I want this job...and there's something else you should know

By Lisa A. Eramo

You review your resume a thousand times, rehearse your responses religiously, and make sure that every hair on your head is in its proper place. Why? Because your livelihood depends on it, and this interview could make or break your plans for the next few years (or more) of your life.

Everyone gets nervous prior to sitting before his or her prospective boss because you want to make a good impression, say the right things, smile the right smile. You can anticipate how it will go--you talk about your professional background, where you went to school, the skills you've honed. Hopefully the interviewer is nodding in approval as you go through a laundry list of bullet points you've committed to memory. And by the time he or she asks why you're looking for a new job (the quintessential question), you begin to breathe a sigh of relief because you've already got this response ready to go. If you've done your homework, you can even comment on how your skills are a particularly good match for the employer. You can also ask pointed questions that keep the interviewer nodding and smiling until before you know it, he or she is reaching across the wide expansive table (that doesn't seem so wide anymore) and offering you a job with the company.

Okay, so it doesn't always go according to plan, but one can be hopeful. In reality, most interviews are long and drawn out, consisting of several visits, several encounters, several references, and several weeks of endless waiting. I've been through this scenario too many times to count, and I am all too familiar with the back-and-forth dynamic. I find that I am always slightly on edge because I want so badly to make a good impression--both during the interview and during all of the days that lead up to either the offer or the oh-so-gracious rejection letter/email/phone call.

I recall an interview during which I thought I would engage in what would be yet another typical interviewer/interviewee dialogue. I had picked out formal attire, chugged some Starbucks coffee, killed five small trees making copies of my resume, and permanently pasted a smile on my face for the day.

Conversation flowed pretty smoothly, and to my surprise, the interviewer was even laughing at my jokes. I had her in the palm of my hand, right? Wrong. When asked why living in that particular geographic area appealed to me, I suddenly felt a dryness in my mouth, and my heart started to race. Why? Because in telling the truth, which was that my partner (who already lived in the area) and I were hoping to move in together, I knew that I would out myself as a lesbian.

For a gay or lesbian person, this is the moment that you dread during an interview because you're not a mind reader, so you have no idea how the person behind the desk will react. Do you take a chance and come clean, hoping that the individual has an open mind and respects others? Or do you stay closeted, choosing to keep things "simple" and less "complicated." For me, there was a short delay, but I made the split second decision to go for it. When I originally came out of the closet in December 2000, I told myself that this would be the first of many closets that I would most likely have to come out of but that I would never deliberately stay in hiding if I didn't have to.

Coming out during an interview can be extremely discouraging or extremely empowering. I'm sure that some candidates have ruined their chances for employment by being true to who they are. But others have found coming out during an interview to be validating--particularly when the employer values that courage.

For me, coming out during this particular interview was one of the most empowering moments of my life. Not only did the interviewer lean in toward me and commend me for my leap of faith, but the individual also said it was my dissenting and confident voice that she wanted on her team. In that moment, I had goosebumps. I actually almost had tears in my eyes and felt slightly embarrassed for having been moved as much as I was. Truth be told, I deserved that recognition and praise. Coming out is not easy, and it never will be. And to be commended for being proud of whom I am is something that I will always be grateful for.

Sign me up! When do I start?

Confessions of a nonshopaholic

By Lisa A. Eramo

Unlike the majority of women in the world, shopping for clothes is not something I do for fun. It's not something I do on a rainy day. It's not an addiction. It's not a form of therapy. For me, shopping for clothes is something that you practically have to drag me to do. And yes, I will kick and scream in the process.

So for someone who hates to go clothes shopping, you might wonder how I have any clothes at all. Well, I don't. I mean, I have a few hand-me-downs--socks where my big toe sometimes sticks through, worn out pants (you know, the ones where the inner thighs are so worn that you can practically stick your hand through), some shirts that say "Class of 97." Thank god for washing machines, or else I'd be wearing my birthday suite just about every day.

But when reality hits (and it always does), I am reminded that unless I wanted to go live in the wild like a cave woman (or quit my job and become a full-time knitter), I need clothes. This realization usually hits me around the holidays when not only is it cold out (and thus my need for clothes is heightened), but it's also gift giving season--a time of cork screws, Santa socks, and yes, gift cards.

Ah, the beauty of gift cards. Though some may see the gift card as the perfect gift for the picky, it's not necessarily true. I mean, the person who buys the gift card makes a conscious decision as to where you're going to shop just by the sheer act of buying you a card to a particular store.

But after all, it's the thought that counts, right? I kept telling myself that one day when my partner and I decided to go shopping at a local clothing store. Although I didn't have a gift card, I did have some coupons that my partner was very excited to use. Coupons: another reason to go shopping. Spend money to save money.

So my partner and I walked into the store ready for a shopping adventure. She was immediately drawn to some shirts that apparently were "calling her name," although I swore I didn't hear them speaking out loud. Meanwhile, I went to look at some pants only to be discouraged that they didn't come in petite length. While I was fuming about why clothes designers tend to discriminate against short people, I could see that my partner was striking gold near a sale rack, her arms already covered with enough outfits to last for two weeks.

I turned my attention to some shirts in the back on a rack where there was no rhyme or reason to the sizes. It was as though the shirts were saying,"Don't mind us, we're hiding back here with the misfits trying to go unnoticed." I was trying to calculate how many of the misfit shirts I could buy with my coupon when I heard my partner laughing with one of the saleswoman, their high-pitched shrieks seeming to perfectly punctuate the elevator music that pervaded the store.

It didn't surprise me that my partner had hit it off with Ms. CanIHelpYou. My partner's extremely attractive cheerful attitude seems to draw strangers to her. It's as if she wears a sign on her forehead that says "Come, tell me your troubles...I will listen." It's this attitude that has engaged us in countless strange conversations with cashiers at the gas station, bag boys at the grocery store, waiters, or even strangers on the street. People open up to her (and therefore us), and before I know, I know how much money is in the person's savings account, what book he or she is reading, what his or her political views are, and sometimes even his or her medical history.

I decided to walk over and see what all the fun and laughter was about in the hopes that some of their cheerfulness would rub off on me and make my shopping experience more delightful. I stood there for several minutes listening to Ms. CanIHelpYou tell my partner how she could mix and match several items on her arm (and should therefore buy all of them), how the jacket she held matched the color of her eyes, how she should treat herself to one of everything in the store.

After Ms. CanIHelpYou finished her plethora of compliments, she set us up with a dressing room.

"Wouldn't you each like your own room?" she said.

I quickly chimed in with an emphatic "no!" to indicate that we could share. Ms. CanIHelpYou raised an eyebrow, but quickly walked down to the larger dressing room and opened the door with a smile. Having my own dressing room would be like setting a domesticated animal into the savage wild outdoors. I'm typically left not knowing where to turn or what to do. I end up standing there like a dog with its tail between its legs before finally realizing that this is the part where I actually need to put the dreaded new clothes onto my body and stare at myself in the mirror like all other women do.

Once in the dressing room together, my partner quickly unloaded her wardrobe of clothes, leaving me to hang my two shirts on the door knob. She breathed a sigh of relief and gawked at her purchases-to-be for a few moments, trying to take it all in before trying things on. Her excitement and giddiness made me feel as though we had just purchased a house together and that we were admiring the dimensions of the rooms. I'm sure that if we had stood there long enough, our address would have quickly become 401 Dressing Room Lane and someone would be knocking on our door to drop off a welcome-to-the-neighborhood package.

Okay, back to reality. I tried my shirts on only to realize that I had accidentally grabbed the wrong size. My partner, being the helpful person that she is, volunteered to go out into the store and grab a different size for me. While she is gone, I count the tiles on the ceiling and imagine that this is how inmates must feel, being confined to such a small space.

Just as my partner returns with a few more shirts, I hear someone in another cell calling her over. She hands me the shirts and says she'll be right back. I can barely hear their conversation:

"Would you mind just fixing this strap?" the other inmate said.

"Um, no, sure, I can do that for you," my partner said.

"How do you think this bra looks? Is it too big? Too small?"

"Um, I'm not sure."

"Can you stand there while I readjust myself?"

At this point, I'm getting suspicious. What the heck is going on out there? Where is Ms. CanIHelpYou when you need her??

"Can you help me take my bra off? Unhook the latches in the back?"

Finally my partner tells this woman that she does not work at the store.

On comes the light bulb.

"Oh my gosh, I am so embarrassed!" the woman said. "I just thought that you...well, I saw you getting shirts for someone...I apologize."

My partner and I shared a good laugh over that one. I could hear Ms. CanIHelpYou helping other customers shortly thereafter, and I'm sure our cackling made her wonder whether we were serious about buying all of the clothes we had dragged in there or whether we were having some sort of wacky show-and-tell fashion show.

Maybe shopping isn't so bad after all.

Let me tell you about the greatest show on earth!

By Lisa A. Eramo

"Were you trying to be a trapeze artist?"

These were the first eight words that came out of an orthopedic doctor's mouth when my partner and I recently went to an urgent care center after she took a spill on the ice.

At least he had a sense of humor, I thought. That's more than I could say for most doctors I'd recently encountered.

And although my partner may have perhaps had a childhood vision or two of running off and joining the circus, she was most certainly not trying to test her acrobatic abilities at the time when she fell in front of a captive sidewalk audience. She'd actually been trying to avoid a huge patch of ice. And by doing so, she stepped into a seemingly shallow puddle only to find an extremely deep pothole inside.

She walked into our apartment soaking wet, tears streaming down her face, a damp and dirty Vera Bradley bag dangling off of her arm. Her knees were badly swollen and bruised, and she looked more shocked and stunned than anything else.

We waited until morning to go to urgent care because we wanted to first see whether her PCP could squeeze her in. As predicted, the answer was no, and off to urgent care we went.

After the comedian/doctor took some x-rays, prescribed some pain medication, and told my partner that what she really needed was to 'stay off the ice' (translation: don't leave your house until the spring) and 'take a vacation to a tropical island,' we were on our merry way, hobbling back out onto the ice skating rink that was the parking lot.

Ah, the joys of living in New England in January. I like to joke that this is the season when orthopedic doctors all over the region get together and throw a secret party, knowing that with every fall on the ice, every sprain, every broken leg comes a dollar (or several hundred) in the door.

This is the time when orthopedic doctors' phones ring off the hook with patients on the other end crying of pains and bruises and all sorts of ailments from ice-induced falls. This is the time when these doctors extend their hours to accommodate the crippled...when they earn the money that funds their summer vacations to Italy when the weather is warmer.

The next time you walk down an icy New England sidewalk, be cognizant of the 'performers' you see...the swirling male clowns in their business attire, the mothers carefully juggling a grocery bag in each arm, the students like trained monkeys gliding off to class--each performer with his or her own unique walk, slip, and fall...and an orthopedic doctor somewhere in the distance to cheer them on.

A breakfast like no other

By Lisa A. Eramo

When the wind is howling, the icicles are growing, and the snow is swirling in an improvisational and maddening dance, the last thing you want to do is go outside. We had resigned ourselves to the fact that we were snowed in.

You could practically see the cold in the air. This was evidenced by the fact that even the trees were shivering, their bare branches seeming to beg for cover. A snowman in the distance had lost his eyes and nose, and the sidewalks had long since disappeared under the erasure-like whiteness that silenced the ground.

We were definitely not going anywhere, we said.

We couldn't even if we had wanted to. The snow, with its quiet command, had forced us both to simply sit and watch the spellbinding show. We hadn't bought tickets to the performance, yet we somehow found ourselves with a front row seat. And with that, we allowed ourselves to settle into a leisurely morning of scrambled eggs, hash browns, gazing out the window at the confetti-like crystals.

There was a man across the street who had particularly captured our attention. His car was stuck in the snow. We didn't know how long he had been there, but judging by his plethora of energy and optimism, it probably hadn't been long. Most others would have called AAA in a storm like this, not having the patience (or layers of clothing) to deal with the howling winds and bone chilling temperatures.

The man's car sat low to the ground, its wheels spinning in smoke as he tried to rock his way out of the driveway. At first, he welcomed the challenge. Shovel in hand, a grin on his face and barely so much as a sweatshirt on his back, he circled countless times around the perimeter of the car, swiping and digging at the snow with each step that he took. His muddy work boots plummeted in and out of the white stuff, punching holes where he walked.

My partner and I sat in awe. We felt horrible for him, yet neither one of us were willing to don our coat and hat and offer him our best neighborly handshake. We much preferred the warmness of our apartment and the coziness of our bath robes.

The man was working hard. He piled the snow onto the shovel's red edge, heaved it over his shoulder, and then went back for more...over and over again. Once satisfied with his efforts, he crawled inside his car to start the ignition, sure that his sweat and toil would do the trick. And with each attempt, his wheels only spun harder and with more force. This went on for nearly 15 minutes.

I wonder where he's going, I said. And why he needs to get out on a day like this.

He's probably going to work, my partner said, a forkful of scrambled eggs dangling in front of her open mouth.

What do you think he does, I said.

Construction worker, she said, without hesitation, her eyes focusing intently on him so as not to miss a beat.

Another five minutes had passed. And still the wheels were spinning.

Watching someone from within the comfort and safety of your own home is like watching TV...except that it's entertainment uninterrupted by commercials. Having moved here only seven months ago, we still didn't know very many of our neighbors, and so to us, they were each their own unique (and sometimes disturbing) sitcoms or game shows.

Today, we had no idea who the man was, where he had intended to go on this blistery and treacherous morning, or what he might have been thinking had he been aware of the fact that he had a captive audience starting at him through the dancing steam of two freshly brewed coffees. That made our show all the more imaginative.

The man continued to start the ignition, step on the gas, and watch as the smoke from his tires formed a cloud around his car. His car began to budge, but only just a bit...enough so that he was halfway into the street--an odd and dangerous predicament to be in, for sure.

Oh gosh, I wonder what he's thinking right now, I said. Do you want some more coffee?

Yeah, I don't know why he doesn't go ask the guy down the street for some help, my partner said. Sure, I'll take mine with some creamer.

I bet he's doing it for his girlfriend and has a lot of pride--too macho to go inside and ask for help, I said.

He must be freezing, my partner said.

Nearly 30 minutes had elapsed, and the man was visibly upset.

My partner and I were on the edges of our seats, our noses practically pressed up against the glass of the windows.

What if he looks up and sees us, she said.

Shhh...just calm down. Have another hash brown, I said. This is going to get good.

Popcorn would be perfect right now, she said.

The man was angry and probably cold, too. His shovel flew through the air as he threw it in a fit of rage. He kicked at the snow around his tires, shaking his head in disbelief as the snowflakes around him continued to fall, inspiring him with their madness. I'm sure he was swearing under his breath, but the howl of the wind must have drowned it out.

He got back inside his car, and his wheels began to spin. This time, however, he reversed it and then gunned forward, propelling himself out onto the street.

Oh my gosh! I think he made it, my partner said.

His car nearly spun into another snowbank with the force of a fist, but the man had gained control just in time for him to swerve across the intersection and speed off into the distance like fly that had just loosened itself from a widow's web.

My partner and I clanked our coffee mugs and toasted to the man and his car, celebrating our contestant's victory.

Old enough to know

By Lisa A. Eramo

Picture this: My partner and I are sitting on a bench in Hyannis enjoying a couple of tasty scoops of gelato. We had just spent three days and four nights in the gayest place on earth: Provincetown. We're feeling good. We're feeling proud. I've got one arm around her as we enjoy the sun and slight breeze. We're people watching. And little do we know, there's someone watching us as well.

"You're gay, right?" a 70-something year old man said as he shuffled closer to us and took the open seat next to my partner.

Having been out for nearly ten years, I'd never really been asked this question directly. Thus, I wasn't sure how to respond even though I obviously knew the answer.

"Yes," we both said simultaneously.

"Oh, it's ok. I knew you were gay," he continued. "I'd like to sit next to you two fine gay ladies," he added, leaning in to get a closer look at us as though we were two monkeys imported from a foreign country.

How could he know we were gay? Did my arm around my partner shout gay? Was it my plaid shorts? The way I licked my gelato?

My partner started to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. I could tell her laughter was part humor and part shock. She turned her head directly toward me so he wouldn't notice. I started laughing as well.

The guy was oblivious. "A lot of gay people come to the cape. I should know. I've lived here all my life," he continued, clearly unaware of the concept of personal boundaries.

My partner continued to laugh an uncomfortable laugh. I started to think about much I wished the guy would evaporate into the nice summer air.

I wanted to say, "Are you old?" Of course he would say yes. To that, I would respond "I thought you looked as though you had one foot in the grave!" But alas, I kept my mouth shut. I couldn't tell whether this guy was a completely loose canon. I half expected him to whip a bible out of his back pocket and then proceed to drag us to the nearest church and force us to repent our 'sins.'

"You two from around here?" he said, seeming to soak in the sun and revel in the fact that he had clearly provoked us.

My partner had gathered her composure. Being the interactive and jovial person she is, she responded "No, we live in Rhode Island," flashing a smile that seemed to invite more conversation.

I cringed.

"You staying here for long?" he asked, happy to finally be engaged in a dialogue.

"No, we're going back today," she said. By this time, she had begun laughing again.

I think the guy picked up on our drift. "Well, have a nice day," he said, standing to stretch his legs and look around as if to say, 'Has anyone else seen these two gay women here? I couldn't believe my eyes! They're sitting right here on this bench!'

My partner and I watched him walk back to his oversized pickup truck and drive away. Then we went back to enjoying our gelato.