I HATE being a “blogger”!

     I’m a writer.  When I write something that gets published, people ask me to sign it.  When I rent a car in Ireland where writers –not football and Hollywood stars– are the national heroes, and I fill in “writer” for occupation, the counter clerks practically trip over their green shoelaces (yes, Irish green predates America’s “green“!) trying to grant my slightest wish. 

     Former schoolmates who generally thought it best that I should simply be swept under someone’s rug (because my Father was a low-life mailman who drank too much and I was a little too illiterate and rough around the edges), are now agog (agoogle?) at my sophisticated career track.

     So that enviable high-brow reputation thing was all working out, and then one day I decided to try blogging. Like I’ve done alot of things once: parasailing, taboggoning, i-podding, so I never dreamed that writing a blog would make me a blogger!  Imagine!  On Monday, I’m a writer with years worth of writing experience.  On Tuesday, I write a blog and on Wednesday, VOILA!  I’m a blogger!  

     I mean I once wrote the words for a matchbook cover, but I didn’t go and wake up the next morning as a matchbooker.  So what’s the deal with blogging?  The damn word isn’t even in my dictionary, which is only a couple of years old.  My grandmother would have a fit to hear that I ended up after a life of intellectual toil and hardtimes to be . . . ta ta ta DAH: . . . . . a   b  l  o  g  g  e  r  ! 

     Good Grief, Charlie Brown!  A BLOGGER?  Unfortunately, it sounds and looks a bit like BOOGER, which is not a terribly flattering analogy.  And it really doesn’t work well with kids either.  My grandchildren give me “Where, oh where has my little blogger gone?  Oh, where oh where can he be . . . ?” and “Hickory dickory dock.  The blogger ran up the clock!” [Did you ever stop and think about the violence there, by the way, of running after the three poor old (blind, no less) mice with a carving knife and cutting off their tails?  That’s like a bloody mess.  Whew!  And then there’s the breaking bough that comes down from the treetops with the baby?]  Who writes this stuff anyway?  A writer. 

     Maybe being a blogger ain’t so bad afterall.  I mean like a WRITER can’t run around saying “ain’t” and stuff like that, write?  Er, right?  Well, a blogger can. 

     Okay.  I’ll take it.  I’ll take “blogger.”  I don’t like it.  I’d much rather be just a plain old WRITER, but blogging IS what’s happening.  I hear people shout “Que Passe?” and other people shout back: “Blogging!”  

     Somehow, I just can’t imagine renting a car in Ireland and telling the desk person I’m a blogger, and having a big whoopdewhoop go on, but maybe quieter is better, you know?  At least if it’s quiet, I can write.         halalpiar    

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