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?


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.

Growing Wheels

I really feel like I might be growing wheels. And if that’s not scientifically possible, then I guess I should just say my butt is perpetually numb, and taking the shape of a car seat.

Boyf and I finished our mini-road trip (I mean, 1,200 miles isn’t a real road trip, is it?) on Monday Dec. 22. Then on the morning of the 23, I drove 6 hours to the tippy-top of the Green Mountain State with Dad and Big Sis to ski for a week. Fast forward to this Monday (Dec. 29) when I was back in the car for the return trip “Home.”

I’ve been here about 24 hours now. And I’m just about all packed for a quick stop in NEPA to hit up Boyf for a cup of coffee, on my way to Washington D.C. to spend New Years Eve with the rest of the USATODAY interns (man I miss my crew). I’ll be in D.C. til Friday, at which point I’ll be driving through Kutztown (that’s in Pennsylvania for those of you who don’t know) to pick up a key to my new apartment. I’ll spend the afternoon moving a few things in, then drive back to NY (“Home”), grab the rest of my stuff and move in for real on Saturday.

Work starts Monday.

So — sorry for the massively boring post. Just wanted you to know why I wouldn’t be posting for the next couple days. Also, if anyone knows of any great places to eat (or drink) in Kutztown or the greater Lehigh Valley, please let me know.

Til next time (next state?).

Top 10 Worst Places to Meet A Man

10.)  Talladega Speedway, Talladega, ALMaggie, Emily and Jaclyn at TalladegaDon’t get me wrong. I had tons of fun losing my NAS-V-CARd at Talladega. Shake and bake, baby! But I happened to make the horrible mistake of wearing a dress to the race. Now, for those of you that know me, you probably realize that I wear a dress just about everywhere. So I thought nothing of breaking out a plaid sundress for the occasion. But the men of Talladega had apparently never seen anything like it. Cat calls, skirt-looker-uppers and disgusting beer-gutters abounded. Sorry Walker and Texas Ranger. No spider-monkey business for me at this race track.

9.) The Honors Student Association – Trust me here. Syracuse University’s Nerd Society has a hard time recruiting and retaining male membership. We had a boy once. I of course had a massive crush on him . . . Wonder whatever happened to him (leaves computer, checks little black book. Sighs. He lives in a different time zone now.)

8.)Speed Dating – Look, I know this is the kind of place you head to in search of a man, but let’s be honest – you’re not gonna meet your soul mate in the 90 seconds (or is it a minute) you’re allotted to get to know someone across a card table in a gymnasium. And if you’re not looking for a commitment, well – you should continue not looking for one somewhere else.

Emily, Maggie and Lee at the Alabama State Fair7.) The Alabama State Fair – Don’t get the wrong idea. I realize this is two Alabama locations in the first four list entries. And I also realize that my readers in the northeast probably have a stereotype about what Alabama men (and even women) are like. Your stereotypes are completely unfounded. Your stereotypes about people at state fairs in general, however, completely valid. Although there’s no better aphrodisiac than a deep-fried Oreo.

6.) The Health Clinic – “It’s just a rash. It’ll clear up in 7 to 10 days.” That kind of excuse might work on some people, but I hope you’re smart enough to see through it. And if you don’t actually have the brains to make it through this one on your own, well then, that’s what you have Milk and Cheerios for. Trust me. Stay clear.

5.) Day care – Just picking up his nephew my ass. 

4.) Scranton, Pennsylvania – Um. I think there’s about one good man to be found in the entire Scranton metro area (if you can call that a metro area), and his name is Jim Halpert. Wonderful as he is, we all know he’s taken and alas, there’s no hope for the rest of us. So ladies, if you have the ability to do so, please avoid the 570 area code. You won’t be sorry.

Maggie and Suzie prepare for a classy evening.3.) Toga Parties – Look, I love a good toga party as much as the next girl. Trust me. But there are a few basic rules about college fetes that have to be followed. Never bring a guy home from a bar. Never bring a guy home from a fraternity party. And never, never bring a guy home if he resembles John Belushi in any way, shape or form. It’s Girl Code. Please don’t violate Girl Code.

2.) Bowling Alleys, Roller Rinks, or Arcades – They were awesome in middle school. In fact, I think I had three or four roller-rink birthday parties over the years. (It helped that I grew up near the world’s largest roller arena) But when it comes down to it, that kind of fun should be left in your rear-view mirror, along with your Nano Pet, platform shoes, and butterfly hair clips – no matter how romantic a couple’s skate may sound.

1.) And the number one worst place to meet a man is Jail – Look. I’m not here to judge. Maybe you did a night of hard time for a childish prank, ridiculous stack of parking tickets, or sassing a police officer. But that does not allow you to form a relationship during your time in the slammer. I know he seems all James Dean-y and rebellious. And I bet he looks really cute in his cut-off jorts and flannel shirt. And whoo-ee do I find it hard to resist a shoulder tattoo, but please. For me. Let it go. Resist the temptation to fly with the jail bird. You’ll thank me later.

Don’t Call It A RunningBack

Jay Peak, VermontI think we were about 5 minutes into the first run of the day when I took the big slide. I had reached the crest of a hill, at which point I caught a death cookie and crashed face-first into the snow. If only I had been able to stop at that – but gravity being what it is, I continued to travel down the mountain, face-first on my tummy (like a home-made Maggie Sled) for about 60 yards.

Sixty yards on the first play of the game? If I was a running back, I could have single handedly saved Greg Robinson’s career. Alas, I’m just a washed-up former skier who can’t quite find her footing. At least I can say I stayed on my feet for the rest of the day (save one or two quick indiscretions). It’s a good thing too. I’ve got a bruise the size of a small piñata on my right hip and the last thing I need is to match it on the other side, or add an addition.

Dad Chomps Cookies in a GladeLucky for me, my father was able to take over my spot as Spill-Master Extraordinaire. Looks to me like he has a hankering for those cookies. He took a helluva fall earlier this morning in a glade before taking the Dive To End All Dives on our last run this afternoon. Picture this: Giant farmer comes over the crest of a hill in a large banana suit, chews cookie, splats on face, and continues down the hill on his back for about 70 yards (breaking my own record – the Orange haven’t seen a play like that since Floyd Little), skidding so fast and forcefully that both his skis sailed off along the way.


And so the Running Back of the Year Award goes to my Dad, Sandy Gordon, for successfully rushing 70 yards for a totally gnarly TD between two trees.

Give that man a cookie.

White Christmas Indeed!

My Dad, sister and I decided to spend Christmas skiing in Vermont this year. So here we are at Jay Peak, in the northern-most tip of the state. It was about a 5 hour drive here (the day after arriving home from the three-day trek back from Bama), and we were on skis within about an hour of our arrival.

I used to be a pretty good skier back in the day. Mom, Dad, Sarah and I would head out about 20 times a year, and we would spend a week here at Jay every February. But it’s been about seven years since I’ve touched skis. The results are halfway between pathetic and hilarious, especially as I try keeping up with my sister Sarah (who was the captain of her ski team at college and had a season pass to this very mountain for the last two winters), and my father (who at the age of . . . well, old . . . can still boogie down the hills with the best of them).

Day one saw me on SnowBlades after convincing myself they would be a smoother adjustment. Shorter means less chance of tip-crossing, right? I managed to make it through the day without falling.

Day two on the other hand . . . well, see for yourself. On the plus side, I didn’t hurt myself on the slopes. I did however suffer a minor shoulder injury in the lodge. More on that to come I’m sure.

Merry Christmas to all who are celebrating today, and I hope to have more pathetic/hilarious pictures for you to check out through the rest of the week!


pictures provided by Sarah Gordon

Long, Strange Trip

I have to admit I was sad to see Alabama go as Boyf and I blew out of town the other day. Three days and 1,200 miles later, I’m back in the northeast.


Kennedy kicked him out of the car

Kennedy kicked him out of the car

It’s hard to believe it was Boyf’s first real road trip. I mean, he’s 23 years old. But I have to say he did a good job hanging in there, and we managed to make it back home without any major problems. (Unless you count the emergency Boyf-pick-up in Atlanta due to weather-related flight delays and cancellations) No tow-truck experiences at the Philadelphia city line, no running through police barriers in downtown Philly, no multiple car stalls in a Virginia rest area, and no smoking engine on the highway to the Gulf Coast – not that I’ve had any (cough, all) of those experiences at one point or another . . .



Instead I got to see some quality Boyf-Kennedy bonding. Although she did try to kick him out of the car and score an extra seat for herself as we entered Virginia on night one. And they clearly still have their differences.


Blue Plate Diner, Chattanooga Tennessee

We found a great place to eat in Chattanooga, Tennessee (by “we found” I mean “my boss recommended”). If you’re ever in Chattanooga you should definitely stop by the Blue Plate Diner – it’s right next to the aquarium downtown, and they have great food. Be warned though, it’s not typical diner food, but my shrimp taco was amazing, and I don’t remember seeing any scraps of fried chicken left on Boyf’s plate.



The rain really started barreling down after we left the diner and continued through the rest of Tennessee and into Virginia. Needless to say we got slowed down a bit from the weather and ended up staying in Blacksburg instead of Fort Royal, setting us a bit behind. (I blame this completely on Boyf, who always drives the speed limit . . . SLOW)


So the next day we woke up and checked out of our five-star accommodations (Super-Eight anyone?) to hit the road again. We had to fly drive through Philadelphia quick to grab his suitcase, which he tied to the roof of my already-overloaded station wagon – Kennedy and I thoroughly enjoyed watching him circle the car with rope in hand as he was fastening the bag to the top. It was like watching a medieval kid play with a May Pole – which set us back another couple hours. So I ended up crashing with his family in Scranton.


The next morning I was off and home, just me and the cat. I’m not quite sure if she missed him.


Kennedy debates whose company she prefers. Maggie wins.

Kennedy debates whose company she prefers. Maggie wins.