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
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