Gwen's Invasion

I have come to learn that one of the common occurrences of living in an apartment complex is the continued receipt of prior tenants’ mail. I’m not sure who is at fault here; the former residents who forget to forward their mail to a new address or the postal service for failing to forward mail to the correct address. What I am sure of is that, consequently, I have had some uncomfortable elevator encounters and certainly smug gazes from fellow neighbors.

Never has this been as true as earlier this week when we received an American Girl Doll catalog for our spurious roommate, Sarah. Desperately trying to conceal the catalog with the Bank of America and Wachovia statements (the first time I didn’t experience enviro-guilt about having not switched to paperless), I ineffectually jammed the Close Door button as the elevator filled with residents.

Once I was out of the elevator, safely locked in our man-cave of an apartment, and certain that my damaged manhood could not be further enfeebled, I decided to breeze through Sarah’s catalog. Well, nothing shouts economic recession like Gwen Thompson, the new American Girl Doll…who is apparently a victim of the current economy and happens to be homeless. Gwen can be yours for the mere price of $95…ironic perhaps?

My interest clearly piqued, I navigated to the digital world and perused a few reviews. Internet user cupcakelover writes Gwen is very pretty but I am disappointed because her sandal straps break very easily. No shit, cupcakelover. She’s homeless. Your shoes would be tattered and torn if you were homeless too. Oh well, I guess that means you’ll just have to buy the $12 Sporty Sneakers.

I only hope that Sarah was still able to find out about Gwen. Unless the reason she is no longer living in my apartment is because she lost her job and couldn’t afford to pay the rent, in which case, Gwen might hit a little too close to home.

Get Your Garv-on

A few years ago, my always-clever friends Chelsey and Bowman thought it would be nothing short of dexterous to rearrange the letters in my name, hence Brain Garvon. In an attempt to spread the good news, they promptly turned to Facebook, and consequently, the birth of my alter ego was delivered to the masses.

Well, the other month, Brain received a friend request on Facebook from what I thought would be a nudnik named Brenda Garvon. Boy, was I quick to judge. She recently sent Brain a Facebook message and that conversation has been anything but a bore.

Subject: are we related?

Brenda: do you have Polish relatives in Michigan?

[My initial thoughts: What about Brain’s profile gives you any indication that he’s a real person? The fact that his favorite quotation is Don’t be stupid, have a BRAIN, get your GARV-ON? Or was it the groups he’s subscribed to, such as I Have total cognizance of every synapse in my cerebral cortex or Pinky and the Brain’s World Domination Club? Or perhaps the fact that Brain is head (literally) over heels for and married to Sarah Bellum?...on second thought, shouldn’t the red flag have gone up with a name like Brain…but being the bigger person in this situation, or at least the more intelligent, I thought I would acquiesce.]

Brain: I was wondering the same thing? You're in Michigan, I see. I've never been to Michigan and don't know if I have any relatives there, unless Aunt Dot and Uncle Joe moved to Michigan (but I think they moved to Pennsylvania to a retirement center where they spend time dancing the polka). I am Polish, love pierogies, but don't know the Polka. So I guess this is inconclusive. We may or may not be related.

Brenda: I’m sure we were related in Poland because the name was Gawron and when Stanislaus got here with his wife and his daughter Annie, he changed it to Garvon. Other people changed it to Garvin but we are cooler.

Brain: We’re definitely cooler than the Garvins! I've heard of the Gavrons. Do you think we're related to them too? So many variations. Do you have any Thanksgiving traditions? We always eat kielbasa with our Thanksgiving dinner.

Brenda: I never met any Gavrons, but I bet we are related to them too. At thanksgiving, we just eat a lot of everything. Does your family eat pickled bologna and pickled everything else? Who are your parents and grandparents?

Brain: YES! We LOVE pickled everything! My parents are Rufin and Alina. Have you heard of either of them? I don't think they've been to Michigan either. Also, when did Stanislaus come to America?

Brenda: I think he came through Ellis Island around 1913 but not sure. I'll ask my dad if he knows Rufin and Alina.

I can’t be 100% certain, but I’m pretty sure this is what Chelsey and Bowman meant when they told me to get my GARV-ON. I mean, who does Brenda think she is? Apparently, my relative.

A Nautical Affair

The other weekend, I attended the 1869 Society’s Fall Fete at the Corcoran Gallery of Art. My friend, Bernard, sits on the Host Committee for the event, and he, along with his fiancé Liz, organized a group of friends to attend the fundraiser.

The annual fundraiser has been described as successfully…

… mixing the budding power brokers with those in the artistic and philanthropic worlds. As the rising crop of talent brushes shoulders, it becomes the next generation of Washington’s social and philanthropic elite. – Politico

The event draws…

…hundreds of Washington’s next wave of politicos, power players, socialites, and wannabes. – Washingtonian.

I’m still trying to figure out which category I fall into. I think I fall closest to the wannabes, but I don’t think I wannabe.

This swanky affair’s open bar loosened the dance floor and the nautical themed hour devoirs appropriately complemented the featured exhibit; Sargent and the Sea. The exhibition was a display of early maritime paintings, watercolors, and drawings of the pre-eminant American expatriate, John Singer Sargent.

The highlight of my evening: While perusing the exhibit, I stumbled upon two seemingly identical pictures.

After closer scrutiny, I developed a profound appreciation for John Singer Sargent. Not only is he a great American painter, but I posit that he was the inspiration behind the world’s best bar game, Photo Hunt. So what did I do? I told every politico, power player, socialite, and wannabe around that this was, in fact, a game of Photo Hunt, met with universal approval and participation.

Tinsel Teeth and Metal Mouth

I have come to the realization that I have hit my quarter-life crisis. I’ve done some research and found three symptoms that resonate.

1. Life crises often result in an impulsive purchase. Often this comes mid-life in the form of a Harley or a Porshe Boxster. My quarter-life crisis purchase: Braces. Yes, braces. No, not Invisalign. Braces.

2. Characterized by nostalgia for university life after entering the real world. I guess for me, I’m more nostalgic for middle school life, but school nonetheless. Braces are not a novel accessory for me. I first sported the fashionable metal brackets as a pubescent middle schooler. At the time, I thought my social capital would unravel. Now, I’m confident these braces have the potential to take me to new social heights!

3. Insecurity regarding the fact that all of one’s actions are meaningless. What is it you do? [enter chirping crickets]. I had resigned myself to the fact that I was known as the dude who lives with an Obama speechwriter. Well, with my new grillz, I will finally be known for something! I’ll no longer need to ride the coattails of my friends; I’ll now be known as that dude with braces.

A few questions:

A. Can braces set off the metal detector at the airport? No. The lightweight material used in braces won’t trigger the alarm.

B. Will my braces increase my chance of being struck by lightning? No. The odds in the US in any given year will still be one in 700,000.

C. Can my braces get locked with other braces? Yes. On second thought, I can’t think of a single legal situation where this problem might arise…

Life's Lemons

I was recently invited to a friend’s house for dinner. After they graciously prepared the meal, I thought it would be polite of me to offer to wash the dishes. Unbeknownst to me, one of the glasses in the sink was cracked and I ended up with a sizable incision. Months later, my finger still has a permanent battle wound.

More recently, as I was leaving my friends’ apartment, they asked if I would be so kind as to take out their trash. Sure, not a problem right? Wrong. When I went to throw the trash down the chute, the bag got jammed and so I gave it a helping nudge. What my friends failed to mention was that there was a broken glass bottle in the trashbag. I figured this out when it punctured one of my fingers.

Having now gone 0-2 in my battle with glass, I’ve done some root cause analysis and determined that it all stems from my deep sense of benevolence. So to combat such future lacerations and abrasions, I’m no longer lending an injured hand. Brian, will you please pass me the butter? No. Brian, I think it’s your turn to take out the recycling. No. I’m practicing altruistic abstinence.

Lesson learned: When life throws you lemons, make sure not to wash them or throw them in the trash.

Surprise!

In my attempt to look and act like a young professional, I’ve been living in an apartment complex known as the Meridian. (In reality it’s a front for people who are still in college. I roam the halls in my pajamas, go visit my college friends down the hall…the only difference is that instead of a Resident Advisor giving a Violation of the Standards of Conduct, the concierge calls the police.) To date, I’ve had a pleasant stay at the Meridian, or the Mer-palace as I sometimes call it, but I, along with my Mer-friends, have come to find humor in the Mer-management follies. The Mer-management has kept us on our toes with surprise after surprise.

First Folly: The other day, our apartment was informed that we received a noise complaint from our neighbors. Instead of coming to inform us immediately, mer-management came the following day. However, if the concierge had come to visit us at the time of the complaint, he would have realized that nobody was home. You’re in trouble. Surprise.

Second-guess: Recently, the Meridian has been institutionalizing widespread paint reform throughout the building. In an attempt to inform the residents of the painting, mer-management hangs a Wet Paint sign. Where is this sign placed? In the elevator. So which floor is it that got painted? Oh, it’s a surprise.

Third Time’s the Charm?: Our friends recently placed a maintenance request because their dishwasher was failing to properly perform its primary function. They returned to the apartment after a day of work to find a (a) the maintenance had been completed and (b) their dishwasher still didn’t work. Instead, the maintenance slip read “Your dishwasher works good. Try using a different soap.” On our website, we say customer service is our top priority...but we are only kidding. Surprise!

Imma Let You Finish that 10 Miler

I recently took a step up from running the standard 5k to a more taxing 10k. The 10k, known as the Lawyers Have a Heart (aptly named? Bringing out the competitive nature of the DC law community – the race pits summer interns against paralegals in a fight to demonstrate who has the stronger cardiovascular system), was a complete culture shock. This weekend, I’m taking it to the next level and am running in the Army 10 Miler. In an attempt to better assimilate with the running crowd, I’m taking some extra precautions for the 10 Miler.

Lessons learned from the Lawyers Have a Heart 10k:

1. Custom: Apparently it is customary to be well hydrated before the race. It’s blasphemous to not use the public restroom facilities to demonstrate having properly over-hydrated. The line wrapped around the entire Georgetown waterfront and was literally thousands of lawyers long. Faux pas: No matter how much I wanted to participate in the camaraderie, I couldn’t bring myself to stand in line. Or maybe I just got stage fright. Corrective Action: I plan to purchase a 7-Eleven Big Gulp on my way to the race.

2. Custom: Most races are designed such that there comes a time when the frontrunners are heading inbound past the stragglers still headed outbound. At this point, it is tradition to audibly acknowledge their superiority while they speed past with no regard for these cat calls. Word choice is at the discretion of the runner. For example, the lady next to me simply yelled “Lady” every time a female passed. I’ve decided she was either sexist or keeping track of her position in the race, which couldn’t be good if she was running next to me. In summary, you’re either a frontrunner and silent or your slow and heckle. Faux pas: I picked slow and silent; mixing and matching is not permitted. Corrective Action: When I’m on the running trail, I’ve been practicing by cat calling and grunting to fellow runners as they approach. Based on their posturing, I don’t think they appreciate it.

Knowing my fortune, I’ll probably show up to the Army 10 Miler having mastered the culture of the 10K and find myself awash in a transoceanic culture, in which case, I hope at least someone will throw me a paddle.