if i had a blog . . .

The day that I graduated from college I was able to confidently tell people where I was going to work come June. 

When they asked what exactly Metavante was – I chuckled nervously and said, with as much authority as possible, ‘ financial software. . . ?’ 

When they asked what exactly I’d be doing – I was left to awkwardly explain that I been hired based on my sparkling personality, GPA and mock set of extracurricular activities*, not based on my ability to perform any particular task. As far as I was concerned – they’d pay me a salary and I’d have an excuse to wear cute pencil skirts and high heels.  The details, I was sure, would work themselves out.

A few months in and, while I had a full inbox and a never-ending to-do list, cocktail parties were no less challenging.  Apparently  banking technology doesn’t become easier to explain the more you know about it – and when your explanation is no longer peppered with obvious stammering and confusion, people tie the brevity of your response with an ‘obvious’ attitude problem.

Work as a store manager for Target and the questions will stop. 

Work for a company no one knows about in a job that no one knows exists - you too would cringe every time someone asked you to explain what you do . . .  and while I abhor meaningless small talk, simply spouting off my ‘sales associate’ title would no doubt incite images of days spent spritzing cologne in the air and watching mothers outfit their 13 year olds in miniskirts and tube tops**.  Much to my chagrin, further explanation was always required.

Move to a new company with a new job title?  Now even the 4 people who had FINALLY “gotten it”, require a refresher.  ‘So . . you sell health insurance?’ . . . sure. yes.  let’s go with that.

Finally, add insult to injury, and start dating an artist.

If you frequent enough Milwaukee galleries with him and adorn yourself with pink hair and a questionable set of fashion choices, the artists of the world think they know what’s coming when they ask, ‘so, you’re an artist too?’

It doesn’t take long to become keenly aware of the mounting disappointment when the art crowd finds out that one of their own is holding hands with a cubicle sitting, keyboard typing, corporate American – and the field of prescription insurance, surprisingly, is not received with any more enthusiasm (by anyone) than was banking technology.

Proposal Analyst.  RFP Manager. Sales Writer. Every title stinks of corporate culture and provides absolutely no understandable indication of what I do.  Add the confused looks, sometimes questionable sneers and my propensity for a good stiff drink when conversation becomes awkward – cue a swift loss of any viable attention or enthusiasm for the conversation at hand.

And so, for the sake of social politeness and my own overworked liver, I’ve dulled my moral compass around accurate self portrayal.***Technically, I DO indeed write for a living, and, while not at all accurate, ‘I’m a writer’ generally allows me to slip out of the conversation unscathed.  I’ll be wandering away while you envision me curled up at an antique desk, gazing dreamily out the window at a snow covered backyard**** while a mug of hot coffee defiantly clears the morning grogginess and January chill; the fury dude is dozing lazily beside me as a plate, holding a drip of melted butter and the last crumbs of toast, waits to be eagerly licked clean upon his waking;  I’m pondering how to perfectly phrase my next sentence and slowly, turning back to my laptop, begin chipping away at my next blog entry as a resolute smirk erases my previous state of contemplation.

 I’d like it even more if it was true.  But what in the world would I write about . . . if I had a blog . . .

*I WAS hired as a marketing intern for the landscaping company I worked for – it’s not my fault that by the end of the summer I knew far more about typar and paver driveways than I did their current marketing plan. . .

** for the purposes of full disclosure, I was part of the Abercrombie family for a while in college – they gave me a discount on a pair of ripped jeans and a mini skirt, allowed me to share my hangover woes with an always fascinating frat guy named camel (pronounced kay-mal), demanded that I wear flip flops to work in the middle of January,   and called my mom to let her know that I had, not surprisingly, stopped showing up for work. 

*** which I only discovered after my tendency to inundate strangers with bold-faced lies for my own amusement backfired as ‘strangers’ began to morph into friends of friends, actual friends or, worse yet, first dates.

****where the dude, obviously, is painting in the guest house that we’ve converted to his studio . . obviously . . .