So I’m always on the lookout for a money-making scheme, preferably one that’s tax-free (man, I hate paying taxes) but I usually don’t get very far. Over the years I’ve taken on extended baby-sitting jobs knowing that I don’t particularly care for children (although these kids really liked me, and that’s all I really need to find them enjoyable), done extensive cat/dog sitting, sold plasma (or *cough* donated plasma and was compensated for my time), wrote articles for sports magazine knowing nothing about either soccer OR the sports conditioning method that the magazine is dedicated to, made calls trying to get people to switch their long distance service etc. These are all short-term schemes; I won’t even get into the ridiculous “real jobs” I’ve held– basically, short of standing in front of Linens ‘N’ Things with a giant cardboard “going out of business sign”– I’ll do practically anything.

So when the appraiser that I used to work with at job #1, showed up with a big stack of data entry– I jumped at the chance. Now I have a huge stack of pencil-written notes to put into a spreadsheet and make look pretty. Tedious work, to be sure, but I can do it in my PJs while drinking too much coffee, which is pretty much the dream.

I’ve found, in my life, that all I need to get a job is another job. Aside from my 7-week unemployment stint when I first moved out to Rhode Island (which I was assured by friends was an amazingly short period to go jobless considering the shitty economy of this state), I have rarely had fewer than two jobs. Is it a testament to our greedy capitalistic society that I cannot seem to find full-time employment, and have actually never held a real, full-time, benefited position? Or is a testament to my wild immaturity and unwillingness to just pick a career and stick with it? Dunno. Point is, I usually have at least two jobs and no health insurance to speak of.

So in keeping with that theme, as soon as the appraiser asked me to do this data entry for him– two other odd job offers fell into my lap.

I frequently cat-sit for Wise Lawyer Friend when she has to go out of town. Unfortunately, one of her cats was recently diagnosed with diabetes, requiring twice-daily insulin injections. She had already made plans to go out of town before finding out about this predicament, and asked me, in a rather sheepish manner, “If I paid you a lot of money, would you inject my cat with insulin?”

Without hesitating I replied, “Of course.”

So I’ve got that going for me.

Then the same day that the appraiser dropped off my data-entry, my boss at job #1 approached me with an independent research stint. Apparently some woman is doing genealogical research (really, what woman isn’t), and simply cannot come to Newport and do her own legwork– that’s where I come in.

It’s interesting, because, as a soon-to-be librarian, I already hate genealogical researchers. I simply hate them. Actually, a lot of that hatred has to do with my former dental hygienist– way back when I was still on my parent’s insurance, and could do extravagant things like go to the dentist.

The woman was nice enough, but as soon as I told her that I worked at Barnes & Noble (librarianship wasn’t even a germ of an idea), she decided that I must be interested in her genealogical research. I was trapped in the chair– mouth full of scraping devices, floss, and fluoride; and forced to listen to her prattle on about her great-uncle, and how she went all the way to England and Scotland to do research there, and the amazing things she found. When my mouth was free of debris– usually immediately post-spit, I’d try to change the subject. That never worked. Every time I went to the dentist, I got the same hygienist who remembered me fondly, and updated me on all she had done since we last spoke in between mini-lectures about why I really need to start flossing.

So I’ve never met a genealogical researcher who I liked, but I’ve never met one who was giving me money either. We’ll see if that makes it any better.

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