Over the weekend Jack gave me one of those lovely gifts called Time To Write, wherein he took Anna off for various activities and I went off to a local cafe to pound some words out on my Lucifer novel. I worked for a few hours and then met him and The Kid over at a mutual friend’s house, where a small group of people were watching the Saints get slaughtered.
I sat down next to Jack and he asked me how my writing had gone. “I managed a bit over a thousand words,” I replied. Our mutual friend looked at me in amazement and said, “Oh my god! You just wrote a thousand words? I don’t think I could write a thousand letters!” Some good-natured teasing followed about what skills she did possess, and then another woman spoke up, looking at me with a tilted head and a small smirk. “So you’re a writer? You must be really bad at math, right?”
I smiled sweetly. “Actually, I have a degree in math from Georgia Tech.”
Then I leapt up from the couch and yelled, “So SUCK ON THAT! HA! BoooooYA! BITCH! Go Me! Go Me!”
Okay, I didn’t do that last part, though I dearly wanted to. But I probably didn’t need to anyway since the expression on her face was satisfying enough and she ignored me for the rest of the day. I later found out that she works in medical sales and is reputed to be quite successful, so in retrospect I can see that this was just a superiority play, a you-may-have-talent-but-that’s-all-you-have slap.
But DAMN it was sweet to nip that shit right in the bud!
(I mean, really! Since when do math and writing not mix?)