So, a couple nights ago, I’m in this bar in Ottawa, meeting some of the milliner’s old friends. Most of them have gone the computer route, either having become programmers or whatever. The times being what they are, most of them were now unemployed. Time for them to get out of Ottawa, thinks I. Anyhow, being a stranger to them all, I’m staying kinda quiet. One chick is handing out business cards for her new career, that of finishing quilts. I have no idea what that entails, but she does it. In Calgary. Finish quilts. Which? I have no idea what it is. At one point, she asks me what I do. “Um, I’m a writer…”
“Really!” (I swear to gawd, she left a wet spot on the seat when I said “writer.”)
“Um, a tech writer,” I clarify. And, no joke, this incredible look of utter disappointment befell her mug: “Oh. Never mind. I guess that’s okay.”
Okay? Bite me. Right there. Oh yeah. I swear, the next time I’m asked, I’m answering “Fireman!” Or Viking. But only when I sleep. Or communicator. After which I won’t say a word. But I’m leaning toward fireman.