The Economics of Altruism

It's been a while since I chronicled my life as a Fed, and I hope my loyal readers--all four of you--have not been in want of a glimpse of the fabulous life. Of course, if you are also a Fed, this one will probably ring a little more true for you. Do the letters CFC mean anything to you? To my private sector pals, CFC, or Combined Federal Campaign, is essentially the government's version of United Way. About a month or so ago--although it feels like much, much longer--I started hearing those three letters ripple across the sea of cubes. Since then, they have become so ubiquitous I barely notice as I trip over silent auction items lining the halls of our building.

It has gotten so bad I've begun to contemplate the loss in federal government productivity resulting from the organization of countless CFC-related events occurring in my agency alone. After all, someone has to plan and run the waffle-and-fried-chicken breakfast (I couldn't make that up). Today, I told an older colleague that I thought we should quantify this loss in productivity, assign a dollar amount to it, and just have the agency cut a check next year. I mean I'm no freakonomist, but it seems pretty simple to me.

I'm reminded of a Slate podcast I listened to recently about the economics of charity. Here's the gist: Johns Hopkins recently published a report about the fundamental self-interest involved even in charitable giving. The study concluded that, as a global society, we are more interested in FEELING good than DOING good. That is why people volunteer much more often than they donate money. An excerpt:

"A Dutch banker can pay for a lot of soup-kitchen chefs and servers with a couple of hours' worth of his salary, but that wouldn't provide the same feel-good buzz as ladling out stew himself, would it? Even the way we choose to dole out cash betrays our true motives. Someone with $100 to give away and a world full of worthy causes should choose the worthiest and write the check. We don't. Instead, we give $5 for a LiveStrong bracelet, pledge $25 to Save the Children, another $25 to AIDS research, and so on. But $25 is not going to find a cure for AIDS. Either it's the best cause and deserves the entire $100, or it's not and some other cause does."

After hearing my suggestion for next year's CFC, my older colleague responded, "Ah, it's refreshing to see such cynicism in someone so young." Fair enough, I thought, but I still think that an agency check offers a lot more fundraising potential than hocking used paperbacks for a buck. Perhaps cynicism is the new altruism...

Straight Men are the New Dinosaurs

This morning my best gay friend (BGF) and I attended church at St. Thomas Episcopal, which was celebrating All Saint's Day with a guest speaker: Bishop Gene Robinson, the first openly gay bishop ordained in the Anglican church. My BGF really wanted to go, and since we take turns picking churches, I acquiesced. (Coincidentally, "Gene Robinson" was a trivia answer at Wonderland last Monday--I figured I'd see what all the fuss was about). It turned out to be a beautiful service--one of our best so far, despite my BGF botching communion--but I couldn't help but notice that I was alone in a congregation of beautiful, hipster gay men. So much for meeting a guy at church.

This wasn't the first time I was invisible this weekend. On Friday, my BGF learned he'd passed the Maryland State Bar, so we celebrated properly by going to the new, hot gay bar in Shaw. Now, even though I relinquish all opportunities of being hit on, it's not so bad going to gay bars with my BGF. He is like the Homecoming King: men compete to hold court by lavishing attention on him and buying him drinks. As his No. 1 sidekick, I manage to at least get a free drink or two out of it. Nonetheless, I was stumbling home alone at 1 a.m. while he was closing down the bar with a hot bartender. So much for meeting a guy at a bar.

And then back to today. Following our Sunday morning ritual of church and breakfast burritos from Dupont Market, we began our Sunday afternoon ritual of shopping in Georgetown and checking on our fantasy home (currently under construction at 35th & Prospect). While bouncing between the Lucky Store, Urban Outfitters and every other merchant on M Street, my BGF laid claim to every hot guy we saw (meaning: his team versus my team). Unfortunately, he was right. So much for meeting a guy at Kiehl's. Er...wait a sec.

I recently heard a mycologist (The Mushroom Man!) speak of the sixth cycle of extinction on Earth. Apparently Earth is currently losing species at a rate that threatens to rival the five great mass extinctions of the geological past. In fact, a Harvard biologist has estimated that Earth is currently losing 30,000 species per year. Could the straight man be one of them???

I think I've met my dream man...

I'll just run through some basic stats:

1. He's hot
2. He's a lawyer
3. He's a lawyer who wants to wait until AFTER he has a BMW and a townhouse in Georgetown to do all that public interest stuff. ;)
4. He's got great taste in music (first "date" was at the Virgin Music Fest)
5. He goes to church with me (actually, I go to church with him)
6. He's a Buckeye fan and fellow Ohioan
7. His last name is Roberts (Julia Roberts anyone?? C'mon--you would've thought of it too!)
8. He loves the outdoors (just bought matching Camelbaks for a hike in Shenandoah next weekend)
9. He works out
10. He's a good kisser
11. He likes to shop (we spent 20 minutes in Kiehl's yesterday where HE encouraged ME to buy the Abyssine eye cream)
12. He's ambitious and involved
13. He's wicked funny

Picture all of this with hand-holding and strolling and a sunny, crisp fall day in Georgetown as the backdrop.

So I ask...does it really matter that he's gay????? :)

Waiting for John Mayer to Change

I used to like John Mayer. I used to like him a lot. I used to brag about how my college roommate paid him $1000 to play at a campus event in 1999, and within five years I convinced the Art Ed Department at Ohio State to include him on the list of up and coming artists in an undergraduate pop culture class I taught while in grad school (Ashley Martin, if you are out there, this is dedicated to you. I should have listened).

Regretfully, after a promising first album and validating second, Mr. Mayer has resorted to an anthem of the whiny, helpless generation raised in play dates and minivans that (probably) has Marvin Gaye rolling in his grave. My suggestion? Johnny needs to get his ass to Washington.

If there is anyplace in the world where people AREN'T waiting on the world to change, it's here. This week I have been rubbing elbows (while pinching myself) with a lot of people who are inspired to make a difference in peoples lives. It started Tuesday night when I was in an intimate audience that heard from the Chairman of the Louisiana Recovery Authority and the editor of the Pulitzer Prize-wining New Orleans Times-Picayune. These are two people who, despite losing all of their own possessions, have stayed the course and are effecting change in the gulf coast.

Today, I sat amongst academics, policy leaders and businesses from around the nation who convened to discuss the systemic housing affordability crisis in this nation and its racially infused origins. The founder and CEO of Self Help (an advocacy organization that fights predatory lendors preying on minority homebuyers) started his now-national organization with a $77 bake sale. He didn't wait for the world to change. He sold brownies.

I ended the 48-hour inspiration fest tonight at a local real estate developer's office where I sat around with a bunch of young, urban visionaries drinking wine and discussing local economic development in DC. How can we celebrate the positive effects of gentrification while pushing back against the negatives?

All in all, not a bad 48 hours in Washington.

So in conclusion, I'm calling for John Mayer to write a new song that borrows from a bumper sticker my friend bought a couple weeks ago at Adams Morgan Day. It read: Stop bitching and start a revolution. Unless of course he's too busy trying to score Jessica Simpson...

So Long Suburbia!

Foreward: This blog is dedicated to the most gracious and generous Suburbanites I know: my Aunt Denise and Uncle Tom, without whom I would've been homeless for the last six weeks.

Last week, against all odds, I conquered the mind-numbing, all consuming process of D.C. apartment hunting. (Yes, you may pause here for libations and cheers). Getting this apartment--this fabulous apartment!--marks my official completion of the D.C. rite of passage known as "finding a random person to live with on Craig's List" and the unofficial beginning of my new life in D.C.

It's funny, though...as I have been desperately endeavoring to escape my Suburban purgatory, my city friends have been flocking toward it. Tasty luxuries like real houses with backyards, cars, big box retail outlets and community swimming pools have proved quite alluring to my city-bound friends. One friend who joined me at the pool last month had a flashback to childhood when she heard the lifeguards' whistles blow every hour on the hour ("Break!") and thought she was hallucinating when the jingle of the ice cream truck approached from the distance. Relax, I assured her, this is par for the course in Suburbia. I'm pretty sure they even pay the cute kids in baby-Crocs (and the young, lithe housewives who accompany them) to splash around and exude their idyllic lifestyles.

Despite leaving all this behind, including what my buddy referred to as "a house from Decorators Showcase," I am jumping out of my skin to ditch my car, shop at sub-par city grocery stores, and eat cheap falafels a block from my perfectly located new home. Don't get me wrong, though, I'll be back next summer when the pool opens...

T.G.I.F.

You know you're a government employee when, on Fridays, you send emails to your friends with "T.G.I.F." in the subject line. Does anyone in the real world say anything so lame? Having just completed my third Friday working for the Feds, I have to say I have come to anticipate with great amusement the odd behavior of my fellow co-workers on that sacred day that precedes the weekend. Unfailingly, every ride up the elevator to the ninth floor includes a "T.G.I.F." sentiment to break the awkward silence, just as it accompanies every obligatory greeting from those I pass en route to my cube. I am convinced that perhaps the government's most enduring contribution to society is the invention of "T.G.I.F." Where else would the checking off of another week be so monumental that a catchy acronym would be needed to express the event? (Note: if anyone can come up with an alternative origin of T.G.I.F. please let me know).

Another funny thing about Fridays is that the already sub-standard dress code is relegated to "casual". On my first Friday, I went to work in a sleeveless, black, jersey knit dress, pointy-toe sling backs and chunky turquoise beads thinking I was every bit the "heading to Dewey Beach after work" casual that would be expected of me. However, a woman dressed in head-to-toe bedazzled denim who saw me was quick to suggest otherwise: "Girrrrrrrrrrl, didn't nobody tell you it's casual Friday???" The high pitched voice, the purple beads, and the way she said "casual" in two syllables took me enough off guard to simply shake my head and keep walking.

But the absolute best best BEST thing about working for the government on Fridays, is that next week, I don't have to work at all. I'm officially starting my "compressed" work schedule, which rewards government employees for working what likely amounts to less hours per week than our private sector counterparts (9 hours a day) by giving us every other Friday off. Now that is something worth a T.G.I.F.

The (Un)fabulous Life of a Federal Government Employee

During my first week as a cog in the federal government wheel, I was told that summer interns are being asked to sign contracts saying they will not blog about their work experiences. While I am not an intern, I can assure you that after 2 weeks as a federal government employee, I understand completely why such a pledge is warranted. Stay tuned for stories...