The Beginning

I don't run. But I imagine it was how runners feel at the end of a long marathon.

Only for me it was just the beginning.

The clock struck 4:06 p.m. Friday. The Mac was shut down. The lip gloss applied. The chaperone/security detail was waiting for the beep beep of the Happy Honda to indicate that it was time to accompany me to the airport.

Walking out of the Catholic Herald office, all the ladies congregated around the door, like family members at the end of a marathon, cheering on their loved ones, screaming "You can do it!"

Either that, or they wanted to get one last good look at me to better help the milk carton sketch.

And so I went, off into the sunshine of a weekend filled with either promise...or non-stop awkwardness. And the second my feet hit the pavement one glaring thought kept poking at my brain,

"What on earth are you doing Amy Catherine?"

But by the grace of God, my feet kept moving. And so went the beginning of my weekend with Seth. Marked with nothing but terror and uncertainty.

The End

Let's start at the very end. Which as it turns out is a no good, very bad, completely terrible, could not be more horrendous of a place to start.

But anyone that has seen The Sound of Music would know that.

It's 7:10 a.m. Seth is at the airport. I am at work. The distance itself isn't too great, but already, for this former commitment phobe it's a bit too much. I can't begin to imagine what it'll be like once his plane actually touches down in Nashville.

The Catholic Herald is dark, except for the one light I've chosen to turn on. I'd work in the dark but I have a feeling that would creep out whoever the next person is to come into the office a bit too much. My grande mocha from Starbucks is not helping as I had originally planned. So much for comfort food. Any makeup that I had managed to put on at the not so great hour of 5:15 a.m. is non-existent thanks to the rain-- both outside and coming from my tear ducts.

So in other words, it was a good weekend.

Meet my boyfriend Seth. More details on how that official title came about this weekend to come.

Once the cry splotchies go away. (So in other words, noon).

and the panic has set in

One of my best friends from high school was so nervous the day of her driver's test that she puked.

Perhaps if I too had been that nervous I wouldn't have failed the first time.

I can honestly say I've never been nervous enough for anything in my entire life that I've puked. Not job interviews or heart surgery or concerts or asking boys out (hyperventilating is a different story) or even back in the day when I was in speech (forensics, whatever you want to call it) and it got down to the really important meets.

Today is a meet of a different kind. And I'm officially terrified.

I've tried to write stories and make phone calls and do interviews and even plop a few fish fries into the calendar for next week and all I can think of is....

SWEET MOTHER IN HEAVEN WHAT HAVE I GOTTEN MYSELF INTO?

Not in a bad way oddly enough, just in a....ummm....this is kind of a big step you're making here....especially for the girl who has never had a straight man buy her dinner.

Well. Never in a romantic sense. At least not that I was aware of.

All day long I've been fine fine fine, fielding the many calls and emails and ims and facebook messages from well wishers (thank you by the way you are all amazing). I even talked to one of my friends that I haven't connected with in months (maybe even years) who is becoming a cloistered nun and has promised to pray for Seth and I this weekend.

So God's on our side. Everything should be fine.

But why oh why do I feel like I'm going to fall over?

The big reveal

**twitch, twitch... twitch, twitch... twitch, twitch**

As sure as the sun will rise tomorrow, whenever I am stressed to my limit, my left eye decides it's time for an aerobic workout.

**twitch, twitch... twitch, twitch... twitch, twitch**

I have a date.

Tonight. At exactly 5:10 p.m. at the General Mitchell Airport arrivals area. The man that will take me out to dinner and hold my hand and carry the movie popcorn is arriving on a jet plane.

From Tennessee.



It's been over two months since calls from an 865 area code have been leaving my father in a cold sweat every time he gets a copy of my phone bill. It's time to give him a break.

And maybe launch him into stroke/heart attack territory.

Sorry dad.

For the next three days, Seth the Southern Charmer and I are going to experiment with what it's like to communicate without the help of a computer or telephone. In person. One on one.

You know, like most couples do.

While a lot rides on any first date (like whether or not either person wants a second date) this first date will be different. EVERYTHING will depend on how the next 72 hours go. Come Monday morning he'll either be deleted from my phonebook... or I'll be pricing flights to Florida for a Meet The Mom mini vacation.

Just like the Discovery Channel has Shark Week, I declare next week Seth Week. With a daily blow by blow of our first weekend together.

As a couple.

*Faints*


~~Sidenote: Yes I am bringing a chaperone to the airport with me to supervise our first encounter. And yes, my friends and I have set up an emergency phone tree and checkpoint system to ensure that if the FAA royally screws up and lets him board the plane with a power saw, that he will be unable to successfully cut me up into little bits. Wish me luck! :)

Wooing 001: Say it, don't spray it

There are some things in life I can't do.

Calculus. Ice skating. Watching a Marquette basketball game without swearing like a sailor. Going more than a day without talking to my parents.

And going on a date.

Which is kind of unfortunate. Especially considering that I have one tomorrow night.

I know that with most of these activities practice and a little discipline makes perfect. Not so in the realm of men. One flash of dimples or a set of blue eyes (or green or brown or whatever shade you've got) and I forget that I'm a human being capable of speech and communication past drooling.

Henceforth my enrollment in The LES School of how to snag a man as fine as Ariel's Prince Eric from the Little Mermaid.

Or LESSHSMFAPELM for short. :)

Here is the headmaster, Lauren, keeper of all relationship advice that she handily keeps in a seashell around her neck. We are at the mecca of all things relationships, Carrie Bradshaw's stoop, trying to soak in even more relationship wisdom, to further the LESSHSMFAPELM course catalog and help me in moments just like Friday, March 28, in the year of our Lord 2008 at approximately 5:10 p.m. central standard time.

I am confident that my successful completion of courses at LESSHSMFAPELM will aid me in whatever direction this relationship decides to take.

Wooing 101: Foot In Your Mouth? Doesn't have to be that way: How to properly walk and talk at the SAME TIME

Wooing 105: Minimizing the tomato factor: How to interact with a boy without turning beet red

Wooing 107: Is that a rosary in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? Successfully mastering the art of hair flipping/eyelash batting to catch the man of your dreams

Wooing 110: How to keep your wits about and stay witty!

Courting 210: Do these polka dots make my hips look like they could bear the entire Von Trapp family? How to properly accept compliments from a member of the male species

Courting 220: The weather, the Packers, Britney Spears: Good topics for small talk

Courting 242: Hey! You've got broccoli in your teeth!: How to eat in the presence of men

Proper Introductions 301: "Mom, this is my...umm.." How to properly introduce the boy you like/are seeing to others

Girlfriendcy 415: Sniff, Sniff: How Body Functions and Odors can Impact your Relationship and why you should keep air freshener stocked at ALL times

Goodbye 875: Breaking Up Is Hard to Do: Why NOT to do it via post-it note.



Now if you'll please excuse me, I need to review the material from Courting 242.

When Irish eyes are smiling...

The Shamrock Shakira has struck again.

Knowing that I've got a particularly busy weekend coming up (more on that tomorrow), he sent along these hand pressed clovers for good luck and promised to throw a few prayers my way.

He's got his own internet girlfriend. I've got my own internet boyfriend. Technically, by internet courting standards, we should be done. He should off digging for more clams, not sending sweet little notes to me. (Reason #75 we are friends. He digs for clams).

Nevertheless, here I am, with a 38-year-old John Lennon look alike, clover pressing, mussel digging, poetry writing English pen pal.

If I didn't know better, I'd think that was a pretty darn good start to a Harlequin romance novel.

Meet the Firing Squad

The Von Trapps were the Family Singers.

The Guckeens shall go down in history as the Family Spies & Interrogators.

Meet the Firing Squad for yourself.



(Also known as the eight loves of my life. Sorry Seth).

They look harmless enough with their sippy cups and their Easter dresses and their plates with their names on them. But for their poor single aunt who has an internet boyfriend their mommies and daddies are dying to know about, oh are they trouble.

They hide in small places, just waiting for the right moment to pop out and shriek, "What was Seth's rank upon leaving the Air Force?!"

What's proper protocol when you're scared out of your wits? Answer your assailant's question of course.



Or if their surprise attack doesn't work, they'll just beat it out of you.

The last time I checked, when a 4-year-old comes at you like this, you had better answer whether or not Seth is on any drugs, prescribed, illegal or otherwise.

The last time I was in a relationship serious enough to actually use the B-word, my crazy 8 was a mere fierce 5 and only half of them could actually string together the words, "Do you have a boyfriend?" much less care about my single status.

What a beautiful day it was in the neighborhood back then.

As my nieces and nephews have grown older and realized that to every Disney Princess, there is a Disney Prince, (and don't forget about Barbie and Ken, although last time I checked they were divorced) they have become more and more curious about why their aunt hasn't eaten the poisonous apple yet and found her Prince Charming.

Either that or they just enjoy the scrunched up look I get on my face whenever they mention the B-word in relation to me. But for once I got to delight in their facial expressions as for the first time in their lifetime they heard something they've never heard before when asking me whether or not I had a boyfriend.

"Yes."

*** Disclaimer***

No children were harmed in the creation of this post. And for the record, in case it gets out, I did not tell my four-year-old nephew I was going to steal his Easter basket just for the heck of it. I was provoked. He told me he wanted the "white team" (Stanford) to win instead of Marquette. And then they actually did. That certainly warrants me getting a share of his jelly beans.

No?

The tale of the Paschal Lamb

** This is why I love going home for a long weekend....

In Minnesota, we like to carve things.

Out of butter.

If you don't think it's cool, clearly, there is something wrong with you.

As a sixth grade teacher, my mom gets a lot of random presents from her students. Ornaments. Candles. Chocolate. Lotion. Sweaters.

And occasionally, a lamb carved out of butter. Entirely edible with chives for eyes. Just begging to be placed on the Guckeen Easter table. Which it was.

My two four-year-old nephews, Andrew and Nick, are what we all affectionately call Double Trouble. Because they are exactly that. Double Trouble. With a capital T. Where one goes, so does the other, with usually lots of giggles giving away their location.

Needless to say, Double Trouble got to the Paschal Lamb on Sunday...like a lamb led to the slaughter...with words that will go down in history as poor Andrew gagged on a hunk of butter.

"That's not whipped cream!"

And she's back at the blog....

Amy pre-Guckeen family Easter festivities



Amy post-Guckeen family Easter festivities



I'll be recovered by noon with all the latest updates. Including the story of the Paschal Lamb made out of butter...

if we took a holiday...

I can tell you the exact moment I met my sisters-in-law.

It was at our family's St. Patrick's Day party. I was in third grade. They came as a packaged deal and endured the Guckeen Family Interrogation together. Cousins and uncles and all.

I think the stress alone would be enough to give me high blood pressure for the rest of my life.

As the baby of the family by roughly two decades, I try my best to keep my love life where it belongs-- far away from my happily married for 10+ years siblings. It reduces the amount of times I have to give them the "That's easy for you to say" glare whenever they decide to ask why I'm still only RSVPing for 1 at our family functions.

Some may argue that I'm missing out on classic sisterly bonding time. But the last time I announced to my sisters I was serious about some boy one of them googled him, found a picture of him online, and then emailed the rest of the family. Unsuspectingly going for a glass of 2% milk and some cookies the next time I was in Minnesota, I found him taped to the fridge, right next to the Christmas 1995 picture of me in 5th grade opening my stocking.

His picture stayed magnetized to the Guckeen Family fridge for over a year, until thankfully, it was removed before his wedding invitation arrived in my mailbox.

I haven't been home since Christmas. And while I can hit the ignore button in my email account or on my cell phone (which for the record I do not do to my siblings), I can't easily run away when all 8 of them are ganging up on me with the relationship questions-- especially if they get their kids involved.

16 on 1 is just not fair.

But I'm braving the Guckeen firestorm this weekend anyway. I figure I'll have 6.5 hours to think up answers to all the possible questions they'll ask me come Sunday about my online dating adventures. And then another 6.5 hours to rehash all the embarrassing moments come Monday.

I'll be taking a mini holiday from the blog-- returning Tuesday. I can't just bilocate from Wisconsin to Minnesota after all. Such a drive takes time.

Not to mention several packages of milk duds and a least a few close calls with the Wisconsin State Patrol, arguably the sneakiest men in uniform on the face of the planet.

IRL?! F2F?! LOL!

I once rejected a man based solely on his arm hair.

From all other angles, he seemed like a pretty sweet deal. But sitting next to him in class everyday, his arm hair swirling in odd directions got to me every time. I couldn't deal with it. Sianara Mr. Armly Locks.

I know. I know. It's all a little too reminiscent of the season 3 episode of Will & Grace where Grace rejects a man solely based on the fact that he had 6 toes on one foot.

I may be petty, but at least I'm specific. No weird arm hair. No extra toes please.

It's officially been two months since things got going between Seth the Southern Charmer and I, although it feels like it's been forever-- in a good way of course. Every night ends with a phone call. Every morning begins with an email. And it's a rare occasion to not find either one of us shooting off a random, "Hope you're having a good day" text message before dinnertime.

I frequent the Catholic dating message boards enough (another story for another time, best told when I am feeling my most Christian so as to not lambast people that just aren't that smart about relationships) to know that a huge pet peeve out there in the online Catholic dating world is people with poor follow through.

Those with no intention of IRL F2F encounters.

(Sidenote: Nothing makes me giggle more than when the over 40 crowd starts using phrases like LOL and F2F. For those unaware with the lingo-- IRL translates to "in real life" F2F to "face to face").

According to the forums, there's enough people who are out there to meet but don't want to be met. People that would prefer to be in a long distance relationship where you never actually meet the the person you're supposedly "in a relationship" with. Which got me to thinking...

Now that we're both confident that I am not some crazy woman with 50 cats, and that he is not a psychopath determined to go all Jeffrey Dahmer on me, perhaps it's time to take the ultimate leap and figure out whether or not Seth the Southern Charmer has six toes on one foot or strange arm hair.

A F2F.

St. Patty's Day in the Corn

If you follow the Drunken Bugle Corp, he will come.

You just won't be able to tell who he is because after three pints in an hour and a trip out into the bright Dyersville sunshine you won't be able to see straight.

I now know why I don't go to the bar in the middle of the day. That transition from dark to light is brutal.

After three days and two nights in Dyersville, Iowa, I can tell you that if my soulmate is there, he must be hiding in the corn. Because I could not find him. As was the case in many cities across the country this past weekend, I just found a lot of drunk guys. Not exactly of the "take home to mom" caliber either.

Thank goodness for naps with puppy dogs-- particularly multiple naps with multiple puppy dogs. Otherwise the weekend might've been a total bust.

Online dating lesson learned for the weekend: surefire way to make any online man friend jealous is to send him a text message informing him you opened your bed to the general public over the weekend. Wait five minutes. And THEN inform him the general public should be interpreted as a Yorkie named BJ and a Bichon Frise named Cessna. Not amused? He probably wasn't alone. For some reason I think Jesus would be less than amused to hear me joking about commandment #6. I better mark that one down on the confession to do list.

Whenever I told people last week that I was going to Iowa for the weekend I kept getting the same response over and over and over.

"Iowa?! What the heck is in Iowa?!"

One of the best small town St. Patrick's Day celebrations in the country, that's what. Start the day off with mass (nothing beats hearing "When Irish Eyes Are Smiling" coming over the pipe organ in a basilica), watch 50 tractors go by on parade, follow a drunken bugle corp up and down Main Street to see which pub's Miller Lite tastes better, then finish it up with a Shamrock Shake at McDonald's, all the while asking every man in green if he is in fact, the man destined put the Too Ra Loo Ra Li in your Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra.

Okay. So maybe you could find similar celebrations in just about any town in America last weekend. But you've gotta give me credit. If the ghost of Shoeless Joe Jackson chose some cornfield in Dyersville, Iowa as his preferred hangout, who says my husband to be isn't thinking the same exact thing?

Liar, liar, green beer on fire

I have never in my entire life heard someone argue about how Swedish they are.

Or German. Or Dutch. Or British. Or any ethnicity for that matter.

But on St. Patrick's Day, oh will people argue about how Irish they are.

For the record, my great great great grandaddy Patrick immigrated from County Leitrim, Ireland to Minnesota. So if you're wondering just what "Guckeen" is, it is in fact Irish. Which makes me bleed green beer not just on St. Patrick's Day, but all year round.

So there.

One of the sites has the option of filling in your ethnicity, and I always wondered just what that does exactly for a person's dating life. I'm not the type of girl to single out the Finnish or the Canadian or the Antarctican. But maybe I should be?

Adventures in Iowa to be revealed tomorrow...after I finish uploading pics from my weekend shenanigans to my laptop.

Osculate me, I'm Irish

If you asked me a year ago today where I would be on March 17, 2008 I can guarantee you my answer would not have been, "sitting at a computer blogging about online Catholic dating for the Catholic Herald."

No. It would've been something guaranteed to make any mother, especially my own, proud.

"Sitting in an Irish pub in New York City with my true Irish bartender husband with his beautiful Irish accent and our beautiful Irish baby."

If you think I'm kidding, bring up the subject of spring break, New York City, irish pubs, or bartenders at any point when you're in conversation with me, and you'll quickly find out that I am not.

Well okay. Maybe not exactly. My aspirations are a bit higher than that. But it's nice to dream about from time to time.

Green beer has been flowing for hours now, there are guaranteed to be some people at this exact moment in time decked out in all green doing a little jig, and well, St. Patrick himself might just be rolling over in his grave.

In case you forgot, St. Patrick was all about spreading the good news of Christ, not buying everyone a shot of whiskey. Which makes it a very fitting day to celebrate during Holy Week.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

P.S. More to come later. My brain is still waking up from a weekend of following around a drunken Irish bugle corp in Iowa!

It's okay blog readers....I was just talking to the cornfield

If you build it, he will come.

What exactly I have to build to make my soulmate come, I have positively no clue.

I really hope it's not a baseball field. I never mastered the art of cutting the grass in our backyard into the shape of a baseball diamond like my brother did. I think I'd do much better with an ark or something.

Then again I have an inexplicable fear of getting a sliver.

Can I build a lego house instead?

By far, the greatest tragedy of my childhood was when my brother taped over my copy of "Dumbo" with "Field of Dreams."

Obviously since I'm still talking about it some however many years later, I'm still quite scarred by the event. But I'm beginning to think that perhaps a little divine intervention played a part in what undoubtedly made this formerly mulletized girl cry and cry and cry...



This weekend I'm taking my soulmate search on the road, abandoning the constraints of the spacebar on my laptop that sticks and going to....

Iowa. Specifically Dyersville. Home of the one and only Field of Dreams.

Not to mention a lot lot lot LOT of Republicans.

Before you get me to a nunnery because you think I've officially lost it and am taking my dating directives from something my big brother did when I was four, fear not. My best friend is from Dyersville so it all works out just peachy. A weekend out of the city and amongst the Dyersville cowboys...err, that doesn't sound right....farmers? may be just want the dating doctor ordered.

And perhaps "The Voice" will have a little Kevin Costner-esque dating wisdom to impart on me while I'm there. Although hopefully not something as obscure as, "If you build it, he will come."

I certainly hope The Voice is smart enough to know that I don't build things.

Thursday's Shameless Plug

I think this may be one of the coolest pictures ever.

Ok. Maybe coolest picture I've seen in the past week.

As usual, go through the whole Thursday rigamarole (spelling? ah whatever, it's just a blog), click on the Catholic Herald link, and check out the story, "Actor answers God's call on stage" on the man behind that's playing Jesus in this photo, Jeremy Stanbary.

He's got a pretty sweet tale to tell about his life and his call to Catholic theater.

Not to mention I got to dine with him last Friday night after the production of his play, "The Scrutiny Passion." Nothing like some fish after a good night of theater.

You know how I feel about the combo of fish on Fridays. ;)

Pick up, clean up, everybody do your share!

I've got 95 matches at eHarmony staring back at me.

For 7:52 a.m., this is all too daunting of a concept to wrap around my still sleeping head.

But I can't just let them sit there. It's time for the ultimate discernment.

The Pick Up Clean Up of my eHarmony account. The "She's Just Not That Into You" of 2008. The Grand Central Rejection Station.

Buckle in...cause here we go...

Ahh...Suitor #1 has a picture with his nieces and nephews. Keep him. Suitor #3 is a kindergarten teacher? I don't think it is humanly possible to reject anyone that is an elementary school teacher. Who does that? Suitor #7 a stock analyst? What poor single journalist in her right mind would reject a stock analyst?!

So far no good. Apparently I'm not so good at this rejection thing. I don't want to be the person that sends the "Dear John" letter. What if I screw up? What if I send the Dear John letter to my soulmate?

What if God just laughs then and says, "Well. Sucks to be you. Don't come complaining to me when you're 50 and eating peanut butter straight out of the jar with your cats. I sent him to you. You rejected him."

* Exasperated sigh *

Oy. This is just a little too overwhelming.

Ok. Come on Amy. Man up. Let's take a look at suitor #47.

Hmm. He's Buddhist. For some reason I don't think that'll work out well in my dreams of a traditional Catholic wedding mass.

*Reject*

Uh-oh. I have to give a reason for my rejection.

"I think the physical distance between us is too great." Well. He lives in Milwaukee. That won't work.

"I have too much happening in my life at the moment." If that's not a line I don't know what is.

"I'd rather not say." Well that's just mean.

"Other." That seems reasonable enough. Check!

Suitor #12:

Most thankful for and cannot live without his cats?

I think it's the plurality of that statement which bothers me the most. *Reject*

Suitor #25:

Looks too much like the kid that used to live across the street from me. Not that that's a bad thing. Just too weird. *Reject*

Suitor #77:

Uhoh. Ladies and gentleman we have a fake baker. If there's anything I can't handle it's a fake baker. I've been there, done that, as my prom picture from senior year can attest to.

Yes I did wear a white dress to my senior prom, hence the obscene hours I spent in a tanning bed when I was supposed to be doing my independent study journalism class.

(For the record nothing freaks out your ex-boyfriend more than showing up as his date in what could double as a wedding gown. Awkward).


Anyway, I really don't think anyone should be putting their manbits in what essentially is a deep roaster.

*Reject*

it's not over tonight...or next year for that matter...

Relationship pet peeve #1: I cannot stand it when a guy clearly cannot comprehend the word, "No."

It's two letters. Takes split seconds to say. Animals can probably do it. But some guys just can't get it through their heads. To which I say, thank goodness this is online instead of in real life.

The Propositioning Businessman has initiated yet another chat.

Whether or not it was just to inform me when he would next be occupying a skeezy hotel room in Milwaukee, I don't know. But the guy just can't seem to wrap his mind around the 14th and 15th letters of the alphabet.

For some reason Mr. PB is under the impression that come 2009, I will be waiting patiently for him in Milwaukee so he can... oh wait... last time I checked if I ever uttered those phrases out loud I wouldn't just have to wash my mouth out with soap, I'd have to drink an entire bottle of Joy and follow it up by gargling with Ajax.

If it wasn't for the fact that it would create a domino effect among the rest of the cubicles in the office, I'd totally be banging my head against the wall right now.

Now I don't know about you, but the last time I checked, if a guy wanted to be in a relationship with me, but only wanted to speak with me online once every two months, and only planned on seeing me in January of 2009, and ONLY January of 2009, that could mean one thing and one thing only.

It's a BC.

And 'BC' does not stand for "Before Christ."

To make matters worse, PB had the nerve to ask me about my dating life and then accused me of not being serious about him in our original contact with each other (well, he's partially right, I was more concerned about him wanting to cut me up into pieces rather than the direction our relationship was headed).

And then he proceeded to inform me that we'll always have January 2009. And those oh so luxurious comforts of the Best Western.

Um. Last time I checked we never had anything to begin with. So what makes you think we're going to have a night in the Best Western? In 2009 for that matter?

Could he be...dum dum dum...the one?

"Return to the volcano! It's our only chance!"

-- My Little Pony, the movie

Sometimes, boredom gets the best of me.

And sometimes I feel that spirit of mischief that my older brothers instilled in me when I still had a mullet and wore overalls.

(Although thankfully, I no longer participate in their trick of farting in people's faces and then running away. Something tells me it's not so cute when a 22-year-old does it. A 3-year-old with a mullet, maybe).

So I go about my mischief as any technologically savvy 20-something would.

I hack into my best friend's facebook profile.

(Okay, technically I don't hack. I'm the one that created it for him. It's his fault he didn't change the password in the past five years).

The last time I felt that glow of friendly naughtiness I completely revamped his profile to reflect his non-existent love for "My Little Ponies."

Religious views?

My little ponies

Favorite quote?

Hydia: We're witches, wizards and warlocks! We're the reason honest people purchase doorlocks! We've turned princes into frogs, peasants into pheasants, soldiers and sailors into swine! We've never been accused of being angels, but as for being devils, we're divine!
-- My Little Pony: THE MOVIE!!!

Favorite video?

Well. You'll just have to check it out yourself.

If there's anything that can make me giggle, it's a good My Little Pony joke.

Or, in this case, a lot of My Little Pony jokes.

So imagine my delight and surprise when perusing a match on one of the Catholic websites (and let's not overlook the fact that this guy was straight out of the Adorable Husband Catalog) that listed under his favorite music, "Anything from the My Little Pony" soundtrack.

I just about wet my pants.

Really? There's another man out there that enjoys my love of a good My Little Pony joke?

It must be love. I honestly don't know what else it could be.

A journey in ridiculousness...

"Excuse me. But I believe you are in fact my soulmate. Would you like to step into the travel section and discuss china patterns?"

Hmmm. Still doesn't sound right. Perhaps the travel section is the wrong location. Maybe biography sounds more appropriate? Or maybe I should forego Barnes & Noble altogether. Huh.

Ah the brain workout that occurs when trying to plan a Saturday morning.

As far as conversations with my best friend Lauren go, ridiculousness is paramount. Henceforth the debate of how I should spend the hour between my haircut and second appointment at Bayshore Saturday.

For the past couple months I've been throwing rocks at Lauren's single box and prodding her to take herself on a date in hopes of her meeting a tall, dark and handsome stranger who will buy her coffee and then a puppy and eventually a huge diamond ring. A meet cute. Serendipity. Kismet.

Those sorts of things don't happen in the online dating world. Which is why I've been trying to arrange a similar meet cute in my own life every weekend. Turns out fish fries are not the best way to go.

Given my hour to kill (although ungodly...I'm not sure how many single, attractive guys wander an outdoor mall in Wisconsin between the hours of 10 and 11 a.m. on a Saturday morning when most normal human beings would either be sleeping or at least somewhere warm) it was Miss Lauren's turn to throw the rocks back.

And when Lauren tells you to do something. You do it.

And I like to think I did it so well that I'll be writing a how to book on scoring a man by taking yourself on a date by the end of the month. So went the creation of a ridiculous game plan.

Step 1: Location, location, location

For the most part I come off looking like Neve Campbell from the Scream movies when in a coffee shop alone. My face gets all scrunched up in positions that ensure my need for botox injections in 20 years. My eyes dart from left to right as if the barista has every intention of spiking my chai with roofies and then cutting me up into little pieces with stir sticks.

** Shudder **

Travel section of Barnes & Noble it is then. To ensure I call attention to myself, I will steal one of the tiny wooden stools from the kids section and camp out looking at oversized maps of Moldova, sipping a hot chocolate and downing pounds of gummi bears. Perhaps I will also invest in a traveling Billy Bass so that every time someone happens upon me they will be greeted with a singing fish.

That's definitely better than any old pick up line.

Step 2: The Cheat Sheet

With a limited time to win hearts with my singing fish, I must know exactly what I am looking for. Therefore, pasted in my map of Moldova (so that everyone thinks I actually truly care about the location of Lapushna), I shall have the following gents for reference points.

-- Mayor Barrett (for height)
-- Jonathan Rhys Meyers (for intense eyes)
-- Anderson Cooper (for brains and well-dressed sensibilities)
-- Hugh Grant (hair has never looked so well)
-- Dane Cook (for general hilariousness)
-- Old Yeller (for kick butt companionship abilities)

Step 3: Pick up Lines

It must be quick. It must be witty. It must get straight to the point. By the time I've secured my stolen stool and popped the batteries in Billy Bass, I'll likely only have 48 minutes to kill. They must be used for the fullest potential.

"Will you be my Henry VIII?"

Nah. I'm not really into the whole decapitation and have six wives thing.

"Where'd you get your clothes...from the toilet store?"

Ugh. Too early for insults. He might steal my gummi bears.

"My friend told me to come and meet you, he said that you are a really nice person. I think you know him. Jesus, yeah, that's his name."

Crap. That only works on Catholic Mingle. Not in real life.

>> Update: Monday morning, officially two days after the great find a date game plan:

Apparently gummi bears and a map of Moldova aren't the greatest strategy to finding a date. I'll scratch that and fish fries off my list of manhunting activities.

Next weekend's activity that will hopefully lead to finding a nice Catholic man in real life (as in not online):

Iowa.

Blasphemy!

She called me "one of those people."

In the world of singletons, being "one of those people" means no longer belonging to the club of singletons.

(Although in my defense, Seth and I are not proclaiming ourselves to be anything, particularly a couple, until we have met in person. So technically, I am in fact, a loud and proud singleton).

Everyday over lunch one of my besties and I catch up on all the excitement in our lives over im-- what we're eating for lunch, random bits of Marquette gossip, what we did at the gym last night.

You know, riveting stuff.

And of course, the topic of men comes up rather frequently. Only usually it's me, being one of those obnoxious friends and regaling her with every detail of my conversation with Seth from the night before.

To which I say thank you Lauren for putting up with me.

But this time the conversation turned to her potential love life. And how terrifying relationships can be at the beginning. At which point I unleashed the inner coupled Amy.

"I completely understand and I understand the freak outage. But it's worth it in the end."

*GASP*

Instantaneously from the west coast to the shores of Lake Michigan, both of us realized the gravity of what had been typed.

It wasn't the subject. It wasn't the words persay. It was the fact that they came out of my head, were typed into the keyboard, and sent off to Portland via cyberspace. And at that moment we both realized I was slowly losing sight of my Bridget Jones existence. All this Catholic online dating had finally gone to my head.

To which only one thing can be said:

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour that we no longer are single people....

Amen.

This week's shameless plugs

All is quiet in the Catholic Herald office. Except for the voice of Brett Favre. I never expected to need a hug upon the retirement of a football player, but I sure could use one right about now.

This week's shameless plugs...

SOLEDAD! Check out the Catholic Herald link and scroll down to "Faith is anchor for Catholic journalist" to learn more about the CNN anchor.

And yes, you had better believe I asked her what Anderson Cooper is really like. That's not in the story though.

And the event of the week:

"The Scrutiny Passion" is being performed at the Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist, 812 N. Jackson St., Milwaukee, 7:30 on Friday night. It gives an interesting take on the passion through the eyes of the Woman at the Well, the Man Born Blind, and Lazarus. I'm hoping to score an interview with the man behind the production in between his busy schedule in Milwaukee, so look for a peek behind the scenes next week. For tickets: (414) 276-9814.

Happy Thursday! :)

I'll take Husband #5992 please

Catholic boys, in the spirit of the movie Old School, put on your earmuffs. I have something I'm about to say that you may not like.

When it comes to these eHarmony boys, you ain't got nothin' on 'em. They come directly from the Hot Husband potential catalog.

Now before you start throwing your hymnals at me, hold up. I understand. I know the following cliches you're going to use to defend your argument that you too, in fact, are adorable and Hot Husband material.

Don't judge a book by its cover.
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
It's not on the outside what counts, it's what's inside that matters most.

That's all good and fine and dandy. I agree. I completely and totally agree. But in my mere couple days on eHarmony, I can't ignore the fact that 80% of the matches I've received are guys that I would actually check out in line at the local Piggly Wiggly. The type of guys, who, if life was simple and single girls could just get their monthly copy of "Magazine of Available Men for Marriage and Babies," you'd earmark the page they were on and consider purchasing a lifetime subscription to Husband #5992.

You know, a hunk. What David Hasselhoff used to be. (And since I've taken up turning on random Baywatch reruns at night, have decided he in fact is not).

And you can't deny the fact that you need at least a little bit of hunkiness in a relationship if you plan on making it work.

I don't know why it is that the eHarmony boys are that much more attractive than my matches on the Catholic dating sites. You would think that all the holy water we Catholics use would add some sort of glowy adorable shine to our guys. But nope. Not so much.

Perhaps we need to use some more incense. Open up the pores or something.

D.I.P. Shamrock Shakira

The Shamrock Shakira has found himself a lady friend.

And that lady friend is not me.

(Seth you can officially breathe a sigh of relief now).

It would appear that my Catholic mate from across the pond has found himself not one, not two, but three lady friends that are crazy about him (apparently the John Lennon late 1970's look with the long hair, beard and funky glasses does it for more than just Yoko Ono).

And to be perfectly honest, I can see why.

Obviously the man is a little too far away (although I've always wanted to go to England), a little too old (38 is after all a whole driving hormonal teenager older than me), and a bit too hairy for my tastes (as a child I was terrified of men with facial hair. Just ask my uncle). That and his interests are mildly odd. I'll just chalk that up to being English.

But the guy has a beautiful way with words.

And after cramming in an entire season of Showtime's The Tudors last weekend, filled with love letters from King Henry VIII to Anne Boleyn, I can't deny a sigh or two when a member of the male species has a talent for stringing adjectives, nouns and verbs together in a way that make angels sing.

Especially when you envision hearing them in an English accent.

*Sigh*

At least I can say we had our happy times together. When my coy smile alone convinced him to purchase every single Guster album available to mankind.

I don't even own every Guster album available to mankind.

Date In Peace Shamrock Shakira. It was lovely while it lasted.

Find me a find, catch me a catch...

The red and white jump rope hit the pavement of the St. Anne's playground with a sharp thwap.

"Amy and Luke, sittin' in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage. One! Two! Three! Four! Five...."

My perfectly permed third grade bob blew in the breeze. As my feet rose and fell, so did my uniform jumper. My legs, clad in green skin tight leggings worked to the hardest of their ability to accrue the highest number of jumps possible. For that would be the amount of kisses my husband in jump rope heaven would give me.

Either that, or it was the amount of babies we were supposed to have. I can't remember. I wouldn't be surprised if it was babies. That was likely at the point in my life where building my own Von Trapp Family Singers was still appealing.

I have a new stalker. A stalker which promises me babies. A stalker which promises me my own baseball team of children should I so choose to follow my third grade dreams of having 9 children (although they won't be grade school dreamboat Luke's babies). Nevertheless, they won't be just any babies.

They'll be eHarmony babies.

I am quickly beginning to regret being associated with the same service that has more obnoxious commercials on primetime television every night than Marquette does Jesuits. In the past three days alone, I have received 23 emails from eHarmony. Which means that that's 23 times I get excited because Seth may have emailed me and no. Not so much. Just some other crazy man some computer system has decided I'd be a good match for.

The last time I checked, if I plan on busting out a little, "Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match!" I'll be singing to a living, breathing, bleeding matchmaker. Not some computer whose delete key I could easily rip off (for the record, not the reason my laptop is missing a delete key).

They don't offer a picture to these supposedly dreamy matches. Just a name. Because we all know, love at first name happens all the time. No age. Just a location. And a name.

As if I'm actually supposed to take their word for it that this guy could be The One.

Click on his profile and you can put a face to the name. Find out what he's passionate about. What he's thankful for. What his best life skills are. The things he can't live without.

Random questions that would likely never come up within the first 30 minutes of meeting someone.

The last time I checked, for guys in my age demographic the answers to those questions were rather simple: beer, Brett Favre, beer, the Packers, working out to work off the beer, hitting on women, and finally, beer.

They may try and play Casanova and mention their mom and their romantic streak, but let's be honest. The truth will come out eventually. And it's not necessarily the best window into their personality. Maybe a peephole. But that's about it.

And I need more than a peephole to start thinking about eHarmony babies.

Peace, love and eHarmony

For anyone that's taken a gander at my cell phone lately, you'll know that the name on the caller ID can be at times a bit cryptic.

Bunny. Corncob. Dream boyfriend. Lboogie. Tommers.

And then there's the Gemini Twin. Named not because we shared a womb (heck, we didn't even share a state until I was 18) but because we share several other important traits.

Perhaps one of the most important being that we were rejected by eHarmony. Making those obnoxious commercials with all the laughing, happy, dancing couples that much more obnoxious.

When Melissa told me of her woes after filling out an hour long survey, only to find that out of eHarmony's 2 million or some users there wasn't a single person to match her with, I did the one thing a good friend would do.

I put myself up to the rejection guillotine myself. And rejected I was. And together we bonded in the fact that we had single handedly gone through 2 million males in the world. Which was 2 million dates we didn't have to go on to find The One.

A lot of people have asked me in this online Catholic dating extravaganza whether or not I was on a secular dating site. The sting of eHarmony's rejection still burning in my heart, I of course said no. But in the spirit of jouralistic fairness (and since eHarmony was having a subscription sale too good to pass up considering the circumstances) I tried signing up again. Turns out those 2 million gents have changed their minds.

So here I go yet again.

Young, single, Catholic...and eHarmonized.