He's my boyfriend! My brother! My boyfriend! My brother!

One of the most unexpected consequences to my relationship with Matt is the questions we get from strangers. You see, apparently, we look alike. We're both short, have the same green-blue eyes, are very pale, and have big noses.

We've had everyone from waitresses, airport security, strangers on the subway, and the entire island (well, close to it) of Caye Caukler question whether we're husband and wife or brother and sister. When we were in Belize I chalked it up to the semitic reaction (Jews! We're a foreign concept!), but in New York that's a much less likely explanation.

This has happened so many times that I'm convinced we'll be booked on Maury or Jerry only to discover some long-lost mutual cousin, which is ironic--I thought once I settled down my life would be less like a talk show.

Interviews are like dating

In so many ways.
You send and resend your resume out there (you go out and flirt or banter online), hoping to secure an interview (date) and almost invariably jump from one bad interview to another hoping to find a job (relationship).

Also, like dating, one person usually has the power in the interviewing process. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe this person should be the one doing the interviewing.

Last month I went on an interview at a small media relations firm (that will remain unnamed). Mark (not his real name), the owner and president of the company was personable, attractive, and seemed confident about his firm’s growth, clients, and assets. I talked with him, met 3 other employees and completed an odd writing test. I’d been asked to submit writing samples or take a writing test for nearly all of my interviews, yet I had never taken one with political questions (I’m assuming to test my googling skills and current event knowledge).
At the end of my test, we met again during which he talked at length about the new office space he was looking for (apologizing for the cramped and boring-looking set-up) and why his firm would be a good opportunity for me. Fine.
The next day I meant to drop off a hand-written thank you note, but didn’t due my inability to leave my apartment unnecessarily during freezing weather. It was really cold. Super cold. Unbelievably stupid cold.
Anyway, before I could email him a note telling him how great it was to meet him and how interested I was in his firm, blah blah, he called me. To ask me if I was interested (he didn’t know if I was since he hadn’t received a thank you note from me) and if not, why, and if it was the office, didn’t I know that they were moving shortly?
Okkkkkkkkaaaaaaaaaaaaay. Why was he calling me? Was he desperate? He hadn’t acted like it before, but his call made me wonder. And much less interested in the position.

I went back for a second interview, during which he reiterated the new office plan, how great his firm was and happy his employees were, and inquired about my interest. Then, he asked what I thought of the firm. What were my initial impressions? Was it someplace I could see myself?

What was this freak doing? It was like insecure marraige talk on a second date. Am I cute? When you saw me across the bar/clicked on my picture online what attracted you to me? Do you like my hair? No? Because I'm thinking of changing it.

I think I'm turning old because I'm so uniterested in the chase.

Why don't men know how to pack?

It's been a while since I posted because I spent most of January finishing interviewing for jobs (more on that later) and packing up all of my belongings. After 6 years in New York, 4 of them in Manhattan, I moved back to Brooklyn. But it wasn't just any move. No, no! It was a cohabitation move. I've lived with a boyfriend once before but it wasn't intentional--my psycho abusive ex-boyfriend and I were roommates when we started dating and the experience is very high on my list of Things I Should Not Have Done Although It Probably Made Me a Better Person.

Anyway, Matt and I moved into our cute (and big!) apartment on Jan 31st, but not before weeks, days and hours of pleading, nagging, procrastination, and (finally) packing. This process left me asking 2 main questions: 1) how did I manage to pack so much crap into 350 square feet? But more imortantly, 2) why don't men know how to pack?

Every day, Matt had questions about this foreign, estrogen-necessitated process. Could he pack open bottles from the kitchen (like olive oil), and if so, how? Do pictures go in boxes? Do they get wrapped in newspapers or towels?

After surveying my friends, my boyfriend is apparently the best offender out there. After all, I had minimal input on his packing--not so for 2 of my girlfriends who each packed their entire boyfriend's apartment at the beginning of their mergers. And, in fact, when I moved to New York with Amete, I spent my last night and morning in Kansas City packing up his apartment (this is after I lost the U-Haul key and blamed it on someone else--again, another long story for a different post).