I know. I know. It's been a long time.

.5 pounds up (ummm...too much holly jolly Christmas).

New job is almost as fabulous as the man friend I come home to each night.

Oh, and I'm at this very moment in M-i-n-n-e-s-o-t-a celebrating the holidays.

Merry Christmas. 

My New Year's resolution?

To blog more ;)

Wednesday is weigh-in day!

I'm going to have to keep this short.

Either someone was just shot in our kitchen or we had a Manwich explosion.

Judging from the lack of police tape and my sloppy Joe stuffed belly, I'd guess the Manwich explosion.

By some miracle of God or perhaps sheer luck that calories consumed on Thanksgiving (or the days before or after) don't really count, I managed to lose (not gain!) half a pound this week. Which puts me down 8.5 pounds from November 1, and 14.5 pounds since January 2008, when I began trying to slim down in general.

The new vending machines at work however could pose a minor problem. I mean, who doesn't love an ice cream sandwich at 8:58 a.m.?

It's a blustery day in the neighborhood

The days the phone would ring before 6:30 a.m. were always the best.

Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, shivering in my Disney Princess pajamas, I'd creep from my cozy twin bed to the kitchen, the master domain of my parentsprior to my awakening every morning before school. If Dad was home thestakes were higher. If he had left and not returned, it meant a few hoursspent in my plaid uniform were likely on the menu.

I'd wait for my mom to speak the precious words that even 23-year-old Amy is still longing to hear today.

"Go back to bed. Today's a snow day."

Certain perks accompany the title of "teacher's daughter." Perhaps the cushiest in the months of November -March was the fact that as your fellowclassmates begrudgingly showered and got ready for school you slumbered peacefully because your mom had known before anyone else that today was a snow day.

And of course, being the great mom she was, she told you before you even let the toothpaste hit your pearly whites. And best of all, since mom was a teacher, you got to spend the whole day with her, drinking hot cocoa and watching daytime television.

Okay. Maybe the daytime television was not the best of all.

I have come to loathe snow days. Nothing has me clutching the beads more than blowing snow and black ice when the Happy Honda ventures out. But deep down inside, as the weather reports interrupt my regularly scheduled programming and the groans emerge before I can even give them a second thought, my stomach does a little flip.

A foot of snow? Any chance I can get a sled and a side of hot cocoa withthat?

Impatience is my virtue

Snow covers the pond just outside our patio. The Christmas tree glitters amidst the gloominess of the Sunday afternoon. Sirius Pops plays on as eight little presents await their final component before they can be wrapped and placed under the tree.

And I wait. And wait. And wait.

Has it even been an hour since Seth left for Target? I don't know.

For reasons I can't seem to wrap my mind around, I'm missing Seth these days more than when we were separated by hundreds and hundreds of miles. 9 a.m. on a work day. At choir practice. Sitting on the couch waiting for him to return from an errand to Target.

As if I didn't have about 50 Christmas cards to finish and dishes to do.

Confession time

Now that a certain Archbishop Dolan is no longer my boss it is monster confession time.

Not that most of you didn't already pick up on it.

Yes. Seth and I are living together.

It's a matter of common sense. Money wise. Time wise. Love wise.

Why pay extra money to be separated from the one you love?

My thoughts exactly. 

Now if you'll excuse me, we have a noisy neighbor with an overachieving subwoofer to attend to.

Into the great wide open

Goodbye.

Well. Goodbye until December 3. I'm leaving the Herald today, but since someone can't really take over my love life and blog about it, the blog I consider to be mine. I'll be back December 3, after my first holiday away from home, to rehash all the details of a Tennessee Thanksgiving.  

I'm almost sure I've posted once on the beautiful message in one of my favorite musicals, "Into the Woods," but I feel as if it is only appropriate to reblog it as I leave the Herald today.

As sad as I am to leave, it's not possible to grow if you don't throw some new soil into the pot you were planted in. As scary as new beginnings are, it's always worth it to go into the woods...

From Act II, Finale: Children Will Listen

Into the woods you go again,

you have to every now and then,

into the woods no telling when, 

be ready for the journey.

Into the woods but not too fast,

or what you wish you lose at last,

into the woods but mind the past,

into the woods but mind the future...

The way is dark

the light is dim

but now there's you, me, her, and him

the chances look small

the choices look grim

but everything you learn there will help when you return there

the light is getting dimmer

I think I see a glimmer...

Into the woods you have to go

but that's the way you learn to cope

into the woods to find there's hope

of getting through the journey

Christmas is officially off

I know what's got my hackles up. And it isn't (just) because Seth hasn't even bothered to send me a text wondering why I called three times in the past 12 hours.

I canceled Christmas. 

Well. Not the actual birth of Christ. That one's out of my hands, thank goodness. 

I can't afford to buy milk this month. Which means I certainly can't afford Christmas. Just one of the joys of being young and only a few years out of college in today's world. 

For the record I would like to state that it's not exclusively me that's putting the "Bah humbug!" on repeat this year. It's my old apartment company (Shoreline Real Estate if you want to name the devil) that's taking the cheer out of my egg nog. 

As in making me pay rent through March.

While the ants and the wasps and the uncontrollable heat and the increasingly aggressive homeless people in the neighborhood were a deciding factor in my abrupt move to the 'burbs, that wasn't the chief reason I hauled booty out of downtown.

It was the exorbitant cost of living downtown.

Perhaps my line of thinking for paying $851 a month (not including gas and food) just to live is a bit out of line. I mean, who wouldn't want to live in a single room apartment for that sum of money a month? And even more lucky-- I got to share it with ants! And the occasional wasp. And on really really lucky days, some drunk and disorderly man that would sneak into the building.

That-- is why I moved to the 'burbs.

But my former landlord doesn't understand that. Like a bad ex-boyfriend they instead want to torture me in every way possible. Because of course my already more than tight budget has room to pay two rents for the next four months. 

Anyone got any exorcism techniques I can use to get rid of this mean spirit? 

Trouble in Southern Charmer land

I now understand why men are from Mars and women are from Venus. 

I finished unpacking the apartment last night. Cleaned the cabinets. Organized the fridge. Made an attempt to hang pictures until I realized that the hammer was missing. Did a load of whites. Organized our "important papers" folder. Debated assembling our bookshelf since I killed the other one in the assembly process, but figured I should obey the "Don't touch the bookshelf" mandate set in place before Seth left. 

Desk supplies and books are all that's left to be done, organized into clean piles in the living room. Tonight was meant for a pedicure, manicure, facial and bubble bath. Tomorrow = the Southern Charmer returns!

And then Seth called. 

Seth says: I can't come home until Sunday because the weather is going to be bad around the Great Lakes on Friday, so I can't leave until Saturday. 

Amy hears: I have to spend another night alone listening to the scary noises in the apartment.

I have to try out a new parish by myself on Sunday morning.

The bookshelf isn't going to get assembled until Sunday, so the apartment won't be completely unpacked until Monday morning.

The pictures won't get hung until Monday because Seth has the hammer.

We're not going to have our dinner and a movie cuddlefest on the couch Sunday evening.

Amy says: [In disappointed, but understanding of safety first voice] Oh. Okay.

Seth hears: You think that I'm not leaving tomorrow because I want to spend more time with my friends and now you're mad at me.

Amy thinks: Perhaps if you'd worded your statement, "I'm really sorry but I won't make it home until Sunday now because the weather is going to produce some poor driving conditions on Friday. I know you were really looking forward to spending some time together on Sunday and finishing up the apartment."

Instead, Amy says, "Grrrrrr!"

Attempts to call Seth back three times.

Gets no response.

And Amy starts out her morning feeling very much the "Grrrrr!"

ESPN loses my vote of confidence

For all you Marquette alums, or anyone that knows a Marquette alum, this is worth a read.

And for the record, I don't think I'm someone you can just easily forget. Have you heard my dolphin laugh?

Another month down...

Happy anniversary to me!

Happy anniversary to me!

Happy anniversary my dearest most wonderful A---myyyyy!

Happy anniversary to me!

10 months. Excuse my language, but holy crap. 

You know what Wednesday is...

For whatever reason, my mind takes an immense amount of joy in keeping track of all of the naughty things I've eaten over the past week.

Half a large Papa John's pizza.

One very tasty margarita.

Cheese curds and Culver's chocolate shake.

Salad doused in sour cream and other goodness.

Unknown amount of mini Milky Ways.

Five donuts.

Through the indigestion and all, I still managed to knock off another half pound for the week, down a total of 7.5 since it all started October 1. Maybe I have a tapeworm. Cause I really am befuddled as to how I've accomplished that.  

Perhaps it was those gazillions of trips to and from the Happy Honda during the move. Only my still very exhausted body can vouch for that.

Smells like teen spirit

Hi. My name is Amy. And I am positively obsessed with Twilight.

*Hi Amy.*

I don't like teenagers. Particularly that age group from 13-15 where shrieks seem to reach the highest pitch, boys are the end all be all when it comes to conversation, and heaven forbid, dabbling in grandma's blue eye shadow from 1980 is commonplace.

But a certain book series has got me right back to junior high, screeching and obsessing and most embarrassing of all-- swooning. I've never been one for vampire lit, but man oh man, I have been bit.

Seth leaves for Vermont today (prayers for safe travels please!) leaving me to my own devices until Saturday. My to-do list is massive when it comes to unpacking, cleaning and errands, but it is going to take all my willpower not to curl up on our comfy new couch tonight and start rereading my new favorite series before it hits theaters this weekend. 

P.S. Warning! Warning! The Wednesday Weigh In Day forecast is in...and I'm predicting some added poundage. :(

Monday morning: I'm still alive

The move is complete.

The packing nowhere near.

Seth and I successfully made it through gazillions of trips to and from our vehicles climbing over boxes and swearing at blinds without killing each other (or having a fight that lasted over five minutes).

Now if you'll please excuse me. It's time to pass out. 

Condiments: A lesson in relationships

I packed the pepper.

Dear Lord in heaven strike me down for I have sinned.

The gloves are off and the roses are wilted in terms of perfect relationship land. Long gone are the days that Seth and I would spend our time together walking the beaches of Florida or North Carolina, wining and dining our way across the continental United States. Replace that with evenings of chicken nuggets and tater tots and walks from the parking garage to my studio apartment, and you get a glimpse as to where our relationship is at right now. 

As in, reality. 

The rose tinted glasses don't last forever. At least in this relationship they were gently put on the shelf instead of smashed to bits by a fire-breathing dragon. 

Enter the argument about me packing the pepper. 

In my quest to be a helpful person and not make Seth do all the work, I began packing Tuesday night.

I packed my contacts. 

And then one ripped.

I packed my deodorant.

Only to realize that um...I might need that.

Luckily I left out the toilet paper.

While there were plenty of expletives said under my breath this morning as I pondered whether or not I actually wanted my armpits to smell like a man all day, the personal wrath of having to wear my glasses for the rest of the week and attracting who knows what with Seth's Axe deodorant was nothing compared to the temper tantrum that ensued when I packed the pepper.

I don't use condiments. Nothing on my hot dog please. No salt. No pepper. No tabasco sauce for me thank you. (Exception: Putting the special fairy dust on my fries at Red Robin).

So when a box just the size of spice jars landed on my head in a torrential rain of empty boxes in my closet Wednesday evening, I did the only logical thing. 

I packed the spices. Salt. Pepper. All of it.

Only to face the whine of, "You packed the pepper?!" when Seth came home to marvel at my superior packing abilities.

Really. We've come this far in our relationship so we could argue about the fact that I packed the pepper? 

Apparently so. Stay tuned for Monday. Goodness only knows what other relationship reality busters will ensue when the actual moving occurs...

Another week down, another pound dropped for a total of -7 since October 1.

Only another 12 to go to reach the famed (yet healthy) senior prom weight.

And only the obstacle of Thanksgiving and Christmas in between...

Home for the Holidays

Let's talk Care Bears.

Or My Little Pony. Or Barbies. Something along that order please. Something that will make me forget that it's been a good year or two since I crossed the "Welcome to Adulthood" finish line.

It used to be a simple order. Either book a flight or a train or load up the car, and when the holidays hit, be Minnesota bound. There was never any question of whether or not I'd be home for Christmas...or Thanksgiving...or Easter, or what have you. Of course I would. That's where I belonged.

Suddenly I'm pulled in two directions. Tennessee AND Minnesota.

So begins life of deciding what family gets what holiday in the household of Amy & Seth.

For us it was rather simple. My brother already has his Christmas schedule in place. Align with his and we're good to go! Check and check! Tennessee for Thanksgiving and Minnesota for Christmas! 

And then came the Facebook message from a good high school friend, asking if I'd be home for Thanksgiving.

"No...how about Christmas?" I responded.

And then it hit us. Not only were we destined to never be in the same state for Thanksgiving and Christmas again, something much worse had happened-- we had grown up. Long gone were the movie nights and play practices and speech meets. We were grown women. With in-laws and potential future in-laws shakin' up our plans. Gone by the wayside the circle of trust that has kept our high school relationships intact. 

Now I'm too busy trying to break into Seth's family's circle of trust. 

Arrest me, I'm guilty

The temperature outside drops. The heat in my apartment skyrockets to never before seen readings despite all the valves on my radiators being off. I sweat. And I sweat.

And then I cringe. Every morning getting ready for work, the cringe comes.

A lot of things in my early morning ritual are easy to blame on the excess heat in my over-winterized apartment. Such as...

Don't want to get out of bed = too warm and comfy.

Need an extra five minutes because I have to take a break from the sauna that is my apartment between the hot shower and blow dry.

Find it impossible to get dressed completely until I've got t-minus two seconds to walk out the door in fear I will die from heat exhaustion.

Check, check and check. All very reasonable excuses as to why I need a full hour and five minutes to get ready in the morning.

But one thing keeps me cringing every morning. Because I know I can't blame it on the heat.

My socks.

One of my greatest pet peeves in life is the dress/dark pants -- white socks -- dress shoes combo. Even if the pants are long enough to cover the offending socks so that nobody knows except the sock wearer.

There is a reason God invented dark socks and dress socks. 

This past week, I have been the greatest offender there is. 

It could be the fact that my box of socks is buried in the back of the closet, somewhere under the rubble that is my closet preparing to be in transit this Friday, and that the only thing I've been able to find is white socks lest I go on some Indiana Jones-like adventure every morning.

It could be the fact that my feet just aren't feeling the high heels these days, they want the loafers.

It could be the tiny hope that someone would call, 'What Not to Wear' on me and I'd get a whole new fancy schmancy wardrobe, merely based on the fact that I was offensive in my use of socks.

Or it could just be that I'm lazy. But I really don't want to think that at 23 I've peaked in terms of how much energy I'm willing to put in my fashion efforts. Let's just call it a laid-back day and hope that in the great move to Oak Creek Friday my non-white socks will be unearthed.

Otherwise I officially give y'all permission to "What Not to Wear" me. 

It's a bittersweet symphony...

I've been fighting for the past few months. And fighting quite hard.

Fighting to move back to Minnesota. Fighting to break into a career path that really probably wasn't meant to be at this time. Lighting vigil candles and saying novenas and venting my frustrations with Seth. Blaming the economy. 

I finally gave up. If you think it's exhausting fighting with people on earth, try fighting with God.

I told him my plans. He laughed. And revealed his plans. And they look pretty darn good. 

November 25 will be my last day with the Catholic Herald. I'll be taking an assistant editor position with another publication in the Milwaukee area. I'm excited. And I'm sad. I mean come on, who wouldn't be sad?

In the meantime, I'll still be here. Hanging around somehow. I mean come on, I just drudged Seth through 4 hours of looking for the perfect bed in a bag yesterday. There are tales to tell! You think I'd leave just yet? 

A note from the other side

As I've spent a week indulging in excess amounts of CNN, jumping from one carnivorous meal to another and as a general rule hopping and skipping in the beautiful weather of Milwaukee, MyFaith feature Katie has been adjusting to life in the cloistered order of the Poor Clares in Kokomo, Ind. 

Her mom has been passing along email updates whenever she can, which, is not very often considering the limited amount of contact the sisters have with the outside world. This, is a direct message from Katie:

Hello everyone,

Surprise! (Yes, I had to look that word up in the dictionary to make sure it was spelled right ... no spell check in the monastery :-)

Mother Abbess told me to write to you as a little unexpected treat. I hope you are all doing okay.. I am praying for you guys a lot. I am doing FABULOUSLY. All the sisters are super nice and I'm getting along with them great. Sister Chiara (novice mistress) and I have become fast friends and we're having a really good time together. I've learned a TON so far. I can't believe I have hardly been here a week! I've been working hard, but so far all the jobs have been kinda fun. I think my favorite "charge" was earlier in the week when I got to use a jet-spray hose to clean all the window screens. I looked like a freak, though... I had on my jumper (in which I look pretty stinking cute, by the way...), a "hanky" on my head (think: Aunt Jemima), huge sunglasses over my glasses, and my polka dot rain boots. Good times:-0

Anyway, I want to tell you all that I love you, that I'm praying for you, and that I'm having a blast. The next time you will hear from me will be via my Christmas letter or after my Mom visits on Dec. 28th. Oke doke, it's time for Vespers, so I must go now...

In Christ,
Katie

Weigh-in day!

Another week down, 1.5 pounds with it. 

And beautiful weather to boot. Happy hump day!

Oh p.s.-- WE GOT THE APARTMENT! :)

Voting. It's kind of like a really good first kiss. Magical. Eye-opening. Has the possibility to change your life. 

And the possibility to ruin it too. Although hopefully for only four years. 

A wise man named my boyfriend (and I'm sure others before him) say that voting is your admission the theme park of complaining about the president and other elected officials for the next four years. You didn't vote? Can't complain. You opted to have no say in the matter.  

Although it wasn't my first presidential election kiss (I got that in 2004), it's my first presidential election kiss where I'm really hoping he calls back tomorrow.  

Go! Go! Go!

It's election day.

So why are you hanging out here?!

Get out and VOTE! 

Sunday night = educational television night

Waiting for the right guy... meanwhile have a great time with all the wrong ones!

It's been on my refrigerator since my junior year at Marquette. I found it in the Target dollar section. It seemed to be the perfect mantra for any young woman on the search for Mr. Right. Of course I hadn't found him yet. That didn't keep me from getting involved with a few frogs though. 

My jaw is dropped and my mind is attempting to wrap itself around what's on my tv right now-- a special on purity balls on TLC. 

Purity = fabulous. Hands down. Of course you want to be pure, I mean hello, isn't it in the Bible or something?

That's not what's got me thinking I may have downed too many glasses of wine this evening and am not hearing right. It's the whole notion of dating for these young girls. As in non-existent. No first kiss until wedding day. No romantic dinners for two. No hand holding. No boyfriends. Just a husband.

Whoa. 

I may gripe about my past boyfriends and non-relationship relationships in life, but I am incredibly grateful to these men that have shaped my life, for the love and joy that they have brought into it, and for the heartbreak as well. They've made me stronger. Made me happier. They've shown me what it is that I want in life and inspired me as well. Seth and I have come to a greater appreciation of each other because of what we've experienced in our relationships in the past. I have nothing but thanks for my exes. It is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. No matter how much it hurts.

Not for these girls though. And I can't even begin to imagine that. 

The most offending part of it all is their accusation that just because you date a couple of guys growing up, you have a horrible relationship with your father. I love my father. We have a wonderful relationship. He is my first Prince Charming and one of my best friends, always have, and always will be. Just because I've had a few boyfriends in my 23 years of life isn't reason to think my father and I have a flawed relationship. On the contrary. 

For the past 23 years I've been in search of someone as wonderful as my dad. In search of a relationship just as wonderful. 

Only a really frustrating day these days warrants two posts in one workday.

Hello frustrating day.

Impatient Amy keeps knock knock knockin' on my door. Unknown numbers keep calling my phone-- for legitimate reasons, but it's never the leasing company in Oak Creek popping a bottle of champagne and handing me over the keys to my brand new one bedroom (gasp! what a concept!) apartment.

And to top it all off I've come to the horrifying discovery that my current evil leasing company's "No move out between November 1 and March 31" policy is completely legit according to Wisconsin state law. 

And could end up costing me thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars I don't have. Joe the Plumber. Ha. Try Amy the 23-year-old. I'll yap your ear off about my struggles as a member of the middle class. 

Dracula I'd like to borrow your coffin for the day. I wouldn't mind hiding from the world until some hope seems to surface.  

Channeling Veruca Salt

Every once in awhile, a member of my family likes to remind me of what an impatient little child I was.

I want this and I want it now. I want to go here and I want to go now.

Little Amy is creeping into Adult Amy.

Oh how I missed that stylish mullet and jean overalls.

It has officially been a whopping almost 48 hours since I submitted my apartment application, and I have heard not a thing. Not a, "Congratulations!" or a, "You're too poor!" or even a, "What the heck do you charge on that Target Visa every month anyway?!"

I know, I realize, these things take time.

But I want that apartment. And I want it now. I want to spend my weekend purging my closets and my cupboards and dreaming of a garbage disposal and a dishwasher. I want to go window shopping for new furniture and find fun frames at Target to upgrade my art prints from poster material to, well, art. 

And for pete's sake I want to be able to throw a proper goodbye party for me and the ants. Is that too much to ask?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be preparing some cracker crumbs and candy bar pieces for my little friends. Let me know if the phone rings. 

And oh yeah-- Happy Halloween!

I heart OC

It was in complete amazement that I found myself in the leasing office of an Oak Creek apartment complex yesterday at 10:10 a.m.

With a hope that I've typically had reserved for calorie free german chocolate cake and white zinfandel, I handed over a check for $20 and application, in attempts to convince my new friends that I was the girl to occupy the vacancy.

Oh yeah. And that I had the money to pay for such a thing too.

And just like that, I had abandoned my downtown apartment and all the dreams that Amy Guckeen possessed when she graduated from Marquette in 2007. The girl that had planned to move to Long Island to work for a Catholic weekly and take the Long Island Railroad into the city on weekends, the girl that just HAD to live downtown no matter what the cost, the girl that had Carrie Bradshaw-esque feelings walking downtown at night amidst the city lights (umm...bad judgement by the way), lost.

Replaced with the practical, budget friendly, "I can't stand all the noise and people digging through my trash, and don't get me started on the traffic" coupled Amy.

I may have just made that sound like a bad thing. I didn't intend to. But as I said, more practical.

I didn't quite realize what a big deal moving from a tiny apartment to a much more spacious one in the 'burbs meant until a few of my best friends approached me, mildly horrified.

"YOU'RE MOVING?!" they exclaimed.

Well. Duh. They had spent some time in my apartment. Of course I'm moving. I'm not about to spend my 20s in an apartment that's smaller than a college dorm quad.

And then it hit me. This wasn't just about me moving to a bigger space, in a quieter neighborhood. It was about me. Becoming more and more coupled. Abandoning some of the things I had thought I had wanted in life. And making room for the things I had forgotten to include on my list that mattered most.*

Like not having to cohabit with a colony of ants. Or pay obscene prices for parking and rent.

Oh yeah. And that whole having an adult relationship thing too.

I'm glad the reality check came. I'm out of college. My top five apartment must-haves do not need to include "good bars within walking distance."

Those $10 martinis add up a bit too fast.


*For the record a move to the suburbs had been in my plans before I met Seth. Man or no man, the budget speaks for itself.

End of Week 4

Another week down, another pound down.

Making the grand total for October: 4 pounds.

Old Amy's dieting standards would say, "Ack! That's no good!"

Amy's healthy eating standards say, "Yes! That's healthy!"

I'm not feeling deprived (hellooooo Halloween candy). I'm not feeling stressed to lose xx amount per week. I'm just happy when the scale goes down.

And happy that I've made it to another Wednesday. My official "off" day of the week!

Moooooving...

Last night around 10:11 p.m. central standard time, Seth and I discussed a very important, and ridiculously grown up topic.

Me. Getting the heck out of my overpriced downtown studio.

If it's not the ants that have decided they LOVE living with me (no matter how much ant poison I use, or how squeaky clean I keep my apartment-- they have built permanent condos in the always fabulous #405), it's my arms falling off carrying my groceries three blocks from my ridiculously overpriced parking garage to my apartment. If it's not the elevator getting stuck forcing me to entertain the lovely 911 operator (true story) until I am unstuck, it's the drunk homeless man somehow finding his way into the building at 2 a.m. and screaming as loudly as possible for an hour on MY floor of all floors.

For reasons only post-college traumatized Amy can understand, when I chose my apartment, I did so in order to justify two conditions:

1. I want to live downtown.
2. I want to live downtown.

Being the solitary non-accountant in the family, I didn't really think about what that meant from a budgetary standpoint.

Or from a safety walking from your car to your apartment after dark aspect either.

The time has come to move.

Which sounds incredibly exhausting just thinking about it...

Don't feel hate, hibernate!

Like a bear emerging from its cave at the end of winter, this morning I opened the door to my apartment.

For the first time in 36 hours.

It was glorious.

By Friday night, despite having the morning and a bulk of the afternoon off, I was like a mama bear missing her cub. I was hungry. I was tired. My back hurt. My list of things to do was monumental, a far cry from the Friday nights of my college years when I would customarily be napping at that time before spending a night on the town.

I just wanted to be alone. I was surrounded by teenagers. And I had worked, in some capacity, for the past 11 days straight.

I needed a Sunday. I needed a day of rest. 

So after playing at mass on Saturday, I holed up in my apartment. Grabbed some lemon water and saltines-- my new guilty pleasure, and found the one thing I had been looking for, that without, was turning me into a cranky you know what.

I slept. Didn't put a speck of makeup on. Was content in my glasses. Read an entire book. Talked to the people I loved. And slept.

And come 7:30 this morning, stepping out into the brisk air, I felt like I had hibernated for an entire winter.

No case of the Mondays for this member of the rat race. 

*Zzzzzz Zzzzz*

Apparently it took writing a blog post to get God's attention. Thanks Big Guy. Although between you and me, you're kind of overwhelming me these days.

Anyway. Onto the rest of my readers that didn't create the world. 

Hello!

I'm voting today.

I'm also sleeping in. So chances are likely if you're reading this before 9 a.m. (and if for some reason I'm feeling particularly sleep deprived, before noon) it is very likely I have not crawled off the air mattress yet.

Oh the joys of pre-publishing.

There are two things in my life that are taking priority on this beautiful day off today:

1. Having clean underwear.

2. Voting for president.

Whether I have clean underwear while voting is still up for grabs. I certainly hope so. 

Happy weekend!

"Oh hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"

I just caught myself using the fake phone voice. 

You know what I'm talking about. One minute you're pounding away at your keyboard, letting all your aggression out via angry typing that could wake the whole office out of their post-lunch coma, and the next thing you know your phone is ringing.

You think of a naughty word. You think of two or three naughty words. How dare that person interrupt your no good, absolutely horrible, could not get any more ticked off mood.

And then it hits you, like magical fairy dust.

The fake phone voice.

Oh hiiiiiii. How are youuuuuu? Oh I am JUST wonderFUL! How are YOU? Oh you ARE? Oh that's just WONDERFUL!

It's enough to make the person angry typing in the next cube over want to fling their stale granola bar at you that they've been meaning to eat for the past six months.

And then the phone conversation is over and you hang up and resume the angry typing. And everyone in the office wonders just what in the world took over your body while you were on the phone, and where the heck that delightful presence has gone.

I've been doing a lot of angry typing lately.

God and I aren't speaking. It's completely and totally immature on my part, and no matter all his failed attempts at trying to reengage contact-- New Kids on the Block on the radio on my commute into work, fluffy bunnies outside my apartment, sunny days-- I'm still not returning his phone calls. 

Which is kind of hard to do when you work for a Catholic newspaper and all.

I've heard of crises of faith and all and there's certainly been moments I haven't felt like praying or going to church (usually during some sort of semi-annual sale somewhere), but I think for the first time in my 23 years of life, I'm actually encountering a crisis of faith.

And it's not because I don't have anything to say to God. I have plenty. He just hasn't been listening. No matter how loud I've been shouting while I cross the Hoan Bridge.

Seriously. Shouting. 

There's a lot of stuff going on in our country, in our world, and of course in my own life, that keep me up at night. That make me rant to my parents so much it requires three phone conversations a night. That make me scour websites endlessly looking for more information, for more links, for more, more, more.

And of course, as I learned somewhere along the way, through my struggles and frustrations there's really only one place to take it all to if you really want something to get done.

God.

But I'm starting to feel like that kid jumping off the diving board at the swimming pool trying to get his dad's attention.

Dad! Dad! Are you watching me? Dad, look! LOOK! You're not paying attention! DAD!!!

No answer. No response. Just me flailing about in my one-piece from seventh grade on the diving board, trying to keep my balance before I do a belly flop in the water.

Which would be ridiculously troublesome. Particularly since I can't swim.

I've tried vigil candles. Pilgrimages to Holy Hill. Daily mass. Confession. Reading the Bible. Putting money in the collection. Donating items to charity. 

All things I generally thought would make God say, 'Hey! Amy's asking for my attention over there!'

Nope. Nada. 

I'm not really sure what to try next. The angry typing isn't getting on his nerves enough to listen to me. And I'm sure not heading off to the nunnery anytime soon. 

Wednesday is Weigh-in Day!

Hello Mr. Scale. Might I say you're looking rather adorable today?

End of week 3. Result: -2 pounds. 

Which, if memory serves me correctly, puts me at -4 pounds for the month. If I manage to dodge the Halloween candy and cut back on the soda for another week, that just could mean by the time the ghosts and goblins come out I could be down a total of 5 pounds. 

I'm feeling a bit skeptical of the whole -2 pounds this week thing. I'm not feeling deprived or worked overly hard (perhaps it's the joy of my delightful Wii Fit trainer), and I just got switched on one of my prescriptions which could spell out the return of everything I've worked so hard (ok, kind of hard) in the past 3 weeks to lose. 

Nevertheless, I'll ward off the sodas and the DiGiorno stuffed crusts for another week. Pass me my water and join me in a jog will you? :)

So long, farewell

It is by far one of the strangest experiences I have ever had.

Y'all may have read about Katie, a Marquette University graduate that I had the pleasure of singing with in the Marquette Liturgical Choir while I was in college.

Katie entered the Poor Clares in Indiana, a cloistered order (translation: ridiculously limited contact with the outside world) on Sunday. I will never hear her gorgeous soprano voice sing the "Ave Maria" again.

Saturday evening I was lucky enough to catch Katie on chat in Gmail. As our all too short conversation was drawing to a close it hit me.

What do you say to someone that you will never talk to again?

People come into our lives and people go. An exchange over peaches in the produce aisle with a stranger will likely never happen with the same stranger again. But what do you say to someone, who saw you gain and lose the freshman 15 and all the other dramas of college life, knowing that you will never speak again?

Goodbye just didn't seem good enough. 

Tuesday = post things you forgot about

Something tells me that I never posted pictures from our vacation up north last month. So while I'm busy helping put this week's paper together, you can enjoy the view!

Two of my most favorite guys in the whole wide world. 
The view from our porch. 

Seth, Mom and Dad and I in Two Harbors, Minnesota. 
My nephew Andrew. Future member of the Coast Guard.
Throwing "kerplunkers" (a.k.a. big rocks). In the water. preferably not at Aunt Amy.

Dear Catholic Herald: Thank you for my boyfriend

Happy anniversary dear Aaaammmyyyy!

9 months.

We could've made a baby in that span of time.

Lucky for all parties involved, particularly the well-being of my father, Seth and I are a bit more old school than that. First comes love then marriage then comes a baby in a baby carriage. 

And hopefully it'll be a super cute baby carriage. 

When that day comes of course.

I'm finding more and more as the Seth the Southern Charmer relationship progresses that I am becoming less and less of Amy the Cynical Love Bug to Amy: Let me tell you all about my wonderful boyfriend so you can vomit in your mouth.

Blech. I mean come on now. Nine month anniversaries? Who looks forward to nine month anniversaries? What are we, in middle school now, where an entire 24 hours in a relationship is an accomplishment?

For the Amy that's taken up writing in her diary every night and drinking chocolate milk again, I guess you could say so. 

p.s. Happy anniversary to my Southern Charmer!

I'm hangin' tough

It was like opening my Easter basket from when I was five all over again.

Please don't go giiiiiirrrllllll...it would ruin my heararararrrrttttt...

Turning the key to the Happy Honda this morning I had to do a double check to make sure I wasn't decked out in OshKosh B'Gosh overalls with matching mullet and Barbie plastic lunchbox-- complete with a thermos.

How cool was a thermos for a five-year-old?

By far one of the coolest items ever to grace an Easter basket of Amy Guckeen was the year I found a New Kids on the Block cassette amidst the Cadbury eggs and licorice jelly beans. When it came to childhood crushes, the five New Kids were like nothing I had ever experienced before.  The 15 year or so difference made no difference to me. I was in love. As I informed each of them every night, their faces displayed so beautifully on my pillowcase. 

And then I discovered my beloved Jordan had a rat tail. And it ruined my love for boy bands completely.

Except for The Beatles. They didn't mess around with the rat tail business. 

Then again, they were in a grade much higher than that of today's boy bands. 

In my short-lived life of riding on the bus in middle school, I used to believe strongly that whatever song was on the radio during my literally 2 minute ride would dictate how the rest of the day would go. Good songs = good days. Bad songs = might as well hide in my locker if I could get my hips to cooperate in finding the correct angle. 

And then the morning of our school shooting I heard "Love Shack" and that kind of blew my whole theory. I love "Love Shack."

Listening to an old New Kid favorite on my drive in to work, I couldn't help but wonder if the superstitions of 7th grade Amy had returned.

It's Friday. The leaves are beautiful. Sure I miss my man friend but I sure love not having to share the Wii Fit. The weekend is ahead of me. Sleep is on the horizon. Curling up with a good book and lighting some Yankee Candles is on the agenda for tonight. And I feel fabulous. 

It's going to be a beautiful day. Thank you New Kids. 

I'm alive. It's amazing what clarity comes with a good night's sleep and realizing that being away from your boyfriend is not the end of the world. 

It's just a much needed opportunity to clean the bathroom. 

As Wednesday is weigh-in day and it is now Thursday, but I was too busy drowning in my own Kleenex yesterday to post my results, I'll tell you now.

Number of pounds lost for week 2: 0

Which I'm totally fine with, considering my indulgences in Minnesota over the course of the weekend. It's a new week, and my Southern Charmer was kind enough to stock my fridge with healthy choices.

And a bag of frozen Milky Ways for when the going gets rough. Which I'll happily report I only used once yesterday. And it was only for one bar. (They're minis too!)

Happy Thursday! :)

Accentuate the positive

I have un-Catholic Match'd myself.

Account completely gone. Sianara. Hasta la pasta. I will not be sad to never hear from you again.

Launching attacks on my beloved Sex & the City was one thing. Disagreeing on the nature of relationships was another. But in the past weeks I have read things in those forums that were no less than despicable. Posts filled with complete and utter hatred. 

Getting a good laugh and perhaps upping my blood pressure over my peanut butter & jelly lunch was one thing. But after the things I've read in the past few days, it's not just about not logging on for a few days. It's about having absolutely, positively nothing to do with that website. What a way to destroy one's faith in your fellow Catholics. 

It's okay to have different viewpoints. Actually, it's more than okay, it is WONDERFUL to have different viewpoints. And it's okay to share them. And it's downright fabulous to agree to disagree. Spice up life a little. But when personal attacks are being waged, when hateful words are being swapped, when lies are laid out on the table, when closed minds are boarding up shop even more and making room by spewing out more hateful words, there is no room for God. 

How interesting that a website devoted to helping Catholics find love has so much room on its site for completely removing that essential element of love for neighbor. 

There is enough sorrow and suffering, enough hatred and sin in this world today. There's no reason to add to it. And certainly no reason to spend an hour of my day reading such material.

You've got to accentuate the positive

Eliminate the negative

Latch on to the affirmative

Don't mess with Mister In-Between

You've got to spread joy up to the maximum

Bring gloom down to the minimum

Have faith!-- or pandemonium liable to walk upon the scene

4:47 a.m.: Still bawling

It is 4:38 a.m.

I'm aware that I should be asleep. I'm aware that outside my window there is nothing but darkness and silence, with the exception of Seth's Trooper backing out and heading back to Tennessee.

I am of course bawling. He's prepared me for the fact that he would have to leave to tend to some things at home before a permanent move north for the past two weeks. Logical Amy not only says this makes sense, but encourages this trip home.

Emotional Amy is of course hugging her boxes of Kleenex for dear life.

And yes, I mean boxes not box. It's that bad.

Monday will mark our 9 month anniversary. It's shocking to me that we're still in the single digits when it comes to our time spent together. I feel like I've known him forever and obviously have decided that I want to know him forever. 

Two weeks in Tennessee seems like a short amount of time when forever is involved. Again. Emotional Amy = hugging her boxes of Kleenex.

It's not as if I have a lack of things to do in these next two weeks. I have story assignments to complete, masses to play at, an apartment to clean, phone calls to be returned, nights out at the bar to be had, books to be read. A Wii Fit to exercise with.

I still have two legs, two arms, my soul and my brain. My heart's still there too. Aside from this ripping in half sensation. I'm still Amy. I'm still the Amy I was 9 months ago before Seth walked into my life. So I'm not sure why this should be so hard, when all the things that kept me happy and content nine months ago are still there. 

Then again, logic defies emotional Amy. 

And thank goodness, it would appear sleep will too.

Good night. 

To eat birthday cake or not to eat birthday cake... that is the question

There are so many McDonald's and Culver's and Burger Kings and Wendy's and...

ugh. You get my drift. There's a lot of all those between here and my beloved home state of Minnesota. And when you're in the car for six hours, or at least when I'm in the car for six hours, I dream of chocolate milkshakes.

So maybe I give myself a healthy eating FAIL for Friday, but Saturday I stuck the course. Diet Pepsi Jazz and plenty of water mixed with a healthy sandwich, salad, and minimal Cheetohs.

I even passed up this birthday cake.

Then again, I don't like birthday cake so much.

German Chocolate Cake however... that's a different story.

Ok. So maybe Saturday I should only give myself a C- for healthy habits. But at least I threw in a couple rounds of kickball.

Tomorrow Seth returns to Tennessee for a couple weeks to take care of some things before a permanent move north.

Jimmy John's lock your doors. Healthy eating Amy may be making an appearance outside. And we all know it's best for her if she doesn't fall into your trap of a #16 with salt & vinegar chips. 

Happy birthday to you...and you..and you and you!

Insanity has taken over.

I say this because in the time I've attempted to write this blog post I've already been postponed to read my snail mail, send some snail mail, checked someone else's e-mail, and filtered through my own e-mail.

Ugh. Is Friday yet?

Oh wait it is.

The big Guckeen birthday weekend is upon us, posing not just a double, or a triple, but a quadruple whammy when it comes to the birthday candles in the next week. Seth's, my sister-in-law Michelle's, my dad's big 70th on Sunday, and my nephew Andrew's on Wednesday.

Trust me, that adds up to a lot of cake.

Hitting the road for the grand shabang today poses the usual problems. Stops for milkshakes and Big Macs are abundant between here and my home state.

But I will prevail. Nothing like a Wii Fit telling you you're more than a little out of shape to guard your mouth against cheeseburgers.

See you Monday. 

One week down, three to go

Week 1 down.

Along with 1.5 pounds.

Woo-hoo!

Simply by cutting out soda (that includes diet folks) and watching my portions a bit more closely (not to mention avoiding the McDonald's drive thru) I've managed to drop a decent and healthy amount of weight in one week.

Let's see if I can keep it going. A really big birthday party looms in my future on Saturday. 

And the cake is going to be amazing.

Somewhere between washing dishes and wrapping birthday presents and making dinner I didn't have much time for exercise last week, but that'll all change today as I take on my new personal trainer.

Our brand new Wii Fit.

Say what you want about video games, but jogging with that thing yesterday certainly had me working up a sweat. 

Awwwkward

I live for awkwardness.

I've been there. And I've done that. Worked out with my ex-boyfriend's mom. Sent cranky text messages about a friend to the friend that had made me cranky. Sang the wrong verse at mass-- and sang it loudly and proudly. 

And this morning, I have taken awkwardness to infinity and beyond.

As many of you know, of all the Catholic dating websites I was registered for earlier this year, I've kept open only one-- Catholic Match, for the sheer pleasure of raising my blood pressure to astronomical heights everyday when I peruse their forums. 

But it's ok. I branded myself with the ***No longer seeking*** disclaimer at the top of my profile.

Because hello. My man is making me dinner tonight. Why would I seek elsewhere?

Thanks to my job with the Catholic Herald, I find myself out and about often enough. There's been a few times I've seen some guys on Catholic Match that I've interviewed, or met on assignment. Times some guys I recognized from my alma mater Marquette have shown up in my bucket of matches.

And then there was the time that this guy, who at the very least can be described as a one time very, very close friend in the not so distant past, checked me out on Catholic Match.  

Maybe this doesn't sound so awkward to some, but considering the fact that:

a. This guy knows me well enough to not need to check out my Catholic Match profile

b. For the next few months every time I log in I am going to have to view his name and photo on my home page and be reminded of our all too awkward history

c. I, at one point in time, thought this gent was the cat's meow and would have been celebrating with ridiculous glee at such an occasion

It is awkward enough. 

Do I believe he looked me up purposely with romantic notions? Um no. Of course not.

But that fact that his cyberspace equivalent and mine have met...awwwwkward. 

Woe is us

If you're anything like me these days, a permanent case of the Mondays seems to have set in with all this financial hullaballoo. And my "Woe is my bank account" tune seems to be translating to other portions of my life too...

Woe is my feet, I can't find my autumn shoes.

Woe is my arms, I have no idea where I packed my sweaters.

Woe is my belly, I really want that Big Mac.

Woe is my nose, my allergies are ridonkulous right now.

As I was contemplating all these woes yesterday at mass, God seemed to know just how to drive the point home that everything would be ok. And that St. Anthony would help me find my shoes and sweaters. And my guardian angel would keep my hands off that Big Mac.

In case you missed it because you were spacing out about the Brewers/Packers games, here's a recap.

Brothers and sisters:

Have no anxiety at all, but in everything,

by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving,

make your requests known to God.

Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding

will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. 

Finally, brothers and sisters,

whatever is true, whatever is honorable,

whatever is just, whatever is pure,

whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious,

if there is any excellence

and if there is anything worthy of praise,

think about these things.

Keep on doing what you have learned and received

and heard and seen in me.

Then the God of peace will be with you.

Then the God of peace will be with you... I like that...

*Sigh*

Wake me up. I must be dreaming.

Either that or it's a chick flick come to life. 

Good thing I don't know Hugh Grant or Colin Firth personally, otherwise I'd be on my way to the mental institution, convinced I'm actually living the life of Bridget Jones.

Another weekend, another picturesque 48 hours with Seth the Southern Charmer. 

Tired of the eternal sirens and late night drunken screaming that is downtown living (thank you Brewers for a full 6 months of inspiration for this), Seth and I escaped the city for a pre-birthday weekend birthday weekend in Manitowoc and Door County. Nothing but sunshine, Lake Michigan and beautiful silence.

And of course, that darned caloric challenge all that romance provides. From wine tasting at the Von Stiehl winery in Algoma (tasty) to a four course breakfast at the Westport B & B, there was plenty of fun-- and yum, to be had. 

My healthy eating report card for the weekend? I'll give myself a C+. Kept it down to 2.5 cans of soda and capped off the weekend with a very healthy dose of pork chops and sauerkraut. But I sure didn't need that frou frou martini looking thing on Friday night.

We'll see what the scale has to say on Friday...

Happy Friday!

Lord help me, I want to talk politics.

But, remembering a lesson from my grade school days, I will distinguish what is appropriate and inappropriate for this time and space, and politely keep my mouth shut, sipping my hot chocolate.

*Smile*

That's right, I said it. Hot chocolate. I'm allowing myself one treat a day, and because I am my sister's little sister, chocolate is king in my world.

And there's nothing like prolonging the chocolate experience like a good glass of hot cocoa.

Oh how they go

Oh how those calories fly.

In what I had thought was to be Seth's departure yesterday (now postponed until after his birthday extravaganza), I had planned the ultimate NO Kleenex Needed plan to keep me out of the Ben & Jerry's Wednesday night and in the land of the living.

Happy Hour with five of my Marquette favorites.

Even after a lunchtime haircut at Bayshore a.k.a. The Island of Buttery Salty Pretzel Goodness, I stuck to my guns and returned to my desk for a lunch of lettuce and tomatoes. No Dr. Pepper. No pretzel with cheese.

*Tear*

Over my Miller High Life Lite (note: a significant step down for this picky beer drinker) however, with all my calories mapped out for the day, I met the devil of my day's healthy eating plan.

The Buttery Salty Popcorn Goodness that is a Marquette campus bar.

If only I'd gone out on October 2, instead of the first. Perhaps my guardian angel (whose feast day is today) could've protected me.

I would like to say I was strong enough, but with no dinner in my tummy, I was not. Piece after piece the popcorn flew, destined for no other location than my tummy. 

How the calories can fly when there's salty goodness involved.

Day 1: I am my father's daughter

Day 1: I feel like my father.

No matter where we go, whether it's spending the night at my brother's house, to the cabin, or on vacation, there is one essential thing my father must pack every time.

The oatmeal.

This morning I pulled out a package of my father's yummy little secret and ate.

Day 1: This is not so bad.

Given the day I had yesterday, which by far was one of the worst in a long time, old Amy would say that that was an excuse for stop at Dunkin' Donuts this morning and a lunchtime snack at Einstein Bagels.

Oh yum.

But no. Despite the screaming match I had with God yesterday (ok perhaps it was one-sided, he didn't really yell back), despite the amount of used tissues in the garbage, despite the flavor of the day at Culver's, I am sticking to this. 

Amen.

My first mode of action? Ditching the soda. Well, at least bringing it down to two cans a week. Since Seth's arrival I've been moaning and groaning every time I get a tummy ache (read: every day) because I've loaded up on too much Coke instead of agua. 

And second of course, sneaking a walk in everyday.

And no, that does not include my walk to and from the Happy Honda in the morning. 

New Month's Resolution

My scale and my romantic notions are at war.

As in, yes it's really sweet that Seth drives to the Cousins Center at lunch and you go to McDonald's and order matching number ones and then drive to the airport observation lot and watch the planes, while toasting french fries and Mello Yellos but HELLO! Your jeans do not fit.

Who knew that a high maintenance girl like me (my mother's words, not mine) would consider Mickey D's romantic?

A bottle of wine polished off at Jazz in the Park. Calamari and pastas drowned in cheese at an Italian bistro. Tequila sunrises at the Safe House. Omelettes drowned in even more cheese the morning after.

It's a wonder that my arteries haven't gone on strike all together.

While Seth's departure tomorrow to Tennessee (hand me the Kleenex please) to take care of a few things before a permanent move north may indicate the obvious end to celebrations, it announces the return of an even bigger and badder reason for my return to Jimmy John's for a #16.

Let's eat our feelings to get over the hump day.

I'm sure Oprah has something to say about that.

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. One way to minimize your risk, according to the American Cancer Society, is to exercise regularly and maintain a healthy body weight, two categories that my doctor would give me a bit fat FAIL on today. 

In memory of my aunt Shirley, who died in 2002 from the disease, and all those in my life touched by breast cancer, I pledge to put down the Big Macs and pick up the carrot sticks, give up the evening glass of wine for a walk by the lake, all through the month of October. While I can't drop my goal of 30 pounds in the month, I can sure start off with a good sprint on the road to healthiness.

My method of attack? The Body By Glamour program. It's free and offers lots of tips, including a food and exercise diary. And of course I'll have y'all, who supported me so wonderfully when some creep was trying to persuade me to meet him at the Best Western.

Say it with me---- ewwww.

Feel free to join me to commemorate your loved ones affected by breast cancer, or just cheer me on. While I'm not brave enough to put the terrifying 3-digit number that signifies my current weight on the blog, I'll be more than happy to keep you posted with the - and the + as I go along. And of course daily updates about how many Hail Marys I've had to say to keep me out of the trail mix.

Send me snarky emails when I blog about cheating and grabbing a venti Frappuccino after work (a good kick in the pants never hurt anyone). Send me tasty recipes for all those green things that grow in the ground. Put some sort of magical device in my Honda that'll keep me from driving to fish fries.

But whatever you do, don't stock my freezer with mini Milky Ways.

 

Proof I get more random with age

Musings from my week that are likely better left floating around between my ears...

*******

Does God give you a prayer allowance? Like "You lit 73 vigil candles in 2008 and according to your answered prayer allowance for the year, 32 of them were granted. Please wait until 2009 for the completion of any unanswered prayers."

I don't care what Garth Brooks says. I've got a big unanswered prayer out there and I'd really like it filled. But I'm thinking I used up my quota for the year. 

*******

It is unwise to leave a bag of trail mix on my desk. Particularly if the goal is only to eat a "serving size."

By serving size do you mean half the bag? No? That's enough calories to constitute my entire intake for the day?

Oops.

*******

I kinda wish it was Lent already. Cause I'd really like to give up the presidential election. 

*******

Even though I know that Seth isn't going to do the dishes when I'm at work, I still get mad when I get home and find he hasn't done them. Which is completely ridiculous and about as effective as buying a Powerball ticket even though I'm not going to win. The odds are pretty much the same.

*******

My Favorite (and least favorite) Things

An ode to boyfriends, fiancees, and husbands everywhere:

(To the tune of "My Favorite Things," from the Sound of Music)

Seth the Southern Charmer is the best of all boyfriends,

but sometimes his manly habits can grate on my nerve ends,

I guess that's just part of being in love,

that and restraining yourself when you think he needs a little shove!

Like when he spills all his coffee or forgets to do the dishes,

Watches football and more football and forgets my existence,

Waits until the last minute to get all cleaned up,

Makes fun of me when I have PMS to get me all wound up! 

His ability to do his hair in under 10 seconds,

Without a barrage of products has perfect complexion,

Never gaining a pound even after tons of Milky Ways,

These are the things that make me want to overindulge at Famous Dave's.*

When he takes the trash out!

When he cooks dinner!

When he massages my back!

I simply forget all his less than perfect traits,

and then I don't feel so baaaaaaaad!**

*Or for the record, any restaurant that has margarita specials.

**But rather, quite in love, which, let the record show, I am in most of the time. With the exception of when I am cleaning pots and pans. Blech. 

Adventures in Anniversaryland

As a little girl, I was obsessed with the movie "Adventures in Babysitting."

Never mind whether or not I should've been watching a PG-13 flick before I gave up my blankie. I think I turned out ok. 

In the opening sequence Elizabeth Shue gets ready for her big date. Nylons, cocktail dress, fancy earrings, cheesy music and all. I watched it. Over... and over... and over... and over.

The stage was now set for what constituted a romantic date in the little mind of Amy Guckeen. 

As my relationships have gone, the closest I got to an Adventures in Babysitting-esque date was nine months after my high school boyfriend broke up with me, at prom.

As one would imagine with an ex-boyfriend, it was unromantic. And awkward.

Note to all high schoolers: unless you're really super good friends, do not go to prom with an ex. It is a bad idea.

Saturday night was the first ever anniversary Seth and I had spent in the same zip code, much less the same state. Eight months is a relationship milestone I'd typically celebrate with a peck on the lips and a "Happy anniversary," but considering we were in the same city at the same time, it seemed like reason enough to celebrate.

Half the time in my relationship with Seth I find myself pinching my inner elbow to make sure I'm not caught up in some coma-long dream, one I'll eventually wake up from to discover that I'm still where I was 8 months and 4 days ago-- single and alone (but still happy...just not as happy as I am now). A professional trashy romance novel reader and chick flick fan, our relationship at times is stuff you find on paper or on the big screen, not in real life. But there we were, Saturday night, table for two, wine glasses raised, all smiles over the candlelight. 

I finally got my Elizabeth Shue moment. Thank goodness my boyfriend didn't ditch me at the front door. 

Hut, hut, hike!

Hell hath no fury like a man when his football team is losing.

(I'm sure you can sub in baseball or basketball or hockey as well. But tis the season for pigskin.)

With Seth in Milwaukee for a long term stay, I'm growing accustomed to the everyday ways of my man. Such as: Attempting to drive through/park on the eastside during Jazz in the Park makes him cranky (um really, who doesn't get cranky then?) He enjoys critiquing my laundry skills (I sort to save pennies, not for laundress perfection). 

And he's not so big on doing the dishes. 

All things I can cope with. Like appointing him to laundry duty for the rest of our lives. I'll stick to the kitchen sink.

Saturday brought on something new and totally different to the world of my Southern Charmer: me + him + one room, during the University of Tennessee football game.

I've watched enough chick flicks to know that a woman's behavior during her man's sporting event can set the tone for the rest of the day. Attempt to engage him in a deep conversation about the state of your relationship when his team is down 14-17 on 1st & goal with 21 seconds left in the 4th quarter = -50 points. Refill his doritos and beer = +50 points. 

But when UT was down with no hopes of rebounding, proper girlfriend protocol failed me. For me, a hug solves everything. For the arms waving Southern Charmer, there was no way to sneak a hug in without getting accidentally bonked in the head. And more beer and doritos would likely foil my hopes for a romantic dinner later. 

For probably one of the first times in my adult life, doing absolutely nothing actually did something. Go figure.

(Note to women everywhere: next time your man's game is on and you'd rather be shopping but he froze your credit card in a block of ice in the freezer, grab an Entertainment Weekly and a safe spot on the couch. And insert random angry yells from time to time for extra bonus points). 

FORE!!!! Part II

Whack. Whack. Whack. [Expletive]. Whack.

I am certain Satan plays 324 holes of mini golf a day in hell. 

For reasons I can't understand (or rather as I'm writing this on a Friday afternoon am too lazy to ponder), things that I usually hate are pretty dang fun when Seth and I are doing them together. 

Huh. Must be because we enjoy each other's company or something. Go figure. I had no idea that was why we've been dating for the past 8 months.

So when we were running errands at my parents' house and Seth suggested a game of mini golf, my immediate response was heck yes. Recounting the fact that I played mini golf to my best friends over the past couple of days, without a beat, they responded with a quick, "You did WHAT?!" (As visions of me beating the mini golf green with my club and coming up with new combinations of four letter words danced through their heads). 

For some crazy reason I thought Seth would be the Band-Aid to my open mini golf wound. 

Not so much. By the ninth hole Amy the Mini Golf Beast had been revealed-- complete with sailor's vocabulary and a swing that rivals Tiger Woods and all. 

Only problem was I wasn't swinging at the ball. I was swinging at whatever I could take my aggression out on. Like the nearest tree. (Have I mentioned I'm really bad at mini golf which makes me really mad?)

 Thank goodness Seth realizes no one is perfect. Otherwise my putt-putt tantrum might've had him running for the hills. 

Dr. Andrew

There comes a time in every woman's life, that she must relinquish all care and control of her male companion, and hand it over to her....

four-year-old nephew.

Wait. That's not the case?

The Guckeen family vacation of exploring, hiking and climbing our way through northern Minnesota last weekend quickly became an agenda of eating pie and sitting on the resort deck overlooking Lake Superior sipping Tequila Sunrises when Seth the Southern Charmer sprained his ankle.

Well. It was always going to involve eating pie and the resort bar, but it just turned out that we didn't get in the exercise we were planning to work all those added calories off.

Apparently one person a week sprains their ankle climbing on the rocks at the shoreline of Grand Marais, or so says the emergency room doctor there. Seth met their quota for the week of September 15.

And Amy the Girlfriend's tender loving care took a quick backseat to that of my nephew Andrew's.

Holding his crutches, opening the door, getting him the remote, guiding him through parking lots, making sure he was entertained, hugs good night. Andrew even went so far as to lecture my mom on the proper care of Seth when he wanted to go out and play. 

And I sat. Unwanted. Not needed. All power and control of my man friend relinquished to Dr. Andrew.

It couldn't have made my vacation much cuter. 

I'm back!

Your backyard friends, the Backyardigans!

I've officially been away from my four-year-old nephew Andrew for almost an entire 24 hours now, and the theme song from his favorite Nick Jr. show keeps playing...over... and over... and over in my head.

Nothing like vacation with a little dude to expand your music collection.

I'm still sifting through my emails and phone calls, but as soon as I've got my head above Catholic Herald water, I'll be back, with a full vacation recap. 

:) amy 

The hills are alive..with the sound of Amy...

I used to think I wanted to be a nun.

But then I realized you can't keep a wave upon the sand, hold a moonbeam in your hand... and I'm certainly not quite ready to throw my subscriptions to Cosmo and Glamour in the trash can. (Yes, I know. They're naughty).

At the very least, I'd have the Mother Superior and her brigade of sisters singing their own version of "How do you solve a problem like Amy Catherine?"

To say I was obsessed with The Sound of Music as a child may be the understatement of my life. To this day I can still recite it word for word, note for note, key change for key change, just as I used to when I was young and mulletized, at every family Christmas. 

I never was able to convince my mom to make me an outfit out of curtains though. Perhaps I'll attempt to tackle the sewing machine myself while I'm on vacation this week.

As you can probably tell from my recent blog posts, I'm really big into the whole My Plan vs. God's Plan idea. And watching my favorite movie from my childhood a few weeks ago only further brought home this point.

(And no, the point is NOT the fact that all lonely goatherds should be made un-lonely).

Maria had it all figured out. Become a nun. How on earth could God possibly disagree with that?! He gets a new wife, she gets the sweetest husband in the world, what happier harmony could there be in the universe? (Particularly when you consider the fact that on the flipside she ended up with SEVEN children...I can barely imagine three). 

I never wanted to online date. Never wanted to, in my eyes, stoop to that level. And look where I am today-- frolicking on the shores of Lake Superior with the love of my life and my family.

I don't know about you...but I think I trust God's plan a whole lot more than mine. 

One site I can't endorse you to sign up for

Don't be an online dater hater. If it worked for me, and it works for these guys, it can work for you too!

MyFaith has arrived!

My new baby, MyFaith: The Back to School issue is hitting mailboxes as we speak (and hopefully not knocking them down with that whopping 24 pages of content!)

To get a copy of this September's MyFaith, email me at:

guckeena@archmil.org

with your name and mailing address, or call, (414) 769-3463. 

A copy of the special section will be mailed to you at the cost of $1 on Thursday, September 18 (after I return from vacation). For more than one copy please specify in your email. 

Or visit the Catholic Herald website, and click on the MyFaith icon on the left hand side of the page. 

Happy reading!

A step back

I am on vacation.

Sleeping as Blogger so beautifully automatically posts this at 7:30 a.m. 

Thank you technology. Thank you Catholic Herald for the 5 vacation days. And more importantly, thank you sleep. 

As is usually the case, any trip home to visit my family and the farmland of Minnesota brings much introspection on my part, as I step back from my downtown city lifestyle and return to my sleepy hometown, population 3,922. With Seth in my life now, after a week of watching my older siblings interact with their spouses and children, the introspection only seems greater. 

My plans...our plans...oh wait, have I been paying attention at church lately?

It's about His plan.

I'm all about cruising the Catholic blogs and columnists, and some priests are even wonderful enough to post their homilies online. Father Nathan Reesman, associate pastor at St. Mary's Visitation, Elm Grove, delivered this homily Labor Day weekend, and it seems an all too appropriate kick-off to my vacation, and perhaps an early kick start to your weekend. 

My challenge to all you busy bees: Find at least 10 minutes this weekend. Carve out some time for silence and reflection. Just sit. Not with an ipod, not with the TV on in the background, not with the vibration of your cell phone. Just sit. Listen. Breathe. Don't consult your planner. Consult His planner. 

On Surrendering to God, by Fr. Nathan Reesman 

When I was a kid I used to take long walks. In grade school, high school, by myself in the woods, or around this large cul de sac we lived on, walking for hours as the sun set around me. This is how I would think -- process the day -- ponder what I was going through or facing in life.

Fundamentally though, on those walks, I often found myself anticipating what something would be like -- what it would be like to be in high school, to be in college, to be an adult. It's amazing how many conceptions of things we can conjure up in our mind -- what we expect they will be like. And from these we assume and we plan. At one point I was going to be a landscape architect, and I was going to live somewhere in this area, and have a car and a house and a wife and kids and a cat -- maybe two. I was going to go to Madison to learn this trade and I was going to have certain professors, classes, experiences, challenges, etc. I anticipated all of this on my walks into the night.

So you can imagine how unsettling it is, sometimes, to run up against the reality that all of this stuff I just sort of planned on, anticipated, expected, prepared for -- wasn't reality. In fact, none of what I just described came to pass. High school wasn't at all what I'd expected. College was not at all what I expected. Adulthood is not at all what I expected. 

Has this ever happened to you? You begin a job, thinking it's what you know you want and need -- and six months later you hate it. You move into a neighborhood not knowing anyone. Soon, you have one neighbor you can't stand, and the other one becomes a lifelong friend. You imagine what it will be like to be a father or mother -- and everyday your children surprise you, and parenting challenges all your expectations. You enter into a marriage thinking you know someone, thinking you know how certain things are going to work. You have a picture of a set of years stretching out ahead of you -- and you reach your 35th wedding anniversary realizing that you were wrong about so much.

If you asked me in 1998, 10 years ago, if I would ever go to a seminary, spend five long years in formation, be ordained a Catholic priest -- I would have thought it was crazy. All through seminary, few things happened as I planned. I've been a priest now just over two years. I arrived at St. Mary's Visitation Parish in June of 2006 with a variety of images and notions about what my life was going to be like here -- how I would preach, spend my day, how I would or would not make friends, how events would unfold. As I look back now, really, I had no idea what I was getting into.

God surprises us at every turn -- both for good and bad in a way that knocks us over -- as if to say: if we really knew what we were getting into, perhaps we'd never try things that we need to try -- as if to say God only lets us believe and know only what we need at the time. We are on a need to know basis with God for most of life. 

All of this, I think, is what Jeremiah is talking about in the first reading. "You duped me God, and I let myself be duped," he famously says. This prophet thing is tough. It's going to cost me my life -- and I so naively told you I would go and preach boldly in your name -- had I only known, Lord. And yet, how can I refuse to keep going? Because after all, it is what you ask -- this is your will for me.

We wind up thinking, like Jeremiah, that God has tricked us -- that life has shifted, that the plan is disrupted, that something is heading out of control, not so much because God tricks us, but more because we all do what Peter did in the Gospel -- we think, all the time, as men do, and not as God does. 

God spends our entire lives trying to re-shape our thinking. It's always our own expectations that we run up against -- our own plan and set of goals -- and we get really good at thinking that our plans are God's plans too.

Imagine Peter. He decides to follow Jesus. Probably imagines him to be a smart rabbi or a political reformer. Maybe he's "the Christ," but he has his own ideas about that, and about how his many years as a student of this wise teacher will unfold. He probably thought he'd get a job in his cabinet or something, and they'd die quietly of old age.

Well didn't Jesus mess him up. Die? In Jerusalem? Rejected? Suffering? Persecution? Peter says to him, "No, no, no, that's not the plan. It's supposed to unfold THIS WAY, Jesus."

So Jesus points out to him the simple reality of what he is doing -- "Peter, you are imposing your plans on me. That makes you an obstacle. Why are you trying to hang on so tight to your own plans, notions and your life?" He puts Peter in his place. Which only happens definitively on Calvary.

So he does with each of us. "You are thinking as men -- not with me -- that's why you think I'm continually full of surprises."

Question is: If God continues to challenge our plans and expectations, if God continues to be amused at my late night walks as I plan life -- why on earth do we keep doing it -- "thinking as men?" And how do we think like God instead? To quote Paul in today's second reading -- to discern what is God's will -- what is good, pleasing and perfect? The answer to the first question is that we are slow learners. Original sin has made us all want to be in control, have the plan, grasp the knowledge of good and evil. That's what happened as reached for the fruit -- we decided our plans made more sense than God's. And that attitude became so ingrained in us, that God has to take our whole lives to help us unlearn it.

Which goes to question two -- how do we adopt God's plan? How do we know what he wants? How do we discern his will? Certainly it requires the careful advice and support of others, a spiritual director,  holy, trusted friends. It requires listening to the teachings of the Church. It requires getting to know the scriptures. It requires paying attention to the fruits of the Spirit -- learning to see which persons and situations bring us joy, gentleness, kindness, trust, peace. All of those things help us think and act more as God wills.

But there are two other crucial things. One is the cross. Jesus says it -- there is no escaping the cross. There is no escaping the need to work, practice self-denial, to have willpower, to tell yourself or others the word "no." As in -- if some plan, or job, or vocation, or person, or situation, or expectation, is continually fun -- then you're probably heading in the wrong direction. If there is no cross, then it's not how God is thinking, it's likely how fallen man thinks.

Which leads to the final crucial and most essential piece of discernment -- prayer. We go nowhere without it. And not a prayer that goes like this: "Dear God -- make this, make such and such happen."

No. This is imposing our plans on him. We can end with that prayer, but only after years of starting with a different one. It's the prayer of Christ on the cross. It's the posture of Jesus before the Father. It's the only prayer that seems to make sense to me after years and years of walks into the night have turned out to be so wrong -- so many expectations and plans so mistaken. It's the prayer of our Blessed Mother.

And it goes like this:

"I surrender."

"Thy will be done."

"I surrender."

That's the goal of Christian life and discipleship. That's the way to not be duped by God. That's the prayer Peter learned the hard way. That's the prayer I still haven't gotten down. It's a prayer that requires the cross -- to let go of control -- that always requires the cross. That's the only prayer that lets us think as God does, and not as men do.

Thy will be done.

I surrender.

Amen. 

To read more of Fr. Nathan's homilies, visit the St. Mary's Visitation website.