If you haven't had the opportunity....

to check out the rest of this edition of MyFaith be sure to check it out.

the ancient age of 23

As of 9:44 p.m. last night, I am officially 23.

Pass me my cane and my pants with the elastic waistband.

Just kidding. :)

While you could say I'm not feeling any older, yesterday definitely marked my entrance into a totally different world.

The boredom of adulthood.

A world where you have to work on your birthday. Find bills in your mailbox instead of birthday cards. Go grocery shopping-- and not fun grocery shopping either. Like buy lettuce and oat bran grocery shopping.

I stopped myself short of doing the dishes. I don't care if I'm an adult. I'm not cleaning up after my own birthday dinner.

Well. I will tonight of course.

The big 2-3...

At exactly 9:44 p.m. this evening, I will turn a whopping 23 years old.

To my nieces and nephews this is ancient. To a majority of my coworkers, it's the equivalent of learning how to tie your shoes.

As the baby of my family, I am spoiled rotten. There's no way around it. My mom has always joked that whether or not May 27 falls on Memorial Day, it's still a holiday to the Guckeen family.

As it should be, haha.

So Happy Amy day. I'm sure it'll be a good one. :)

The secret of LIFE...

I'm going home.

*Cue that awful song from American Idol*

The cornfields of south central Minnesota will be welcoming their native daughter back home these evening, as I make my way through the twists and turns, the cows and UFOs (unidentified farming objects). I couldn't be more thrilled for my 6 hour drive home to see my family (particularly my Grandma Guckeen-- prayers for her please).

For three whole days, I get to forget that I'm a grown up. And return to my beloved post as the baby of the family.

Classes are out at universities across the nation. Summer is beginning. Vacations have been planned. College freshmen are catching up on all the sleep they lost in the past 9 months by sleeping in until 2 p.m. every day and laying out in the sun the rest of their waking hours.

And here I am...at my desk...in my cubicle...no end in sight.

How the heck did I get here?

It's officially been a year since I've entered the "real world," a place that puts a big HECK NO sign over eating when I want to, shopping when I want to, sleeping when I want to, and most importantly-- doing whatever the heck I want to do. Apparently, this is the real world.

I wonder why it took me a year post-college to figure that out.

Given the rising gas and food prices and my swift decline into poverty, I have come up with the ultimate money making solution.

I am going to sue Milton Bradley, the maker of my favorite childhood game, "The Game of Life." Which as it turns out, has absolutely nothing to do with what life is actually cracked up to be.

My case in point:

So maybe I was on the Dean's list a time or two at MU-rah-rah. Last time I checked though, the dean never handed me some $200,000 Life card telling me I'd just found a cure for the common cold. Come to think of it, I'm pretty sure you don't get one of those when you buy a house or pop out a couple of kids either. As a matter of fact, I'm relatively certain you have to pay a couple hundred thousand when those sorts of life events roll around.

There is no large red STOP sign in life telling you when to get married (that's what all your married friends are for). And trust me, if finding a husband was as easy as picking up a teeny tiny blue piece of plastic and shoving it in my generic red suburban (which runs on finger power alone-- no gas), I would have hit that milestone by now.

(In the Game of Life you actually have to graduate from college before you accomplish such craziness, which at least gives me one reason to hand out kudos to Milton Bradley).

While I am immensely grateful for the fact that men in general are not generic pieces of blue plastic, because I for one don't want to marry a generic piece of blue plastic, I really wish someone would tell all us ladies which "men" are crappy and which ones are good...like who would choose the piece that you used to chew on when you were five? No one!

I am also eternally grateful to the fact that there is not a major stop sign in life for all the singletons out there...otherwise a lot of singletons out there may be stuck a heck of a long ways from Millionaire Acres until they're 85 looking for their plastic spouses.

Having kids, much like acquiring a husband, also appears to be much crappier in real life. I don't know a single woman who magically just gets to pick whether they want a son or daughter and plop it in their car (no car seat necessary) without at least a good few months of morning sickness and a horrendous little event called labor.

I can't find a single job on this earth where you can just steal your best friend's salary whenever you darn well choose (or at least when you land on a spot that says you can trade salaries with a player). But when I do, I'll let you know.

And when was the last time you randomly decided to fund your own $30,000 music video?

That's what I thought.

When I play the Game of Life, everyone is automatically insured. No questions asked, no money down. Sure that goes against the rules, but really-- some rules were just made to be broken. (Aside from all the life insurance companies out there, who really wants to teach their five-year-old about buying insurance?) This is almost certainly illegal in real life.

And speaking of illegal things, there is no jail in the Game of Life. Perhaps it's because there are no crimes committed, no major travesties other than your average run of the mill craptacular events. Which leads me to believe that Mr. Milton and Mr. Bradley are holding out on something major that could change the world-- world peace. Cause with no jails and no crimes and no major hardships, they obviously have the answer for that somewhere.

Perhaps it's actually God's preview of what could've happened had Eve not eaten the dang apple?

And until we meet again...

The Catholic dating sites have been deactivated, Seth is breathing a sigh of relief that I am officially considered to be "off the market" and my email inboxes are clear of the "You have a match!" clutter.

The grand online dating adventure of 2008 has come and gone. Phew. And I even got a really sweet boyfriend out of the deal too.

You're probably wondering right now if this means that I'm breaking up with y'all now. 

The answer is no. I mean come on people. Four months of being together and you think that just because I've changed my life course a little that I'm going to throw everything we've had together to the dogs? Do you not value our love affair?

Haha.

In all seriousness however, this is not goodbye. Not by a long shot. The blog may need a new name, and my profile picture certainly needs the smiling face of another pretty cute gent, but other than that, I promise to be here for ya everyday. What the topic might be will certainly be up in the air (I guarantee ya I'll throw a little Jesus and a little Seth in from time to time), but nevertheless I'm still young, single by a technicality on my tax forms, and Catholic.

And in this world, that can still be pretty interesting. 

See you tomorrow.

Tiptoe through the tulips...

Pretty as a picture.

There's no other way to describe our lazy Sunday afternoon in North Carolina.

Sipping sweet tea while we munched on fresh shrimp, walking through the gardens of the Tryon Palace, soaking up the sun's rays while wandering the boardwalk in Washington, along the Pamlico River, where Seth's granddaddy was born. 

And eventually making our way through a rainstorm back towards the direction of the airport. Where I managed to create a rainstorm of my own. 

The story...

The official verdict in this month's edition of MyFaith

FORE!!!

We went to the beach.

Wined and dined and did what I wanted to do all weekend long.

Sunday afternoon it was Seth's turn.

After a quick change of clothes and wild goose chase to find the local disc golf course, my Southern Charmer introduced me to one of his favorite pastimes: disc golf.

Not to be confused with mini golf. Which I am confident is played in hell.

If you've been brave enough to enter a putt putt palace with me, you'll know the temper tantrum is inevitable. I'm on my 12th attempt to get the ball in the hole, cussin up a storm under my breath, wielding my putter like it's a dangerous weapon. I figured since disc golf utilizes frisbees I'd be safe. 

Lucky for Seth, my disc golf skills are a bit better than my mini golf skills and he didn't have to witness an Amy meltdown. 

But it wasn't my lack of skills so to say that had me running away from hole 6, pulling Seth towards the van with the proclamation of, "I'm done. I'm hot. I'm hungry. Let's go home."

It was the frog. And the poison ivy. And the potential for slithering s-words.

At least mini golf sticks to animals and flora of the cardboard variety. 

Mass with my Man

I've massed it alone. Massed it in groups. Massed it with my family. Massed it with my best friends.

I've even massed it with the occasional boy I've had a crush on.

But I have never, ever, massed it with my boyfriend.

Until Sunday. 

Lucky for us, our innkeepers John and Betty were Catholic as well, and pointed us in the direction of the nearest Catholic church upon check-in. So there we found ourselves, on our knees praying before Jesus at the 11 a.m. mass in New Bern. 

(Sidenote: Their vigil candles were lightbulb "candles." For some reason I just don't feel quite as confident by switching on a button as I do with the possibility that my prayer may burn the church down). 

There's something incredibly special about going to mass with your significant other. The praying together, praising together, singing together. But it left me with one monster conundrum.

What the heck do you do at the sign of peace?

Shaking hands seems ludicrous. But kissing not entirely appropriate. A hug? And if so, what kind of hug? How long do you hug for? 

By the time I had determined what proper protocol was, the sign of peace was over.

Better luck next time I guess.

The Truth about Southerners and Yankees

We didn't know their names, but they were no friends of ours.

If I thought dragging Seth out of bed on Saturday was bad, Sunday morning was even worse. Breakfast-- albeit delicious as it was (quiche, fresh fruit and a muffin to die for)-- had been pushed back to 8 a.m. to accommodate some other departing guests. Yuck.

While the older ladies chatted and chatted in their touristy t-shirts they had clearly picked up at the beach the day before, Seth and I remainesilent, save for a grunt or two when I wanted the butter.

And then it happened. Our happy bubble of morning silence was broken.

Another couple joined us.

Seth and I often joke about the differences in our personalities from where we grew up. I'm fast. Doesn't matter if I'm walking, eating, or going to the bathroom. In, out, boom, it's done. Seth is more leisurely in how he goes about things. He stops and smells the roses from time to time. I often times forget that roses even exist.

Chatting with the couple across from us at the breakfast table was like looking in a mirror. She was from the South. He had more Yankee roots. She was spontaneous and took her time. He was all about planning and didn't waste any time getting things done. We swapped stories, identifying perfectly with each other's woes and frustrations.

One of the surprises Seth gave me over the weekend was a book on how to speak Southern. I don't think I'll ever completely master it, but I'm sure beginning to understand that just a couple hundred miles sure can make a big difference.

Pass the sweet tea please.

UNO!

We were celebrating.

My big 2-3. Our 4 month anniversary. A night on the town of New Bern we did have, walking along the waterfront, taking in all the quaint local shops, dining over candlelight, savoring a little ice cream for dessert, popping open a bottle of wine...

And playing Chutes 'n' Ladders. 

I never said it was difficult to please me. 

While the entire weekend was picturesque and romantic, everything I had ever dreamed would come about when I met the man that would be in the running for title of "The One," Saturday night was one of my favorite moments of the entire weekend. 

Sitting on the back porch of the inn, looking at the stars, sipping wine and holding hands...

and having Seth whoop my butt at Uno. 

Three times.

Saturday on the shore...

It's a little known fact that my one wish in high school was to go to college in North Carolina.

I had my heart set on the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. My sister even splurged on a birthday getaway to the great state for a college tour the summer before my senior year.

Alas, God had other plans. And I have to admit, he probably has the better road map to my life.

Saturday I retraced the steps of my original journey to the coast of North Carolina, stopping in Beaufort, one of the most beautiful cities on the map. Sitting along the water, shivering from the cool breeze in Seth's University of Tennesse sweatshirt, eating a crabcake and downing a microbrew next to my man, my life could not have been more perfect.

History 101: Forts, Cannons, and Moats, oh my!

I wouldn't necessarily proclaim myself to be the history buff of the Guckeen family.

At the end of each semester at Marquette, I happily handed over all and any history textbooks to my beloved brother-in-law, who actually bothered to open them up and see what was inside.

I know it would've been academic dishonesty, but he really could've written me a LOT of good term papers.

Nevertheless, it was with great excitement that Seth and I walked the grounds of Fort Macon, built in 1834 on North Carolina's Crystal Coast, which was used in the Civil War, Spanish-American War and World War II.

It's just one tiny example of what I absolutely love about the South-- the rich history is everywhere you turn. And it has something to do with things a bit deeper than cheese and beer.

But I want to!...

I was making the puppy dog face.

Hundreds of miles away, Seth couldn't see it over the phone, but he knew it was there. A cool comfort had settled into our relationship that I didn't mind being a bit on the whiny side as I proclaimed, "But I want to go to the beach" as Seth laid out our plans for our romantic getaway in North Carolina.

Needless to say, the beach wasn't in his plans. So I whined. And I whined. And I whined some more. Until he replied with the oh so magical word of "maybe."

Success.

Our bellies filled with stuffed french toast, fresh fruit and sticky buns, Seth and I hopped on the interstate Saturday morning and headed for the coast. 

I was going to get my day at the beach. My Southern Charmer was making sure of that.

Breakfast in heaven

** poke poke poke**...pause...** poke poke poke**...pause...

sigh.

**poke poke poke**

"Seth. Seth. It's time to get up. Wake up. Breakfast. Wake up!"

** poke poke poke**

It will come as no surprise to anyone that knows my father, that when the alarm clock goes off most mornings, I shoot out of bed, ready to start my day.

It's up and at 'em or die. Not so for my Southern Charmer, who wasn't even mildly amused at my very desperate attempt at pulling him out of bed on Saturday morning for my first ever homemade breakfast at the Meadows Inn.

I really need to start working on my weight lifting if I'm going to make a career out of getting this boy out of bed.

After more poking and ear pulling he finally realized that I wasn't about to give up. You don't mess with the Guckeen women when we're on the path of persistence.

I can't begin to tell you how worth it it was to be out of bed Saturday morning. And I'll even say it had nothing to do with the company.

No, oh no. It was all about the stuffed french toast. The tray that the innkeepers John and Betty brought in put my morning cup of Cheerios to shame.

Even Seth was glad to be out of bed. And with a full belly, I was ready to hit the road for another day of surprises. 

Unwrapping my birthday surprise...

This falling in love thing?

It's really kind of a lot of fun.

Like a LOT of fun.

Four months ago today, I had a nice little smooth groove going to my life. Wake up. Pray. Hit the road. Catholic Herald it. Workout. Dinner and phone calls with the parents and my besties. Sleep. Repeat.

I was single and lovin' it. Didn't mess around with that romance thing. Sure I threw in a couple of quarters every week to the vigil candles at St. Florian, praying for my future husband, wherever he may be, that he was safe, happy and healthy, and would one day make his way to my neck of the world. But other than that it was Lean Cuisines for one. No complaints here.

What was I thinking?

(Yet again, more proof that I have crossed over to the dark side to my singleton friends. But I had to say it.)

I had mentioned in passing a few weeks ago to Seth how fun it would be one day to stay at a Bed & Breakfast. Having dated guys that would just smile and nod to that statement, in one ear, out the other, I figured he was just saying, "Oh yeah, I'd like that too," to score some extra brownie points.

And then we pulled up to my "surprise" Friday afternoon.

For my 23rd birthday present, Seth had booked us a weekend at the Meadows Inn, a bed and breakfast in historic New Bern, North Carolina, the second oldest city in the state.

If I didn't love the south before, I sure do now.

O Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou Romeo?

Walt Disney set the bar pretty high for romance.

As a child, I filled my head with visions of Ariel's Prince Eric, Belle's Beast, Sleeping Beauty's Prince Phillip and Lady's Tramp. As I grew older, the disillusionment of the Bridget Jones generation set in.

If Prince Charming was out there, let alone existed, he was no doubt lost, and was either too stupid to ask for directions or couldn't figure out how to operate his GPS device.

It is only fitting that my Prince Charming is an expert in geography. And when in doubt, he uses his mildly trusty GPS device.

Whether I'm lucky or just plain cheap, I've never been in a romantic relationship at the time of birthdays or holidays. Not even Columbus Day.

Well I take that back. But really, I don't know if I'd classify that relationship as "romantic." 

 

Fully aware that my visit would land a week before my birthday, Seth promised me a weekend of sweet surprises. And he actually delivered. 

Cruising down the interstate Friday, among the turtles crossing the road, the towering pine trees and the Watch for Bears signs, little did I know all the wonders my Souther Charmer had yet to behold...

12 hours later...

Monday, May 19, 6:55 p.m.

I'm surrounded by clatter. Suitcases rolling across the tiled floor. American Eagle paging Captain Pearson. Businessmen shouting orders on their Blackberrys. And the sound of my own tears.

The little girl behind me can probably tell that I've been crying for the past 24 hours. My puffy eyes scream to the world that in Room 406 of the Holiday Inn Express Sunday night the mere thought of saying goodbye to my Southern Charmer was just too much to take. At now, sitting at Gate C19 of the Raleigh-Durham Airport, I've said goodbye. And I feel like my heart has been ripped from my chest.

Those that have been there tell me it doesn't get any easier. That with time, the wound that is my Southern Charmer living hundreds of miles away from me will not get any easier. My sobs tell me that I already know this much is true.

My contacts ache. I can't see clearly anymore. By the time this has reached your eyes, I've said my Hail Marys 34,000 feet in the air, cried myself to sleep in the absence of Seth's comforting embrace and auto piloted my way to the offices of the Catholic Herald. But the longing and the emotions have not changed.

I still miss him. 

*Sigh....*

I'm in heaven.

At least I assume I am. Theoretically, as I'm writing this it's 12:49 p.m. on Thursday afternoon. My flight has yet to take off. I haven't even laid eyes on my Southern Charmer yet.

But by the time you're reading this, I can only assume I have spent a weekend in heaven with him.

Either figuratively or literally. Although I'm really hoping not literally. A plane crash would kind of suck. 

Ok not kind of. It would A LOT. And I'm guessing God's got me down for at least a few years in purgatory.

I digress. 

(Actually before I digress say a few prayers for my return flight home). 

This week wraps up the blog as we know it...no doubt as I'm cruising some 30,000 feet above the air I'll be thinking of where it goes from here. I can tell you one thing for certain-- I'm not going away.

But I sure as heck am not putting in another four months on the online Catholic dating scene.

*snore*

I can guarantee you as this is being posted I am not awake right now.

And I mean that quite literally. I am likely dozing at some Hampton Inn somewhere in the realm of Raleigh. Behold the beauty of pre-posting. Thank you Blogger.

In preparation for my trip to North Carolina yesterday, I was of course rambling on to my best friend Lauren about all the glorious things Seth had planned for us.

To the point where my rambling actually invoked the pukey smiley face. Yes they do have that on MSN.

Lauren kindly pointed out that when it's not you it's "vomit in my mouth" worthy, but if it is you....*sigh.* So romantic and adorable.

Agreed.

I officially declare next week to be the final Seth week...a full recount of all the vomit in my mouth worthy moments in North Carolina.

BYOB.

(Bring your own barf bag).

A mix tape...he made a mix tape...

I giggled.

Sitting in traffic this morning, the sun shining down brightly, my Happy Honda fed a day's worth of rations and only 12 hours to go until touchdown in Raleigh, life could not be more perfect.

Heck, it's even pay day.

Flipping through my collection of mix cds, I found a throwback to last year at this time: $3 Long Islands Mix: The best of Senior Week.

Boy how times have changed.

For anyone that's seen the musical Avenue Q, you'll know that a mix tape, or mix cd or whatever you want to call them these days, is more than just a compilation of songs on a cd. It's a window into the soul.

The window of my soul last year at this time, was clearly a very shattered one. One angry girl song after another. Windows rolled down, singing at the top of my lungs, no doubt the cars around me this morning were thinking one thing:

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

While next week at this time the full verdict will be in on my online dating experience, I have to admit, I can't help but be at least a little bit thankful to the Catholic sites (particularly Catholic Mingle). They've turned my Alanis Morissette and Meredith Brooks ridden mix compilations into cds with butterflies drawn on the front, filled with things like Rod Stewart and Celine Dion.

That's got to at least help lower the blood pressure. 

I'm so excited...and I just can't hide it...

I am easily pleased. Give me a bag of gummi bears and at least a mildly comfortable spot to rest my rump and for the most part, I'm good to go. 

My Midwest flight could take me to Nebraska tomorrow and I'd likely still be happy, just for a change of scenery. But instead I'm going somewhere even better-- one of my favorite states in the whole wide world-- North Carolina. 

I've told Seth over and over and over that a mini vacation to another part of the country, not to mention spending time with him for four whole days is enough to have me walking around the Catholic Herald offices with the most ridiculous smile on my face for at least a good four days. 

Nevertheless, at 6:26 p.m. last night as I was recounting the gloriousness of my Southern Charmer to my best friend Meg over martinis, the message came:

I am hoping to  have a pleasant surprise for ya this weekend!

*Insert squeals here*

*sigh...*

I can't even imagine what the look on my face must have been to make the woman in the laundry room apologize so profusely for doing something as simple as loading her dirty clothes into the washer. Even Seth can't read my mind all the time. There's no way a woman that lives two floors below me and only sees me once every few weeks could have known that at exactly 4:47 p.m. Monday afternoon I would come home and want to do my laundry at that exact moment.

My best friend Jim is in what he calls stage 3 crazy mode as he completes his finals week in his first year of graduate school at the University of Minnesota. 

I think that puts me somewhere between stage 46 and 47 crazy mode as the minutes slowly tick by until I get to see my Southern Charmer again. My minor moment of extreme emotion for my dirty towels yesterday is only the tip of the iceberg. 

I can't concentrate. Can't blog. Can't sleep. Can't even find anything in my cupboards I want to eat other than an obscene amount of gummi bears (although that may be my cupboard's fault). My head and my heart are stuck on repeat, and all I can think about is touching down in Raleigh at 7:25 p.m. Thursday evening for a few precious days with Seth.

It's interesting when your life feels like you spend half your time waiting to move from point A to point B. Pass the gummi bears. 

 

Deactivate!

One more dating site deactivated. Cupid was clearly not Catholic because Catholic Cupid did absolutely nothin for me in the past four months.

And I really mean, absolutely nothing. 

One service down...five more to go

I have officially been deHarmonized.

153 new matches waiting to be viewed. 50 "in communication." And about 30 emails a day informing me that I have another match!

I really wish I was kidding about the large volume of emails.  

If eHarmony were a person, it would be one of those people that when you saw them, you ran the other direction. When their name came up on your caller id, you'd gently set the phone down and back away as quickly as possible. If they ever came to your house, you'd shut all the lights off and hide under the bed for at least 4 hours. You'd change your phone number. Redo the locks.

And if necessary, a restraining order or the witness protection program may be needed.

I technically have a week and a half left before I can finally hit the deactivate button on all these Catholic dating websites, but this morning I'd had enough. Hasta la pasta eHarmony. I've got enough on my plate with getting next week's paper ready to go, not to mention myself ready for my Thursday afternoon departure for North Carolina. The last thing I need is to sift through 153 new matches.

Save the pool of bachelors for all the single gal swimmers. 

How you worry...

When I was a freshman in college, my dad was convinced that I was going to fall out of my lofted bed while sleeping. It kept him up at night. Made him tack post-it notes around the house with the words "safety bar for Amy" that in all likelihood drove my mom nuts. He attempted to convince my older brother to install the safety bar that came with the rickety loft when he came to visit.

My brother, being the good big brother that he was, bought me a six pack of grown-up kool aid instead.

I did fall out of my loft (but for the record not because I got ambitious rolling over in my sleep one night). And every time it rains, my ankle still hurts because of it.

Most women turn into their mothers as they get older. I, am becoming more and more like my father.

The post-it notes. The loud sighs. The joy from cleaning the bathroom. We make lists and we check them twice. We take naps when we've met our proper work quota.

And we worry. Boy oh boy do we worry.

If anyone hasn't turned on the TV in the past 12 hours, there's a huge storm ripping through the northeast-- right where my Southern Charmer is, in North Carolina (and where I'll be a week from now---eeeeeee!)-- causing the Papa Guckeen instincts to kick in and my cable to be permanently tuned to the weather channel until all watches and warnings have vacated Seth's vicinity.

Hence came the 7:02 a.m. phone call.

I'll admit it. While sometimes I can be a bit of a grumpy bear in the morning, in my ripe old age of 22, I have become a morning person.

That's not to say that I am happy to leave my bed in the morning. Far from it.

This is where Seth and I lay at opposite ends of the spectrum. He's a night owl. I'm all about the sunrise. And fully aware of that, knowing that chances are likely he would not be up and at 'em at 7:02 a.m., after seeing the damage that tornadoes and hail and wind had done in my Southern Charmer's area last night on the Today show, I did the only thing that we with Guckeen lineage would do.

I called my Southern Charmer. Just to make sure he was okay.

Fuming in the cubicle...

I am fired UP.

Not to mention my poor editor Maryangela is being forced to listen to what my friends have dubbed as the "angry type."

As in punching the keyboard with each strike of my gloriously long fingernails.

Someone, I'm redacting any sort of adjective nice or not nice I would use to quantify that noun, has started a forum on Catholic Match concerning whether or not any "good" Catholic women will be going to see the new Sex and the City movie when it comes out at the end of the month.

I pray the rosary. I light my vigil candles. I donate clothes and money to the poor and have been known to volunteer from time to time. Don't quiz me on the corporal or spiritual works of mercy, although I know they're in my brain-- somewhere. I go to mass every Sunday, sometimes twice-- or three times. I think I topped out at four once. By all accounts, I think I'm a relatively good Catholic girl living out her faith in the best way she can.

But come midnight May 30, with my cosmopolitan at the ready, ticket in hand, there I will be. And I really wouldn't be overly surprised if I went back again-- and again. But according to this dude by doing so I am committing not just a sin, but a MORTAL sin.

Well. It's never too late for y'all to start lighting the vigil candles in hopes that I can at AT LEAST make it to purgatory.

AND on top of that!

"However, the women portrayed are immoral, selfish and gossipy (all Catholic women should agree with that statement)."

I do believe this man just accused me of not being Catholic-- or at the very least, I am not Catholic enough for him. Or likely anyone else that's been frequenting this forums.

p.s. "The Notebook" is apparently a big no-no as well and sends up a "red flag." I'm going to take a wild guess and say that at least 99.5% of my movie collection has put my soul in some serious serious danger according to this guy. He probably doesn't want to hear that one of my highlights from my 2007 trip to New York was going on the Sex and the City bus tour and drinking cosmos in Aidan and Steve's bar "Scout."

Now I can dispute with these posters what I've learned from my college years of Sex and the City marathons with my friends, what it taught me about relationships and friendship and heartbreak. Sure it's fiction and at times far-fetched, but if any woman can't at least find one scene from the six seasons of the show to relate to (and yes I have seen every episode) I don't think you have a pulse. If you've never had your heart broken or gotten into a fight with a friend, I really don't think you've escaped the womb yet. But I never said that I've adopted the Samantha Jones handbook on relationships (translation: as much premarital sex as possible) for my own life.

But from four months of reading forum after forum it's no use. They're right and I will be eternally wrong. And my soul in their opinion is clearly damned to hell because of it.

It's exactly forums like these on these sites that turn me off so much from Catholic online dating. The piety of it all. The judgement. There's enough judging in the dating scene as it is-- too tall, too short, too blonde, too smart, too independent, too skinny, too fat, too poor, the list goes on and on. I don't need someone passing judgement on my soul-- and deciding it's in mortal danger. As in "back away from her as quickly as you can, turn around and run run run for your life straight to your parish priest."

And lightning strike me dead on the spot, but I do believe a couple of these people could learn a few things about relationships from an episode or two of my beloved Sex and the City that just might help them on their quest to finding Mr. Right.

It's a good thing I'm headed to the archbishop's house later today. Maybe he can squeeze in the 12 hours it'll obviously take to hear my confession.

p.p.s. Did I mention Jane Austen books are supposedly off limits too?!

Two weeks and counting...

Seth was talking to himself.

I was talking to myself.

Which is kind of funny, because when you're on the phone with someone, I'm pretty sure proper protocol indicates that you should be talking to each other.

Only 2 weeks left in the extravaganza that has been this online dating project-- and then my true feelings and findings on online Catholic dating will be revealed. If you haven't already guessed what they are. And it's a good thing too. Seth and I have hit that comfortable groove in our relationship, where nothing is overly interesting to the outsider, unless a fight crops up or a fancy present arrives in the mail.

Rehashing last night's phone conversation where we spent half of it listening to each other work (but in a strangely comforting and loving way)?

Bo-ring.

In case Catholic dating isn't specific enough for you...

Maybe one of these is more up your alley

I don't know what to blog about.

There. I said it. Honesty is the best policy here. So there you have it. I've got blogging block. Which perhaps sounds like a much more serious condition than it actually is. So I'm sorry if I'm not witty or charming or even mildly amusing these days. But I'm feeling a little bit off. Something is missing. My mind is in some other place.

And I have a distinct feeling that other place starts with an S and ends with an e-t-h.

You're invited...

Archbishop Dolan, as you can see, has been pumping some iron.

Mark your calendars, get out your party hats and plump up your wallets, YOU are taking me out for my birthday.

Ok. Maybe not.

Since I don't expect you to be able to read the fine print, June 2 is Catholic Herald night at Miller Park. Not only that, I'm declaring it to be my Catholic Herald birthday party at the park. 6 days late, but never a dollar short!

Buy a new one-year subscription to the paper for $38 and you'll get a free right field loge ticket (valued at $26) to the Brewers game on Monday, June 2, and a free official Catholic Herald "Pitching Faith" t-shirt, with a steroidific picture of the one and only A.D. (Archbishop Dolan) on the front.

Purchase of a brat or beer for me at the game is totally optional, but always welcome.

So come party with me! And your Catholic Herald. :) For more information or to subscribe, call (414) 769-3500.

You say goodbye, and I say...*sob*

I've gotten so good at the airport cry that exactly a week ago today I was practicing the hotel room cry.

And the hotel lobby cry.

And the rental car cry.

After a perfect Sunday at the beach, complete with a slice of real key lime pie and a dip in the hot tub to melt all the sand away, Seth and I spent our last night together...

listening to me puke. Apparently if your stomach gets used to lettuce and apples, feeding it a rich piece of key lime pie will work wonders for clearing out your digestive system.

In a bad way.

For as long as I can remember I've had separation anxiety. With my parents. My siblings. My nieces and nephews as I went off to college and my best friends. And now with Seth. We're just beginning our relationship. The thought of being apart is enough that I need to start buying kleenex in bulk.

Like all vacations, it couldn't last forever. But I really wish the part where we got to actually physically be together would've.

Next stop: May 15-19. Raleigh, North Carolina.

A honey do list

"Hi dad."

My hair was wind blown. I could still taste the salt from the water on my lips. Sand was still stuck to my leg. Classic rock from the 1970s blaring over the radio as I called my parents to check on the status of snow flurries in Minnesota.

Why wait til I'm 80 to spend my winters in Florida? Let's start now.

As a daddy's girl, my dad was of course excited to hear his little girl's voice reporting that her weekend was going along just swimmingly. And then he asked the question.

"What are you doing?"

"Sitting in the Walgreen's parking lot waiting for Seth. I wanted some gummi bears."

*Silence*

I now realized what was happening. I'd sent Seth on a honey do task. While we were on vacation of all things.

He of course completed the task like an Olympic gold medalist, coming back with not just gummi bears, but gummi worms and orange slices. But still. It was the ultimate act of coupledom. The "honey I want..." followed by my honey complying.

Without a single grumble.

Alligator, alligator-- eat 'em up, 'eat em up!

I ate a gator.

Not like found one on the side of the road, shot it and carried it back to the trailer to put it in some stew. But all the same, I did it.

I ate a gator.

As a child, my older siblings had a couple of nicknames they'd occasionally toss out. "Cautious," which is pretty self-explanatory and "Flail."

For my lack of swimming skills. I'm sure that could also be applied to ice skating and any attempts at skiing. But those attempts are few and far between.

Give or take a decade and a couple of years, I was finally ready to shed my nicknames. So when Seth brought up the idea of getting gator for an appetizer at lunch on Sunday afternoon, I happily obliged. Partially because Shea likes alligator and I figured it wouldn't hurt to score some brother points as we awaited their arrival.

It looked a lot like my beloved mozzarella sticks. But at first bite I discovered I was far from the land of cheese.

*Chew....chew....chew...*

It wasn't half bad.

Working my way outside of my food bubble and not being so cautious, the next task to accomplish was getting rid of that pesky name "Flail."

Well fine. Maybe I wasn't quite so good at that. But Seth did get me out into waist high water along Madeira Beach and had me riding the waves.

As it turns out, like Florida drivers, you can't control those either.

Long bridge ahead. Check fuel.

This can only be the smile of a man that has yet to experience driving to the Gulf Coast in traffic.

I was slathered in sunscreen, my new swimsuit finally getting its time to shine, water and Wheat Thins in hand, me and my Southern Charmer were ready to hit the beach. Having successfully passed the Meet the Mom Test, I didn't have a care in the world. Seth and I had waited one long month to have some couple time, and we were finally getting it.

Without about five gazillion other drivers surrounding us.

Normally I hate sitting in traffic. I really don't know who sits there and actually says, "Gosh. I am so happy that I am sitting in traffic right now. There is no other place I'd rather be."

And if you are one of those people, perhaps you should get your head checked.

But on the three hour trek to the Gulf Coast, creeping along at a snail's pace, there was no place I'd rather be. The sun was shining brightly, reflecting off the water in such a way that you'd probably have to be on some pretty good drugs to think Lake Michigan ever did that. The light breeze filled the rental car with the scent of sun and sand and everything Florida. And there were Seth and I. In our own little world.

Surrounded by a universe called a traffic nightmare.

Sunday Sun Day

Welcome to Paradise.

There is only one thing to do after spending 12 hours at Disney World.

Well. Aside from sleep, shower, eat, and sleep some more.

Hit the beach. And oh how I wish I was still there this morning...

"No you may not ride on Splash Mountain"

It's a little known fact that I have a heart condition.

Paroxysmal Supraventricular Tachycardia. That just rolls off the tongue doesn't it.

The moral of the super long name is that every once in awhile, something will trigger something else in my heart to make it beat rapidly. Like over 300 beats per minute. Sometimes it takes my body a couple seconds to put things back in order, sometimes a visit to the ER and some expensive drugs is in order.

No matter how you spin it, ever since 4th grade it's prevented me from overdosing on Red Bull and espresso shots, taking illegal recreational drugs and running in excess.

Because you know that's just what I've been dying to do.

It's also kept me far and away from roller coasters. So you can imagine how much fun I am at a place like Disney World.

For my tastes, I greatly enjoying being the purse/camera/sweatshirt holder and parking myself on a bench to watch the fanny packs and fashion faux pas walk by. People watching is a guilty pleasure of mine. But at Disney World a different condition was keeping me on the bench.

In-a-relationshipitis.

The Southern Charmer had placed a ban on all rides that small children and the handicapped couldn't go on. Consulting the park maps, before signing up for the 40 minute wait he'd check to see if the ride was Amy friendly. If it wasn't, the boyfriend ban would be put in place.

It's funny how for 18 years of your life your parents tell you you can't do stuff and you whine and pout. And then your boyfriend does the same thing and you find it endearing.

Goofy + A.G. = L.O.V.E.

I cheated on Seth.

With Goofy.

Maybe it had something to do with those big dreamy eyes of his. Or his ability to be such a good listener because his ears are so large. Or his sweet whisperings of taking me away to the Magic Kingdom and proposing to me in Cinderella's castle practically swept me off my feet. But one sight of Goofy in Disney's Animal Kingdom last Saturday and I practically melted in his arms.

Either that or it was because the sun was unbearably warm. I'm really not sure which. This midwestern girl is not used to all that sunshine. Or all that green grass either.