My So-Called Bank Account

I like to think that bankers, not automatons nee computers, take a look-see at student bank accounts every once in awhile. I like to think there's a whole team of young professionals somewhere meeting in a break room in Decatur and cheering on various students as the numbers whiz up and down the charts:

"Oooh -- $24.67 for a night at The Big Easy. Not your greatest move, Skip!"

"Ouch! Look at that gas bill!"

"Wait for it -- wait for it -- wait for it -- don't overdraw -- SCORE!! BABYSITTING MONEY! HUZZAH!"

"Look at this dip: again! Again he takes that girl from Econ 101 out to a restaurant the entire country of Ghana couldn't afford. $37 for a starter of foie gras?! Are you kidding me?! This kid doesn't even know how to say foie gras, let alone spend $37 on it."

"Hey, you guys...what's Bert's House o' Pleas...oh. Ew."

I must say I get a little kick out of finding ways to save money. Creamer and milk in my coffee? Right, the school cafeteria has some for free (never you mind that I'm actually paying a cool $45K to live here and go here). Barbecue chicken? Market Basket had a sale on chicken wattles (Derek, I'm sure I know that chickens don't have wattles, but whatever) for 25 cents a pound, and I found this great recipe on how to make barbecue sauce with the little ketchup packets you find in (the same school) cafeterias everywhere, water, and a little bit of paprika. Roy left paprika. Is there any meat on a hock? Hey, I might not be making my own wine -- but I know how to make some mean barbecue chicken.

Time to go scrounge up a dollar oh seven for a tea with Irene coupled with an intensive look at two overdue manuscripts. Isn't it strange how three-digit numbers, a team full of cheering bankers, and a healthy dose of perspective could leave a girl feeling grateful for where she is?

Minus the chicken wattles, of course. A thigh would be nice. I'd settle for a thigh.