From the short story "Long Lost" in Richard Lange's Dead Boys:
The other husband's wife joins us at the bar. She's wearing Frosty the Snowman earrings. "So you're Mr. Judy," she says. "You're in publishing, right?"
"Is that how Judy puts it? I'm a proofreader."
"Proofreader," her husband says. "What the hell's that?"
"A job. A bullshit job. Lots of people have them."
"I'll drink to that."
"So you'd rather be doing something else," the wife says to me.
She eyes me over the rim of her wineglass. I can tell she's not going to back down. It's these kinds of conversations that will kill me.