Meet the Mom

There are Moms.

And then there are Moms.

The June Cleavers. The Carol Bradys. The Meredith Baxters. The Roseannes. The Claire Huxtables. The Cindy Walshs. The Jill Taylors and Debra Barones. The Kitty Formans. The Lorelai Gilmores.

And then there's my mom. And your mom. And their moms.

And Seth's mom.

It was with incredible relief that I smiled at my Southern Charmer's mother and let out a tiny sigh with my "Hi." As everyone had promised, especially Seth himself, this was not a woman to be feared. This was a woman to befriend. So we sat over breakfast, the nervous butterflies of course still flitting about. My mind keenly aware that this was still a woman to impress, yet be genuine with.

She was after all trusting her first born's heart. With me.

We now interrupt our regularly scheduled Fun in the Sun Week

I'm going to do something I don't normally do and comment on a comment. Largely because I've gotten a lot of feedback from people that have run across it in the past couple of days and have asked me, "What's up with that comment?"

So clearly, if it's on other people's minds, it should be discussed on the blog. I'm all for an open forum here.

For those that don't check the comment area regularly, I'll save you the trouble of tracking it down.

ummmmm . . . a SERIOUS relationship??

you've met ONCE.

this is kind of scary - like a schoolgirl's first crush.

no offense is met - i'm just scared for you . . . you are all of a sudden sounding like this guy (WHO YOU'VE MET ONCE!!!) is your whole life.

like i said -it sounds like a schoolgirl wioth her first boyfriend.

be careful with your heart!

I love that someone out there is concerned for my well-being. I love that they know how horrendous and traumatic heartbreak can be and that they want to save me from that. That's amazing. I am incredibly thankful for all of you that have been reading this blog for the past several months and that have both cheered-- and prayed-- me on. I am incredibly thankful that I have so many great people to share this exciting adventure with.

The purpose and mission of this blog is to write about my adventures in the online Catholic dating world-- in hopefully an entertaining and for the most part, lighthearted way. Sure sometimes it may seem a bit exaggerated and far fetched, but that's my personality. My goal is to make you giggle.

Because it's an online dating blog, you won't be hearing about my family, or my friends, my faith, my career, what I'm doing with my free time, what's keeping me up at night, or anything else about me, unless I can somehow tie it back to dating. What direction this blog will take after the online project is over, I'm not sure yet. It may delve into those other areas. But for now, I'm doing what the great MyFaith editor Cheri sent me to do-- write about my life in the online dating world. And it just so happens, that my life in the online dating world is Seth. So I can understand where it would seem like he's my life, because he's all I talk about here. But that's the job I'm getting paid to do.

Out of respect to both Seth and I, there are a lot of things in our relationship that don't get discussed in this blog and that simply don't belong in this blog. It's private. Not to mention it would probably bore you to tears if I rehashed our entire daily evening phone calls, which run from 1 to 3 hours on any given night. If I threw in our lunch phone calls and daily emails and text messages you might all stage a riot. I can guarantee you, we have our struggles, our joys and our sorrows that we work through together. It's an entirely new and different dimension to what you hear on the blog, and unless you're on my Besties email list or part of the Guckeen family, you don't hear about it.

It's what makes this at times rather public relationship private.

Are you sure I look ok? Absolutely positive?

I was blabbering.

It was only 7:45 a.m. Technically 6:45 a.m. by central time standards as I slathered on the sunscreen and unleashed run-on sentence after run-on sentence. Muttering. Fidgeting. Pacing my hotel room. Wringing my hands. Stopping dead in my tracks from time to time to bombard Seth with the question,

"Do I look ok?"

And then,

"I'm so nervous."

Due to my late arrival into the wonderful world of Disney, Seth was the only one awake to welcome me to paradise. So when the *beep beep beep* of the alarm clock rang at 7 a.m. Saturday morning, my stomach was already in knots. It was Judgment Day.

As my mom so kindly pointed out, I have gotten along more than just fine with my friends' moms since birth. There was no reason whatsoever for the unexplicable fear of what Seth's mom would be like, and more importantly, whether or not she'd like me. Yet still I stood in the entrance to the hotel room. Paralyzed by fear and a deadly case of the stomach butterflies.

Lucky for Seth, he managed to wrangle me out of the room, to the elevator, through the hallway and into the continental breakfast area where I proceeded to turn my fidgeting into nervously digesting a bagel and cream cheese. And so I sat. On the verge of nervous tears. Until the Terrific Twosome appeared and there was The Mom.

"Hi, I'm Susan."

So come pick me up, I've landed

Something tells me I'm not in Milwaukee anymore.

It was somewhere close to midnight that my over-rosary'd fingers and cramped legs made their way to the baggage claim at Orlando International Airport. The good luck charms and the prayers had worked. Seth and I were finally in the same state again. Soon to be within the same 50 feet of each other.

Standard airport passenger protocol would indicate that after a 7 hour airport ordeal, I should be in one crankerific mood, grumbling about, a scowl permanently on my face, barking orders to the airport shuttle guy. Instead, I took my bag filled with sunscreen and Wheat Thins over to a bench and sat patiently. Staring at the palm trees blowing in the gentle midnight breeze.

Wondering if there was a gator in my midst.

The thunder rolls, and the lightning strikes...

It was a dark and stormy night.

Literally.

There I sat. Tears ready to bubble up and out all over my cheeks in an all too embarrassing fashion at the Milwaukee airport. It was raining. Pouring more like it. Thunder rolling, lightning striking, straight out of a Garth Brooks song.

And my flight to Orlando was delayed. With a 95% chance of cancellation.

There are lots of words that begin with the letter C that are no good, absolutely and completely terrible, could not be more horrendous. Cancellation is one of them.

I hate to fly. From beginning to end, I just don't enjoy it.

It starts out with the airport cry, the inevitable airport breakdown, where whoever I'm leaving ends up watching me turn from splotchy, to splotchier, to splotchiest as my separation anxiety kicks in. Then comes checking in. Where a complete stranger gets to witness my splotchies and recoils in horror as I wipe my runny nose with the same hand I offer them my drivers license with. You'd think by now I'd know to pack kleenex.

Security can be even worse. Especially if you manage to get stuck behind someone that hasn't flown in the past 20 years and hurdles towards the metal detector belt, $20 in quarters and all. Don't forget their massive supply of water in case of a nuclear attack.

And then comes the absolutely, positively worst part of flying. The point where I have to check my control issues at the door and trust that two complete strangers can fly a plane better than me. Given the fact that I don't know how to fly a plane, this isn't too much of a stretch. But I can't always help but wonder if the guy piloting my 717 is the same guy that used to carve images of naked women into the desk during high school algebra.

So there I sat. Surrounded by children with dreams of Disney dancing in their head, fidgeting twice as much as I normally would at the prospect of boarding a plane in the pitch black of the storm. Or reducing my face to face time with the Southern Charmer to less than 60 hours. I did the only thing I could think of.

I got out my four leaf clover that the Shamrock Shakira had mailed to me. Put on my lucky evil eyes necklace that my sister-in-law brought me back from Cyrpus. Worked my fingers along the beads of my Holy Hill rosary and prayed the Divine Mercy Chaplet.

A true Catholic girl, through and through.

Back to reality

I'm back!

After 3 glorious days of fun, sun, boyfriend and Disney, I'm back in the magical land of cheese and beer...details on my Meet the Mom and the tropical adventure with my Southern Charmer to come...

as soon as I'm done getting rid of all the sand I managed to bring home with me. Which may be a couple of weeks.

Is it time yet is it time yet?

It's straight out of my second grade dreams post the 1994 Winter Olympics in Lillehammer.

"Amy Guckeen, you just won the gold medal in women's figure skating. What are you going to do next?"

I'M GOING TO DISNEY WORLD!!!!

Only this accomplishment seems to be much greater than doing a few whirly twirlies and managing to not fall on your rumpus. Although the record should show, that I could not ice skate even if a yeti was chasing after me and it was my only hope of avoiding his digestive tract.

"Amy Guckeen, after six years of living the hard singleton life you've finally got yourself into a serious relationship. What are you going to do next?"

Duh. Go to Disney World of course.

I'm ready, Wheat Thins and all, for the Meet the Mom Adventure of 2008. Not to mention Meet the Brother. Shea may be my age, but that certainly does not rule him out of the Southern Charmer's family equation. Especially when it's thanks to him that we get into Disney World for free.

I'm relatively certain that would be enough to elevate him to rockstar status among most children under the age of 12.

As usual, save your quarters for the vigil candles and do a run through of the beads for me. It should be an interesting weekend. Just me. Florida. And the fam.

I'll be back Tuesday. Don't get in too much trouble while I'm gone!

Nobody puts Amy in a corner

I carried a watermelon.

Well not quite. Any movie buff will know Baby from "Dirty Dancing" carried a watermelon.

But come Friday, I'll be proudly announcing to Seth the Southern Charmer a similar feat.

I carried a box of Wheat Thins. 1250 miles.

And then promptly wondering....huh. Now why the heck did I do that?

When announcing to my best friend Jim last night that all my bags were packed, and ready to go, with my Wheat Thins of course, for Florida there was only one logical question to be asked.

"Um. Why are you bringing a box of Wheat Thins?"

Well simple duh. When out doing my wifely, err, excuse me, girlfriendly duties and picking up the essentials for Florida for both Seth and I, like sunscreen, aloe vera, etc., I of course made that coupley phone call.

"Is there anything else you want me to pick up hon?"

His response: A box of Wheat Thins. Which, without a second thought, I threw in my Target cart and ran off happily to the checkout line.

Jim picked up on the ridiculousness of it all. I'm carrying a box of Wheat Thins. 1250 miles. They'll go through security to make sure they don't explode upon take off. Get manhandled by the baggage people. Hopefully will remain untouched by any of my shampoo, conditioner and perfume. And eventually, somewhere around 11 p.m. eastern time Friday night, will come to their resting place at the Comfort Suites.

Just one box of Wheat Thins. Last time I checked, like the word catholic, Wheat Thins are universal. So why put them through the added stress of flying to Orlando? Especially when I'm pretty sure they don't hand out chocolate chip cookies to checked bags, even though it is Midwest?

I have no clue. Maybe it's something about being a good girlfriend. All those added extra Wheat Thins miles have to help.

Awoooo! Wolverines in the Catholic dating scene

He may look harmless, but he's been known to kill prey as large as a moose. His conservation status may be classified as "vulnerable" making him seem warm and fuzzy, but his powerful jaws are enough to crush bones.

He is the wolverine. And he is completely ruining the dating scene for women under the age of 30.

Men have cougars, the species of older women that just love going after younger men. Today, I introduce to you the plight of the wolverine, a term coined by my hair stylist Kerry and her 20-something friends.

Who doesn't love a grandpa? My dad, although I am a little biased, is one of the most adorable over 55 men ever-- much more so when he's with his grandkids, and not just putting up with me and my daddy's girl antics.

(Let the record show however he is NOT a wolverine).

I'll tell you who doesn't love a grandpa. The women that get hit on by them. As in the women that are nowhere near being grandma age and still get the up-down from the over 50, sometimes over 60 crowd. And oh man is that crowd a bunch of witty ones, with at times absolutely no self-censor to stop them from at times saying something completely and totally creepy.

I had a 66-year-old man tell me last week on one of the sites that he would love to start his second family with me. Countless others in the wolverine range tell me that young and fertile is just what the doctor ordered. And apparently I'm on the list of prescribed medications.

I'm sorry. I haven't even gotten around to starting my first family...much less considered hitting the ring for a second round.

After talking with other women over the weekend, I've found it's a wider spread problem than one might think. An entire crop of Kerry and her friends got hit on by not just grandpas-- but blitzed grandpas celebrating after a round of golf. Another friend recounted the tale of a wolverine that just wanted to buy one of her friends nice things.

These wolverines are in search of the fountain of youth and apparently they've found it-- in the under 30 crowd.

Do not collect $200, do not pass go-- you are permanently an adult

There comes a point in every young adult's life, regardless of whether or not you are single, or Catholic for that matter, that you come to a shocking realization.

You're a grown-up.

Not like, "Oh you're 18 now, you can vote!" or even "Guess what-- you're 21. Have a drink on me." But actual, tried and true-- "Welcome to adulthood. Just to forewarn you, at times it may suck."

I've passed over the "Welcome to Adulthood" mat often in my post-Marquette year. Usually it happens when I'm mailing off a Visa bill that I proudly paid for myself or when my friends tell me they can't come out to play because they have to study for finals...and all I have to do is paint my toes and make sure I remember when there's a new episode of "The Office" on.

Friday, April 25, in the year of our Lord 2008, at precisely 10:10 p.m. eastern standard time, I will pass over the "Welcome to Adulthood-- All souls who enter are eternally ours" mat. It's no longer just a glimmer. It's that bright shiny light at the end of the tunnel that you just can't help but flock towards-- partially because there's this big boulder pushing you in that direction, and any sign of stopping and you'll be oh so dead.

I, Amy Guckeen, am meeting the family.

The gravity of the situation hit me Saturday when I was dining with my old college roomie. She had just met her boyfriend's fam. I was about to meet my boyfriend's fam. Only a year ago we were eating ice cream directly from the carton echoing our singleton woes. Now we're all gradumatated and girlfriendized.

And going through an extremely serious relationship rite of passage. Meeting the fam.

Sure, some may say it's not a big deal. It's just like meeting a random person on the street and deciding whether or not you should cross to the other side or take your chances.

No.

It's more like-- here's the woman that carried me for nine months and raised me. If you break my heart she will kill you. Or at least put a pox on your house. Oh and hey mom, this is the girl I've been telling you about. I hope you like her. But if you don't, that's ok. She's replaceable, contrary to what Beyonce says.

Ok. Perhaps that's a bit harsh. But you catch my drift. My friends and family are hands down the most important thing to me. If they were a little iffy on a boyfriend of mine, I can't deny it. I'd give him a second look with that scrutinizing Guckeen eye.


Other things that scream adulthood: sitting in a pew at the Marquette University Liturgical Choir spring concert. For all 4 years at Marquette, this choir was my life. I literally lived and breathed all things Lit Choir. In my entire Marquette career, I believe I may have sat in a pew at a maximum of 10 times. In all four years. And there I was, with the posse of Lit Choir alums watching something that we were no longer apart of.

Because we were too old.

I need YOUR help!

Calling one, calling all!

If you've had an experience with online Catholic dating and are willing to share YOUR story, by all means, please shoot me an email, comment, or phone call as soon as humanly possible!

The time has come to issue the final verdict for the May 22 edition of MyFaith and I need all the perspective I can get.

Gracias! :)

Happy wh-what?

If there is one lesson to be learned from over the weekend, it is this:

Just because you read the bible and know all the mysteries of the rosary and go to mass every Sunday, does not make you exempt from the ultimate Sunday morning curse:

The hangover.

If there is a secondary lesson to be learned, it is to avoid at all costs, allowing sangria, champagne, rum, vodka, tequila and beer to chill out in your digestive system simultaneously.

I now understand why Jesus just stuck with turning water into wine and didn't expand into other alcoholic venues.

Given my poor choices, I was already in a state of disarray 9:30 a.m. Sunday morning when the phone call came, and out tumbled the words from my Southern Charmer.

"Happy anniversary."

*Gasp*

To put this into the proper context, when I guess the guy you could call my major high school boyfriend and I started dating, it was a little fuzzy as to when we went from non-relationship relationship to relationship. So, for his sake, we picked a day that he claimed was easy for him to remember so we could commemorate moments exactly like this.

He never remembered. Ever. But Seth did.

For the most part, I'm really not one of those girly girls that expects her boyfriend to remember every little anniversary. I always thought it was really dumb when my friends would be out celebrating their 4 month or 8 month anniversary. In my humble (okay maybe sometimes not so humble) opinion, keep it simple and follow the advice of your kitchen measuring cups-- keep it to the quarters, 3, 6, 9 and 12.

I have yet to find a recipe that calls for 1/6 a cup of flour.

And if you're really in need of an excuse for your man friend to take you out once a month, perhaps your solution lies somewhere else entirely.

Finding a new man friend.

Which I clearly don't have to. We'll be celebrating the big 3-monther on the sunny beaches of Florida. This weekend.

I'm going to Disney World!!!!

J:S*D&G(@*$&^%(&GH

I really need to stay off the Catholic Match forums this early in the morning. It's not good for my blood pressure.

The Exorcism of Amy Catherine

When your bed starts to shake in the middle of the night, for a young, single Catholic girl, it can only mean one thing.

You have been possessed by the devil.

So it went at 4:37 a.m. The discovery that the devil had in fact infiltrated my body, and as a result, my bed was shaking.

Well actually, my initial reaction was, "Oh no. Some dude is in my apartment and he actually wants to wake me up before he starts raping me."

Opening my eyes, I saw no such dude. So I closed them again and attempted to go back to sleep.

And then there it went again. My bed. Shaking away. I looked at the clock. 4:37 a.m. It wasn't exactly the devil's style. A little too past the witching hour for his tastes from what I've heard. Then again, maybe he just has a new bag of tricks up his sleeve.

*Shake Shake Shake*

There's not really any proper protocol or procedure for what you're supposed to do when you become possessed by the devil. My initial thought was, well, maybe I should call someone. And then decided that if I ended up speaking in tongues that might freak me out even more.

So I did the only logical thing to do. I went back to sleep. I figured if he really wanted to say, 'Hey. You. You're possessed.' he would've used some bells or whistles or something too. And certainly not the aftershock of some earthquake in Illinois.

Hasta la pasta singletania

I received a phone call from a good friend of mine from home last night. His question was simple.

"So. What's up with you and this Seth guy?"

As in-- "Amy. For real? You're actually someone's girlfriend now?"

Yes. As a matter of fact I am. Apparently I forgot to share my letter of resignation from the single world with the rest of you. So here is a copy of what I forwarded to the proper Singleton Authorities when I discovered that I would no longer be a voting member of their society.

Dear land of Singletania,

I promptly would like to declare my letter of resignation as a singleton princess. While I have enjoyed the many, many years I so graciously paraded around in the world of Singletania, eating my weight in Girl Scout cookies, downing Jack n' cokes until my liver cried out in pain, petting cats and wishing on just about every star in the sky for Prince Charming, another job opportunity has presented itself that i cannot possibly pass up.

The employers of Relationshipomowoc offered me a position in their Girlfriendcy department, wooing me with their promises of roses and kisses and hugs and hand holding and free dinners and even the occasional "Honey do" list. (With summer approaching and the need for a window A/C unit to be installed in my 4th floor apartment you must understand my plight). There is even a possibility of a promotion and relocation to the land of Wife du Lac. You know how I greatly enjoy career advancement.

It is with great sadness that I return my Singletania driver's license granting me privileges to be the wild single girl, along with my jar of commitment phobia.

I apologize for any betrayal you may feel as a result of my resignation. I would also like to apologize in advance for infecting you with Third Wheel Syndrome.

All the best on your quest to find the one,

Amy

P.S. When the heck are you going to get your act together and find yourself a boyfriend?

He'll cut me up and serve it to the local cougar that's loose?

I'm going to do something I don't normally do.

Reflect on one of the chat discussions from CM.

I'm 22. Let's just be honest here. While my college experience probably crammed in more mass and Jesus and praying than your average co-ed, it also consisted of more Sex & the City marathons than nights spent in the library. I used to post particularly good entries from my "He's Just Not That Into You" day calendar around my senior year apartment's full-length mirror for my roomie to enjoy. And you had better believe I was taking all of those dating quizzes in Seventeen magazine when I was a mere 13.

When it comes to the rules and regulation of dating play, I know my stuff. Which is why when certain dating topics pop up in the chat forums on sites, I typically don't reflect on my thoughts in a blog because a lot of the time, they're not very nice.

And often come down to the same universal statement.

"I can see why you're doing the online thing."

Not because I think the posters can't find someone to date in real life, but just because they don't seem quite as well-versed in typical dating behavior (such as when a guy asks you to attend his company Christmas party it's not because he wants to marry you-- it's because he doesn't want to be the loser without the date) as others.

This one though had me shaking my head.

This woman was having her concerns about meeting this guy in a face to face. They'd known each other for about a whole two seconds before he proposed the meeting (cue the chainsaws!) and while she had managed to slow him down a bit via chatting, email and phone, he was still coming on just a bit too strong. She was still meeting him-- in a public place, with all the proper precautions of course-- but was still a bit queasy about some warning signals. So she posed her scenario to the chat room and allowed the chatting sharks to have at it and dispense their advice.

Fine. Good. I myself don't know what I would've told her, so it was interesting to read other people's comments. And then I hit the, "Huh?" jackpot.

"What's the worst that could happen?" Some poster--let me clarify, male poster-- responded to her.

Um. Excuse me? What's the worst that could happen? Did you really just ask that? Have you been chilling out behind rose colored glasses in a tiny hut in the mountains for the past 10 years?

I can tell what the worst is that could happen. So could my friends. My coworkers. My parents. The writing staff of pretty much any crime television show could tell you. And they could do it with all sorts of fake blood and scary power tools. Just because you meet some guy on a Catholic site does not guarantee you that he's not going to try something absolutely terrible. The worst that could happen comes in all sorts of horrendous plot lines that TV stations in Milwaukee feast on. That's the worst thing that can happen.

As I used to repeat over and over to Seth whenever I posed the question to him, "So. Are you a serial killer?"-- safety first! Safety first! Safety first! And he always understood. That while he knew himself and his intentions with me and whether or not he had any desire whatsoever to cut me up into little bits, I didn't know that. And because of that, I needed to take safety precautions to ensure that at the end of the encounter I would still have a pulse. I had a right to be concerned for my safety, as does this woman.

So don't tell me-- "What's the worst that could happen?" That's just callous.

911: We've got a speed walking situation

I'm a fast walker. Not as fast as my old roomie, who went at a pace I eventually had to nickname, "Jenny Speed," but in general, these long legs passed down from my Grandma Guckeen, they move pretty fast.

And no, I did not cultivate these skills by grabbing my hot pink fanny pack every Saturday morning and joining the local chapter of Mall Walkers Anonymous. It just comes naturally.

So you can imagine my annoyance when I thought I was about to be lapped walking from my car to my apartment Friday night. I had spotted the male speed walker at least two blocks behind me when I had crossed the street. Anyone that knows how to walk properly (and judging by crowds in the local malls here and some interactions on the Marquette campus, no this does not in fact include the general population), you would think that I wouldn't have to worry about this guy lapping me.

But there it was. Just seconds later. The patter of his feet quickly on my heels. Apparently I missed the moment when he transformed from normal human into The Flash.

But then it happened. He didn't lap me. He caught up to me. And turned and smiled.

Oh no. Either he wanted my money or my body. Where's my rosary?!

I'm a journalist. It comes with the territory-- when something disastrous looks like it's about to unveil itself, I form a headline in my brain as the story of my life reveals itself.

YOUNG WOMAN SLAIN ON WALK HOME
YOUNG REPORTER KILLED BLOCKS FROM APARTMENT
CATHOLIC HERALD REPORTER MISSING: POLICE BELIEVE SUSPECT IS A SPEED WALKER

My cell phone was dead, falling victim to another night of too many hours on the phone with Seth and my genius decision to not buy a car charger when I got my new phone (online dating was really going to be the death of me!) No one was in sight. Just me and the head of cabbage I had just purchased at the grocery store. Could that alone defend me in my time of need?

And then the unthinkable happened. He opened his mouth and out came the fatal words:

"You're cute. Do you have a boyfriend?"

Umm...excuse me? Are you hitting on me?

I was speechless. Well. Not entirely. I was able to get out a "thank you" and "yes as a matter of fact I do" while remaining positively flabbergasted, particularly when he replied, "Well you better tell your boyfriend that he better do right."

Was that a threat? Was this random man on the street threatening my Southern Charmer? Or was he defending the honor of some woman he just met on the street?

I have no clue. But I made sure to do a second walk around the block after meeting him to ensure he couldn't follow me home. God forbid he assume my boyfriend lives with me and attempts to challenge him to a joust or something.

Recounting the story to Seth, he didn't seem quite as amused, but rather, more concerned that I was no longer just getting hit on by guys from the Catholic dating sites I'm still registered for, but also by random men on the street. Random men that could very well frequent all those police reports I used to pick up as an intern at the Journal Sentinel.

From over 600 miles away, he did the only thing that he could think of. And so came the question Sunday night.

"What address do you want me to mail your car charger to?"

For luck

It came in a tiny brown envelope, by air mail. My name and the Catholic Herald address scrawled across the envelope, a stamp bearing the image of the Queen placed in the upper right hand corner, a hand-drawn cross with a heart kitty corner from it.

"FRAGILE-- HANDLE WITH CARE."

The handwriting was unfamiliar, but the message inside had already been echoing across the Atlantic Ocean for the past several weeks.

Amy,

These are from me, to wish you and Seth the best of luck.

Love,

David

Carefully pressed in a white piece of paper, lay two four-leaf clovers, and two bookmarks, bearing their image, and in a foreign language, "Seek, and you will find."

Wow.

I'm not sure if I've ever seen a real four-leaf clover in my entire life, much less two of them, until yesterday. And now here they sit, tucked safely away in that brown envelope, only to be removed when I have the time to sit and stare at them in sheer wonder.

I suppose I should give one of them to Seth too.

If there's one thing I've taken note of, it's the lack of thoughtfulness in the online dating realm. Both Catholic and secular. The "Not Interested" button. The "Other" option for closing a match on eHarmony. The ability to hide yourself from another person's searches when you just don't want to deal with them.

It would've been easy to do all of that to David (or The Shamrock Shakira as perhaps you better know him...although a four-leaf clover is technically not a shamrock). He's got 16 years on me. He committed a dating faux pas and signed his first correspondence to me with "love." Phone conversations across the pond are not really an option. Physically he's not my type. But it was his thoughtfulness that struck me, that had me hitting the reply button. That realization on his part, the, "Hey, I'm probably not what you're looking for. But I'll pray for you anyway."

And now, two months since that very first email that sent me into tweak out mode, I receive one of the most thoughtful presents anyone has ever given me-- from someone that's a relative stranger.

If that's not the Holy Spirit, I don't know what is.

Beware the ugly cry

I'm a woman. My mood swings are relatively unpredictable. It's cliche, but true. But I can guarantee you two weeks from now, I will be bawling.

We have a constant running countdown. 2 months. 3 weeks.

And now, 11 days until Seth the Southern Charmer and I get to be together again. And after an all too short 60 hours of togetherness, we'll be torn apart again.

I was expecting the online dating thing to be hard. The initial shudder accompanying the confession to family and friends, "Well, actually I'm going to try online dating." Putting together your own personal ad that men across the country would judge you on. The hours it would take to flip through profiles. The awkward initial conversations. The endless, "I'm just not that into yous."

I wasn't expecting to find a normal one. Much less a normal one from Tennessee who in a mere 2.5 months has been able to completely sweep me off my feet. Our relationship isn't supposed to be blossoming as it is. I had told myself not to get attached.

But I did. And he did. And now we're both wondering where we go from here. Frequent flyer miles, connecting flights and teary goodbyes can only last for so long. For a relationship to actually thrive and grow, you have to be in the same place.

We just don't know where that place actually is. Or when it'll be ready for us.

So glad you could join us!

Happy weekend! Christos anesti!

I want to take the opportunity to greet some potentially new readers to the blog. Picking through the bulletin blurbs that the Catholic Herald releases to area parishes, I realized that it's my turn this weekend to be the feature of the week.

The fact that my love life is the feature of the week in bulletins around the archdiocese of Milwaukee is incredibly surreal. As of three months ago, the only love life I had was with Ben & Jerry. And the only spooning you could do with them usually resulted in their disappearance.

Yum.

So if you're new here, I would hate to spoil the surprise of what's to come-- so grab your teleporter and jump back to January's posts and start at the very beginning (say it with me readers-- a very good place to start!). I guarantee you some giggles.

lots of hugs,
Amy, your faithful Catholic Herald reporter/online dating guinea pig

A bit of ew here, a bit of "Oh goodness no!" there

Shameless Amy confession #572: As a child, sometimes I substituted Barbie & Ken's names for Maria & Captain von Trapp.

Shameless Amy confession #602: While young and still mulletized, I was known to entertain the extended family at holidays with my rendition of the entire Sound of Music score.

Shameless Amy confession #748: I sincerely hope that "somewhere in my youth...or childhood, I must've done something good."

And I suppose if I haven't done something good, I might as well get thee to a nunnery. Perhaps I'll be able to light enough vigil candles while continously saying the rosary that eventually Mother Superior will come to me and inform me that an old sea captain is in need of a governess.

But I think I'd prefer to skip the whole habit thing. I don't do constriction.

What I've also decided-- now that I'm mulletless and at least on the road to being all grown up, if I'm not already-- is that I have no desire to be the next Maria von Trapp. I don't care if I find a man whose children are the perfect blend of soprano, alto, tenor and bass. I don't care if they have perfect pitch. If you've got enough kids to form your own basketball team, the answer is no.

While I am without a doubt, incredibly off the dating market and safely into the arms and heart of my Southern Charmer Seth, I'm still getting hits from all the Prince Charmings...er...*cough cough*...Prince Something or Others of the dating world. At least for another month.

And I found two, or rather, two that found me, that I'm pretty sure are not the answer to my mother's prayers that there is at least one male human being on the planet that will put up with her youngest daughter. Make that one straight male human being.

Exhibit A: Captain von Trapp

I like kids. I like playing with my nieces and nephews and sugaring them up and giggling with them and then passing them back to their parents. One day, I wouldn't mind having a few of my own that I couldn't pawn off at the end of the day. And I suppose I could adapt to dating a man with a kid. Or two.

But if you've got so many kids that the number isn't even an option on your online dating profile, I'm afraid I'll have to pass. I can barely drive my Dad's Honda Odyssey and parallel parking my own Honda Accord makes me break out in hives. I don't think I'm really equipped to drive whatever sort of large vehicle it would take to accommodate all those children. I can handle probably a max of 3-4 children under the age of 7 at a time, and it is entirely dependent on how many servings of "Mr. Chippy" pancakes from Perkins they have consumed. Not to mention I am mildly addicted to Sephora. I really don't think I can trade in my expensive mascara splurges so that an entire chunk of my budget can be dedicated to sippy cups.

Exhibit B: Last time I checked my Grandma was single.

You can kind of tell how desperate a guy is by the answers he gives for what he's looking for in a mate.

If it's someone between the ages of 21-27, between 5'3"-5'8" within 50 miles of Milwaukee. You're golden.

If it's someone between the ages of 18-95, between 4'6"-6'8" located anywhere in the world, step off. And I mean back away as quickly and quietly before he notices there's someone with a pulse within range of his dating profile.

What I can't figure out though, is what in the heck you do when a guy in your age range specifically wants women receiving social security. Like I've heard of the "cougars"-- older women going for younger men. And "The Graduate" and "American Pie" pretty much made it cool for a younger man to go for an older woman.

But really? Being my age and honest to goodness, being entirely serious about this, stating that you're not just looking for any woman-- but a, and I quote, "senior citizen" to be your wife, lover and soulmate?

Ick.


I personally prefer my men not to be born in the Stone Age. Except for this kind gent. He certainly is a hottie. Sadly, not Catholic though.

Seth speaks

Since I was feeling a little under the weather yesterday and had a doctor's appointment this morning, Seth, being the great boyfriend he is, offered to sit down for a little Q & A for today's post, while my brain is waiting for the icky sickies to dissipate.

Readers, I give you Seth...

Where are you today?
Knoxville, TN

Officially 635.2 miles too far away from me

What is the temperature?
Knoxville's high is suppose to be in the mid 70's through Saturday

I'll take a high of 42 degrees in Milwaukee for 200 Alex

What was it about me that made you click "Yes" on Catholic Mingle?
Well you know how it gives you four choices to choose from, at first I didn't think it could be you, as you were in Milwaukee, and at the time I was in Florida, but my profile said TN. But after reading through your profile, I liked what I saw, and thought possibly there could be something here.

In the grand Catholic Mingle extravaganza of 2008, I proceeded to go through every male member between the ages of 21-35 and utilize the site's fancy service, "Think You'd Click?" Seth was honest to goodness the only guy that stood out from the other 15 or so guys I clicked yes to.

First impressions of me when we first started emailing?
Ok a little on the tough side, but when we first started emailing each other, I would say that reassured my thoughts that there was something there, in the sense that we had no problem at all communicating with one another. It was always nice too, after being on the road all day, to have something to come back to the hotel and read that was pleasant and not something from work.

I believe my initial reaction was, "This guy's kinda cute. Let's give it a whirl."

When/how did you know that things could work out between us in person?
Let's see, this is just one of those feelings that you sense and know that everything is going to work out, I think more of a gut instinct. But I would say I didn't really know until we met in person, but the moment I saw you for the first time, I knew we definitely had something between us, and more than just friends!

Ditto.

Do you think I have an accent?
Yes I do, but then again who doesn't. When hearing something out of the ordinary, everyone has an accent. After I lived in New England for a while, the accent was still there, but it was less noticeable to people I was around. One thing though, it will never matter how long I have lived in the south east, I can always hear the accent down here, I think it's the natural drawl. I can say this, your accent isn't as bad as some of the people that I have met from up north!

He's my Southern Charmer, of course I think he has an accent. But not as noticeable as it used to be.

What was running through your head when you first saw me in the airport?
Well first and foremost I was nervous. I am thinking is she going to like me, am I going to like her, but then when I saw ya all that went away and I knew, that the whole "I'm falling for you" a couple weeks prior to meeting had come true!

A couple weeks before Seth's visit we had a major DTR (define the relationship chat) where he unleashed arguably a few of the best words in the human language-- "I'm falling for you." Not to be confused with "I love you."

Favorite part of our weekend together?
I plead the fifth!

Ditto!

Favorite thing about me?
Well there are lots of characteristics and physical features about you that I find very attractive, but I would say your smile!

For me it's his eyes. There is definitely something about his eyes.

you want to talk distance eHarmony man?

"I think the physical distance between us is too great."

Ummm....excuse me?

I was just rejected by a man on eHarmony. Because being 67.36 miles apart is too much for him.

Listen here buddy, if you want to talk physical distance being too great, I'll tell you about physical distance being too great. Try a minimum of 600 miles on any given day you [expletive expletive].

Granted, I could care less about the men on eHarmony. Or Catholic Singles for that matter. Or Catholic Mates, Match or Mingle. But still. Don't talk to me about physical distance being too great.

Particularly when my trip to Florida is still 17 days away.

Hello, Mom?

I have no idea how to meet The Mom.

Growing up in small town Minnesota, meeting The Mom wasn't an option. The Mom likely knew Your Mom, remembered the time you wet your pants in kindergarten, and could give a rap sheet that included your birthdate, GPA and what afterschool activities you participated in.

Or, if you're really lucky, she could be your nurse and know not only all the prescriptions you're on, but also when your last tetanus shot was.

So no, I've never met The Mom. I've always just known The Mom. It was never some big event played out in the likes of "Meet the Parents," or "Guess Who's Coming to Dinner."

Welp. I've got a new one to add to that. "Guess Who's Coming to Florida."

Let the record show that Seth's mom knew far enough in advance before I booked my ticket that there would be an extra female joining her weekend with her boys (Seth's little brother is 22 like me). And while a weekend in the fun and sun with my boyfriend sounds like more fun than I can handle, a little Amy voice in the back of my head keeps nagging me.

"Oh my goodness I'm meeting his mom! What if she doesn't like me? What if she thinks I'm some uptight Northerner? What if she thinks I'm not good enough for her son?"

I don't know what to do, I don't know how to proceed. So I'm just going to shoot for whatever natural Amy charm that managed to win over all mothers before Mother of my Southern Charmer.

And perhaps neglect to tell her the story about the time I wet my pants in kindergarten.

I take it back. I take it allll back.

It was a mere two months ago I wrote the following about using the term girlfriend in relation to me.

"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."

Oops. I kinda not only bought a plane ticket for Commitmentville, I even splurged on a new swimsuit. And I couldn't be happier to proclaim myself as "Seth's girlfriend."

And this girlfriend will be arriving at Orlando International Airport at approximately 10:10 p.m. on April 25 to meet her boyfriend's mom.

So that's where this fairy tale leaves off for the moment... back to the late night phone calls and emails. To be reconvened at Cinderella's castle...in just three weeks...

P.S. I Love You

After four years of J-school I know the drill. Make it short. Make it sweet (not literally though). Get to the point. Get it out there. Just get it done.

Not when it comes to love letters though. (Well...love emails is more like it. Sometimes I positively hate technology). Make them long, make them wordy, throw in lots of adjectives and pretty-old fashioned words.

When Seth and I first started emailing each other, while not love letters, but more like how do you do letters, I was always impressed with the length of his emails and frequency. Everyday without fail there would be paragraphs upon paragraphs telling me all about his life and his family and what he hoped for in the future and in a relationship, and questions wanting to know the same thing from me. And even after the phone calls started, the emails kept coming. Every day.

Every once in awhile though, his emails will have a stark amount of white space at the bottom. Sometimes it's because he's stressed out and has a lot of work for the day, or because he spent 16 hours on the road and is exhausted. But sometimes, on days like today, it's because what he has to say is simple. Short and sweet. Ridiculously to the point. But of definite Prince Charming quality.

It was only 80 words. But he had me at "Morning hun!"

Oh that John Denver...

I have a severe allergy to all-things airport related.

As in an overactive tear ducts, inaudible and incomprehensible speech patterns, heavy breathing, excess sniffles, abnormal red splotchies on my cheeks sort of allergy.

Which is probably why when I googled the lyrics to "Leaving on a Jet Plane" I nearly started crying at my desk. It's a miracle I can drive from my YMCA near the airport back to my apartment without breaking down everyday.

So it's no surprise that come 5 a.m. Monday morning, watching Seth pack up his bags, the waterworks were flowing. Freely. As in could not be controlled, I'm not even going to attempt to hide my ugly cry, it's just all coming out, cause the more I try to hold it in, the uglier it gets.

I had warned him that I might cry. But I failed to mention how much I might cry. We'd warned each other that it might be hard to say goodbye. But there was no way to anticipate that it was going to be as hard as it was.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment that Seth and I knew that there was something between us. Not something as in friendship or pen pals or even just boyfriend/girlfriend-- but something. It's not the sort of thing that you can put into words. You just know. And you know it's something you don't want to be apart from.

I don't know what Seth did once I left him in the security line at the airport, aside from remove his shoes and all change from his pocket of course. What did I do? Made the scrunchy, "Of course I'm not crying what the heck are you talking about?" face until I was safely in the driver's seat of the Not so happy Honda.

And then promptly proceeded to weep.

*Do Not Disturb*

There comes a point in time where coupledom-- however glorious to one that hasn't been coupled in several years-- becomes kind of boring to the the world that's outside looking in.

I could make you vomit in your mouth if I really wanted to, regaling you with tales of how Seth and I spent our lazy Sunday together. How he gave me butterflies in my stomach whenever he smiled at me from the second pew during church. How we took this incredibly awful picture of me (well the two of us) in my apartment where I look like a cross between high/happy/content/high. How he went out of his way to pick the quarters in change out from our bill at Rockbottom to ensure that I had two whole extra coins to do laundry with. How we pointed out our favorite homes along Lake Drive and talked about all the things we wanted to do and places we wanted to go-- together.

Oops. I probably just made you vomit in your mouth anyway. Sorry.

The point is, while Sunday was probably my favorite day of the entire weekend that I spent with Seth, we didn't do anything overly fancy. No special tricks. A lot of staring into each other's eyes and holding hands. Just being a couple. Stuff that a month ago I probably would've said "vomit in my mouth" to.

Stuff that I'd rather keep between me and my boyfriend.

Tomorrow: The teary end...and the new beginning...

And the nagging begins...

8:55 a.m.: I was pacing.

Dressed in my Sunday finery, I was all ready to go play pianist for a choir in Cudahy at their 10:30 mass. Because I'd never been to the church before, or seen some of the music, I wanted to arrive, be seated, and feel my fingers tickling the ivories by 9:30 a.m. Which, following Papa Guckeen Proper Protocol meant we needed to vacate the premises and on the way to the car by 9:05 a.m.

I didn't want to be the nagging girlfriend, but the shower was still on. And judging by the water splatter I could hear, Seth was still in it. And still in it. And STILL still in it.

You could say it was The Northerner in me that had me hollering through the bathroom door.

"Seth! It's 9:01! You have four minutes!"

Oops. It would appear I had magically slipped into wife/serious girlfriend mode just a little too soon.

But, as only men can do, he was dressed, deodorized, squeaky clean and plenty handsome and out the door.

By 9:07 a.m.

My very first dinner date

Not to be rude to my previous boyfriends or anything...

But they were, pardon my language, considerably craptacular.

And so Saturday night, after years of precious potential dating years wasted, I went on my first very ever dinner date.

While we had originally planned an evening out in downtown Milwaukee, parallel parking woes (my driving archnemesis) took us out to Wauwatosa for what else? Mozzarella sticks and stuffed pizza at Edwardo's. (After all, you can't possibly visit Wisconsin without partaking in at least SOME cheese).

For the girl that's been absolutely terrified of eating in front of members of the male species whom she is attracted to for the past 10 years, it was a perfect end to a perfect day with my boyfriend.

Yes I said it. My boyfriend.

Over the river and through the woods to our second date we go...

This is going to sound ridiculous either way I spin it, so I'm just going to come right out and say it.

Probably the largest fight Seth and I have ever gotten into was over whether or not Wisconsin has hills. Like big hills.

Well. That wasn't the main point of the argument. But it was the starting point. And boy did it snowball from there.

While we both apologized profusely, the stubborn Irish girl in me was bound and determined to hear the words, "yes, Wisconsin has big hills" falling beautifully out of Seth's mouth.

So I took him to the only really big hill I know of. Holy Hill.

I didn't tell him where we were going. Just that I was about to cash in and get the, "Yes honey, you're right" look and that we were going to a BIG hill. A big hill that might even score brownie points with his mom.

Winding through the countryside, regretting my low-maintenance, high-fat, gastrointestinally unfriendly lunch choice, panic began to set in.

What if it backfired? What if he thought I was the weird church girl that of all places-- took him to a basilica and then asked him to walk the stations of the cross with her-- in his mere 60 hours in the state of Wisconsin? What if I was making a major Catholic faux pas-- turning a visit to a religious shrine into a date?! Was lightning going to strike from above? The voice of God inform me that I would now be single and alone forever? Where were my quarters so I could light some vigil candles and take it all back?!

And then it appeared. And the phrase rolled off his tongue, "Yes Wisconsin has big hills." He pulled out his phone to call his mom. His camera to document the view from the basilica. Instead of mittens we were holding hands to keep warm, walking through the woods among the snow and the twigs and the stations.

I would say the angels sang. But then again, it could've been one of the Discalced Carmelite Friars.

And so begins date #2...

...Saturday morning...

I didn't dream it. It's real. Seth is in Milwaukee.

And hungry.

When it comes to making concrete social plans, I have a tendency to be a bit indecisive.

Which led us to the drive-up window of the golden arches on early Saturday afternoon. But it was a romantic time at the drive-up window of the golden arches, hands all meshed together in happy coupley hand holding activities.

You would think of all the places in Milwaukee to take a boy on your "second date" the McDonald's off of Miller Parkway would not be it. But in an attempt to be low-maintenance, cost effective, somewhat quirky and not to mention quick, that's the exact direction the Happy Honda took us.

In my defense, the original plan was to picnic along Lake Michigan. But Mother Nature can be a mean old lady and made that more than impossible.

So there we sat in the front seat of my car along Lake Michigan, eating our #1s, sipping our Cokes and talking about nothing in particular.

It was the best McDonald's I've had in my entire life.

Alone...at last?

This is arguably my favorite spot on earth. The Mall in Central Park.

It is because of this location, and this location alone, that instead of bringing Seth anywhere else in Milwaukee, I immediately brought him back to my apartment on Friday night.

When my bestie Lauren and I were in New York we played games along The Mall-- Mommy or Nanny? Count the fanny packs! Friends or Lovers? Married or Cheating?

And best of all....Narrate the Awkward Date.

You can tell when a new couple is out on their pioneer adventure together. Their eye contact is off. They blush when they accidentally bump elbows. She's never quite sure if he's going to open the door for her. They get skiddish when the check arrives. Excusing oneself to use the facilities is a momentous task in itself.

Lauren and I loved to provide the storyline behind the awkwardness. And while we are unique, fabulous ladies, there's no way we could possibly be the only Awkward Date Narrators. Not up for having her first date with her internet boyfriend narrated, I took him to the only place I could think of out of the public eye.

And so we sat. In my apartment. Eating the Guckeen family Easter dinner leftovers and watching Old School. Reveling in the fact that we were together. Holding hands. And speaking. Without the use of a mobile phone. As soon as the ham, and the wine, and the cheesey potatoes disappeared, so did the awkwardness.

And that, boys and girls, is the story of our very first date.

Watch out for that burning bush

When in doubt, fear, or intense moments of awkwardness, beware-- I just might push you into a bush.

If the fact that I can't actually recall the last time a straight man bought me dinner (if this ever has occurred for that matter) wasn't enough proof that I have been single for a long time, what happened as we walked from my parking garage to my apartment Friday night should be proof enough.

I nearly pushed him into a bush.

In the words of Green Day, I walk alone. I walk alone. I walk alone. Not because I'm a smelly child and no one wants to walk near me, but more or less because most of the time I'm speed walking from one meeting or interview or mass or choir practice to another.

So much so that perhaps I forgot how to walk next to another human being. And so, as we rounded the corner near my apartment, while my brain was focused on trying to ease any awkwardness still existing between Seth and I, I cut him off. Perhaps gave him a little push even. Into the nearest bush.

Oops. So much for the first few minutes of our "first date."

The best thoughts come to those who wait.... for checked bags

There comes a point, in every single girl's life, where you can't help but wonder if the guy you're dating could one day be the inspiration of a Law & Order: SVU episode.

You try not to think about it, but it creeps up on you, the curiosity of whether or not he and B.D. Wong would have some sort of drama-filled patient/psychiatrist moment, where after hours of analysis, your boyfriend finally confesses to cutting you into pieces with a butter knife and saving your remains in a shoebox.

No? I'm the only single girl with that recurring dream? Hmm. Perhaps I need to stop inputting channel 34 on my remote so much.

Standing at baggage claim 4, trying to create conversation in the strange me/college friend/internet boyfriend circle of awkwardness I had created, I came to a realization.

There are certain things a person just knows. My dad has a mysterious knack for knowing whether or not a person is inherently good upon meeting them. My best friend's cat always knows when I want to sleep in whenever I'm cat sitting. Because that's the point where she magically starts meowing uncontrollably.

And this, in my heart and my head, I knew to be true Friday afternoon. That this guy wasn't going to chop me into little bits. He wasn't going to pull a chainsaw out of his luggage or show me his super cool pocketknife. He was going to open the door for me. Buy me dinner. Attentively listen to me play the piano at mass. Hold my hand. And call me beautiful.

And with that, I dropped my security guard Beth off at her apartment, and brought Seth back to my own, for our own little Easter dinner celebration.

*Gulp*

"Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love.

If you look for it, I've got a sneaking suspicion love actually is all around." ~Hugh Grant, Love Actually


All I can say is, it's a darn good thing Hugh Grant's character from Love Actually wasn't just chilling out in the arrivals area at General Mitchell last Friday. His sneaking suspicion would have been more that awkwardness, actually is all around.

And no one wants to sit through a movie called Awkwardness Actually.

I wish I could say that it was bells and whistles. That immediately upon catching my eye, Seth burst out into a little, "You're the fairest maid I've ever met, you were made to" and then I added a little "finish your duet" ala Enchanted, before we ran into each other's arms as if he'd just returned from war and had the most romantic true love's kiss ever.

But not quite. Not even close.

Instead, we locked glances. I gave a little wave. And he approached. Muttering some inaudible to Beth, a look of sheer terror in my eye, I said something to the effect of, "I suppose I should stand up or something." And as she started to rise, I smacked her leg back into place, not quite sure if I could actually stand without falling over immediately.

There he was. Taller than I expected. His hair longer than I had remembered in pictures. But his voice was the exact same. And wrapping me up in a hug, while feeling mildly awkwarded out, I knew that because his voice was the exact same, everything was going to be ok.

An out of Amy experience

I've never been dead.

Well, obviously.

But Friday evening I had my first out of body experience. And I wasn't even near death.

Just near-internet boyfriend.

There is something completely and totally ridiculous about sitting in the arrivals area of the airport, waiting for your internet boyfriend to arrive. Ridiculous enough that come 4:55 p.m., watching Oprah with the fellow suits waiting to go through security, I was positive I had stepped out of the body of Amy Guckeen and into an alternate universe.

Where some crazy girl had gone all Napoleon Dynamite on herself and had become the LaFawnduh to some Southern Charmer's Kip. And nothing seemed more amusing or more ridiculous.

So began the giggles Friday evening at the airport. And they would not stop. For 20 minutes straight, every time Beth, my security detail for the great meet thought I was near composure, out came another squeak, and another declaration to remind her of the hilarity of the situation.

"We are sitting. In the airport. Waiting for my boyfriend. Who I met. On the internet. To walk up and say hi."

*Giggle, giggle, giggle, giggle*

Gradually panic set in for Beth as she realized that there was a 95% chance that I would be laughing like a crazy woman, unable to be controlled, and far beyond the ability to speak once Seth the Southern Charmer arrived at our side, and that it would be her responsibility entirely to introduce the two of us.

And then, he appeared. And suddenly, the giggles went away...