This is a totally true story, though I changed the name of the person involved so I don’t get assassinated or my voter card taken away, if they even do that, I’m not sure, but I think really stupid people vote all the time, so I should probably be fine. Plus, wouldn’t the REAL punishment NOT being able to vote? (I said that last part for my dad. Michele Bachmann scares him.)
No one was ever super sure what my gifts were.
My dad always said he had a hunch.
(It took years for me to realize our dog totally couldn’t detect if I still had my hymen or not.)
School counselors would just stare at me as I sat across from their desks, they didn’t know what to make of me. Their sole purpose in life was to offer direction, but what could they say?
I wanted to be a reclusive author who penned fantastically hilarious memoirs from a non-terrorist cabin in the woods.
And also maybe be famous or a hair stylist.
But they didn’t have a pamphlet for any of those jobs in their office.
Eventually it was decided that I would go off to college, because what I lacked in math and science skills, I made up for in English and beer bong assembly (No seriously, I could open an Etsy shop).
By my fourth year, as evidence by my massive student loan debt and six failed internships, it was clear I had no idea what the fuck I wanted to be when I grew up.
Event Planner intern (I got drunk during a silent auction for blind kids and bought a piano) .
Intern at a Law Firm (it’s basically nothing like Elle Woods says it is).
Intern and summer reporter for an ABC News affiliate (fired for not having a pen for my interview with the driver of the Mc Donald’s Sausage Mobile. Briefly in the early 2000’s they tried to bring the hotdog back. I don’t like to talk about it).
Radio Station intern, intern at a local newspaper, public relations intern. You get the idea.
While home for winter break, my grandpa, who was, at the time, still just moderately conservative, and not yet Plymouth Rock conservative, offered to put a call into a friend at the statehouse to see if they had a need for an intern.
And they did, but I turned down three Republican internships, and instead decided to work under the Democratic Ohio House Minority Leader.
I bought a bunch of cute outfits, and when I arrived at the Ohio Statehouse, I made the security guard ride with me up to the 42nd floor because I am afraid of elevators. That guy totally hated me, but it was after September 11th, and nobody was allowed to hyperventilate and ask people to notarize your will in the lobby of government buildings anymore.
At the time, the Ohio Democrats were in the minority, and the entry way to their offices resembled the kind of third world hostel you see in documentaries about people who go on exotic wine tours only to have their organs harvested and sold on the internet.
I spent my entire spring semester in that shit hole, opening mail and answering constituent calls for Representative Forrester. I only actually saw him twice.
He was a tall black man, somewhat heavy set, with a sparse mustache and giant hands. He reminded me of a former athlete, but, you know, not a giant dick.
I had long since developed a distaste for two party politics, and the job was totally boring, but I refused to get fired from another internship so after everyone went home for the day, I sat at his big desk opening mail and watching Sex and the City on his gigantic TV, as I had drank and 3am pizza’ed away all my cable bill money.
It was during a rerun of the series finale when Representative Forrester walked into his office wearing a black tuxedo.
So tell me, Miss Buckenmeyer, did Carrie end up with Big, or not?
I am so sorry, sir. I thought everyone had gone for the day, and it’s so hot in my cubicle, fuck I am so sorry for using your desk. And for saying fuck in Congress.
It’s not a church, Miss Buckenmeyer, you can use curse words here when they are appropriate.
He got closer to me, totally busting through my personal space bubble, I seriously felt pee come out.
Are you going to make me have sex with you now?
Is it because I am white?
And then he just stared at me for, like, five minutes. He didn’t look pissed, but I mean, he also didn’t look like he was about to go all Clinton on me. Which, side note, statehouses smell like giant old libraries, and it’s a total turn on, so I can totally see how that whole Monica thing happened. The beret, however, unexplainable, nobody with a round face can pull off a beret. Not even Gerard Depardieu, and he’s the national treasure of France.
I like you, Brittany.
I like you. How about tomorrow you come to session with me and then we can have lunch with some of my colleagues.
Um, alright? But, to clarify, you like me as friend right, not like, in a way that involves putting your balls in my mouth?
You’re funny and persistent. You should be a lobbyist, Miss Buckenmeyer.
Nah, I’m probably going to be a hairstylist.