You’ll never guess where I am right now—no, I’m not at Kohl’s. How dare you assume such a thing! I told you that I’m through with shopping! I haven’t been to Kohl’s in over two hours! But I digress. Obviously, based on when you’re reading this, I may no longer be sitting here—hopefully. Nevertheless, I’m at the last place I’d expect to be so soon after just being here a few weeks ago. Nope, I’m not at the dentist. But if you happened to guess that I’m back at the Merchant Tire and Auto shop where I recently paid $1,800 in repairs on my car that has not yet reached 68,000 miles, you’d be absolutely right. If I had the resources, I’d give you a prize for guessing accurately. Matter of fact, do you take food stamps? Oh well, I tried.
The other night, as I made my way home from a birthday party in DC, my tire pressure warning light came on. That always freaks me out as I immediately expect all four of my tires to burst simultaneously and send me careening off the side of a cliff, even though there really aren’t many cliffs in the area. Just as I began to grip the steering wheel tightly in preparation for what I was sure to come, the maintenance required indicator came on as well. I hadn’t seen that many flashing lights since the Fourth of July. If my life hadn’t been at stake, I may have even enjoyed the little show my car’s dashboard was putting on.
The following morning, after having only three hours of sleep, I got up super early to head over to the repair shop. After I arrived, I explained the issue to the same service guy who had checked my car in less than a month ago. He then asked, “Despite the maintenance required and tire pressure lights being on, is everything else good with the car???? I just stared at him. That was like asking someone if they’re in good health despite having a broken arm, a broken leg, and then losing their right kidney on aisle three at Giant.
Maybe it was my fault for not making the story more creative. I probably should have told him how the incident helped me find my religion due to all the praying I’d done that the car would not leave me stranded in the middle of DC somewhere. Trust me, at three in the morning, nothing and no one look safe—not even the police. Everything and everybody are suspicious at that hour. Even the 7-Elevens looked menacing as I pondered whether to pull into one of their parking lots to take a look under the hood. It was then that I remembered that I knew nothing about cars, so I opted against it. I mean, if I did somehow manage to eventually distinguish the windshield wiper from the engine, what would I do then? My point exactly.
Anyway, after I took a seat in the customer waiting area of the repair shop to await the verdict, the service guy asked if the warning lights were on when I picked up the car after my first service appointment. OK, I have a few problems with that question. First, after performing almost two thousand dollars in repairs on my car, why would the mechanics return the car to me if there were service lights still on? I mean, what else could the car have possibly wanted or needed after having so much work done? A new air freshener?
Second, after having to sacrifice my first-born puppy to pay for the cost of repairs, did the service guy really think that I would have just driven off without mentioning all the warning messages flashing if they had been on when I picked up the car after the first appointment? Now I may not be the most vocal person in the world, but if I actually threatened the manager that I’d call Barbara Walters to investigate whether the repairs were really necessary or not during my first visit, chances are, I would have probably mentioned the service lights—especially since they weren’t on when I dropped the car off. In any case, here I am, trying to remain calm, sitting directly beneath a sign guaranteeing me nothing less than excellent repair service. How ironic!
In other news, I recently received an email from my school, the University of Baltimore, stating that they’d launched a completely new website. As some of you may remember from my November 2010 blog entry, “Hey, You Can Always Just Drop Out,??? the faculty had chosen me to represent the class of 2010 graduates on their original website. Though I absolutely hated the picture they’d chosen to use—I guess it’s not their fault that the picture they took of me actually looked like me instead of Denzel Washington or Brad Pitt as I’d requested—I frantically searched the website hoping that it was still there. It wasn’t. My reign was over. I’d been replaced by photos of scenic views of the city and smiling students that they did manage to somehow make look like Brad and Denzel—even if they were girls.
Although I originally sued the school for misrepresentation due to their publishing an accurate photo of what I looked at the time without bothering to Photoshop or at least airbrushing it a little, I have to admit that my image no longer being there feels like I’ve been voted off the island and obviously won’t be invited back for the next season. Hey, maybe I’m the new Charlie Sheen. I tear up a little when I think of having to walk the halls of the school and not have anyone recognize me from having my picture on the website anymore. Worst of all, I’ll no longer be able to use the photo as proof that I actually went to college to take classes and didn’t just stop by one day to use the restroom. Well, because I saved a copy of the photo, I’ll always have the option of using it to market myself on Match.com or eHarmony. If I use that picture, at least I’ll know that my suitors will want me for my brain and not my overwhelmingly good looks or my six-pack abs and biceps that I purchased from eBay.
Before closing this entry out, I have to admit that there have been numerous inquiries in regard to the photo I posted for last week’s entry. People have asked what I was singing, who I was singing too, and who had to endure the cruel and inhumane punishment of having to be in the same room with me to take the pictures of the performance. While I won’t completely kill the mystery by sharing all of my secrets regarding the alleged performance, I will officially say that no one was hurt during the photo shoot in any way. There was no crying, no bleeding ears, and no broken glasses or windows due to the screeching of my voice during the concert. That noted, you can all stop calling in various tips to the crime stoppers hotline. If the police search my apartment one more time this week, I think I’ll go crazy—OK, crazier.
Michael Rochelle
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