Because it is my name.

And the never-ending nightmare of my existence continues....

So, as you may or may not know, I recently began the process of applying for my Italian citizenship. They require that I present both of my parents' birth certificates, my dad's certificate of naturalization, my parents' wedding certificate, and my birth certificate. The latter two documents need to be "certified" copies, have an apostille attached, and must be translated to Italian. Awesome.

My mum, being phenomenal, went straight to work and got me both their birth certificates (in long form) from Italy in a little over a week. They were in my hands before I even went to my birth state's Dept of Vital Statistics to figure out how to get my own birth certificate. After a little clicking around, I was able to submit my request online (I had to fax a copy of my license to prove it was me). Imagine my pleasant surprise when I got an e-mail informing me that my birth certificate was on its way less than a week later.

Now, imagine my outraged frustration when I looked at my certified, embossed, freshly-signed birth certificate and saw that my name was spelled incorrectly.

I hoped that it was merely some kind of typo in preparing the document, but a call to the issuer confirmed that it was, indeed, a copy of my actual birth certificate. Somehow, my municipal birth certificate and every document created since the date of my birth have had one spelling of my first name. The spelling I thought correct. But my actual, legal, certified, official birth certificate had another spelling. Every time I corrected this common misspelling of my name, it was ME who was wrong. I have been living a lie for 29 years.

This, of course, has caused my soul to disconnect from my body.

Now, in order to "correct" my record (as if I was the one who made the mistake -- I was 0 years old!), I have to provide proof of my name before the age of 7.

Proof. Of. My. Name.

Think about that. I have to prove to someone that my name is what my name has been for 29 years. Obviously -- for reasons that were not explained to me -- my municipal birth certificate is not enough. Neither is my expired government-issued passport from when I was a child. Instead, I must provide one of the following:
1) School records;
2) Baptismal certificate;
3) Immunization records; or
4) Census records.
I cannot begin to process why a baptismal certificate will suffice where an effing United States passport won't.

Once I submit the above, they'll let me be the me I've been for 29 years within four to six weeks. (At this rate, I'll get my citizenship right around retirement age. Part of the point was to be able to flee if John McCain is elected president.)

What surprises me is just how furious I am at the moment. I'm a pretty easy-going person in general. (Right?) I want to be calm and rational. Didn't Shakespeare write,

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

Ah, fuck Shakespeare and that stupid slut Juliet, too. She was wrong. John Proctor got it right in Arthur Miller's The Crucible:

"Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life! Because I lie and sign myself to lies! Because I am not worth the dust on the feet of them that hang! How may I live without my name? I have given you my soul; leave me my name!"

There's no place like home.

After a period of angst earlier in the summer, I recently found myself becoming more peaceful about my existence. I'm an attorney at a great organization, doing the sort of work I imagined myself doing when I applied to law school. I'm teaching again -- albeit this time at a law school. My angsty thoughts of the past few months are beginning to coalesce into a solid plan for the future. And certainly not least, I'm living with one of the most spectacular people on earth in an apartment that we've both come to love. Obviously something was bound to go awry.

Then our landlord told us that he wants to sell our apartment. Natch.

First, the obvious issue: We'll probably have to move. In DC, it's actually quite hard to evict a tenant, but personal use and occupancy is a legitimate reason to have someone vacate. From when notice is given, tenants have 90 days to vacate. If they do not, the landlord can sue them in landlord-tenant court. I guess it would be an interesting experience in learning what it's like to be one of my clients. Bah. Although we were committed to being in this apartment at least through May, that may very well not be an option.

Also annoying is what comes with a landlord's desire to sell. We got a phone call tonight from the realtor. She wants to come and take pictures of the apartment. She wants to come up with a schedule to show the apartment. She prefers that we not be here when she's showing it. We prefer not to care so much about what she prefers. If she thinks she's rolling in here on the weekend, she'd best be ready to find us splayed out on our lovely couch. And, although I plan to perhaps avoid one of my standard clothes explosions, I am not going to go super out of my way to make the apartment look like the Bluth model home. (Although, I'd happily allow my landlord to get us a cleaning lady.)

All this nonsense leaves us in a bit of a quandary. Do we just hang tight, put up with the realtor, and carry on until the magic moment when this place sells? Or do we take on the unhappy task of finding a new place now and perhaps control our destiny just a tiny bit more? And then, regardless, do we try to find another 2 bedroom/2 bath that we can afford? Or do we try to capitalize on the moment and perhaps suck it up for a little bit and live with a few others in a larger space? If I really have to move, I wouldn't hate paying less rent.

In the meantime, we've been brainstorming how to make our apartment as unappetizing as possible. First, I think we should leave the blinds all the way up. Show prospective buyers the beautiful, street-level W Street view. Second, I think it's very important to put out as much gay porn as possible. Finally, we're looking for a tasteful photographer. After a lot of discussion, we decided that it would be awesome to superimpose twin images of our naked crotches from below. Then we'd blow it up and hang it over the couch.

If we have to leave, at least we'll leave with our pride intact.