Cute or Creepy?

I spent the first half of the weekend in Philadelphia visiting Boyf, and as always we had a verbal sparring match deep philosophical conversation about a random topic. One of my BFFs has recently had a shudder-worthy experience. And while I told him I was thoroughly skeeved out by it, he maintained there was something sweet about what happened to her.

Two weeks ago, BFF was sent a dozen roses at her home address with a letter signed from Her Secret Admirer. The roses were then followed with daisies, left one at a time.

I say: Creepy. She has a boyfriend, and he wasn’t the one who sent them. So this is clearly unwanted attention. Not to mention, if they’re sent to her home address, that’s a pretty clear invasion of her personal bubble. Should this Wanna-Be Don Juan even know where she lives?

Boyf says: Cute. Guys are always being told to take risks and be romantic — that women really like the occasional bouquet of flowers. That’s what we see in the movies anyway, and it always works there. (I pointed out that he shouldn’t get me started on the false realities portrayed in romantic comedies i.e. a size-2 leading lady with perfect hair and a never-empty wallet)

Then the other night, I was on my way home from work, and decided to stop at the supermarket and make myself a little din-din from the salad bar. Sketchy McSalad Guy happened to be hovering by the spinach when he commented that I “sure look pretty.”

I say: Creepy. Sure, it’s nice to have someone say I look good, or otherwise compliment me, but sometimes the way its said can be unsettling. Had he said something else first, maybe I wouldn’t have run away to the fruit bar. I used this example: It’s perfectly fine when the guy at the Dunkin’ Donuts drive-thru comments that he likes my hair curly on the odd days that I wear it that way. He and I have a connection. He knows I like four Splendas in my cuppa, and we’re on a first-name basis. Had he done this the first day, however, I would have found myself a new Dunkin Dealer.

Boyf says: Cute. If the guy had been attractive (I told Boyf that Sketchy McSalad Guy was about a 4.0) I might have talked to him. And how the hell is a guy supposed to start a conversation with a girl anyway? Talk about the weather? Comment on how crisp the spinach is looking today? (I thought these would’ve been great alternatives . . .)

So what do you think? Am I being over-sensitive? Are guys just given a hard task in trying to strike up romance and small-talk? And are my friends and I just being over-sensitive?

Top 10 Signs I’m Getting Old . . .

Pam, Heather, Maggie on the South Campus Bus

Pam, Heather, Maggie on the South Campus Bus

10.) I actually bought a vacuum last night. Not only had I made price comparisons and a bit of research beforehand, but I was thrilled to find that the actual vacuum I wanted was on sale. I’m counting it as the best purchase I’ve made all month . . . Sigh. Remember the days when that title went to a bangin’ new purse or that new kind of mascara Drew Barrymore’s always talking about? (p.s. I love that mascara!) Continue reading

I Am Such A Bum

It's Been A Rough Weekend

It's Been A Rough Weekend

It’s been quite the weekend.

Saturday I woke up without heat or hot water. Awesome. I called a repairman, who told me it would be about 5 or 6 hours before he could white-horse it to my rescue. In the mean time, my cute little farmhouse turned into a frosty deathbox, growing colder by the minute. Continue reading

Rain or Shine

It’s almost Super Bowl time, and I’m in a prime location. This year, for a limited time only, Maggie G is broadcasting live from Pennsylvania. I’m living just outside of Allentown, which puts me in prime Eagles territory. And I have to tell you, I’m excited at the prospect of an all-Pennsylvania showdown. Continue reading

I Can Haz Home?

I think I complained about Alabama’s lack of snow the entire time I was there. Even in July, when it wasn’t snowing in New York anyway. I missed those glory days when I would walk to school uphill both ways in six feet of snow, bootless, mittenless, and frostbitten. Well, I’m back in the Northeast now, and it hasn’t stopped snowing all day.

It’s beautiful. And I want nothing more than to leap around in it with my tongue out like Lucy (I believe she said January snow was the best, right?). But the roads here aren’t so great today. In fact the horses and buggies seem to be the only ones out today. Perhaps it’s because studded snow-tires are illegal in Pennsylvania. (I wonder if the horses are allowed to stud their shoes? Maybe that’s why they’re still able to clop around?

So I was under a bit of self-inflicted house arrest today, which was probably a good thing since I still had boxes all over the house, and was picking outfits out of suitcases as of last night. But not anymore! I spent the day cleaning, organizing and unpacking stuff the best I could, and behold! I have a house now!

Kennedy is thrilled. No really. I know I usually tease about my cat, but the truth is she hasn’t been herself the last couple days, and I think a lot of that had to do with chaotic living situation. Another big factor is probably the fact that I leave for work before it’s light out, and don’t get home til it’s dark again — she’s not used to being alone all day. Maybe she misses my Bama roommates? Anyway, she gave me the big blue eyes this morning. I swear I heard her meow “I can haz home?”

So I had no choice but to give that cat an organized home. I did not, however, share my cheezburger.

Here’s a quick slideshow of my place, if you happen to care. It’s not much, but I think it’ll do just fine for six months or so.

Default Conclusion: Boyf Is Wrong

It’s been about three weeks since I posted about the blogging debate Boyf and I had, and I figure now is as good a time as any to post an update about the survey.

The results are in, and they’re well, palyndromic. (That means he same forwards and backwards, not Russia-spotting Hockey-Momming VP candidate-like). I guess that’s what happens when only nine people respond.

Their votes? 44 percent agree with Boyf, calling blogs “self-important noise,” while 33 percent of those surveyed say blogs are outlets that contribute to the media and society. 22 percent say other.

I hate to do this — I really do, but given the small sample size Milk and Cheerios is going to have to classify these results as inconclusive, which means that under blog-poll bylaw Article 10.43 section j, the opinion of the blogger reigns supreme. Sorry Boyf. Looks like you’re wrong and I’m right.

At least you’re used to it.

Better Annie than Oliver Twist

Perhaps my greatest fear is that of being an orphan. Not that you would really refer to a 22 year old as an orphan, but I digress. One day last semester, I got a call on my cell phone from an emotional woman telling me my father had been in a car wreck and I should head down to the hospital as soon as possible.  I clearly panicked. Then after another couple minutes on the phone with my messenger, I discovered she had dialed the wrong number. Thank the Good Lord. It was about nine months after my mom had passed away and I was not ready to say Peace Out to the reigning Gordon.

Being an orphan can’t be fun.

But you know what can be fun? New jobs (sigh, I mean internships). Especially when the first day of your new job includes overhearing a rousing game of football in the middle of the office, and watching your editor roll by on a scooter. AND as if that’s not good enough, did I mention the PIZZA in the dining hall?? Mmmmm. Add those on to the seemingly abundant pile of work I’ll have over the next six months, and this little girl is in Type-A, Blue-Collar Heaven. (Minus the Tom Petty soundtrack, though I’ll check on their iPod policy later this week . . . )

So when I texted Boyf to let him know about the delightful day I was having, he replied:

“(Little Orphan Annie Voice) I think I’m gonna like it here!” – Boyf

I giggled a bit. Partially because he usually has the voice of a church organ, three octaves below middle C, partially because I can see him squirming in horror as his mom and lil sis force him to watch that fabulous musical, and partially because . . . Well, I think I’m gonna like it here!

And throwing on a lil red dress and ankle socks sure beats having to walk up to an assigning editor with my desktop empty and palms out, saying “Please Sir, I’d like some more work.” Poor Oliver 😦