My two month Catholic dating anniversary

Click here. A click there. A little message here. A little smile there.

Ugh. I am so sick of this.

Another month down, two and a half more to go on the online Catholic singles market. And I’ve gotta admit, I’m a bit sick of it. Thus far, aside from Seth the Southern Charmer, I’ve been relatively unimpressed with the pool of Catholic men out there.

So I’m taking it to the next level.

First stop: another fish fry to see if the pool of single, available men is any different in the face to face world.

If nothing else, I’m sure I can come home with an 80-year-old’s phone number.

But only if he’s wearing suspenders.

And depending upon my luck with the geriatric community, I may just have to quit this online dating thing altogether.

A couple shameless plugs...

Taking a step away from the young, single and online dating scene for a moment, I'm going to start a new tradition here on the blog for every Thursday. The ever trendy public service announcements. So here ya go.

1. When I'm not blogging or rejecting older men on Catholic Love Connection (okay doesn't really exist, but wouldn't that be the most awesome name for a dating site ever? You could totally get Chuck Woolery to endorse it, I just know it!), I've got a pretty important thing that keeps me busy. It's called a job. And my job is the Catholic Herald.

Henceforth, I would highly recommend checking out the Catholic Herald link and the left and give this week's issue a whirl. Particularly the story, "Goodbye Mr. G."

Whether or not I wrote it may have something to do with it. :)

And coming in next week's issue, my interview with the one, the only, Soledad O'Brien of CNN.


2. There's an incredibly cool concert opportunity Friday night in Oconomowoc at St. Catherine of Alexandria Church, W359 N8512 Brown Street. The College of St. Benedict and St. John's University Chamber Choir and St. John's Men's Chorus will be performing sacred and secular music from the Renaissance to the 20th century in their only Wisconsin stop on tour. The concert is at 8 p.m.

St. Ben's is not only my big sister AND best friend from high school's alma mater, but I also almost went to college there AND St. John's was where I competed in the state spelling bee.

And if by chance you see a certain gent by the name of Raj (see Feb. 5 post, "I just like to smile, smilings my favorite") tell him Amy sent you. You just might see a certain Catholic Herald reporter there too...

Amy's Guide to churching it alone

You would think, of all the places to be single, church would be the most friendly.

For as long as I can remember, mass has been a group activity. From birth til I was 18, Mom & Pop Guckeen and I settled into a pew smack dab in the middle of St. Anne's church. Always on the right side. God forbid we'd switch it up and sit on the left. Our seating arrangements rarely varied. Me, Mom, then Dad. Unless of course I was playing that mass. It probably would've been a bit hard to play piano from that far back.

At Marquette it was much of the same, my usual spots switching depending upon whether I was cantoring, playing, or singing with the choir. The only time I sat in a pew was when I was doing soundcheck.

Pews are hard. I didn't like it very much.

So imagine my surprise when June rolled around and there I was. Alone and in Milwaukee. In a pew. (Well technically a chair, the cathedral doesn't have pews). Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. All by myself. My right hand shaking my left at the Sign of Peace.

Okay. Perhaps that's an exaggeration. But in my 9 months of going it alone, I believe I have established the official rulebook on how to church it alone.

5. Choose your seat wisely. There's nothing worse than feeling like the smelly kid at the Sign of Peace, unless of course, you are smelly. Then you deserve it. Don't sit somewhere where you'll need some sort of extendable arm just to shake hands. I've heard they're expensive and hard to come by.

4. Always put money in the collection. Even if it's just 50 cents. You likely spent at least 10 times that at the bar last night. You must thank the house of the man who turned water into wine. And we're talking classy wine with a cork. Not something that comes in a box.

3. When in doubt, just sing really really really loud.

2. Never sit on the outside end of an otherwise empty pew, obstructing all other potential traffic in and out of the pew. You are single. You have your own space in just about every other social situation. That doesn't entitle you to your own pew. You're bound to get at least one parent, no doubt envious of all the extra room your butt is enjoying compared to their cramped slab of wood with six kids under the age of 5, that will despise you purely based on all that excess space. And they will not intervene when their child decides to start throwing their ever so pointy G.I. Joes at you.

1. It is never okay to check someone out when they're coming back from communion. They are in the process of digesting the Body of Christ. Going up for communion, that's another story.

So shameful I can't even properly title it

"It's your turn tonight."

Drag me out into the street and shoot me, tar and feather me, force me to wear nothing but lime green and listen to Johnny Mathis for the rest of my life. I do not care. The punishment is equal to the crime.

Seth the Southern Charmer and I have become one of those couples.

You know. The "No you hang up" couples.

*Vomits into the nearest potted plant*

I know, I know. How does one go from being afraid of committing herself to a betta fish, let alone another human person, to becoming one half to a "No YOU hang up" whole?

I have no idea. It just happened. I blame the Catholic Herald entirely for this sudden change in personality.

I can just envision several of my friends either poking their eyes out or laughing uncontrollably at this confession. The "No you hang ups" are the type of couples that I used to dream of playing an impromptu game of Red Rover with on my way to class.

Any single college student knows the scene.

It's 7:55 a.m. You were up until 4 a.m. writing some ridiculous philosophy paper, the thesis of which you can't honestly remember, you have 12 straight hours of class ahead of you, the only thing left in your pantry is a banana so old it's turned black, and you surely can't ask your parents to deposit a little lunch money into your bank account with the negative balance because you spent the last $50 they sent you on Papa John's and Fleischmann's. You're hungry, you're tired, you're likely cold if you go to school in Wisconsin and the guy you like didn't return your text messages last night.

And then they appear. The happy couple joining in the human death march to their 8 a.m. class. But with them, it's a different story. They're well rested, well fed, a paper just waiting to have an A++ smacked on it sitting in their backpack. And they're holding hands. Blech.

It takes all the energy in your being to not scream, "Red Rover Red Rover call Amy right over!" and go thrashing through the two of them, ending all that hand holding nonsense.

*Sigh.* I digress.

To Seth's and my credit, we don't actually go through the process of "You hang up," "No you hang up," No really you hang up!" That would be a little much. Instead, as the clock approaches 10:30 my time every night, 11:30 his, the declaration, "I should probably go to sleep" inevitably occurs. Followed by the, "Do you want me to let you go?" And then the somewhat pukey, "No, just a few more minutes." Which sometimes turns into five...or 30...or 90.

It's gotten so bad that we now actually have to declare who's turn it is to end the conversation every night. And it is that person's responsibility to conclude with what is now becoming the traditional, "Sweet dreams. Have a good night. I'll call you tomorrow."

Such declarations have to be under two minutes and end with a prompt, "Bye" and hang up. No waiting around to see if the other person didn't hang up.

Unless of course I've been the meanie and actually hanging up all this time while he waits to engage in a "No you hang up" extravaganza?

Huh. Maybe that's why his emails have gotten so short.

To catch a millionaire?

Where I once was a member of Catholic Cupid.com, I am no more.

Largely because Catholic Cupid appears to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Now when you type it in, you get directed to a Millionaire Matching service.

Judging from my last paycheck, maybe this is God's way of trying to point me in a much more profitable direction.

Luckily, Catholic Cupid never did a darn thing for me. Otherwise they'd be hearing an earful from me right about now.

Now if only it was a Catholic millionaire matching site...

Wanted: Young, Single, & a Criminal

I may be wanted in all 50 states. Please don't turn me in to the authorities. That would be an embarassing shootout at the Cousins Center.

I committed an act of kidnapping Friday. The Amber Alerts were blaring between the hours of 5:30 and midnight.

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS WOMAN?!

Why yes. Yes I have. That's my good friend Beth. She was a victim of Amy's young, single and Catholic shenanigans Friday night. Because any good Catholic would hit up a fish fry before a $1 drink party of course.

The plot was simple. Subject my soon to be married friend to an Amy night in heaven. Fish fry. Bar. Pizza Shuttle for mozzarella sticks.

*Sigh of happiness*

While the online Catholic dating market isn't too hot in Milwaukee in my experience, things to do on the weekend are plentiful. Even if you have to rent your date from her fiancee for the night.

6:00 p.m. I am in fish fry heaven. Serb Hall. There are places that actually exist where you have to make reservations just to eat some deep fried fish sticks AND they have a drive thru complete with McDonald's-esque menu? If I died right now, I would be completely satisfied.

7:12 p.m. High on tartar sauce, Beth's fiancee Andy calls to check in. Greeted with giggles he wanted to know how many we'd had.

Pieces of fish? 2
Drinks? 0. But we've got our singles ready.

Nothing compares to being high on the Holy Spirit. (Which means yes, I completely credit the Holy Spirit with the creation of fish fries. They're too good not to have at least a part of the Trinity involved with it).

7:52 p.m. Tequila Sunrise #1 at Buckhead Saloon on Old World Third Street. I still don't understand why, if Jesus could turn water into wine, he didn't just go straight for the gold and make tequila.

9:02 p.m. Only when you're a Marquette grad do you have drinks with the guy that used to be the sacristan at the masses you played piano at.

10:33 p.m. I don't know his name. I can't remember his face because he was so mysterious he wouldn't let us take a picture of him. But I know his dance moves. And so does Beth. No worries. We left plenty of room for the Holy Spirit.

12:01 a.m. You know it's a good night if you go out on a Friday night in Lent and by the time you're sneaking in your post-bar munchie stop you can actually eat a cheeseburger.

For the last time....NO!

I'm just going to put this bluntly.

You are 47. That makes you 25 years older than me. That's an entire person that can drink, vote, and rent a car without all the extra fees.

I do not want to chat with you. I don't even want to think about chatting with you. I especially do not want to see the words, "Hey baby girl...how you doin?" in my inbox.

I kid you not. Unless you are Joey Tribbiani, it ain't workin.

(And for the record I have not been a baby girl since 1985-86).

People can accuse me of harboring a great hatred for men over the age of 35 all they want. Or at least for being extremely harsh on the elder gents. To which I say, I spent eight months interning at the Journal Sentinel surrounded by male business reporters all over the age of 35. Eight months working and chatting and hanging out with incredibly intelligent and delightful men over the age of 35.

But I never said I wanted to date any of them. Much less marry them. Sorry guys.

I really don't get it. In the two months that I've been online dating, I've had as many over 40 guys trying to snatch my phone number as I do candles on my birthday cake. I'm flattered, I swear. But I do not care if you play golf with Donald Trump on the weekends. I don't care if you could reimburse my parents for my Marquette Education 5,297 times over. I don't care if you spend 3 hours on the treadmill every day and have abs of steel.

The answer yesterday and today and likely tomorrow and in 15 other blog posts before this grand assignment is done is still the same.

No.

Amy's Book of Saints

St. Tarasius: Patriarch of Constantinople.

“Evr'y gal in Constantinople
Is a Miss-stanbul, not Constantinople
So if you've a date in Constantinople
She'll be waiting in Istanbul!”

No?

St. George. Killed a dragon. Officially the bomb diggity.

St. Polycarp. Coolest name for a saint ever. I just hope he didn’t smell like fish.

St. Collette. Virgin. Maintained complete silence for three years. After communion would be rapt in ecstasy for several hours. Lambs and doves would gather round her.

Anyone that can maintain complete silence for three years has got to be pretty amazing. I can barely do it for 30 minutes. Ask my coworkers.

Doves kinda scary me though. I’ll pass.

I’ll admit, I’m not exactly the expert on saints in the Catholic Church. So when some of these dating websites asked me to pick a favorite I replied with a speedy, “Uhhhhh…”

My old boss at Marquette can attest to this. When assigned the daunting task of gathering icons for an Evening of Sung Prayer I not only had to look up what an icon was, but then also try and figure out where the heck a college student could find such a thing.

I did the one thing any crafty college female would do. I consulted the good book, tore out some pictures of those I would classify as saints, pasted them onto some construction paper, grabbed some glue and glitter, and gave them halos.

Needless to say she was less than pleased when presented with St. Dimples and St. Boxer Briefs from my latest issue of Cosmo. Luckily, Mary, Jesus and Joseph were at the ready in case my homemade icons got a big ol' veto.

Picking a favorite saint is kind of like picking a favorite martini. It's not going to make or break you, but it certainly is a window into your personality. Which leaves me plenty of opportunities to find out just what makes some of these guys tick...

St. John the Baptist.

Didn’t he eat locusts? Move along please.

St. Rose of Lima.

Okay, rumor has it this was one relatively hot (as in gorgeous, not as in had problems controlling her core temperature) saint. I won’t fault you for enjoying beauty.

St. Nicholas.

So you like to get presents. You’re greedy. Into one of the seven deadly sins. I don’t think so. (Unless of course you like to give gifts, in which case, care to meet for mass sometime?)

St. Thomas More.

Patron saint of politicians. So would you consider lying a pastime or an occupation?

St. Ignatius of Loyola.

Well. As a Marquette grad, that may just be a man after my own heart. You can’t go wrong with the man who founded the Jesuits.

Stay away from me lucky charms!

"He mailed you a shamrock?"

Well. I think it's a shamrock. Could be poison ivy. I'm not entirely certain.

And no, he didn't technically mail it. He messaged it.

I have a new pen pal. Just a pen pal. No romantic notions involved whatsoever. Strictly, "Hello how are you how is the weather?" type relations.

I shall name him The Shamrock Shakira. Formerly Mr. -37 Million Brownie Points man.

Largely because, as my bestie Lauren put it so bluntly in an IM conversation, "He mailed you a shamrock?"

I didn't realize how doofy it sounded until I typed the words, "yes he mailed me a shamrock." Apparently my pen pal's style is to press four-leaf clovers and send them to people as gifts. I got this nifty bookmark (virtually of course) as a good luck charm to help me find my Luke.

I know this is not typical guy behavior. I realize this could potentially be a skill discovered and fine crafted in prison. That's why we're just pen pals. I find it mildly amusing...enough to keep the messages going for a little bit longer. I mean come on, who doesn't want to know what lies in the heart of a man that presses four leaf clovers and sends them to people? I don't think I've ever found a four leaf clover in my entire life. That is some mad scavenger hunting skills.

Lauren, was not having it. "But it's not even a real pressed shamrock! He just google imaged "shamrock" and copy/pasted it to you!"

I know. I know. But everybody's got a gimmick. And his for whatever strange reason worked.

In the spirit of The Shamrock Shakira, all the way from Portland, one of my best friends Lauren herself has a present for all my blog readers today. And I quote (said in best Napoleon Dynamite voice possible):

"... here... i pressed this rainbow for you... it's all the way from Ireland. I kept the pot of gold, but you can have the rainbow."

One brownie point for you

Mr. -37 Million Brownie Points Man (a.k.a. The L-Word User) is gradually working his way back from the dead.

One brownie point at time.

One look at my iPod and anyone that browses through my artists will no doubt conclude that I don't just have bipolar music tastes-- I've got multi gazillion polar music tastes.

The Beatles. Toby Keith. Eminem. John Denver. Miley Cyrus. The Marquette Liturgical Choir. Perry Como. The White Stripes.

Don't hate me because I'm eclectic.

Obviously I don't broadcast my love for John Denver next to my love for Eminem on my dating profiles because. Well. You just don't to that.

I do however pay homage to one of my favorite bands of all time. Guster. I've seen them in concert twice and will continue to pay to see them in concert well beyond the point of where I'll need a hearing aid. They got me through college. Bonds like that just can't be broken.

I know the fact that some of you are sitting at your computers thinking...Guster. Who the heck is Guster? And what on earth does it have to do with online dating?

Because Mr. -37 Million Brownie Points Man actually went to the trouble this past weekend of looking up Guster online, and listening to a couple songs to see what all the Amy excitement was about. And he liked it.

I realize we started out on the wrong foot. But you can't ignore the fact that it's kinda cute he checked out my favorite band to see what all my excitement was about.

For the time being I'll ignore the fact that he is 15 years older than me and used the word "love" to sign his first correspondence with me.

He started listening to Guster.

Now that's worth at least 10 points right there.

Online Suitor #675's report card

I give him an A+ for persistence.

And an F- for intuition.

The Propositioning Businessman is at it again. Luckily this time from his own little corner of the world rather than from mine.

If there's one word that's been used and abused by all the presidential candidates in recent weeks it's definitely hope. But I've gotta say it. The Propositioning Businessman definitely has hope.

Hope that after ignoring him for the past two weeks that by catching me off guard in a chat session Sunday, that perhaps one day, I will actually give him my phone number.

Hope that despite giving him the classic line, "I've just been really busy" that I actually have been really busy, and not just avoiding his staring, scary profile picture gaze.

Hope that one day we really and truly will meet face to face in the romantic quarters of a Best Western.

What a charming notion. Charming. But never in a million years going to happen.

What I find most hilarious in this situation is that he hasn't bothered trying any other wooing tactics. Hasn't asked if I'd like to call him sometime. Hasn't tried a friendly email from time to time. Didn't even send an emotigram on Valentine's Day.

Nope. Just a "Here's my number. Call me the next time you're in Chicago."

If there is anything I am not, it's naive. I can see right through his "Call me when you're in Chicago" just like I can see right through any phone call from the male species between the hours of 1 and 4 a.m.

I may just have to avoid Chicago for the rest of my life.

Forgive my poor manners

I could get used to this.

Then again, what girl couldn't?

It hit me last night while I was on the phone with Seth that while everyone knows he's a Southern Charmer, no one knows much else about him-- except he sent me the most gorgeous roses on the face of the planet.

So blog readers, allow me to introduce my online suitor, Seth the Southern Charmer.

Age: 27
Homestate: Tennessee
Middle name: Paul
Birthday: Same as my daddy's
Employer: Tele Atlas
Favorite color: Orange (Go Vols!) and Green
Favorite cookie: Oatmeal raisin
Random fact: Used to be in the Air Force
Cannot stand: Cold weather
Like his eggs: Scrambled
Average time spent on the phone with me every day: 80 minutes
Absolutely loves: Talking to me.

Okay. So maybe I made that last one up. It can't be completely off the mark though.

Another dirty word

I understand that yesterday was Valentine's Day.

Love was in the air. I felt it in my fingers. I felt it in my toes. My nostrils were assaulted by it every time I sat down at my desk to my bouquets of roses (sidenote: "my bouquets of roses" definitely not something I ever thought I'd be able to say).

Heck, I even tasted it. And I'll be paying for it at the Y in the weeks to come.

I did not appreciate it however when my eyeballs were assaulted with the four letter word l-o-v-e in one of my online dating inboxes.

I'm a big "I love you" person. A good chunk of my best friends and I say it every time we end a phone conversation. My parents hear it on a daily basis. And my nieces and nephews definitely get the special treatment whenever I'm at home.

And yes. This book makes me cry every time I read it.

So I have absolutely no problems uttering it.

I love you I love you I love you.

There I said it.

But just because I say it doesn't mean I want to hear it from some random man I met on the street. Or online for that matter.

There is definitely a right time and a wrong time to use the big L in romantic relationships. While I can't set a definitive right time, I can certainly specify a wrong time.

Your first communication ever with a girl.

"Saw you looking over! If only I were 10 years younger and not so quiet...

Love,

[redacted]"

There are several problems with this statement. Several.

a. I didn't look over first. You started it.
b. Never apologize for who you are. Kudos to you for being quiet. Not everyone can have the eternal dilemma of not being able to keep their mouth shut like I do.
c. You get brownie points for admitting you're out of my age demographic.
d. All brownie points earned were quickly revoked upon using the L word. You are now at an approximate -37 million brownie points.

I don't care if he's one of those guys that just goes flitting about using the L word here, there and everywhere. I knew one of those in college. I can still remember the exact location of my apartment I was standing in when he casually decided to just throw out the "I love you." And while it caught me completely off guard it also meant entirely nothing because I knew how many girls he had said it to before. (Well maybe not the exact number. I guarantee you that would be impossible to determine).

I know, I know...why are you getting your panties in a bundle over some stupid valediction?

Because the L word and the H word are big words. Hitler hated the Jews. Jesus loves us. That's incredibly powerful stuff.

So Mr. -37 Million Brownie Points, a word of advice for all future correspondences-- switch to smiley faces or at least a simple "take care."

At least until I figure out your middle name.

p.s. For a little Friday fun there's two Beatles references in here...see if you can find them. :)

When it rains, it pours

Between consuming the chocolates Seth sent me, advising my boss to not present his wife with a set of tools this evening, viewing my coworker's talented handmade V-day card for her husband and getting caught red handed eating a lemon filled doughnut in the break room, it's been a busy Valentine's Day.

Temper tantrum free. No kleenex needed. Bottle of wine left unopened. No crying. No screaming. Just regular Amy.

Feel free to applaud now.

I don't know if it was the roses or the chocolates or the super sweet and witty voicemail one of my good guy friends from home left me (he's Catholic and jokingly promised both a "spiritual and emotional" bond if I said yes-- must've been taking a couple pointers from my Catholic Match friends) but this may be the first Valentine's Day since I was in kindergarten that I'll be drifting off to sleep completely and totally happy with the way February 14, 2008 played out.

A side effect of online Catholic dating? Or just plain old good luck?

Not sure. I'll have to let you know.

1 2 3 4 tell me that you love me more

We counted carnations.

Like a scene directly out of "Mean Girls."

"Taylor Zimmermann, two for you. Glenn Coco? FOUR for you, Glenn Coco! You go, Glenn Coco. And none for Gretchen Wieners, bye."

Luckily I was always on the Taylor Zimmermann end of things. But never got the glory of being the Glenn Coco of the LSH Student Council Valentine's Day carnation sale.

Every year. You sat. And waited. And wondered. All day in class. Flitting in and out of reality only when Mr. Turek the history teacher/football coach directed a question at you in the same voice he yells at his players with.

Just who set their $2 aside for you this year? And what color would they send you? Yellow for friendship? White for secret admirer? Pink for love? Red for passion?

I think I must've watched way too many John Hughes movies in high school because I always expected something wonderful and earth shattering to happen. Why I expected some grand love confession via the student council carnation sale every year, I don't know. No one confesses their love via the student council carnation sale. And if they do, how unclassy is that? Money wise it's the difference between buying a big cookie for dessert from the lunch ladies and deciding, "Hmm. I think I would like a girlfriend this year for Valentine's Day."

This year I think I'll stick with the big cookie.

Well. That and my two dozen roses and box of chocolates from Seth the Southern Charmer.

Singles Awareness Day, Valentine's Day, Thursday...whatever you want to call it, I hope you have a happy one. With lots of big cookies. :)

Dazed and confused...

I continue to be bewildered by all this extra life and good smellingness at my desk.

Every once in awhile when my nostrils get truly confused, my coworkers find me looking from right to left. Left to right. Right to left. From one arrangement of roses on my desk to the other.

Perhaps it's time to check out the box of chocolates...

The eagle has landed

Roses. Two dozen of them...pinks, oranges, yellows, creams, just arrived for me at the front desk.

They wouldn't fit in one vase so we had to use two.

Did I mention the box of chocolates too?

It's safe to say that everyone at the Catholic Herald is witnessing a very shell shocked Amy. I don't get flowers from boys. Certainly not in any sort of romatic sense. And certainly not in such vast quantities. Prior to today, it is completely unheard of.

I just plain don't know what to do with myself, other than award Seth the Southern Charmer an obscene amount of brownie points.

Perhaps by Valentine's Day I will have warmed up to the fact that my cubicle may now safely be dubbed the St. Francis Rose Garden.

Dear God...it's me, Amy.

I rarely guffaw.

I'm much more of a giggler. And a squeaker. At times going into an uncontrollable fit of laughter that makes me sound like a cross between a mouse and a dolphin.

It's kind of my trademark.

But there it came. A big old bout of guffaws. Right in the middle of mass.

As is tradition, I was away on retreat with the Marquette Liturgical Choir for some classic bonding time in Lake Geneva. I don't know how it happened or in what context, but at some point in the parish announcements, the words "called to the single life" were used.

Last time I checked I'm not called to the single life. I'm single because of my lack of phone calls actually. I definitely do not consider eating my salary in chocolates and watching "The Notebook" and "The Holiday" for hours on end a vocation. Although if said vocation had a special stipend for consuming all those chocolates, I would definitely consider it.

Alas this year I'll answer happily when Jesus calls to inform me at 12:01 a.m. tonight that "Happy Valentine's Day-- you're still single! Hooray!" But only because I'm registered on five different dating websites and the likelihood of hearing "Happy Valentine's Day" from someone that's male and not related to me is relatively high.

So in honor of my call to the single life, here's a special prayer for all you single girls out there. Perhaps if we chant it in unison, someday-- as in tomorrow preferably, our princes will come.

** Prayer for Valentine's Day **

Heavenly Father,
You who call us to the single life (actually the only one that calls us period), please send us a fine apostle, (named Matthew, Mark, Luke or John optional...we'll settle for a Peter or Paul too) on the feast of St. Valentine's day.

While we are content to knit and be with cats and eat entire pans of brownies on any other other day, on Valentine's Day, please grant us the love and the glory that we customarily only feel on major sales days at the mall.

Be with us in our journey on the single life, and grant us a really comfortable and really cute pair of heels for the road (a.k.a. only possible with your miraculous powers).

Continue to give us pit stops of love along the way, and perhaps if pit stops aren't in our future, at least allow us to bilocate like St. Catherine of Ricci (that way we can get our nails AND our work done at the same exact time!)

Amen.

Oh the suspense!

Seth the Southern Charmer just emailed me to inform me that a surprise package is on the way...and that some assembly may be required. Hopefully it's not as complicated as the assembly on my shower caddy thinger...which took two grown men to assemble. A lawyer. And an engineer.

Putting a price tag on Mr. Right

I am worth approximately $1,305,000.

Not as in how much real estate or electronics I own, but as in how much my human person/personality is worth.

Or so some crazy website tells me.

I think it would definitely be preferable if my future husband's worth is about the same or more than that. However, it would take a lot a lot a lot of years doing online dating on many sites to ever put out that sort of chunk of change on finding Mr. Right. So I think I'll pass.

Yes. I know. There is positively no price on a human life. Same applies to true love. Why I'm paying to find love is really beyond me. I think a reader put it best when he said, "I personally believe finding Mr. Right should not cost a single dime."

So why are so many people adding online dating to their budgets? Any ideas, pop 'em into the comment feature or send an email (guckeena@archmil.org). I'd be interested to read your thoughts. Cause I'm certainly trying to figure it out myself.

In the meantime, here's a glimpse at just some how many dimes it costs to find Mr./Ms. Right on some of the sites:

Ave Maria Singles
One time $165 fee. And the requirement that you're very serious about Catholic teaching.

Catholic Match
1 month: $24.95
3 months: $49.95
6 months: $74.95

Catholic Mingle
1 month: $9.95
3 months: $26.99
6 months: $47.99

Catholic Cupid
1 month: $29.95
3 months: $59.95
6 months: $99.95

Catholic Singles
1 month: $19.95
3 months: $39.95
6 months: $59.95
12 months: $79.95

In comparison, the ultimate of dating sites, eHarmony costs:
1 month: $59.95
3 months: $110.85
6 months: $173.70
12 months: $251.40

Apparently we Catholic singles are not as hard to come by? There must be more fish in our sea, because it's certainly cheaper to cast the nets out.

just call me amy warhol

According to the Amy Guckeen code of kind blogging, I have promised to never reveal any intimate portraits that these wonderful gentlemen choose to upload as their profile pictures.

But I never promised to not produce my own artistic replicas of said scariness.

A picture is worth a thousand words. And perhaps a thousand restraining orders.

p.s. Please don't diss my artistic abilities. I have no plans on quitting my day job.

Exhibit A: Man often seen on popular shows such as CSI, Law & Order: SVU, Dexter, and any other sort of program concerning mild to moderate psychopaths.


Exhibit B: I've got friends in low places. The thunder rolls and the lightning strikes when this man walks into town.


Exhibit C: If you've got a church directory circa 1983 laying around, I'm willing to bet money and brownies that this man is in it.


Exhibit D: There are many fish in the sea. And sometimes, if you're lucky, you actually run across a normal one.

A Hallmark moment

There I was. Bewildered. Lost. Confused. Ready to either burst into tears or make a break for it.

In the Valentine's Day card section of Target.

For the past 22 years of my life I have celebrated Single's Awareness Day with a marked propensity towards eating Russell Stover out of business and making sure that I and I alone keep the chick flick genre alive.

After all, someone has to put forth the money to put food on Colin Firth's table.

I'm not entirely certain how I've managed it, but I have been completely relationship phobic around the big day, making the need to stand in the Valentine's Day card section of Target with such an exasperated look on my face completely and totally unnecessary. Funny cards for my friends. Funny cards for my parents. Cute cards for my nieces and nephews. And done.

I can remember my college roommate a couple years ago in the same struggle I found myself in last night, and her mom and I, all margarita'd up after a Fat Tuesday celebration at La Perla laughing hysterically in the aisles as she went from card to card to card not entirely certain what message was appropriate for the relationship she was in-- but at the same time wasn't.

Clearly whatever she ended up going with did the trick. She got a dozen pink roses on Valentine's Day.

I got my pre-ordered copy of "The Notebook" and an extra helping of chicken nuggets at dinner.

The eighth dirty word

George Carlin has seven dirty words.

I have eight.

I know I have a gift for swearing like a sailor in traffic or when Marquette basketball gets under my skin, but there is one word I refuse to utter. At least when talking about myself.

The g-word.

It’s an icky word. A title I don’t subscribe to.

Crazy blogger girl? Yes. Catholic Herald reporter? Definitely. Sister, daughter, aunt, best friend?

Heck yes.

Girlfriend?

Um no. Stop throwing rocks at my comfort box. Back away from the commitment train. I don’t have a ticket. And I don’t plan on purchasing one. My suitcases will continue to be covered in dust. My web browser won’t even consider checking to see if there are any fare sales.

Problem is, I’m beginning to think someone packed my bags for me. Bought me a ticket when I wasn’t looking. And then amidst a bunch of emails, phone calls and text messages snuck it in there without me noticing. And now I have to decide whether or not I want to get on board.

So here I am. Sitting at work. Wondering if it’s time to file for a Facebook divorce from my best friend who has been my faithful online husband for goodness knows how many years and classify myself as in something other than "married to james."

Something other than single...and more like "it's complicated" or "in an open relationship" or the ultimate clincher-- "in a relationship."

Someone get the smelling salts. I think I’m going to pass out.

10 days: 19 hours, 2 minutes, and 35 seconds

I remember lots of things.

Nate and I started dating officially, the second time around, June 10, 2002.

His favorite color, at least in ninth grade, was blue. But not just any blue. Ford New Holland Blue.

Ryan’s license plate number was BNA 669.

The first time I rode in said vehicle-- October 13, 1998.

Matt ate chocolate malt o’meal for breakfast. And things he created in his easy bake oven.

Drew was obsessed with the song “Hotel California.”

And Phil wants nine kids.

Figures he would have to outdo the Von Trapp Family Singers.

I could go on with my useless male trivia. But they probably wouldn’t like that very much.

Things I don’t file in the random guys brain compartment? Phone conversations.

Largely because the guys I’ve met don’t talk on the phone.

Except for the one time the MU Lit Choir president and vice-president called me for who knows why and proceeded to serenade me with random songs from their iTunes collection. For way past my bedtime.

But really, who hangs up when you’ve got two of the best voices in Milwaukee singing you to sleep?

For the most part though, it’s like men I know have a deadly allergy to anything even remotely close to speaking to a girl on the phone. Voice to voice contact clearly equals death.

Day 10. 10 straight days of phone conversations with Seth the Southern Charmer. The shortest being 37 minutes.

The longest… five hours. Only ended due to dying phone batteries and a little thing called not really wanting to watch the sun come up.

We were in different time zones. It's logistically impossible to watch the sun come up together when the sun is coming up at different times.

I know, I know. I can practically hear the exasperated sighs and long list of questions.

What on earth were you talking about for five hours?

To which I say none of your beeswax, but it included the average getting to know each other topics—family, work, friends, etc.

Aren’t you worried about your phone bill?

Free weekend and nighttime minutes thank you very much. It’s ok dad. You can stop composing the email about how expensive it gets when I go over on my minutes. I learned my lesson freshman year.

And of course the big question.

How do you keep him on the phone for so long?

To which I say...

I have no idea.

i just like to smile. smiling's my favorite.

in theory, it's perfect.

browse through the sea of single catholic people. smile at the ones you like. send emails to the ones you really like. determine whether or not they are a creepster. block the ones that are. ask all the awkward, yet essential relationship questions to the ones that aren't. and if they continue to prove themselves adorable and amazing, hand out your phone number.

it totally eliminates the need to memorize the papa john's number to give to the guys at the bar that just don't make the cut.

at least once they figure out they've been rejected they can order a pizza.

and it also totally removes at least half the effort a woman puts into her appearance on a daily basis. you just post the best pictures of yourself online. go for the standard ponytail and lip gloss the rest of the time. you don't need to catch a man while you're pumping gas at the local bp. you're too busy catching them online. leave those ridiculous knee high boots at home. less work. more of this windblown scary face.

but as glorious as i'm discovering online dating to be, i have found one major flaw.

the lack of smoldering smiles. and i'm not talking about the smoldering smile that one guy posted of him and his power saw.

that smoldering smile translated to, "i'm going to cut you up into little pieces with this flashy piece of manliness metal and then literally smolder you."

i'm talking about the look that makes you go weak in the knees. the raised eyebrow that conveys a special message to you and you alone. the flash of pearly whites that still has you sighing 24 hours later.

case in point: exhibit a. the raj-a-nator. my best friend's boyfriend.

i guarantee you those eyes and that smile had something to do with her saying yes when he asked her out. who could resist the adorableness?



exhibit b: my irish bartenders. well, technically i share them with my best friend lauren.

a picture is worth a thousand words. this one likely more than a thousand words given how often i've written about them.

but while a picture is worth a thousand words, it's not worth a thousand in person interactions. i guarantee you i'm impartial to the raj-a-nator and robbie and marty not because of some picture i saw of them online or how they read on paper, but because of how fabulous they are in person.

and figuring out whether or not any of these guys online are fabulous in person always has you running the risk of becoming the latest face to grace the 2% milk cartons.

don't even get me started on the lack of hugs in online dating. and no i'm not talking about some sort of stupid emotigram that informs you jake--35721 has hugged you on catholic match.

i know for a lot of women a good hug from a guy may not be at the top of the priority list, but after spending four years with the men of the marquette liturgical choir who practically major in giving really good hugs, it is completely and entirely necessary.

do yourself a favor ladies. hug a mu lit choir boy. your view of the world will be changed forever.

step 1: discernment

curled up in my mom's old recliner, wine bottle at the ready, chick flick droning on in the background, we stared into each other's eyes.

as if we were the last living creatures on earth.


as in the last woman and the last cat on earth.

don't underestimate the power of such a bond.

at marquette they call it discernment. thinking and praying over what direction your life is to take.

i called it a weekend of figuring out whether or not i would make a good cat lady. definitely an important discernment process. it's only fair to all these guys in the online dating world that i figure out my life's destiny before things get too serious. i figure i've got three life options: nunnery, wife & mother, crazy cat lady.

you can officially scratch the last one off my list. which is so unfortunate. the endless hobbies and habits i could've picked up. spending hours on end in the morning in my bathrobe, my hair done up in the curlers i used to achieve that pre-perm look in 2nd grade, yelling out the window at all the hoodlums interrupting my morning bonding session with my 20 cats.

because you would know it would take hours on end to give them all the attention they would need.

and imagine the muscles i could've gained from carrying all that cat food and kitty litter. i would've been the buffest cat lady on the block. jennifer lopez would be forced to rewrite her song "jenny from the block" about me and my sweet cat lady skills. because i would be that cool.

and it came so close to being a reality too.

when it came to pouring myself a glass of wine and popping in a little "love actually" for a heavy petting session with itsy my best friend's cat, i had no problem. i was excelling at the art of cat woman friday night around 9 p.m.

but when 6 a.m. rolled around and itsy decided that playing hide n' seek under my covers was the morning exercise of choice i was not having it. even when she decided to give up the game for some morning love i was still not having it.

i'm not a morning person.

therefore i am not a morning cuddler.

even if you are a cat.

so call off the field trips to the humane society. send back my full length flannel nightgown. inform bridget jones that this is one singleton that will not allow herself to become the crazy cat lady.

which i suppose means i should put shaving my legs back on my list of things to do and remove the item about sewing massive amounts of pink throw pillows with ginormous cat faces embroidered on them.

you can't deny that this face is cute enough to be on a pillow though.

Friday. 2:33 p.m. I'm ready for bed.

My head hurts. My contacts feel like they're boycotting spending time on my eyeballs. And there's not enough caffeine in the world to keep me from thinking about anything other than my warm, comfy bed.

Night #4 up past my bedtime last night. Which means yes, phone conversation #4 with Seth the Southern Charmer.

I can't help but laugh when I think about the fact that in just under a month I actually found someone that I enjoy talking to and don't mind losing a little sleep because he's too busy making me giggle.

And here when I started out I thought I'd only find guys twice my age and men on their last pit stop before the priesthood.

Who is your daddy and what does he do?

I’m a journalist.

That makes me poor. Sometimes really poor.

But I am NOT looking for a sugar daddy.

I already have a daddy and I love him very much. I don’t need another one. If I feel I need more fatherly advice than I already get from my father (Who can forget the “How to Properly Defrost and Brush Snow Off Your Car” email of 2007) my brothers and brothers-in-law can fill in just fine.

There seems to be a lot of over-40 men (I don’t do 20 years older than me. I don’t think I even do 10 years older than me) on the online dating market that beg to differ. Apparently my smile is beckoning them to date a woman over half their age.

Unless my smile has some sort of ulterior motives that it’s keeping from me, that’s not what these pearly whites had in mind. They just glimmer so brightly because they’re happy my budget finally had room for that electric toothbrush.

Therefore to set the record straight, unless your name is one of the following, thank you, I’m flattered, but no thank you.


-- George Clooney
-- Brad Pitt
-- Some guy named Peter that I met in New York who proceeded to buy me several drinks.
-- Pierce Brosnan
-- Colin Firth
-- Hugh Grant
-- Johnny Depp

The list goes on but likely you are not included. Please don’t cry. It’s nothing personal. I’m just not that into you. Or rather, just not that into the fact that you’re closer to receiving Social Security than you are to me in age.

I’ve heard chocolate ice cream helps. And maybe “The Notebook” if you’re really that broken up about it.