Secret Admirer

[My blog is quickly becoming an anthology for older stuff I wrote. But the alternative would be to actually have new experiences to write about, and it seems unlikely that I'll do enough of that to be able to post with any consistency. Plus, I always find some way to relate it to something current.

I once wrote an epic Christmas poem that I want the world to read (it might even be better than the magi rap I posted a few weeks ago), but first I need to give some background. At the beginning of my senior year of college, I received a mysterious email from someone named "Maybelline Buttacup." Below is the text of that email, received on September 2, 2003 (wow, I'm getting old); all spelling and punctuation from the original message.]

Subject line: Hey Jeff! How's the 1st day of school?

Dearest Jeffy,

How's it goin? Man, I'm so glad I've seen you around...that hairstyle looks awesome! On campus you are the one with the backpack, right? Juuuuuust kidding.
You are the lint in my belly button. You are always with me.
You are the nut in my honey nut breakfast cereal--better known as Cheerios for the name-brand type.
You are the odor in my deodorant. You're fresh baby. So fresh I'm going to raise my hand cause I'm sure--sure you're the one.
You are the double helix in my DNA.
You are the days in my week, actually, seven days without you makes one weak!
If I were mother nature then there would be only one season yearlong--I'd fall for you.
Fall semester has me busy falling for you.
If you owned an orchard, I'd love to be an apple on your tree cause then I could fall for you. Better yet, maybe I'd be the apple in your ever-so-sparkling eyes. Hmm...reminds me of sparkling apple cider, YUM!
Maybe we will reminisce over a glass someday.
Please let me know if you feel the same way dream lover, so I don't have to dream alone.

Fondest regards,

May B.

[Pretty weird and pretty corny and pretty flattering, all at the same time. I wracked my brain trying to figure out who would send me something like this, either seriously or as a prank. My best guess initially was my older sister Lori (mainly because she was the only one who called me Jeffy), and I wrote back the next day suggesting as much (I didn't save my replies). This was the email I got back on September 5.]

Subject line: Lord help the sister who comes between me and my mister

Dearest Jeffy,

Being accused of being your sister is like Marge being accused of being Homer's sister. Seriously, how could Bart be so handsome (as are you) if they were brother and sister? But aren't we all brothers and sisters? But have no fear, I'm not in Murray...anymore.
My heart skips a beat every time I sit here and think of you typing away that reply. It just can't be good for the ol' pace maker.
You wonder who I am:
I am the aloe on your third degree sunburn
I am the Matie in your marshmallow (I'd like to be your Matie.) And you are my Lucky Charm (on a less generic note).
I am the active ingredient in your dandruff shampoo. After some time with me you'll always end up feeling fresh and flake free.
If our love was like the internet, we wouldn't be dial up--we'd be a high speed connection!
You are the static guard on my pantyhose
The double stuff in my Oreo
You are the mysterious fishy odor in my tuna. Like tuna without that smell, life just wouldn't be the same without you.
I can't wait until you respond again. I feel like I am dumping my feelings like a laxative overdose and you're just sitting there with all your feelings waiting for a good drink of prune juice.

Butterfly kisses,

May B.

[That one got decidedly less romantic towards the end. These are the only two of Maybelline's emails I still have copies of, but we went back and forth a few more times--me trying to find out who the real author was, she playing coy and never revealing any truthful information--until I got a little tired of the game, and by the end of September I stopped writing back.

If memory serves me correctly (and it usually does), she wrote me once more in October or November wondering what had happened, and I wrote back saying I wasn't interested in corresponding with someone who wouldn't tell me who they really were. May never sent me another email.

Then, as Christmas approached, I decided to give her one last chance, and I crafted a masterpiece that I figured would impress her enough to get her to end the charade. But this is already long enough--I'll save my Christmas poem for my next post. Stay tuned!]

[P.S. By the end of 2003 I had a pretty good idea who was behind the emails, and at this point I'm about 97% sure that I know Ms. Buttacup's true identity. But I'll let her decide if she ever wants to fess up.]