Why I never became a florist

Last night I had dinner at a Mexican restaurant where, last year, some guy got stabbed. It looked like we were in Mexico. The food made up for the third-world decor.

It was a treat to be out with other adults for a change; talking about art, music, movies and "kids these days" as opposed to my usual Saturday night conversations about the potty and Miffy, the Cute Little Bunny.

Nicole, the organizer of the dinner, brought along Janette, a florist visiting from Toronto. It reminded me that there was a time when I wanted to be a florist. I was living in Ottawa and was nearing graduation. I worked as a waitress in an retirement home and one day I told the gardener of my aspirations. He said "Well you can't. You wouldn't know what to do. What if someone asked you to pass him the (insert some latin word for fern here)? You'd just look stupid." So the dream died on that day.

It wasn't until a few years later that I learned floral arranging wasn't rocket science. In fact, I learned that rocket science wasn't brain surgery as my then boss, an astrophysicist, was a complete duface. But that's another story.