Don't...Don't You Want This To Happen to You?

In all my times doing karaoke at Iggys on the Upper East Side (about 15), I've never had a pretty girl come join me in a song. Only Lynch, a few Fordham buddies and an 80 year old grandmother with more eye makeup than Krusty the Clown. Here's to next weekend. I'll be looking for you, Marissa.

Where's My Sock?

I'm not a sock stealer.

The only thing I've ever stolen was a box of Tic-Tacs when I was 8 years old. They were in the front of the grocery store with all the other candy. For any 8 year old, the amount of candy in this front aisle of Stop & Shop, Duane Reade or CVS seems endless. The packages upon packages of skittles, snickers, twinkies and butterfinger beebies. Even the black liquorish looks good. Just ask this guy.

Long story, short. I was reprimanded by my mother. She was not happy. Although, I don't know if she was more disappointed in the actual robbery or the fact that I chose to steal orange Tic-Tacs.

Anyway. Back to the socks.

I was in the laundrymat in my building. Yes, I do wash my clothes on occasion. I wasn't just hanging out in the laundry room.

My clothes had finished their wash cycle and were ready for the dryer. I moved the wet, soggy mess over to the other side of the room, hoping to get rid of it as soon as possible. One problem. Although not all were being used, every dryer had clothing inside.

I was with my roommate Lynch. For those of you who don't know Lynch, he's a kid that seems innocent and polite on the outside, but has a dangerous, dark streak that appears in certain circumstances. Like Bruce Banner has Hulk, like Mike has The Miz, Lynch has Lynch-Eyez. The laundry room on that fateful, blistery Sunday night was one of those circumstances where Lynch transformed. Lynch wan't waitin'. He needed his clothes dry and he needed them dry now.

So, we pulled out clothes that were finished drying and lying lifeless inside two machines and placed them on the table in the middle of the room.

It is a bold move in any communal laundry room. The person could've walked through the door at any second. The girl could've waltzed in as Lynch was scrambling to take out her bra. The guy could've seen me handling his jock strap.

But Lynch was adamant on getting the deed done. He was giving me the Lynch-eyez. No one's ever crossed Lynch-eyez and lived to tell the tale.

Happy one minute, Lynch-eyez the next:

So we did it. I didn't feel good about the whole process, but sometimes you have to do what Lynch-eyez want you to do.

We headed downstairs and came back up about an hour later. Now, there were people in the laundry room. There was a guy standing right next to the area where the incident had happened. We peaked through the window and thought about just waiting him out. I was prepared to leave my clothes in there for days to avoid any confrontations; willing to go commando or pick up some Spa-Ha tighty-whities at the 99 cent store.

Alas, we decided to enter the madness. The guy was standing above the same dryer that I had removed clothes from. We walked around the other side of the room, pretending we were doing a wash or simply taking an evening stroll amongst the noisy machines.

"Hey! Whose clothes are these?!" the guy suddenly said.

"They're his," Lynch quickly responded, pointing at me.

I couldn't believe Lynch. He ratted me out. No "I don't know" or "Shucks, beats me." BAM! That kid over there who's staring out the window at a light post and brick wall.

"Yeah. I think those are mine," I said.

"Well, you threw my clothes out on this table and I'm missing a sock," he sneered, holding up the unmatched foot warmer.

"Oh. Yeah. (As if I'd known). Let me see if I can find it," I responded apologetically.

The sock was almost as pathetic as the kid holding it. Small, frail and smelly. Honestly, I would've had trouble fitting the thing around my thumb.

But I felt guilty and ashamed. I began combing through my laundry and the dryer, searching for this tiny article of clothing that I probably could've mistaken for a piece of lint.

The kid was staring down at me, watching my every move. Lynch was next to me, smiling, knowing the Lynch-eyez had caused another's misfortune yet again.

I looked through my clothing twice, stretching boxers out, shaking shirts in the kid's face and putting my head through pant legs. What could I do? It wasn't there. Would this kid make me buy him a new pair of socks? Would he make me give him a foot massage? Cut his toenails?

"I've just lost too many socks in this place," he kept uttering.

Well, of course you have! This is a laundry room, right? That's what happens! It's part of the deal! Idiot!

Finally, he gave up and stormed off back to his apartment. The one sock still dangling from his left hand. Maybe he can use it as a pen grip.

I've never met anybody who felt attached to a sock like this kid. I'm sure his apartment looks pretty similar to the one in this clip.

Countdown to 2011 Championship Season Begins

Who are these people? I honestly don't know any of these names. Could be a good thing.

TGIF

Finding a party like this in Spa-Ha tu-night.

You see, the hoods been good to me, ever since I was a lower-case G, but now I'm a big G. Girls see I got the MONEY.

Top 4 Worst Gifts Given at Christmas

I've received some great Christmas gifts over my 23 years. A New York Giants Dave Brown jersey when I was 8. A package of 10 bags of Skittles when I was 17. Two pairs of corduroy pants when I was 20. I love corduroy pants. Almost uncomfortable with the amount of comfortability. Wish I could wear them to work. I have been known to wear them to bed in the winter. Belt and all.

But what about presents I've given to others? Honestly, I'm not much of a material person. My gifts to friends and family come in the form of friendship, finger points and smiles. But these sublime offerings don't seem to fly in our material society. So, I'm forced to go with the tangibles. People need to touch and hold their presents. What gives?

Over the years, I've given some good presents. But I've also purchased (or found) some pretty awful ones. Here are the top 4 worst gifts I've ever given to people:

4. Free Glee

Sorry Claire. Don't know if you ever knew this. Don't know if you even read my blog. You're not a follower. Why is that? Aren't you my sister? Where's the love? You make me sick.

The following is probably why you don't follow.

I was shopping at Old Navy in the Waterbury Mall, looking for some performance fleeces and cargo pants. It was early December, so I was also on the lookout for any good Christmas gifts. When I reached the cashier to pay for the green cargos, the woman offered me a small package (about the size of my wallet) for free! The package was actually a small hand towel that was wrapped up and folded over about 20 times. It had a nice little pink snowman stitched into the middle. Pink--Bathroom product--Girl. That's how my train of thought went 15 years ago. Who am I kidding? That train is still running at full speed today. It was the perfect gift for Claire.

Two weeks later I found it in our kitchen dish rag bucket. Sorry sis.

3. Jewelry Tomfoolery

I had a girlfriend once. That is not a joke. I actually did. So, come Christmas time, I felt pressured to purchase jewelry. I was in high school and really didn't know where to get the gift or what was appropriate. Should I buy gold? Silver? Bronze? Maybe I can weld something out of one of my old tee ball trophies.

Eventually, I ended up venturing into Claire's (again in the Waterbury Mall. Gave that place a plethora of awful business). Looking back on it today, I realize that Claire's sells jewelry made for 7 year olds or to outfit Halloween costumes. Plastic, blue and cheap. At the time, I really had no idea. It looked nice to me and isn't that the only person who should matter? The boyfriend? Ja'mon, Lee!

So I bought a necklace and set of earrings. She hated it. Probably re-gifted and sent both to her newborn baby cousin. Haven't had a girlfriend since.

2. Pasta for Costa

Secret Santa. A planned, obligatory exchange of presents = disaster mode for Matt Monagan. It was senior year and I had other things on my mind. SATs, girls, my next move in Yahoo Graffiti, Gogurt. I waited until the very last minute. The night before actually. John Costa was the lucky recipient this year. I had absolutely nothing to offer Johnny "Bowl of Pasta" Costa. Then I said his nickname out loud again to myself. Bowl of Pasta. BINGO!

I ran to my cupboard and pulled out a box of Angel Hair spaghetti. Costa had a good sense of humor. It would be a joke but also something that his entire family can enjoy. A meal. I'm giving food. As Jesus gave bread, I shall give pasta.

I stuck a 20 dollar bill under the top tab for good measure (or tomato sauce) and wrapped it. Costa loved it, but it still has to be one of the worst gifts I've ever given.

1. Stealing Suzi's Scarf

Another Secret Santa disaster. One of the worst things I've ever done. I will go to Hell because of this. I may not even be allowed into Hell. Does Hell have a prison? I think I would just be transferred directly to Hell's prison. Life in prison, in Hell.

It was junior year and once again, I didn't have a gift the night before. I was busy with PSATs, handbells, Snood and giving wedgies to freshman. The night before, I was actually at the Waterbury Mall going to see a movie. Figures this happened at the Waterbury Mall.

As my friends and I were walking through the parking lot and discussing why I didn't have a secret santa present for the next morning, I noticed a small scarf on the hood of a car. I walked over, picked it up and examined the front and back. I couldn't see much in the dark, but it seemed clean enough. My friends (being the great friends they were) agreed that this could suffice as a reasonable present for my female recipient. It probably would've been better if my recipient was blind.

So, when I returned home, I put the scarf under the faucet for a couple minutes, washing out any dirt/blood stains. I then began wrapping the dark blue garment in red, holiday paper. It actually looked pretty decent. That's when I noticed the tag. The owner had scrawled in the name "Suzi" on the white label.

What could I do? I didn't have white out. Should I scribble it out? That would look even worse. Should I try and morph "Suzi" into a from, "Santa"? Changing a "z" to an "n"? Didn't know if that had ever been done before. Should I cut off the tag? Yes. Looking back, that seems like the definite solution. But I was in panic mode and playing in a Party Poker 5 c/10 c blind tournament at the same time. I couldn't let HerbieFullyBloated beat me again.

So, I left Suzi's name on the tag. Maybe she'd think it was some kind of new designer. Suzi. It's a snazzy, designer sort of name.

I didn't stick around to find out if she enjoyed her gift the following day. I hid in a corner of the room. In fact, I never spoke to her again after that Christmas for fear of her using the scarf to strangle all the air out of my lungs. Maybe she loved it. Maybe she's still wearing it somewhere today. Maybe she met Suzi and the two of them are planning to kill me in my sleep.

Either way, I apologize to my unfortunate recipients and hope there are no hard feelings. I hope I have learned from these selfish acts on such an unselfish day. Hey, just remember, this list could've been a top 5 or top 10. I'm not that horrible.

Happy Holidays from Bermuda!