Is it discrimination if you are a caucasian white-collar professional?

Tomorrow I have a meeting with an investigator from the Office of Human Rights of the District of Colombia. I am, I must say, nervous. J. and I have been looking at apartments for awhile now. We thought we had found the prefect one- it was amazing, the price was right. The woman who showed it to us was really nice and ensured us that it wouldn't be a problem renting to us. We were the first people to see it and the first to turn in an application. Then, the long slide backwards.

We didn't hear anything for a week, and then when we started calling, she refused to return our phone calls. When I finally got her on the phone, by dialing from work, a number she wouldn't recognize on her mobile phone, she told me that a bunch of other people had applied, and that she wasn't the only one showing it, and that it would take a week to process the applications. And she was rude. That week turned into two weeks. And then three. And then she complained that we were calling too much, and that we couldn't expect her to process all the applications in only three weeks! And three weeks became five weeks. I knew we were not getting the apartment by this time, but I felt like she should at least tell me that it was rented, that our application was denied. When I finally got this woman on the phone, she began yelling at me again, being very unkind and incredibly defensive, telling me that 'You need to get OVER it! That apartment is GONE! I told you I would call you when I had an answer!". When I asked her why she hadn't called, she informed me that I must be an idiot. I hung up on her. No one yells at me on the phone.

Then, incredibly, this woman called me back. She, who couldn't be bothered to call me back at any other time, called me back to tell me that "NOBODY HANGS UP ON FAYE!". Guess what, Faye. You got hung up on. Deal with it. When she called back a third time, I answered and told her that I didn't wish to speak to her anymore, and she told me I was a stalker that had no self respect. Detente.

So, what to make of this Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde situation? Did Faye change her mind because J. and I wrote "boyfriends" in the relationship box? Or did she just over commit and needed a way to back out of it? Well, I don't know. And I can't know. So after wrestling with this for a week, I called the Office of Human Rights. I explained what had happened to an investigator, feeling guilty the whole time. Was I mad because I wanted that apartment and didn't get it? Yes. Was I mad because I was treated badly? Yes. Did I really get treated differently since I am gay? That's the part that I don't know, and that's the part that makes me nervous.

In a city that is so split between black and white, professional and blue collar, poor and wealthy, tension between the haves and have nots blurs a lot of actions. Did she not like us because we are gay or because we are white? Or did she just not like us, full stop? Did someone else with better credit scores and higher salaries swoop in? I offered to pay the entire years worth of rent in one check- how would someone else have beaten that? The investigator explained that it wasn't my job to know any of these things, that it was the city's job to determine what happened. And that as a citizen, it was my job to just tell my part of the story and move on with things. So I am going to do that. Tell my story and move on.

So why is my stomach so tied in knots thinking about it?

Pivoting, or, the view from Rightsizing at 12:30 AM

It went down like this.

I knew it was coming. Rumors had been flying for weeks. From the moment I heard the word reorganization, I knew that the moment of truth would come when I was offered a bottle of water and asked to sit down, please. See, here's the kicker: I had already been through this once.

That's right. I have been laid off twice. It's my dirty secret that just became dirtier. I'm the cheating husband forgiven once, but cast away when it happened again. Who is going to want my soiled hands? Well, who the hell cares at this point. Neither time did I actually do anything wrong, which, even though it is the truth, is exactly what I would scream if I was caught with a hooker in the back of a stolen Baptist church van, so even to my ears it seems a bit hollow.

I was laid off when I was twenty-two, and again last Thursday, when I was thirty. I've been told getting laid off is the new threesome. The person who told me that person made me laugh really hard and beer came out of my nose, but is there truth to this? Does getting laid off make me mysterious and fascinating, or does it make me a tramp?

Thursday morning I had just set my morning coffee down when the phone rang. I knew it was going to happen Thursday. I had my questions ready and I knew what to expect. There would be two people, there would be a folder of information, there would be a small grouping of cold bottles of water. Water, of course, being the liquid of choice for people who just lost their livelihood. I knew that the HR person would offer water and make soft, comforting noises, while the management person would try to look concerned, but would make the mistake of checking their watch.

So I went downstairs, took a deep breath, and accepted a bottle of water. It took five minutes.

And so here I am now, shiny and new and unemployed. I feel like my shell hasn't totally hardened yet, but I still have to go back to the office tomorrow, and everyday for five weeks after that till my last day. Everyone else who got realigned/rightsized/affected/laid-off/kicked-in-the-groin will be applying for jobs against the others, sort of like some hideous version of Survivor. I have something else in the offing so I get to avoid that scrum, thankfully. Last week, the rest of the people in our department spent their time being dicks, basically. Some were boastful that they hadn't lost their jobs, as if they did something better than others and deserved a pat on the back. Others were mad that I didn't want to hang out with them right after I got laid off. I'm sorry people, but there is a reason that people who get laid off together go drinking together- it's because with all my might I want to punch you in the face for keeping your job, not something I feel towards my other re-aligned friends. So grow up and deal with it.

One thing I hold high above my head is the fact that this will be the last job I ever do in a cubicle. Goodbye forever, beige walls. But still: five weeks until my final day of work? What? How ever will I fill that void of time? Especially since my sole function is to support a group that is being disbanded. Not much left for badger to do. Maybe stock up on office supplies. Read a lot of the internet. Figure out how unemployment insurance works.

It's going to be ok. It just hurts my pride.

Apologies for the long winded ranting. Ambien and Schaffer's are an awesome combo.

Realignment, or, F**k You with Something Hard and Sandpapery.

I've been made redundant. Downsized. Rightsized. Realigned. According to my superior, the organization has pivoted. They hope that I can pivot with them. They also hope that if I cannot pivot with them, the mean three weeks of severance they offered will be enough time to get me a new job. Which is hilarious, considering that the time from interview to job offer at my office is around seventy-five days. So, pretty much, it's been 'thank you very much for your year of service. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.'

Also, they think that I have taken twice the vacation days that I actually have. Which I will have to fight for tooth and nail, I am guessing. Sigh.

If I have any advise for the workers of the world, remember that you owe your organization two weeks notice, and nothing else. Yes, yes, I can hear you saying to yourselves, but my organization is different. No. Unless you work for your mom, it's no different for anyone. Loyalty to your employer is as nonsensical as loyalty to a trash can or a box of broken clown shoes. It just doesn't make sense. Loyalty, love, and fairness are what we can expect from people. The legally required minimum is what we can expect from our employer.

New York- Now with Summertime Smell!

New York smells like burning shit, tastes delicious, and makes me feel provincial. It's like a bad relationship. But yet every time I go, I have a great time. J and I stayed with an old friend, R., who I normally only see every three years or so, but always have an awesome time as if we haven't ever been apart. She is as insane as I remember, and I wouldn't have her any other way. Thanks R!

Also, she knew me in highschool, when we were both weird beyond belief.

Modern Art makes me stupider.

If God were a DJ, he would require that all dance floors would blink, a la Saturday Night Fever.

My temple. Whatever, so cheese doesn't promise everlasting redemption. It is just so very delicious.

Bronzed.

Flip up sunglasses make me look totally cool. Don't deny it. You want me.

Oh, THE BEACH! Tanned and bronzed, we returned. It was fantastic. It was seven days of waking up late, Wawa sandwiches for breakfast (the amazingness of Wawa can not be overstated), sandy butts, cold, salty water, and beers in the late afternoon light. I have to admit, I love me a week down by the shore. New Jersey was also awesome. Atlantic City is trashy. People have horrible (or should I say HAAAARiball) accents. We ate a lot of water ice (sort of a cross between a snow cone and a gelato, weird, but delicious). I'm ready for another week.

Good Bye Politics, Hello Gold Medallions

That's right. For the next week, I will be enjoying the sun along the Jersey shore, baking myself to a golden brown, swimming in the pristine waters (I'm sure), barbecuing and sitting on my very own porch as I enjoy my first down-the-shore-east-coast beach holiday. I have been promised Guidos with fake sunglasses and gold chains. I have been promised an outdoor shower. I have been promised Atlantic City. I am holding New Jersey to it. I promise stories when I get back. Until then, time for some chillax. And yes, I am aware that word is never going to catch on, but I shall continue using it.

It's gonna look just like this, except with more Jews and Italians. Also, I'll be there in the middle looking awesome.

Update: It's Summer.

• Our CSA farmshare has kicked into high gear. Wait, that's a lie. It's hard to be patient to eat tomatoes and corn and all of those other "summer" vegetables when they are not really in season yet. What is actually in season in the Mid-Atlantic this week? Lots and lots of greens. We have your lettuce, your cabbage, your pak choi (so much freaking pak choi), your mizuna, and, lest we forget, sorrel. An assload of sorrel. My colon better be clean like nobodies business. The last time I ate this much fiber was an unfortunate event in college in which I ran out of money a week before payday, but for some reason had many , many boxes of All Bran.

Oh my God- tell me again when the green leaf vegetables end? Oh right. Never.

• Here is a list of things I did last week, presented in Yiddish:
• Putzn the apartment
  
• Kokhn many delicious things
  
• Arbetn as lazily as possible with out getting Opgezogt.
• Zukhn Mit Likht for a new Apartamenten. That last one was a total lie. Apartamenten isn't Yiddish.

• My boyfriend J returned from a shopping trip, bearing a present for me in the form of a Madeleine pan. Last night, I made Madeleines that would make Proust get out of his crabby chair and kiss me. Then, on the way to work this morning, I realized that I have been collecting kitchen equipment at an alarming rate over the last year. Is this the gay man's equivalent to having too many cats? Will I end up throwing eclair pans at the neighbor kids when they get in my yard?

Damaging to both the waistline, as well as stupid children's heads.

• Next Week: The beach! It's my first east coast, going-to-the-shore, beach-house type vacation. I am so excited I could explode.