Let's Fa La La La La La La La La

The time between Thanksgiving and the New Year is hands-down my favorite time of year. The holiday spirit warms the winter months and is a time where even the pessimists can cherish a bit of positivity. However, no matter how much I find myself wrapped up in holiday cheer, I can’t seem to find the appropriate gifts to wrap.

Confession: I’ll come clean. I have a gift-exchange complex. It can be in the form of Secret Santa, White Elephant, or just general one-for-one gift exchanges. It likely stems from a White Elephant gift exchange I participated in with some friends from high school where, instead of being the Grinch who stole Christmas, or at least the Grinch who stole someone’s gift, I opted to end the game by opening the final gift...a Polly Pocket. Ever since this traumatic milestone, I have had a gift-exchange complex.

This gift exchange complex did not serve me well the other day. And to make matters worse, it was combined with my new-employee-judgment-phase phobia. As December rolled in, I rolled onto a new consulting project, finding myself surrounded by a new group of soon-to-be friends, or so I hoped. Approximately three hours into my first day of work I received my first test; an invitation to participate in the office Secret Santa.

Sidebar: I was first acquainted with this new-employee-judgment phase in my first week with the firm. A fellow young employee approached me on Friday afternoon and asked if I would participate in an inter-firm game of flag football. Eager to make new friends and demonstrate my ability to be a part of a team, I blocked off my entire Saturday. I was told the game started at 1pm, so I arrived fifteen minutes early, erring on the side of caution, only to find that my teammates had been there “warming up” for the past hour. Someone forgot to tell me our team was warming up. Whoops. No sweat. Jamming out to Final Countdown on my drive to the field was a comparable warm up. Once the game got started I was keen on demonstrating my superb athletic ability, but faced my second set-back of the afternoon upon entering the huddle. Apparently the entire team had also been practicing for months and had committed the playbook to memory. Longhorn Split. No problem, I’ll just prance around the field and try not to draw too much attention. I guess I didn’t meet to the team’s expectations; the words flag and football have not been used in combination in my presence since this fateful Saturday afternoon.

But back to the gift-exchange. Seasons and festivities aside, the one thing I unequivocally struggle with is gift-giving. Maybe I’m just selfish (like the time I went Christmas shopping and the only gift I left the mall with was one for myself…) This year, instead of brainstorming thoughtful offerings for my roommates, I opted for the Something Store. The premise; I pay $10 and in exchange, the Something Store will send me something, which, in all likelihood, was probably more thoughtful than the something I would have found.

After drawing my Secret Santa, engaging many in friendly debate on gift-giving, I opted to give Lindsey Cranium. Unfortunately, I’ll have to wait until next Christmas to determine if I passed the new-employee-judgment test.

Wendy

Hair. It often says a lot about a person. People pay a pretty penny to get their hair styled like celebrities, entire lines of beauty products are devoted to its maintenance and upkeep. It can define an era (the Tina Turner), it can define a social class (the frat swoop), it can be a social phenomenon (the mullet). It can make or break you.

Which is why I’ve never been one to care at all about my hair. Frankly, in the words of Wendy (more on her later), I am low maintenance usually towel drying and using my hands as a substitute comb. I’ve never used any hair product despite the incessant encouragement and sales pitches by every Hair Cuttery in the metropolitan area. I also like to think that I’m pragmatic when it comes to haircuts. It is one of the few exchanges where I like to stick to a strict philosophy of transaction-based commerce, providing terse responses to any questions asked until it is implicitly understood that I’m not interested in learning about your burgeoning medical bills and not going to reveal my family history.

So, sparing the details, I went to get a haircut at a new barber shop, or as it turns out, more of a salon named Hair Reflections. And I don’t know what it is about me, but I’ve always had this special allure; something that emanates from my face, perhaps the twinkle in my eye (or more recently, the reflection of the braces). It’s like I cast a Harry Potter veritaserum everywhere I go that has strangers young and old revealing their darkest truths.

Enter Wendy. Wendy seemed convivial at first, asking for my name, which she promptly forgot and asked for again. I forgave her and provided her with an out by referencing a psychology study that explained that people often forget a newly introduced person’s name because the brain is busy processing all of the new visual stimuli.

Psychology was the key to pandora’s box. Well, if you took psychology, did you ever learn about the psychology of suicide? Excuse me? Wendy, remember how less than a minute ago you didn’t know my name? No, I did not learn about the psychology of suicide. The reason I ask is because my girlfriend has really been mind-f*&#ed because her last two boyfriends both committed suicide. A reminder: I pay $15, you cut my hair. I didn’t come to barter, one haircut for one counseling session please.

Wendy proceeded to inform me of all the other joys of her life, starting with birth. You see, in 1964 they gave her mother a laxative before birth. Consequently, Wendy was almost conceived in the toilet. The optimist in me chimed in to tell her that at least it was only almost. On the show I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant a lady didn’t know she was pregnant until she actually birthed her child in the bowl. She was appropriately named Ariel.

I guess I should have known what I was getting myself into. The first sign was when Wendy, instead of using the hair dryer on me, used it to wisp her own hair and stare longingly at her reflection in the mirror.

Well Hair Reflections, consider this my hair reflection. I ain’t coming back.

I Tip My Capotain to You

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays. I mean, I honestly love everything about this holiday. Particularly because the premise of the holiday revolves around one of America’s greatest vices, gluttony. Something tells me that if the pilgrims knew that thanking God for the harvest would yield a 30% obesity rate 400 years later, they might have decided to thank God for something else, such as gainful employment.

In my family, the holiday has always been remarkably equable. Ever since I can remember, my immediate family has traveled to Delaware to spend Thanksgiving Day with the rest of the Gavrons (no, Brenda – not the Garvons). And each year without fail, my grandmother, whom I love dearly, brings a newly discovered morsel apportioned to each family member in a zip lock bag. This year, along with our dinner, we each received a nibble of some Dutch fruitcake that was apparently “winning awards all across Europe.” We were all really lucky she got her hand on one of these winning fruity delights. Frankly, I think my immediate family was just thankful that the soupcon did not contain peanut butter.

My sister, Lisa, has a strong allergy to peanut products. And apparently just as strong as my sister’s allergy is my grandmother’s determination to induce an allergic reaction. One year, my grandmother was doling out chocolates.

-Grandma, does this contain peanuts?

-Oh, no. There aren’t any peanuts in it. Try it. It’s delicious.

I guess my grandmother was found not guilty, since the chocolate center was, in fact, peanut butter, not a peanut. Needless to say, that Thanksgiving ran over on the giving and fell short of the thanks.

In more recent years, my college friends and I have started and tradition that neither words nor phrases, limericks nor haikus can describe. The event has come to be known as Dranksgiving. It’s a very simple concept; a Thanksgiving tailored for college students (and those still wishing they were in college). The event started four years ago, impromptu, at a buddy’s apartment with a boxed wine hour followed by a potluck Dranksgiving feast. This year, the event expanded to 50 of our closest dranksters and featured what later became known as poor man’s sangria, a combination of JOOSE (a caffeinated malt beverage) mixed with cheap red wine. The night lived up to its hype, and was certainly the yang to my traditionally predictable yin of a Thanksgiving.

Snow Day

My building anticipation for today could only be paralleled with a pupil’s anticipation for that ever-certain snow day. I had been invited to attend the first official state visit of President Obama’s presidency. I breathlessly counted down the hours until I would be hobnobbing with Barack and Michelle Obama, sharing a word, or song, with the Indian Prime Minister Manmohan Singh, and observing the fanfare associated with the Arrival Ceremony on the South Lawn of the White House. Read: I was looking forward to being a distant member in the crowd.

So last night, instead of going to bed at a socially appropriate hour on a work-night since I was certain I would not be going to work in the morning, I spent the evening making (okay, maybe only attempting to make) sweet melodies and jamming out with Rock Band.

Side story: The day prior, our Mer-neighbors Megha and Valerie installed one of God’s greatest gifts to mankind – a 42” LG flat screen and Rock Band. So what started out as a small garage band, Shocking the Crustaceans, with roommate Hunter on the guitar, Megha on the drums, and me on vocals, turned into hours of musical dissonance. In our greedy attempt to earn enough money to hire a Merch Girl, we got lost in a sea of grungy 90s songs, if they can be called that.

I’m not sure where I was in the 90s, but apparently I was not the average angst-filled teen. My lack of 90s rock music is, as I found out, publicly embarrassing. It would be one thing if I were on the drums or guitar where, you can still succeed without knowing the song. But it is incredibly difficult to sing both the correct notes and lyrics when you have never heard the song before. I’m sorry, Rush, that I did not avidly listen to or illegally Napster your song about the maple trees forming a union and demanding equal rights from the oppressive oak trees…My performance was far from perspicuous; sounding similar to the dentist drilling while simultaneously vomiting.

Anyway – after touring with my band way past my bedtime curfew, and feeling much like a rebel pupil having avoided his homework, I proceeded to wake up with heavy eyelids and a phone call informing me that the Arrival Ceremony had been moved indoors and I was no longer an invited attendee. What a disappointment. So it was off to work after all, not even a two-hour delay? I guess that will teach me my lesson. Next time I’m invited to an official state visit I’ll make sure to wear my pajamas inside out the night before.

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.