I’ve been debating whether or not to post about my dinner with Dingo and Blakspring. Mainly because I have nothing but wonderful things to say about them both, and I can’t figure out how to NOT make it sound like I want to skin them and wear them as clothes. I’ll try to keep it sane.
Blakspring is gorgeous. Her skin in flawless and I don’t know anyone who can own a hair color the way she does. Her accent feels like home and she has a strength and power in her voice that makes you sad when her stories end. She’s kindly reflective and wildly adventurous. A contagious laugh and a matured dimple smile are the doorways to a cultured soul and full heart. Dingo is gorgeous. Her smile is infectious and her hair is the photo that women take to a stylist. She has humor for days and has mastered the ability to make strangers feel like family in 60 seconds or less. Her wit cuts buttah and her empathy is pink cotton candy. Her smile exudes strength and wears capability like cashmere. They’re Carrie, Miranda, Charolette, and Samantha personified and I felt like I’d known them days. Besides, anyone that takes me to a place that pairs dessert and booze is a friend for life.
This weekend I was exposed to, what I can only assume, is another Texas tradition: a Crawfish Boil. Technically, it is a tradition transplanted from Louisiana. For anyone whose never been to ‘a boil’ let me schools you on how it works. A gigantor, thick-accented, Cajun of a man (oddly named Shannon) takes a bag of live crawfish and dumps the poor little things in same vat where turkeys are plunged to their deep-fried deaths. Then he layers newspaper on an 8′ folding table and pours the shocked little monkeys on the table. The patient observers flank the table and turn into crawfish-sucking Fishpires. People, they ate 72 pounds of crawfish. 72 pounds. That is 4 eight foot tables worth of crawfish. Ewww… I had shrimp. I can’t describe the slurping and the peeling and the head tearing that is involved in a crawfish boil. I’m officially a Crawfisheterian (or whatever you call people who refuse to eat crawfish).
Otherwise the rest of the weekend was equal parts sleeping, reading, and eating; also known as The Broke Girl’s Party. I went over my budget in NYC (due to the unanticipated expense of airplane booze required to drown out the sounds of sad, sticky children and Old Dirty Bastard) and have $40 in my bank account that has to get me to next Monday. Ah, the joy of working in higher education and getting paid monthly. I know, I know, you’re thinking “Why don’t you budget that shit?”; but this is the reality when you spend the first 30 years of your life like P. Diddy and the next 3 like Cinderella. It is fundamentally impossible for me to budget because the last at-home wax left me with 1 eyebrow.
I’ve discovered that at least 3 people I work with have second jobs. It’s a little disheartening to know that we have careers that require us to have master’s degrees only to advise students who will make at least $25,000 more than any of us. Since the economy is so jacked up, the university president has instituted a hiring freeze. No merit raises, no upward departmental mobility, nada. Unfortnately, I really like what I do and I love my department and I’m trying to establish a firm foundation on campus so my resume doesn’t look like Paris Hilton’s mattress. So my solution is get to get a second job. Not only will I have additional income, but I’ll be too busy to spend money on trivial things like booze. And food.
But what?
I’ve ruled out anything that requires polyester uniforming, food handling certification, or has the words “wipe down the pole” in the job description. I’ve settled on airport customer service and bookstores. I may have to venture into unnatural fiber world at the airport, but I won’t be tempted to spend my check on the inventory as I would in a bookstore.
What do you think? Any second jobs you’ve had that you’ve loved?
