there’s really nothing wrong with a little bit of ferret lovin’.

It’s funny when friends share their new relationship statuses because then the tables inevitably turn and they wonder how things are going for me in the love department. Well, last I checked, the CEO of Wal-Mart explained that there is no such thing as a love department and requested that I stop calling. And we all know, if you can’t find it at Wal-Mart, you won’t find it anywhere. Thus, I had voted love off the island until further notice. Despite this, I am truly excited to share that I may have found my soul mate in the least likely of places.

I was minding my own business, trying to purchase an iced coffee and a sour cream donut at my local 7-Eleven. Of course, because it was me, the iced coffee machine was out of mix and needed to be refilled. The ironic thing is that there could be 30 thousand people in front of me getting iced coffees, but when it’s my turn, suddenly the machine decides to take a smoke break or turn in its two-week notice. Anyway, once I found the one employee in the whole store who knew how to get the machine back up and running (did I mention that I know how to do it and offered to do it myself?), I headed over to the register and prayed that some unseen force would ensure that my $2.50 purchase would go through on my debit card. Hey, it’s a recession. Don’t judge me!

Right in the middle of my prayer, and before I got to the part where I had to vow to spend the next few Sundays in church and feed the homeless on my lunch breaks, I noticed a set of eyes sizing me up. In my opinion, it was an off day for me in the looks department—and I have confirmed with Wal-Mart that there IS, in fact, a looks department. That day I didn’t really put any effort in to my appearance. At the most, I’d probably only spent about two hours picking out my outfit, ironing, showering, shaving, etc. Thus, I immediately began to feel self-conscious. I blew into my hand and did a breath test. Although I didn’t pass with flying colors, it was tolerable. I then smoothed down my mustache, tried to tame my eyebrows, and strolled over to the door where the love of my life was waiting patiently on the other side. It was one of those moments in the movies where everything happens in slow motion. However, although I was moving slowly, everyone else was moving at normal speed. This caused me to get a few dirty looks and someone yelled out something about me being crazy, but they were just jealous that I’d finally happened upon the love of my life—a ducky.

I have never believed in love at first sight. But when I looked into those little eyes, I just knew that that moment, right there at the 7-Eleven, was what this life was all about. Everything I’d ever done, the joys, disappointments, and tears, were all just preparing me for when I’d meet the duck of my dreams. She (I checked) moved out of the way as I opened the door. I thanked her for being so hospitable. I looked at her longingly and expected her to take flight just like the other loves that had come and gone over the years. Instead, she followed me to my car.

I explained to her that I’d been hurt before and that I wasn’t sure if I had anything left to give. I was damaged. And if I were an article of clothing, I’d most certainly be a clearance item in the bargain bin at a thrift store. She looked at me reassuringly and my fears just melted away. I knew what I had to do. I didn’t care who saw us. And I was no longer concerned that I was 7 hours late for work and would make it there just in time to punch out and go home. For that moment, I’d forgotten about the nickels worth of gas in my tank. All I wanted and needed was to love and be loved by Ducky Jenkins-Smith—that’s her name.

I sat on the curb beside her. We shared my donut. I told Ducky about my hopes and dreams, and she told me that the weather could be a real bummer when you live outside all your life. My heart went out to her. She said she didn’t understand why humans always wanted to go to the pool. “Being wet all the time is overrated,??? she said. We both took a bite from the donut. And for the record, I was a complete gentleman. I did not ask to take her home.

After a few moments, she suggested that I go in to work. She’d had her fill of donut and she didn’t want me to get fired. I told her that if I did, I’d send her the bill—get it, bill. After a few moments of silence, I said, “I don’t want to leave you. You don’t have to live like this.??? But we both knew it was the way it had to be. Though we loved each other more than mere words could begin to explain, we had different lives and timing was not in our favor because she was expecting a litter of puppies any day now. We parted ways with the promise that one day we’d reunite somehow, someway. I miss her already.

Ducky, if you’re reading this somewhere out there, I love you. And no matter what you go through in life, Big Daddy—she liked to call me that—will always be here for you. I’m always just one quack away. In the words of Michael Jackson, “Just quack my name, and I’ll be there.???

Hugs and Kisses,

Michael