A few reasons an ass like me could never work in politics...

I was always a strange child. At 10 years old I locked myself in my father’s basement for the latter part of the summer watching news coverage leading up to and during the 1992 political conventions. My father would burst through the lock door expecting to find a mischievous child watching MTV, eating raw cookie dough, or picking my nose. Instead he found me glued to the old television dancing to the Clinton Campaign theme song, Fleetwood Mac’s “Don’t Stop.” He would shake his head and close the door.
Years later, I would work for a Democratic Junior Senator. He’s an ethical and balanced man who graduated from West Point, served in the military, then continued his education at the Kennedy School of Government. If there were no televisions, this man would be president. I absolutely loved working for him, and took my few responsibilities very seriously. Eventually, my attention to detail, enthusiasm and writing skills afforded me additional opportunities that I relished. I, being the neurotic mess I have ever been, in turn found ways to make a mockery of each of them. Hold onto your britches, here come more classic Maggie stories….

My Debut on CSpan

During my first year interning, my first major “assignment” (aka bitch duty) was to attend the Congressional Tobacco Hearings, take notes, and prepare memos on developments. This was incredibly boring. I would, however, be remiss if I didn’t also note how profound, and fulfilling it was to at least be present. But, seriously, boring. After two weeks of proceedings I had begun to believe in a total lack of new information, each session being merely a re-hashing of previous testimony and a chronology of events already entered into record. As I awaited the smoking gun that would cause the sort of dramatic courtroom gasps normally reserved for Perry Mason episodes, I occupied my mind with thoughts of the day’s lunch and which CD I would listen to on my drive home. (Yes, that really is the contents of my inactive brain – food and music) I usually spent a good portion of the hearings entirely blacked out. They began, members thanked each other, prepared and watered down testimony was read, a gavel was banged and then I would leave. On one day in particular I returned to my cubicle to a ringing phone. It was my mother. “God dammit Maggie Cameron! The entire world just saw you sleeping on national television!” Yes, ladies and gentleman, my grand debut…

What NOT To Do When You Meet Your Hero

My second year interning I had begun taking on duties of greater importance and prestige. Well, for an intern at least. I had staked my claim in the press department and had begun refusing to enter phone answering and mail opening shifts with the other interns. Varsity bitches. In the press office I worked with strong women who cursed, threw things, hung up on people and threw coffee at television sets. They were also phenomenal writers, and the best at what they do. One of them had a lisp, and she was my favorite. On one day in particular, the Senator called me in his office and asked for a favor. [if you make an intern joke here, I will slap you*] He asked that I deliver a document to an office inside a private residence on the other side of town. Looking forward to milking an hour out of the office, I agreed. I slowly found my way to a grand brownstone in Northwest DC. I entered the lower level door the Senator had distinguished as the office door. Inside were the workings of a normal bustling command center. 3 desks filled the small room and stacks of paper were carelessly arranged in corners. The staff couldn’t have been much older than I, and they all bustled around with great haste and frazzled looks on their faces. One of them stopped in front of me and panted “Yes?” I bumbled something mostly incoherent about my document and its sender, and the young man shuffled me to a shut door in the back of the room. Before I could speak, he ran back to his rounds about the room, papers flying. I opened the door and stepped partially in. I hear a loud voice from behind the desk chair in an unmistakable Louisiana accent. Holy shit, the Ragin Cajun. He spun around in his chair and looked me up and down in two seconds. “Well get on in here now and give me what you got, now I’m on a call and don’t all day for you be lingerin around in my doorway.” I muttered something of total and complete uselessness equivalent to Baby “I carried a watermelon” Houseman. I shuffled forward, dropped the document and then did the worst thing imaginable. Just stood there. And stared at him. The bad kind of stare. The wide-eyed, mouth open, stare where a monotone noise involuntarily escapes your mouth. He shooed me out with one wave of his hand and I backed out, bumped into the door, turned, and then shut it behind me with the back resting against it. A young girl stopped in front of me, “Intense, I know,” and went right back to her paper shuffling.