Hypothetically Speaking . . .

. . . . . . . . Because Humor Matters

A Severe Case Of Dental Distress

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Aug• 08•11

OK, it’s official. I’m never going to the dentist again—ever! No matter how much brushing and flossing I do, I consistently leave feeling like a complete failure. Somehow, the verdict is always that I need to floss more. However, the only way I could possibly do that is if I flossed in public while at church or while in the checkout line at Target. During every visit, the dental hygienist makes it seem as though I’m intentionally neglecting my teeth, and I should be taken out back and flogged repeatedly. If you let her tell it, you would think that my teeth were about to leap right out of my mouth at any given moment and make a run for the border where they’ll find someone who’ll take better care of them. I haven’t felt that much shame since my parents last pulled out that check list of their hopes and dreams for me and compared it to who I turned out to be. Not a single check mark. Not even one.

What I don’t think the dental office staff understands is that I’m a human being with real feelings and emotions. If you cut me, will I not bleed? If you poke me, will I not laugh? If you flip the switch in the center of my back, will I not turn off? That noted, I will never be able to floss my own teeth with the same force and determination as the hygienist does it. There is just no way. I mean, sometimes they are wiggling that string back and forth with enough intensity to make me think the floss will actually slice right through my gum and split my head in two before they realize they’re doing it just a tad bit too hard.

In my opinion, they should really have some form of safe word or something so that we could let them know when the pain is just too much to bear because all the blood, tears, and screams don’t seem to be working. Actually, you would think that my ripping the arm off the dentist chair that one time would have given them some form of hint, but nope. They just pried it from my hand and kept right on sawing away at my poor defenseless gums. So, in order to keep the peace and to not be charged for destruction of property for damaging another dental chair, I’ve decided that either they’re going to have to put me to sleep during my next cleaning, or I’m just not going to show up. I mean, who needs teeth anyway? They are so overrated. If we need our food cut up, that’s what we have knives for.

To add insult to injury, after having to be revived due to all of the blood lost during my last cleaning, the hygienist had the nerve to tell me that I’d need to cut down on my soda consumption. Apparently, having five or six Cokes a day is too much. She might as well have just lopped off my right arm and let it fall to the floor so it could flop around the room for a while. If you ask me, that would have certainly been more reasonable. And just when I was getting use to the idea of having to drink water—yuck—she attacked my sacred place: she told me to cut back on coffee due to the sugar content. Out of reflex, my left hand reached out to strike her in self-defense. Fortunately for her—and for my lawyer who is busy working on all my other pending cases—I missed. So, it’s not so much that I don’t want to go to the dentist, it’s really that I’ve been banned nationwide until further notice, and I have to remain at least 50 feet away from all dental offices and their employees for the time being. Fine with me.

And before I forget, the other day I was minding my own business at the pool when I struck up a conversation with two of my female neighbors. There I stood in just my trunks, legs still peeling from the sunburn fiasco of two weeks ago, when one of the ladies asked if I was single. I panicked because I knew where the conversation was going. I was about to be set up on a blind date. According to them, I have a nice temperament and my bird chest didn’t make them want to barf or anything. Of course, I declined, but I couldn’t have been prouder of myself for still being marketable. That’s right, I’ve still got it. For the rest of the day, I sucked in my stomach and poked out my chest just that much more. Unfortunately, I didn’t get any other offers. Actually, I’m lying because there was a dog that kind of took to me as I strolled back to my apartment. However, I told him that it just wasn’t going to work out no matter how much he humped my leg or sniffed my butt. I’m just not that type of guy.

And on a serious note . . .

On Tuesday, August 2nd, the 1997 graduating class of Northumberland High School, of which I am a part, lost our second classmate, Calvin Rudolph Redmond, who drowned while trying to help a friend who had fallen into rapidly moving water while crabbing in our home town. Honestly, I hadn’t seen or spoken to Calvin in the 14 years since we graduated—wow, 14 years. In any case, Calvin was the epitome of everything that I wasn’t in high school. He was cool. He was a jock. He played football and basketball. He was voted best looking, etc., etc., etc. Me, on the other hand, I wasn’t voted best anything. I was quiet. I didn’t play any sports. And if people knew who I was, it wasn’t for a good reason. In fact, until my senior year, I was that weird guy who ate lunch by himself and wore his father’s jacket in 90-degree weather because it made him feel secure. Yes, I was that guy.

During my senior year, I had a photography/ceramics class with Calvin. For some reason, our teacher had assigned seats, and I was seated at the same table with Calvin and another jock, named Kenny, who was just as popular as Calvin was. Had I been given the choice, due to my insecurity at the time, I probably would have chosen any other table but theirs. In fact, the supply closet would have been preferable to my sitting there with them two. Before even knowing them, I’d already prejudged and decided that it was going to be a bad experience. I just knew it.

Despite our differences and my preconceived ideas, both Calvin and Kenny turned out to be some of the coolest guys I’d met throughout high school. We talked. We laughed. They called me Roach. For once, I was one of the guys and not just some outsider. At no point did I feel different or lesser because I wasn’t athletically inclined or good with the females. Never. That year I made two true friends, and although I do keep in touch with Kenny every now and then, I lost touch with Calvin and I regret it terribly. What those guys did for me by accepting me for who I was at the time helped me to continue breaking out of my shell and to eventually become the person I believe I was meant to be all along. Although I’m a writer, I can’t even put into words the impact they had on my life by simply just being awesome individuals.

I will miss Calvin dearly, and I will always regret my not trying to keep the lines of communication open. Calvin was so loved that his funeral was held at the high school on Saturday, August 6th, in order to accommodate the number of people who attended. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one Calvin touched throughout his 32 years of life. I mention all of this in hopes that you, my readers, will use my experience as a motivating factor for you to take advantage of today because tomorrow isn’t promised. Tell people how you feel—as long as it’s positive and constructive. Let people know that you love and appreciate them while they are here. And if someone touches you in a special way and helps you to grow as a person, have the courage to do what I didn’t do with Calvin and let them know.

Rest in peace, Calvin Redmond. No one truly knows what happens in death, but I’d like to think that you know how much you meant to me as a person. It gives me a little bit of closure to think that maybe you were the reason there were so many rainbows in the sky yesterday.

Your friend,

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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You Give An Inch, They Take Your Car

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Jul• 29•11

Back in the early 1800s, when I was about 19, my grandmother gave me a five-gallon water bottle for me to use to save change in. Like a good little grandson, after she gave it to me, I completely stopped spending coins and put every single cent I received in the bottle. Even if I had a pocket full of pennies and my bill came to $3.01, I would still give the clerk $4 just to get change back so that I could save it. Matter of fact, I’ve had a few knock out, drag out fights with various store clerks who have offered to give me a penny or two so they wouldn’t have to count out ninety-some cents. I always declined. “I need the change because it’s laundry day,” I’d always say, even though it was a complete lie. Hey, don’t judge me! Yes, I lied, but only because I had a goal to follow my poor, old granny’s wishes. Doesn’t that count for something? Oh, and don’t tell Granny I called her old. Let’s just keep that between you and me.

Well, fast forward 12 years and the water bottle was almost full. In fact, when I moved a year ago, the movers, who had no problems lifting the sofa or the dressers, complained about the weight of the bottle. One of them even threatened to sue me for undue stress. Fortunately, because it was so hot that day, I was able to bribe him with some cold water, and he dropped the charges that he’d filed with his iPhone. I didn’t even know there was an app for that. Anyway, thinking that I could pay off a few of my credit cards, and maybe splurge on a new shirt or two, I began to ferociously roll the coins so that I could take them to the bank. It was like having a part time job. I’d get home from work, throw on a bad Netflix movie or two, and start rolling.

After a week or so, I’d rolled over half the coins in the bottle. My living room looked as if a piggy bank had exploded right there next to the coffee table. Poor Porky. Although I can confirm that no piggy banks were actually harmed during the writing of this blog, maybe we should have a moment of silence out of respect for all the other piggy banks that weren’t so lucky this year. Now would be a good time for someone to break out into song and sing “Gone Too Soon,” or “End of the Road.” Do I have any volunteers? Seriously, I think Porky would want it this way.

At that point I had rolled $910 in quarters, $90 in dimes, $36 in nickels, and $21 in pennies. It was as if I’d won the lottery. Immediately, I called my travel agent to make plans to go to Disney World. However, when I was told that I didn’t even have enough money to cover the flight, I snapped back into reality and decided to go with the original plan and pay off some bills. Feeling pleased with myself, I took the quarters and dimes, which were all that I was willing to carry with my 31-year-old arms that were no longer under warranty, and I practically skipped all the way to the bank. After making my $1,000 deposit, I came up with the brilliant idea to head to Merchant Tire and Auto to get my 65,000 mile maintenance done for my car. I mean, if I could treat myself to a few new shirts, the least I could do was treat my car to some new oil or something.

After getting my car checked in, I asked the WONDRFUL guy at the front counter how long the service would take. “A long time,” he replied, without even a hint of a smile. I should have known then that I was in trouble. Because I hate to ask people for help, I opted to call a cab to take me home while I waited for my car instead of calling one of my friends. Ten minutes into the cab ride I learned the value of a true friend when the meter hit $25. Do you know how many caramel lattes I could have gotten for $25? About five. Yes, I counted. I may have teared up just a little bit when I handed over the money, but because I’m a man and being a man requires a healthy display of manliness every now and then, I slammed the cab door in protest when I got out. How dare that driver cut into my coffee fund!

About an hour after I’d gotten home, the phone rang. It was Merchant Tire. When the guy asked if I was ready, I knew the verdict wasn’t good. Reluctantly, I asked, “What’s wrong with the car?” After he repeated my question back to me—another bad sign—the guy went into a speech longer than The Gettysburg Address. No lie, at one point I could have sworn he said “four score and seven years ago.” Five minutes later, after learning that I needed everything from new tires to new locks and door handles—basically a new car—the total came to over $1,800. I could have crapped on myself right there in the middle of my kitchen while wearing my Sponge Bob boxers.

After having a bit of a conniption fit that involved me pulling out my hair, sliding down the kitchen wall, throwing a dish or two, and rolling around the floor, I did what any rational person would do: I planned a bank heist. Fortunately, when I couldn’t find a ski mask to match my boxers, I canceled the plan. I mean, what would happen if I got caught? Can you imagine me in an orange jump suit? And although I’ve done a couple push-ups over the past year or so, I don’t know how well I’d fit in with all the other inmates. I mean, what if they don’t like my blog? And what if they don’t like my Scooby Doo pajamas with the matching slippers? Obviously, that would be my biggest concern. The rest would be a piece of cake—I think.

In any case, the moral of this story is, don’t save. Every single time I save a little money, some random expense comes along to offset everything I’ve set aside. Notice that my car didn’t need repairs until AFTER I’d deposited the money into the bank. See what I mean? And if it isn’t car repairs, then it’s a cable bill, or your hamster dies and suddenly you have to pay the funeral costs, which aren’t cheap by any means. Some have said that I should be grateful that I had the money to fix my car. Instead, I’m grateful for having friends and readers like you that I can simply ask for the money when the next “emergency” pops up. Matter of fact, I see that Kohl’s is having a sale this weekend. Oh, I feel an emergency coming on!!! You wouldn’t let me down, would you?

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.mikeyllo.com
Add me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

See, What Had Happened Was…

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Jul• 20•11

There are only a few things in this life that I thought I’d always be able to depend on: my parents, American Idol, taxes, and Starbucks. This past weekend I learned differently. On Sunday, a travesty of monumental proportions took place. I mean, it’s one of those things that happens and makes you reevaluate everything you thought you knew, believed, and stood for. Matter of fact, I get a little choked up just writing about it. But alas, my readers demand complete honesty and full disclosure from me. Besides the 98% of my life that I keep private and the 2% that I embellish, sincerity is exactly what I give. And if you can’t rely on me, who can you rely on? That noted, from now on, let 7/17/11 go down in history as the day I, Michael Rochelle, was asked to leave Starbucks. Barbara Walters, I am available for interviews, and I’m ready for my close-up.

See, what had happened was, a buddy of mine and I were minding our own businesses at a table in the Starbucks section of the local Barnes & Noble when the incident occurred. I’d gotten my usual Venti Mocha Coconut Frappuccino and he’d gotten some type of smoothie. After being there for about an hour or so, I was right in the middle of telling a story about myself—which I rarely ever do—when one of the Starbucks employees walked up to us and said, “Hey guys, I really need a favor. One of our other customers just bought some food and really needs a place to sit. Could you guys give up this table? You’ve been here for a while.” Of course, I was shocked and appalled.

Anyone who knows me knows that I faithfully give no less than 10% of my annual income to Starbucks. And like every weekend, I’d planned to stay and work on my blog after my buddy left. But instead, like a used diaper, I found myself tossed out into the mean streets of suburban America. Feeling lost and ashamed, I replied, “Sure, I’ll give up the table just as long as you provide that same level of service in the future when I need a place to sit. Deal?” The employee agreed. Even though it was above 90 degrees outside, I’d wished I’d worn a scarf so that I could have slung it over my shoulder, turned on my heel, and stormed out like they do in the movies. Unfortunately, I had to settle for stomping my way to the front door. I never looked back though. That’s the one thing that my mother taught me: You never look back.

Moving right along, since my last blog post, I’ve gotten a ton of feedback regarding the photo of me sitting by the pool wearing my goggles and nose piece. Apparently the verdict is that you’re not supposed to wear those types of things when you’re outside the pool. I wish someone would have bothered to have told me that sooner—especially since I wore them to the mall later that evening. I just thought all those people staring and pointing meant that they were taking note of the trend I was setting, not that they thought I was a mental case or something. Honestly, I’m just glad that when I took the picture, I didn’t zoom out far enough for everyone to see the Superman water wings and Popeye swim ring I was also wearing that day. Oh, and I won’t even mention that I was really just sitting beside my Sesame Street kiddie pool out in the parking lot of my apartment complex. I won’t even bring that up.

Speaking of things that shouldn’t be brought up, I recently learned a very valuable lesson in regard to naming and saving documents in Word. In the process of writing this blog entry, I lost the whole 2-page document due to a system glitch while I was at work. Frantic, I tried all the usual recovery methods to no avail. Before starting all over again, I decided to contact our IT department as a last resort in hopes that they had some magical powers that would bring my document back pronto. After doing a little troubleshooting, the IT person asked me for the name of the document. I panicked. How could I tell this IT professional that the document I was searching for was called “Three Monkeys And A Tatter Tot Take A Trip To The Mall,” or “Geez, My Teeth Sure Feel Furry.” Granted, I’d done the writing while I was off the clock, but I still felt guilty and went into this whole explanation about how the document really was work related and how obvious it was that I was using “monkeys” and “tatter tot” as secret code to keep the message confidential. I hope she believed me. So, if the next blog entry is titled “Accounting Invoice” or “Business Meeting,” you’ll know why.

In other news, I’ve decided to get out and be more social. Apparently, there is a lot to be seen outside the walls of my apartment. Because of this, I’ve been introduced to some really interesting characters. For instance, one Friday night, at 3 in the morning, I was sitting with a friend at a table outside a restaurant in DC. Just as we’d finished eating, an alleged homeless guy stopped by and asked us for some change. As we fumbled around to see if we had anything to spare, out of nowhere, he burst out singing Patti Labelle’s “You Are My Friend.” When he noticed that I had a to-go box sitting on the table, he asked if he could have it. Two seconds after I handed it to him, he yelled at the top of his lungs, “What the (insert expletive here) is this (insert expletive here)?” It was as if time stopped as everyone looked in my direction to see what all the fuss was about. Again, I was shocked and appalled. I mean, I didn’t place my order with him in mind. I’ll know next time to be a little more creative when ordering my food. Who would have known that a homeless guy would be offended by being given a few chicken wings?

In closing news, when I took myself on a date with myself the other evening to see “Bad Teacher,” I ran into an artist doing sketches at the movie theater. It took all of two seconds for me to decide that I wanted to be drawn, and I would call it the Michael Lisa. People would travel the world over to see the drawing of me hanging in some art gallery or at the Smithsonian. Maybe they would even have a computer underneath my drawing so that people could access my blog while marveling at the Michael Lisa. Perhaps I’d have a few books out by then and people could look at my drawing, access my blog, and buy one of my books all in one sitting. I can just see it now. But until that day comes, I’ve posted it for my faithful readers to adore and drool over. Take advantage of it being posted now because once it’s in an art museum, I’m pretty sure there will be an admissions cost. And if not at the door, there will certainly be one to get into the Michael Lisa section of the gallery.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.mikeyllo.com
Add me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

Fish Who Wear Bikinis And Boxer Briefs To Work

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Jul• 12•11

Everyone who knows me knows that I don’t wear shorts. There are several good reasons for this. One, because my legs are so much lighter than my face and arms, each time I’ve worn shorts I’ve been arrested and questioned for possibly stealing someone else’s legs and literally walking off with them. As you know, possession is nine-tenths of the law, and there really is no way to prove that your legs are your own when you’re backed into a corner at a police station. Think about it. What would you say? Exactly. The last time Sergeant Bilco took me in for questioning, I didn’t have a leg to stand on—except for the two I’d stolen, of course.

Another reason I don’t wear shorts is that my legs often become topics for discussion. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to grit my teeth and force a laugh when someone mentioned that my legs were so light they were almost transparent. In fact, the other day, I was minding my own business at the pool when a complete stranger walked up to me and said, “Here, you need this more than I do,” as he handed me a bottle of Banana Boat dark tanning oil. I admit that my legs were a little pastey that day, but I certainly didn’t think they were that bad that a random person would offer me a whole bottle of tanning oil—especially since I’d already been to the pool several times that week to darken up to that particular shade of white. The nerve of that guy!

Feeling slightly offended, I took the bottle and began spraying myself down like it was nobody’s business. If he wanted to see dark, I was going to give him dark. Four hours later, as I peeled myself off the beach chair, I realized that I might have overdone it just a tad. Apparently I’d passed the point of tanning and had entered the stage of burning. I’d wondered why I stared to hear something sizzle and begun to smell bacon. I had no idea I was the source of the sizzle and the smell. By that point I was so red and in so much pain that even the slightest breeze made me want to run home crying to my mommy. Because my legs were burnt worse than any other part of my body, I realized that it would be a few days before I’d be able to wear pants or allow anything to touch my legs again. I wonder what my job will think when I show up tomorrow in my boxer briefs. I mean, I’ll at least match them up with a nice button-down shirt. Shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll see.

As some of you may have noticed, I didn’t post anything on Monday, July 4th. Well, that weekend I’d accidentally gone on a trip to Virginia Beach with a few buddies. Because I know what my readers expect of me, although I was on a mini vacation, I did try to get the blog done during the five-hour drive to and from DC. However, it’s hard to be humorous with gangster rap blaring in the background. On the flip side, I did get to learn some very colorful words in case I ever decided to be a thug. “Ay yo, ma, what you mean I gotta clean my room, son? Yo dats wack, son.” Yeah, you have to end everything with “son.” It makes you sound more official. Obviously I’m going to need some practice, but I believe I’ll be able to pull it off eventually. And once I get really good at it, maybe I’ll be able to join 50 Cent or Lil Wayne on tour. You never know.

Another thing I was exposed to during that weekend was a fad known as planking. For those of you who don’t know what planking is, it involves a person lying face down at some random place and having their picture taken as proof that the mission had been accomplished. Granted, at my age, I can typically be found lying face down in some odd places, but I usually just call it napping. My friends, however, planked on a ledge at the gas station, on top of narrow tables at the hotel, and then wanted to plank on top of the car. When they asked me to join in, I declined. I’m just too old to grasp the point of it all. That said, if you see pictures circulating of me lying face down on the conveyor belt at Walmart or on the median strip of some highway, just know that’s the place where I probably passed out after a long day, and that I was not planking.

Speaking of being old, I think I’m getting to the point where I’m starting to have senior moments. Recently, I was trying to explain a simple concept to someone when my brain just shut down and went completely numb. It was as if I was being questioned on the laws of physics when really I was just trying to show someone how to get to the restroom. I probably set myself up for failure when I used the diagram and referred them to a flow chart when I should have just said that it was at the end of the hall. Even worse, one day last week I was trying to explain to my boss’s boss’s boss who to return a document too and I completely forgot my coworker’s name. I just stood there, like a helpless deer, saying, “Give it to…uh…you know…umm…that other guy…umm…the tall one.” I couldn’t have felt more like a heel. Fortunately, two minutes later, while I was still standing there, it came to me. “Michael. His name is Michael. Yeah, give it to Michael.” You would have thought that by us having the same name it’d be easy to remember. Apparently not.

In closing news, I now realize and fully admit that it was a bad idea for me to take my fish to the pool. I mean, it just seemed like a natural thing to do. They swim all day for gosh sakes. I just wanted to give them a slight change of scenery. Being cooped up in an aquarium all day, what type of life is that? Certainly not one that I’d want. Regardless, I did learn a few valuable lessons from the experience, though. First, it’s best if you use an SPF 15 sunscreen before taking your fish for a walk and dumping them into the pool. Second, just because they’re fish, doesn’t mean that they don’t want their own goggles and nose pieces to use when swimming too. Third, some fish like their bikini bottoms to match their tops. Who knew? And lastly, it’s a good idea to get a fish trainer to teach your fish to do as you command. It’s been three days and I’m still trying to get them out of the pool and back into their aquarium. What a bad idea!

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
Access my website: http://www.mikeyllo.com
Add me on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/michael.rochelle1

Well Slap Me And Call Me A Cardigan

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Jun• 27•11

I can’t be 100% sure, but I think I may be going through the change. Not just any change, but the change of life. Yes, that change. I know what you’re saying, “Michael, you’re just 31. You’re too young to go through the change. You haven’t even gotten your first gray hair yet. You’ve got years before you’ll go through the change.” Well that’s what I thought too. However, lately I’ve been sweating like it’s nobody’s business and I have no other reasonable explanation for it. I mean, what else could it be? I wish I could just blame it on the heat, or on the alcohol like Jamie Foxx said, but sometimes I’ll just break out into a sweat just for the sake of it, even when it’s not hot temperature-wise. So, as painful as it is for me to admit, I guess it’s best for me to be honest and upfront with you before you hear it from some other source. Hello, my name is Michael and I’m a sweater.

When I mentioned my going through the change to my doctor, he just laughed, which I thought was highly unprofessional. I would fire him, but he’s the only doctor that my medical insurance will cover within the state of Maryland. Besides, not too many doctors run their practices out of the restroom of a Texaco gas station. It’s cool that he offers a $.10 per gallon discount on gas if you fill up during your office visit. Every penny saved goes a long way in this economy. It does kind of get awkward when his other patients arrive at the same time as I do. Just last week he was checking out my sweat issues while pulling some guy’s teeth and doing some woman’s gynecological exam. I just wish he had some form of divider so that the patients couldn’t actually see each other. That woman looked super uncomfortable the whole time. Oh, and I didn’t appreciate being asked to hold one of her legs up in the air.

Anyway, like my doctor, no one else seems to be taking my being menopausal seriously either. Most of the time people just stare at me when I spring the news on them. Perhaps I should be more discreet and not bring it up during dinner or talk to random people at the bus stop about it. They just don’t understand how dire my situation is. I mean, I could be sitting there, minding my own business, and my supervisor will simply call my name and that will be the cause of a torrential downpour from my forehead, down my nose, and into my morning coffee. Then, just when I think I’m the only one aware of the situation, someone will hand me a napkin and yell, “Yuck,” which makes me sweat even more due to my embarrassment. Maybe I should be studied or something. Although menopause probably isn’t normal for a guy my age, maybe there is some form of pill or procedure I can have done. Botox? I’ll look into it.

Moving on, I’ve often wondered about my readers, who they are, how they stumbled upon the blog, and what they’re doing just before they begin reading one of my articles. I assume they aren’t driving while reading. That would be dangerous. But are my readers usually at work when they read—while on their breaks, of course? Are they making dinner and reading while waiting for the rice to boil? Maybe they read my blog as they’re having their first cup of coffee in the morning. Or, are they reading my blog as they tuck the kids in at night? Maybe my blog helps put the children to sleep. I’m not sure that’s a good thing, but as long as they’re reading, I guess I’m happy.

Ironically, I got my answer the other day when a new reader informed me that he was planning to read my blog the next time he was on the toilet. Wow. Prior to him mentioning it, the idea of someone reading my blog while embarking on something so personal had never even crossed my mind. Kind of gives new meaning to the term “a crappy read.” I mean, he literally reaches for my blog and then reaches for the Charmin. Honestly, I can’t tell you how excited this revelation made me. I, Michael Rochelle, have now made it into the bathrooms of the American public. What an honor!!! So, that noted, I’d like to take a moment to give a shout out to all my restroom readers. If you happen to be taking care of your business right now, I hope everything is flowing smoothly. And don’t forget to wash your hands.

In other news, after the U.S. Open golf event left the area, I was asked to go play miniature golf. Actually, let’s call it Putt-Putt. I like that name better. And saying that you lost a game of Putt-Putt to a three year old sounds a lot less embarrassing than saying you lost a game of miniature golf to a toddler. I went in there all cocky, thinking my little bachelor’s degree in fine arts would finally serve some form of purpose, but I was not able to make a touchdown like I had planned. In fact, I wasn’t able to get a strike either. I did chase a few people around with my golf club—which was kind of fun, but you get absolutely no points for that whatsoever. I could definitely use a little more practice. Give me about another week or two and I’ll be ready for the big leagues. Hey, maybe I could get so good that I could play for the NHL. I’ve always wanted to be a New York Laker like Kobe. See, I know my sports. My dad would be so proud.

Speaking of sports, one of my buddies recently asked me to play soccer with him and his friends. Soccer!!! Me!!! Of all people!!! I mean, yes I could have some hidden talent that could make me a natural when I “Bend It Like Beckham,” but I think it’s highly unlikely—especially after my failed attempt to get into the NFL last week. Who knew that there was a draft process and you couldn’t just ask one of the officials if you could throw the ball around a bit? I certainly didn’t. But anyway, I keep going over the various scenarios of my playing soccer in my head and none of them end well—or with me being alive afterwards. I picture someone thinking I’m a pro and kicking the ball my way. I’d then run for it, kick hard, miss the ball like Charlie Brown used to do, fly up in the air, and land on my head or something. It would then probably end up on YouTube, making me an overnight internet sensation like that Justin Bieber kid, and Diane Sawyer and Connie Chung would interview me in the hospital where I’d lie there all bandaged up and promote my blog. Hmmm. Maybe this soccer thing doesn’t sound like such a bad idea after all. I mean, if Tom Brady and Michael Jordan can be good at soccer, why can’t I?

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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Deodorant May Not Be A Necessity, But Starbucks Is

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Jun• 20•11

If it hasn’t been said before, let me be the first to say that I’m starting to believe that Starbucks is a cult. Not one of those bad cults where people meet in the middle of the woods and call themselves weird names while chanting, but the kind of cult that you can participate in during daylight hours where no one judges you or thinks you’re likely to drink arsenic Kool-Aid at your leader’s request. Starbucks doesn’t even sell Kool-Aid. Well, now that I think about it, Starbucks has recently started selling smoothies, but I don’t think they’re Kool-Aid based, so we’re probably safe even if they are a cult. I’ve never heard of anyone being poisoned by a fruit smoothie. But just in case, I’m going to stick with the coffee because you just never know. I mean, why risk it? Better safe than sorry.

Cult or not, it is possible that Starbucks will eventually be the death of me. Although I’ve cut back to one drink a week—ok five—I often base my entire schedule around Starbucks being open or not. Even worse, I usually spend my whole day thinking about whether my boss will miss me if, on my way to the restroom, I accidentally go and get a Frappuccino instead. Of course, I’d probably never resort to such desperate measures, but when I worked a part time job for a few weeks last summer, I always stopped at Starbucks on the way in, regardless of whether my stopping would make me late or not. I just figured that my supervisor would understand and would probably be more upset that I didn’t bring him something than be mad that I was 40 minutes late for work over a mocha latte. I mean, hasn’t it been proven that coffee increases productivity? Well, that’s my story, and that’s what I’m sticking to.

I’ve spoken on this before, but due to my love of coffee in general, some have called me an addict. Because of this, and to prove everyone wrong—because they are—I’ve decided to do a little more research on some of the signs of having an addiction. Some experts say that addicts can have extreme mood changes and have random displays of happiness, sadness, anxiety, and/or become easily excited. Hmmm. Well, I do get happy about having Starbucks, sad when I can’t have it, anxious about getting it, and excited about the opportunity to indulge myself. Based on that, it would appear that I’m strung out. However, I cry a lot when it’s time to go to work, get happy and excited when it’s time to leave work, and get anxious for my shift to be over. Yet, I highly doubt that anyone would ever call me a work addict. Well, there goes that theory.

Whether I’m addicted or not, I’m not alone in the coffee struggle. Matter of fact, the Starbucks in my local Barnes and Nobles stays so busy that I typically have to fight for a seat. Just last week a guy asked to sit at my table and threatened me because I told him the seat was taken. Eventually my dad showed up and the guy saw that I wasn’t lying, but for a moment, I thought that he and I were going to reenact the fight scene from Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” video. Instead of using a switchblade like the dancers did, I would have had to threaten him with a brownie instead. It may have worked. I admit that my Michael Jackson moves are a little bit rusty, but that old man and I probably could have pulled the routine off splendidly. MJ would have been proud.

Moving on, I don’t know about anybody else, but the weather predictions have been driving me nuts lately. I’ve cancelled my plans for the past two Sundays because the weatherman had called for scattered thunderstorms throughout the day. Despite the predictions, neither day produced so much as a minor sprinkle. I mean, where is all this alleged rain taking place? Egypt? Ironically, although the weatherman can be completely wrong repeatedly, they probably still get a good yearly performance review and merit increase. I wish I was so lucky. Actually, I think there should be some form of law that would allow me to sue the weather channel to get my weekends back when there is an error in weather predictions. Matter of fact, this will be the first thing I talk to Barack about when he stops by for our weekly game of spades tomorrow night.

Speaking of things that I’m annoyed about, the U.S. Open is taking place in this area and it is absolutely running my life due to the traffic. They’ve decided that the field across the street from my apartment complex would be a good place for people to park and then be shuttled to the event, which is being held 20 minutes away. Because of this, instead of my being able to leave for work at the last minute, at 8:23, I now have to leave at 8:15 instead, which means I’ve had to stop brushing my teeth and shaving if I want to make it to work on time. Some mornings I don’t even have time to put on deodorant. Thank goodness my co-workers have been very understanding thus far. I’m just praying that the air condition continues to function normally. One minor malfunction and there could be serious problems.

Honestly, when I first started seeing the advertisements about the U.S. Open, I got so excited because I thought that Venus and Serena Williams were going to be in the area. I had even planned to offer them my couch so they wouldn’t have to pay for hotel accommodations, which can be pretty expensive when major events come to town. Also, I wanted to give them some tips regarding their serve that I learned from that one time I played a tennis game on my Wii. They probably would have thought so highly of my help that they would have asked me to be their manager. Unfortunately, this U.S. Open was for some form of sport called golf or something. I mean, I don’t know a lot about it, but from what I hear, they let a tiger in the woods swing clubs at balls. This year the tiger wasn’t able to make it. Maybe it was hibernating. Hopefully they were able to still get some lions, bears and giraffes to participate in the tiger’s place. Either way, I’ll be glad when it’s all over so I can once again know what it feel like to have fresh breath and dry underarms.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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A Baby Would Go Good By The Fireplace

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Jun• 13•11

Now that I’ve answered my calling as a philosopher, I’ve decided to make some slight changes in my day-to-day life. Since the information regarding my newly recognized gift could leak to the press at any moment, it’s probably in my best interest to keep a low profile. Because of this, I’ve started wearing big floppy hats, sunglasses, and a drawn-on mustache in hopes that no one notices me—even at work. For all I know, I could be the next Dr. Phil, and I really don’t want the hassle of dealing with the paparazzi when I’m innocently walking back and forth to and from the copier. I mean, even we celebrities deserve our privacy.

In fact, the other day, I was minding my own business, trying to make a discreet trip to the restroom, when I heard someone call my name. Immediately, I went into panic mode. In an attempt to create a diversion, I quickly hid behind a small, potted plant and yelled, “He went thataway,” while using one of the leaves to point in the other direction. Fortunately, it was just my supervisor demanding that I take off the floppy hat and get back to my desk, but it could have just as easily been The National Enquirer or TMZ. I’m sure they’re interested in what we celebrities eat for breakfast, or how I manage to stay so humble despite all my many extraordinary talents. I should probably have some form of response ready when these types of things come up. I’ll work on that.

Anyway, as some of you may know, my parents have been here visiting me for the week. Actually, let me rephrase that. My parents and a rabbit named Peanut arrived on Tuesday, and they’ve basically taken over the place. In preparation for their visit, I had to do the most thorough cleaning that I’ve possibly ever done in my whole entire life. I actually had to use the mop—once I learned how. Don’t judge me! Using a mop just isn’t as simple as it used to be. You now have to adjust levers, press buttons, and do a little happy dance to get the thing to work. In my opinion, they should really come with some kind of instruction manual or something. I mean, how else is a person supposed to know that you need to plug it in overnight before use?

After the whole mop debacle, I realized that everything in the apartment could use a good wipe down—even the fish. Because of this, I did what any normal person would do. I broke out my electric tooth brush and scrubbed everything from the stove to the toilet. It took hours. However, once I was done, everything sparkled, and for the first time, I was actually able to see my reflection in the mirror. Up until then, I thought the mirror was just there for show. Unfortunately, all that cleaning made my toothbrush taste really yucky the next morning. I probably should have bought a new one, but that would have been considered “shopping,” and you know that I’ve given up on that sort of thing. I won’t even tell you what I’ve been using for toilet paper since I ran out a few days ago. I just hope nothing comes up where I’ll need to wear a tie any time soon.

Honestly, besides the cleaning, I really don’t mind when my parents come to stay with me. They consider my place as their vacation home, and it’s cool that we’ve grown to enjoy each other’s company so much. My dad actually compared my apartment to a five-star hotel. Unfortunately, that places me in the role of the help. So far, I’ve been the cook, the butler, the maid, the chauffer, the bell hop, the doorman, the errand boy, and I’ve also worked the information desk to answer random questions whenever necessary. It’s kind of like having a second job that I haven’t figured out a way to get paid for just yet. Hmmm. Maybe I can list it as “community service” or “volunteerism” on my resume somewhere.

Since I’m not on vacation like my parents are, I don’t have the luxury of lying around all day, watching cable, and eating bonbons like they do. Despite this, that hasn’t stopped my mother from sending me to the grocery store every evening after I get off work. One day she sent me to get carrots for the rabbit. The next day she wanted Pringles. Ironically, I think those are the exact same type of requests that she used to beat me for as a child. I wish I would have had the audacity to ask her to stop somewhere to pick me up some random item after she’d worked all day. I would have either ended up with a black eye or on the side of a milk carton somewhere. In any case, whether it’s for a can of greens or a piece of gum, when my momma asks, I just say “O.K.” and head to the store. After all, she is my mother, and allegedly we only get one.

Coincidentally, whenever my parents come to visit, one of my friends decides to have an awesome party. This forces me to have to ask my mother whether I can go or not—even though she’s at my house and I’m almost middle-aged. No matter how much I beg, she always says no. “But you’ll be sleep,” I explain. Then she says, “You have company,” and sends me to my room without dinner. After she rejected my request this past Friday, I thought about locking myself in my room, tying some sheets together, and lowering myself out the window and down to my car. Unfortunately, because I live on the fourth floor, I didn’t have enough sheets and had to abort the mission halfway down. Instead of partying like it was 1999, my mother and I ended up baking cookies and we were both in bed by 9 o’clock. Talk about being a party animal.

Speaking of mothers, is it just me, or is having children in style this season? Are babies the new black and I didn’t get the memo? For some reason, everybody seems to be pregnant. Well, I can say for sure that I’m not (thank God that test was negative), but everybody else seems to be. In fact, just because I brought it up, someone somewhere is reading this right now and saying to themselves, “That’s what I need in my life. A baby. I thought I needed curtains, but no. I need a baby. Yes, a baby would look good by the fireplace, right above the mantle.”

Recently, I was asked if I wanted kids, and I’m really not sure. First of all, I still feel like such a kid myself. Second, babies don’t come with a return policy—at least I don’t think they do. You can return a new shirt within 30 days, but a baby is yours for life. I mean, they are cute and all, but then they start talking, and before you know it, your two-year-old is telling you why feeding him broccoli instead of ice cream for dinner is going to scar him or her for life, resulting in years of therapy sessions and a few angry tattoos on his or her face. I’m not sure if I’m ready to tackle those sort of challenges just yet. Then again, my having a kid may increase my chances of getting a reality show like that family from “Jon and Kate Plus 8.” Hmmm. Maybe I should order one off eBay after all. Perhaps they’re having a sale.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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Grandma, Will You Love Me Flab And All

Written By: Michael Rochelle - Jun• 06•11

I’ve been feeling very philosophical lately. It’s weird. It’s like all of a sudden I’ve finally realized my calling, and it’s not just to be the most successful blogger/novelist/fried-Cheerios maker ever. Instead, maybe I’m supposed to use my voice and writing capabilities to impart wisdom to the masses—or at least to my blog readers. The only problem with this realization is that there is now so much pressure to act the part. Like, everything I say should sound smart. And everything I write should be jam packed with wisdom. I mean, a real philosopher would have probably thrown a “thou” and a “henceforth” in this paragraph by now—like I just did. Also, I should probably change my name to Siddhartha and get some glasses because everyone looks smarter with glasses. I should know. After all, I’m a philosopher.

Now that I think about it, I could have probably saved a few dollars a two weeks ago when I bought all those new jeans because philosophers don’t even wear jeans. Though I don’t know exactly what they wear, I’m quite sure it doesn’t come from Old Navy or The Gap. Matter of fact, I should probably start investing in the type of robes that the monks wear. Wait a minute. Maybe I could be a monk!!! They’re pretty smart, right? I mean, they kind of just pray and read all day. They have to be smart to do that. But are they allowed to have blogs? Hmmm. Too risky. Maybe I should just wear a toga and call it a day. Smart people wear togas, I think. Yeah, and I should probably end this paragraph with a smart quote or something. Well, here it goes: “You take the good, you take the bad / You take them both and there you have / The facts of life, the facts of life.”

The other day I was at Kohl’s, accidentally trying on clothes, when something very disturbing happened. Suddenly, someone’s grandmother burst into my stall while my pants were around my ankles and asked if I needed help with anything. I just stared at her for a moment. She looked at me as if what had happened was the most normal thing in the world. Actually, it wasn’t exactly her fault. She was probably being used as a pawn to punish me for shopping after I promised that I would never shop again. However, I needed a pair of black khakis because I only had three or four pairs at home. See, I knew you’d understand. How is a person supposed to live with only four pair of black khakis? Exactly.

Initially, I was embarrassed and ashamed that Granny Kohl’s had seen me with my pants down, but then I thought better of it. I mean, she was someone’s grandma after all. She’s had to have seen a partially dressed man before at some point in her life, right? Even if she and her husband did sleep in separate beds like they did on “I Love Lucy,” she had to have accidentally seen him putting on his pajamas a time or two. In any case, it was then that I realized that there always seem to be women working in the men’s fitting room. It’s never a guy. However, I’ve never seen a man working in the women’s fitting room. Actually, I’ve never been in a women’s fitting room, but that’s beside the point. I’m quite sure it’s not allowed. It’s discrimination. I mean, why can’t I try on clothes without having to worry about exposing my nu-nu, my who-haws, or my wick-wick to someone’s mother? If you ask me, Oprah should have done her last show about that.

In addition to the peeping grandma and my trying to save money, another reason I’ve decided to cut back on my shopping is that I believe I may be going color blind. Seriously, I’ve never had more problems knowing the difference between colors than I do now. Hopefully my life will never depend on knowing whether an object is pink or purple. A shirt that looks grey in dim lighting, turns out to be brown in bright lighting. Pants that are blue when I leave the house, turn out to be black when I get to work. It’s the weirdest thing. No lie, the other day I bought a black shirt, but when I got it home, it was yellow. Completely ruined my day. Not even I can pull off a yellow shirt with red slacks. I was so upset. Maybe I should hire a personal shopper. I mean, if Paris Hilton can have one, then why can’t I?

On another note, recently I’ve had a few conversations with people who think it’s weird that I go to the movies by myself. One, I live right across the street from a movie theater and it’s just so simple for me to run over and check out whatever I want to watch when I want to watch it. Two, I don’t have to worry about coordinating my schedule around someone else’s evening where they have to beat the children, feed the husband, and have the dog all tucked in by a certain time. Three, there is no fight that ends up on the nightly news regarding which movie to watch. If I want to go see “The Hangover Part II” right this minute, I can do that without having to slap someone until they realize that they don’t really need to see “Bridesmaids” for the fifth time.

Furthermore, going to the movies by yourself doesn’t necessarily mean that you don’t have friends or that people don’t like you. It just means you’re comfortable with being in your own company—even if you do make sure you get to the theater two hours early so that no one sees you walk in by yourself. Also, doing things by yourself can alert other people that you’re single without you having to break out a radio and do the “Single Ladies (Put A Ring On It)” routine in the middle of an AMC theater. Yes, the last time I did it I brought the house down, was offered a record deal, and got three phone numbers, but sometimes all that is completely unnecessary. One time this lady even gave me her daughter’s number right in the middle of a movie. Hey, you just never know when you’ll meet your soul mate—or your soul mate’s mom. It could be at the next Harry Potter or Freddy Krueger movie.

In closing news, although I may have been the first partially nude guy that Granny Kohl’s has ever seen, because the temperature is going up, I’ve been seeing a ton of shirtless guys showing off their gym bodies—even at church. Well, because I just started exercising more and eating less a few weeks ago, I’m not exactly beach or pool ready just yet. In fact, I’ve been banned from the pool at my apartment complex until further notice. Apparently my physique was scaring the children. Regardless, I’m not going to let that experience or all the abs and biceps I’m exposed to at the supermarket lead me to have a bad image of my own body. Nope. Instead, I’m focusing on loving and appreciating every single roll and crevice I have. I hope the world—and my apartment complex—is ready for me because the next time I hit the pool or the beach, they’ll just have to accept me as I am, flab and all.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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I Fully Admit To Having A Problem…Kind Of

Written By: Michael Rochelle - May• 25•11

Umm, maybe I don't need any more clothes.

Some say that the first step to solving any problem or addiction is to acknowledge that you have one. Well, if I’m allowed to be completely honest, I think that I may have a teeny weenie problem when it comes to spending. I was going to use the word “shopping,” but spending seems manlier. And we all know that my sole purpose in life is to be more manly. I mean, I didn’t grow these three hairs on my chest for nothing. You should see the way I have them slicked down today. Very macho, if I may say so myself. I used a little bit of gel. You just never know when you’ll have to rip your shirt off during a board meeting to get your point across. It’s happened twice today already.

Anyway, back to the shopping thing. There is just something magical about a crisp, brand new shirt that makes my hand automatically reach for my wallet. In fact, I can be strolling along the aisles, minding my own business when some random shirts will start calling me by name. They say, “Buy me, Michael. You know you need me.” “No, I don’t,” I reply. “Yes you do!” they scream back. That’s when the fight begins, and I somehow find myself arguing loudly with a shirt in the middle of a store. Before I even realize what has happened, the shirt utters those three little words, “I’m on sale,” and, instinctively, I find myself dashing towards the checkout counter with shirt in hand—and a few other things I grabbed along the way. I mean, who can deny the allure of having a sixth bottle of black shoe polish?

It probably doesn’t help that I live across the street from both Target and Kohl’s. In fact, when I found out how close my apartment complex was to the stores, I practically signed the lease without even seeing the apartment. “I’ll take it,” I yelled as I entered the rental office for the first time. “But we haven’t even told you the price yet,” the leasing agent responded. “Don’t worry about it. There are three Starbucks cafes across the street. Here’s a blank check. Write down any amount you feel is appropriate,” I said gleefully as I skipped out of the office, across the parking lot, and over to where I knew happiness could be bought for the cost of a mocha latte and a new pair of shoes. Don’t judge me. I was born this way.

One of the first signs that I had a problem should have been obvious when others would ask me to go shopping with them just for the company and I’d end up leaving the store with more bags than they did. No lie, the other day a co-worker left with only 2 shirts while I left with 8—ok 12. The second sign should have been when I noticed that every time I ran into one of my neighbors, I had shopping bags in my hand. He’d even helped me take them up the stairs on a few occasions. Have you ever tried explaining to a level-headed person why it is that you need 35 pairs of jeans? Well, I have, and I wouldn’t recommend it. It even got so bad that I would park my car, look around for him, and then dash up the steps with my bags when I was sure the coast was clear. I know. I’m a mess, right?

Well, my point is that I’m acknowledging that I may kind of have a little problem. Hmmm. Maybe problem is too strong of a word. How about opportunity? I have the opportunity to spend less moving forward. Matter of fact, I’m going to start right this second. Now is as good a time as any, right? I tell you, I’m through with spending money. Believe me. I’m not going to spend another red cent—ever! Oh wait a minute. The mailman’s here. Let’s see. Cable bill. Light bill. And—oh my goodness! You aren’t going to believe this. Kohl’s is having a sale! 30% off everything when you use your Kohl’s credit card with the 99.9% interest rate. What a deal! Uh, I’ll be right back. I’m going to Kohl’s. I can always start saving tomorrow, which is just as good a day as any.

Moving right along, I have some good news. Contrary to this time last week when someone erroneously guessed that I was at least 35, today someone guessed that I was 20. 20!!! It was as if I had won an award. In fact, here’s an excerpt from the speech I gave in the middle of the break room: First of all, I’d like to thank all of those that have made this moment possible. Thanks to the academy. My mom. My dad. My cosmetic surgeon who so willingly squeezed me in for that emergency face-lift over the weekend. Thanks to my backup cosmetic surgeons. My therapist. Where would I be without you? Oh, and my backup therapists. This moment is so much bigger than me. Without you all, I’d be nothing. Words can’t even begin to express my gratitude. I graciously and humbly accept the compliment and I will be forever in your debt. Thank you. Good night. And God bless.

In other news, a wise man once said that happiness and success can be found in the oddest of places. Yes, that wise man was me. Well, I was minding my own business at work the other day when, all of a sudden, a brand new chair was delivered to my desk—and no, I didn’t buy it. Because I’ve worked a few jobs where I’d been forced to make one paper clip and three staples last for six months, I asked if they were delivering the chair to the right place. I wasn’t used to such luxuries. I didn’t feel worthy. The chair looked just like one of the ones surrounding the table on “The Celebrity Apprentice.” I immediately envisioned myself doing deals with Donald Trump and making recommendations on who to fire solely based on my having an executive chair.

It’s funny how something so simple can make you feel so important. It was as if I’d finally been promoted to janitor. I began doing my work with a renewed sense of empowerment. I even began asking people to address me as sir. “That’s Mr. Rochelle to you,” I said to a few coworkers who didn’t recognize that I was the proud owner of an executive chair and was thus privy to that level of respect. Unfortunately, I may have taken it just a little too far when I demanded that my manager address me as Your Highness. Seeing that he was a little uncomfortable with that, I informed him that I would find it acceptable for him to call me Your Majesty instead. I’ll have you know that I was successful in getting him to call me a different name. I am now referred to as suspended. I’ll let you know what he calls me once security allows me back on the premises in 3 days.

In closing news, as much as technology was designed to bring us together, it is with great displeasure that I announce that it is probably doing more to tear us apart. After 30-plus years of only having one line because she felt more than that was unnecessary and wasteful, somehow Verizon convinced my mother to get call waiting. Up until then, she didn’t care what calls she missed, but now call waiting is her best friend. Since she got the service, our calls have gone as follows:


“Hey, Mom, it’s Mike.”

“Wait a minute, Mike. I have another call.”

Before I can give any form of acknowledgement, she clicks over.

Five minutes later, she comes back on the line.

“Mike, I have to go. I need to take this other call.”

“But, Mom, I’m in the emergency room. My arm fell off.”

“That’s nice, sweetheart. I’ll have to call you back.”


She still has yet to return my call. That noted, if anyone sees or hears from my mother, could you please tell her that I need to talk to her. I mean, I know that her bill collectors are important, but if she could just once choose talking to her son over talking to them just once, I’d really appreciate it.

Michael Rochelle
Access my full blog: http://www.justmichael.net/blog
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Only In My Skinny Jean Dreams

Written By: Michael Rochelle - May• 16•11

I think I need a paramedic!!!

Recently I’ve learned that there are certain games that you just shouldn’t ask people to play. One of those games is the guessing game. Guess my age. Guess my weight. Guess my credit score. Basically, you shouldn’t ask anyone to guess anything of a personal nature that may not work in your favor if the guess is way off. One wrong answer and things can turn ugly rather quickly. Because I hadn’t yet learned that lesson, when a co-worker at my new job asked how old I was, I asked her to guess. Usually this works in my favor, and I had just been carded the evening before while getting drinks—and by drinks I mean milk—with friends. My coworker looked me over. Her lips parted. “Thirty-five,” she said. But it wasn’t the guess that bothered me most, it was the words that followed: at least. Thirty-five. At least.

Mind you, I don’t have a problem with thirty-five year olds. Hell, my grandmother is thirty-five. I’m quite sure it’s a lovely age and I hope to one day reach thirty-five in about forty years or so. However, up until that day, no one had ever guessed more than twenty-six, and they only guessed that because I had used statements like “back in the day,” or “back when I was young,” or “My arthritis is flaring up.” I never would have guessed that I’d be twenty-six one day and thirty-five the next. I made a mad dash for the restroom and noticed that my cheeks—the ones on my face—were slightly lower than they had been the day before. Panicked, I immediately called my plastic surgeon and scheduled a consultation because there is only one thing in my life that I absolutely refuse to do and that is to be thirty-five while I’m only thirty-one. Besides that, everything else is perfectly acceptable.

While we’re on that subject, since I now look middle aged, I’ve decided that it is time to wear clothing more appropriate for someone that advanced in years. Up until now, I’ve gone with the baggy look, but now I’d like to wear clothing that are a little more fitted. Of course, that means I’ll no longer have room to smuggle my microwave and a rotisserie chicken into movie theaters, but at least I’d look more polished. More adult-like. More like a person with a successful blog and a novel in the works. However, let me point out that it is not my goal to go so far as to wear skinny jeans because there is only one thing in my life that I absolutely refuse to do and that is wear skinny jeans. Besides that, everything else is perfectly acceptable.

Because wearing fitted clothing is totally new to me, I enlisted the help of one of my friends for support. The first sign that things weren’t going to turn out well was when my buddy warned me not to look at the price tag. Of course, this made me look: $89!!! Do you know how many car payments I can make with $89? Absolutely none. But my point is, $89 is a lot of money for a pair of jeans that won’t tuck me in at night and make me scrambled eggs in the morning. With the price tag still in hand, I fainted from shock. Fortunately, my friend is a doctor and he was able to revive me before I’d lost the last of my few remaining brain cells. Honestly, it’s probably my fault for going shopping with someone who’s a doctor instead of going with someone who’s more on a dollar-menu budget like myself. I’ll certainly know better next time.

Despite the price, I ended up trying on the jeans anyway. In reality, there is nothing wrong with playing dress up every now and then. And if I start saving now, maybe I’ll be able to actually afford the jeans when I turn thirty-five. Anyway, the first pair were a size 34/32 with a slim fit. After putting one leg in, I knew that there was no way anymore of me was ever getting into those jeans. I was then given the same size in the classic and relaxed fits, but both were so tight that you could actually monitor my blood flow through them. Because of this, my doctor-friend warned me to lower my salt intake and wrote me a prescription right then and there. At that moment, I was more concerned about my breath intake because of the very realistic fear that I’d have an Incredible Hulk moment and burst right out of those jeans, sending buttons ricocheting all across the store and hitting innocent women and children.

I then tried a 36/32, which killed me because I had worn a pair of 34/32 jeans into the store and the goal was to go smaller, not larger. To add insult to injury, though my buddy thought the jeans were a good fit and gave me the thumbs up, the saleslady looked me over and screamed, “Oh God,” and covered her eyes before demanding that I go up another size and try a 38/32. “The jeans are European cut,” she explained. I told her that I didn’t care if the jeans were Anglo Saxon diced. Trust me. There is only one thing in my life that I absolutely refuse to do and that’s go into a store wearing a pair of 34/32 jeans with the intent to go smaller and somehow leave with a pair of jeans that are four sizes bigger. Besides that, everything else is perfectly acceptable.

Moving right along, people have been asking how the new job is going, and I can honestly say that things are going pretty well. It is awesome to leave the house at 8:22 AM, drive to work, park the car, walk to the building, hop on the elevator, and still make it to my desk by 8:30. Because of the short commute, I’ve only been to a gas station once during the month of May and even then it was only to buy milk. So far, this month I’ve only used a quarter tank of gas. How amazing is that? Another good thing about the short commute is that I’m able to go home for lunch every day. On the downside, I often wonder about the repercussions of calling out sick while on my lunch break. I mean, if I didn’t make it back to work after lunch, at least I’d worked half the day and that should count for something. Hmmm.

Before I forget, you all are going to be so proud of me. I’ve been exercising lately. I’ll give you a moment to stop laughing and compose yourself. Are you done? Good. I’ll have you know that just last weekend I hiked 3.7 miles around a lake. Ok, maybe I’m exaggerating just a little bit. I actually walked briskly around the lake. Part of the reason that I was walking so briskly was because I’d neglected to use insect repellant and had somehow become a human buffet for all insects with teeth within a 50-mile radius. Regardless, the point is, I did it. Furthermore, I’ll have you know that I’ve also used my Wii Fit, did some Zumba exercise, and played Championship Boxing on my Wii in the past week. Unfortunately, I haven’t exactly learned the art of throwing a punch so I accidentally knocked my flat-screen TV out a few times. It wasn’t pretty. Despite that, I can honestly say that the TV didn’t get in a single punch on me. Thus, I’ve declared myself the undefeated champion until further notice. Yup.

Lastly, I have to acknowledge that today is the two-year anniversary of this blog. Honestly, I can’t believe how quickly the time has passed. I’ve hit many milestones between then and now. I graduated college. I relocated from Baltimore to the DC area. I’ve changed jobs—twice. I started on a master’s degree. Oh, and I fought a praying mantis and a grasshopper along the way. From the beginning until now, I can’t tell you how much the feedback means to me, and I can’t believe that there are people out there who have actually read every single post I’ve done. Would you believe I have readers in the Ukraine? It’s really mindboggling. I’d like to take this moment to thank each and every one of you for taking time out of your busy day to read The Little Blog That Could. Although I allegedly have a degree in English, I can’t find adequate words to express my gratitude. That said, happy anniversary to the blog and stay tuned!!!

Yours humbly,

Michael Rochelle
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