Dear The Job Interview I Just Had,
You were awkward. Why did we spend so long talking about cats? I'm a dog person.
...maybe that's why it was awkward. Also, hypothetical questions about how I would answer questions that I don't know the answers to because I haven't been through training are mean. And you can tell your scribbly-therapist's-notepad that I said that. Only don't, because I want this job. Even if it's only a couple of evenings a couple of weeks each month. I NEEDS MAH MONEYS SO I CAN GO TO SCHOOL.
Also--I don't put a lot of stock in handshakes. But. Yours was really limp. And I stood up when you left the table. Is that...is that weird? Chivalrous? Something only dudes are supposed to do? I am a reasonably butch woman, does that make it okay? It did kind of make it so I loomed over you, though, because I am tall and you were short. Nice lasting impression, y/y?
Dear Crazy Uncle,
No. No, I will not go car shopping with you this weekend. Not just because I don't know anything about cars, not because I think that buying a car right now is a stupid financial decision (it is), not because I'm homophobic and want to avoid physical contact with you (really? REALLY?), but because the last time I went car shopping with you I almost died.
(He claimed to know how to drive a stick shift. HE DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO DRIVE A STICK SHIFT. Me and my sister were in the back seat, the car salesman was in the passenger seat. The whole test drive was a blur of near-misses, loud screeching noises, the salesman's awkward laugh, Crazy Uncle shouting THEY DID NOT USED TO BE LIKE THIS, and my sister and I clutching on to each other for dear life. It was like being on a roller coaster. A roller coaster going the wrong way down a one-way street.)
IN THE GOOD NEWS FRONT: GUESS WHO HAS A HOUSE? THIS GUY's parents! My folks have purchased a house! Assuming their loan comes through. Which means we've got about a month to pack up the house that we've been in for two years. I'm the only person in my family who's not a serious packrat (...books don't count). So I'll be spending the next month carting around boxes will all of my brother's old lego collections, my sister's old shoes and purses (from before she turned into a dumpster-diving-anarchist-vegan-hipster), my dad's papers and class notes from the last thirty years, and my mother's collection of HEY THIS BOX OF THINGS IS ONLY A DOLLAR MAN AUCTIONS SURE ARE FUN purchases.
I'm going to finish my freakishly salty frittata and drown my sorrows in porn. Or Diet Pepsi. Or both.
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