When you’re a blogger, most conversations with people outside of the computer go something like this:
Them: “So now that I’ve finished telling you about the luxury yacht I just bought with the interest from my accounts, what is it that you do again?
Me: “I’m a writer.”
Them: “Oh? That’s positively charming. Where do you write?”
Me: “Erms. It’s a blog.”
Them: “Pardon me?”
Me: “I write on the Internet.”
Them: “Are you like those dreadful people of Walmart?”
Me: “Heh-Heh. No. I write for a site of my own.”
Them: “I’m not certain I understand.”
Me: “It’s called Mommy Wants Vodka. I write drivel and dreck about my life.”
Them: “Oh, so (whispers) you have a drinking problem?”
Me: “Ha. No. It’s sarcastic. Mommy Wants Vodka: because Mommy Wants Vicodin Sounded Too Suburban.“
Them: (blank stare) “I’m not certain I follow. How can writing a diary online be a ‘job?’”
Me: “Well, it’s not. I also freelance for The Stir and Nickelodean. One time I got fifty likes from The Facebook!”
Them: (blank stare): “So you sit around all day writing?”
Me: “On a good day, yeah. See lookit! I even have business cards. Do you want one?”
Them: “Oh, no dear. I wouldn’t put you out like that.”
Me: “It’s truly no trouble.”
Them: “I was being polite – whatever would I do with your card?”
Me: “It makes a good coaster, I guess.”
Them (titters): “Oh you’ve always been SO FUNNY.”
Me: (quizzically): “Um. Thanks?”
Them: “I’m afraid I still don’t understand what it is, exactly, that you do.”
Me: “Well, once I got named one of the top ten controversial bloggers by Babble.”
Them: “You’re not particularly controversial.”
Me: “I know. I should have more opinions about things.”
Them (twitters a bit): “So when are you going to grow up?”
Me: “I’m 32. I have three kids.”
Them: “No, I mean, you can’t simply write about your life forever. You’ll need a real job – with benefits!”
Me: *shrugs* “I like what I do.”
Them: “No, it’s really true – you need to grow up. That way we can go do pretentious things together.”
Me (sarcastically): “Wow. That sounds fun.”
Them: “Oh, it is, darling. It is.”
Me: “It’s been *uh* swell seeing you.”
Them: “Do call me when you grow up, darling.”
Me: “But.. I am a grown-up…”
And then you walk away feeling like total garbage because YOU HAVE BUSINESS CARDS, DAMMIT, and sometimes people leave you comments and you have FRIENDS! All over the world! How cool is that?
(answer: pretty fucking rad)
But then one day, you wake up, look around at your apartment, which you’ve carefully decorated, and realize, “shit, they were right – I DO need to grow up.”
I start Monday.
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