A non-skater's skating dream come true...

I met Scott Hamilton Saturday.

If my life wasn't complete, it really is now. I'm pretty sure I used to idolize this man like the Golden Calf every time he would hit the ice. Particularly when wigs were involved.

And I thought I was Famous Ames...

It's not often I feel compelled to help out a squirrel in need. 

But I felt his pain.

Walking to my apartment Wednesday afternoon, I encountered the first sight in my entire life that had me reaching for that little feature called "camera" on my phone. 

Some poor overindulgent squirrel had reached his head all the way into his bag of Famous Amos cookies to get every last crumb....and inevitably, gotten his head stuck.

Actually, he is more than likely a she on some sort of pms rampage. 

I was stopped dead in my tracks. The poor squirrel trying to figure her way out of her dilemma as she put me in a sudden awkward dilemma-- do I chase the squirrel trying to help her? Go on my merry way as she knocks into trees and buildings blinded by the chocolate chips?

What would Jesus do?

Thankfully before I started pulling out my scriptural ammo to figure out what to do, Famous Amos became dislodged and my new best friend went her merry way, looking more than slightly embarrassed.

I feel your pain O Bushy Tailed One. I feel your pain. 

Sometimes you're the Famous Amos bag. And sometimes you're the squirrel.

8 days.

With our June 26 paper done and printed as we speak, nothing stands between me and Seth's July 3 arrival.

Except of course those 8 days.

Ah, torture. 

Boy meets family world

I'm either being really crazy, or abiding strictly by the Boy Scout motto,

"Be prepared."

I've compiled and updated an itinerary for Seth's visit to Milwaukee/Minnesota. Found a fabulous six month anniversary present. Decided on the menu for a romantic dinner. Prepared family flashcards to help him decipher all my nieces and nephews. 

I've even organized my spice cabinet. Perhaps that was a bit over the top.

Why there's so much pressure this time around-- the 9 days from now when Seth finally touches down in Milwaukee, I really don't know. Perhaps it's because he's meeting all of my very best friends-- including the ones that know the story about the time I peed my pants in kindergarten. Or maybe because for four straight days we'll be hanging out with my parents. And my sisters. And their children.

And my brothers. Oh let's not forget about my brothers. Given the fact that this is the first time I'm bringing a guy home (correction: straight guy) for future consideration of becoming part of the family it's a big deal. I want Seth to pass the entrance exam.

And boy, do I want the Guckeen's to pass Seth's entrance exam.

There's something to be said about the merging of your love life with your family/friend life. To me, my family and my besties are my world. And over the past five months, in turn, Seth has taken on a similar role...only in a different realm.

And now it's time for those two worlds to meet. Hopefully in a Disney-esque happy ending way, and less armageddon. 

I just really hope they don't show him the naked baby pictures. 

I was positive he was going to jump.

Pensive men terrify me. Not that thinking and being lost in thought is such a terrible thing, but when it comes to a straight man, doing it on the roof, at 11:30 a.m., it's downright scary.

But that's exactly what happened Sunday morning as I was taking in the sunshine with the latest Cosmo (go ahead and stone me) on the roof of my apartment building. 

My goal was to count sailboats on Lake Michigan (I got up to 78 last week), learn what Carrie Underwood thinks is her best body part and get some color in my cheeks for an impending wedding. Not my own of course.

And then he showed up. 

No book. No magazine. No bottle of water. He opened the door to the roof. And walked straight the edge. And just stared. And stared. And stared. 

Given the fact that there are some cranky people in my building (I'm relatively certain my neighbor across the hall hates me because I held the door open for her one day. And the sad part is, I'm not even kidding. She gave me the stink eye and then started muttering loudly when I attempted to show her a little common courtesy) any desire to ask him what was wrong was quickly ignored. If he wasn't going to jump off the roof, I certainly didn't want him throwing me off. 

He stared. And stared. Through me reading an entire Entertainment Weekly, he just stared. Clutching his cell phone, which I was half expecting him to throw into the apartment building across the street. 

After about 30 minutes of the staring, I was beginning to wonder if I should hightail it off the roof and seek sunshine somewhere else or abide by some strange Christian sense of obligation and stick around, letting him be, but keeping close tabs on the man lost in thought. 

Taking my cues from the Beatles, I let it be. And after about an hour of staring off into the lake, he turned and left, whatever thought process he had come up to work on clearly accomplished.

And with just a hint of a tan and a sigh of relief that my Sunday afternoon wasn't going to turn into the opening shots of a Law & Order episode, I did too.  

Someday my pumpkin will come

I feel like Cinderella. Just dreading that moment when the clock will strike twelve and everything that's been in 2008 will disappear into thin air...leaving me with nothing but a pumpkin for a car and a tattered pair of Payless Shoes for the road.

I can't decide which is the better mode of transportation. The pumpkin or the crappy shoes.

(Sorry. The blisters I got from my First Communion shoes that my parents got for me at Payless have left me permanently scorned).

Today is Seth's and my five month anniversary.

(Happy anniversary honey).

For a girl that's had failed one relationship, not to mention non-relationship relationship, after another, I'm just waiting for my bubble to burst. The moment when I get a chunk of broccoli in my teeth, Seth takes one look at me and says, "Well. This was fun. I'm out of here."

Well. Maybe not that ridiculous of a situation. But you catch my drift.

Everyone talks about the honeymoon period-- the beginning of a relationship where everything is just marvelous and no one farts and life is nothing but roses. But how can you tell when the beginning makes way for the middle? Or can a relationship just be that happy?

I mean honestly. And they lived happily ever after? I thought that was only in fairy tales. 

The Good Doctor is IN!

** tap tap tap tap tap **

** tap tap tap tap tap **

** tap tap tap tap tap **

Sigh. 

I've become addicted to daily mass. 

Of all the things to become addicted to, it is likely the cheapest and least harmful for my health and pocketbook, so I suppose in the grand scheme of things I shouldn't be complaining. 

As long as I keep my propensity for lighting vigil candles in check.

A good 12 hours out of my day I'm bombarded with emails and phone calls, facebook messages and post-it notes, horns honking and heavy sighing. There's im'ing to be done, interviews to be scheduled, conflicts to be resolved. But for 30 minutes everyday, armed with only the keys to my apartment, I get to sit in silence (well, minus the whole mass part), and have the best therapy session ever. With Jesus.

If you don't believe me, consider this:

-- It's free. No fighting with your insurance company about co-pays.

-- He'll listen to you talk for as long as you want. No 50 minute limit. 

-- There's never any waiting around or cancellations. The Good Doctor is always in.

-- Everyday is storytime. 

-- Free meal included.

Tuesday afternoon I was unplugging with the J-Man in the chapel, watching the light stream in through the windows, reveling in the silence and the calm when my solace came crashing down.

** tap tap tap tap tap **

A fellow worshipper had pulled out his Blackberry and was paging through his emails. Googling things. Sending off text messages.

Has life really gotten so crazy that we put God on hold now? "Just hold on a second Big Man, I've gotta review this proposal before we can chill?" I may be hanging at your house but really I've got other things I should be doing? 

I can't even imagine what our response would be if God started blowing us off for Wii Bowling or the latest youtube craze. Of course, he'd never do that, thanks to a little thing called agape. 

Last time I checked though, the feeling was supposed to be mutual. 

The Wisconsin Handwashing Massacre

I try not to be one of those kids.

You know. The ones that after 3 months of being away from home, pile suitcase upon suitcase of dirty laundry into their station wagons and zip off home, for free laundry and free food.

Not because I don't enjoy laundry and free food. But because of my parents' laundry critiques. In the world of Amy and my precious bag of quarters, there are two sorting hats when it comes to my laundry-- cold. And warm. None of this whites, blues, reds or teals crap. You either go in one washer or the next. No buts about it.

But if there's one thing I'm a stickler about-- if it says "handwash" on the label, as sure as Pope Benedict has a cooler wardrobe with more bling than I do, you have better believe I handwash.

And I even do it with a smile on my face. Gotta love the smell of that Woolite.

So there I was Sunday afternoon. Perched at the side of my bathtub, delighting in the scent of my handwashing labor. I was washing a special shirt, that was only to be pulled from its special perch in my closet on July 3, when my manfriend arrives for a night out on the town in Milwaukee.

Hang to dry, watch "Enchanted," eat a chocolate sundae. Boom. The recipe for a perfect Sunday evening. I swear, every good day should start with handwashing.

Monday morning, pulling back the shower curtain for the grand ta-da!, I stumbled back in horror.

My shower curtain was covered in blood. Drippy droppy dried blood. All over the place. Someone had stabbed my special shirt, and it bled and bled and bled, making my shower no longer the scene of soapy sensations, but rather, more like a horror movie.

I couldn't figure it out. For the life of me. What had died in my shower? Who had killed it? And why with such violence? What was the need? What kind of coldblooded killer was out there?

After closer examination and some rationalization (that usually doesn't kick in until 10 minutes after the alarm clock rings) I realized, the dye from the special shirt had simply stained my beloved shower curtain. But now with my shower shirtless, there remains the scars of the handwashing incident.

Which will no doubt explain why everyone that frequents my bathroom from this point forward will run away shrieking in fear.

It really does look like blood. Yikes.

Please accept my sincerest apologies

My dearest blog readers,

I am so sorry. For the past several weeks I have neglected you, in a similar fashion to the way I have been neglecting this thing in my refrigerator that used to be leftovers but now is turning into some sort of mini version of the Incredible Hulk. Who by the way terrified me as a child, and I am convinced has returned to movie screens solely to terrorize me in my 23rd year on this earth. How dare movie makers try and disguise their attempts with one of my movie crushes Edward Norton.

I digress.

It is with great surprise that I find you still here. Still reading. But, as the thing that's sporting fangs in my refrigerator does, you persist, and in the end, you have prevailed. I am back. And I promise I'll stop with the whole "I'm too lovesick to blog" shenanigans. No such thing I say. The sun is up, the sky is blue, it's beautiful-- and so are you by the way. So I promise. I am back. For good this time.

Perhaps not better than ever. But only time will tell...

My vocal stylings while cleaning my apartment over the weekend and shucking corn are making me even more of a heathen by Catholic Match standards (I did go see "Sex & the City" after all).

I'll admit it. I'm addicted to Katy Perry's hit song "I Kissed A Girl."

Hope all you blog readers don't mind it.

It's Friday the 13th.

I keep waiting for my day to act like it. The devil didn't appear to possess me at 3 a.m. (I think God scared him off with all that thunder and lightning). The trash bag didn't break when I was taking the entire contents of my fridge (expired, expired, expired) out to the garbage. A black cat didn't cross my path. And as far as I know, I didn't even come near to any ladders.

Not exactly the start to the one day that all triskaidekaphobics fear.

The Persistent & the Plain Annoying

You can't always get what you want.

But if you try sometimes, you just might find...

Yep. You still can't get it.

Since deciding to keep my pinky toe in the online dating water and not deleting my Catholic Match profile for the pure pleasure of reading the forum topics, I have found an influx in men hoping to be my future mate. Despite the very first line in my profile which clearly states, *** No longer seeking.***

Apparently they aren't taking my word for it? Perhaps God came to them in a vision and told them that I was The One?

I don't think so. I'll stick with my Southern Charmer thank you very much. Who, three weeks from today, will be chilling out at the baggage claim at General Mitchell.

With me. I guess sometimes you can get what you want.

Tales from 23

You know you're a grown up when you voluntarily call your doctor to schedule a shot.

And I'm not talking of the "Bartender I'll have another" kind.

I've officially been 23 for over two weeks now and thus far, aside from dealing with bills and bank charges and insurance claims, I don't feel a heck of a lot older than I did when I was 22. And not much has changed either.

-- I still get carded at bars.
-- I still sneak my way onto my dad's bill when we go out to eat.
-- Flintstones vitamins are still the best way to start my morning.

And at 3:30 today, when the nurse comes at me with that big needle, I will still turn the other way and wince.

I'm alive

I'm sorry.

I've been a bad blogger.

But I promise I'm back. Recovering from a recent vacation to Portland (as in Oregon, not Maine), so give me a day or two to get the creative juices back up and running.

But I promise, I'm back. :)

An evening with the "Forbidden Fruit"

I couldn't help but giggle.

Oh how crazy theater #11 at Mayfair would have made all Catholic Match forumers. Such incredible sinfulness of a couple hundred women, dressed to the nines, full makeup, prom hair and all, armed with plans for martinis later to celebrate the return of Carrie & Company (a.k.a. the new Sex and the City movie).

And I was of course one of them. Except I apparently didn't get the memo to pull out my glittertastic prom dress from junior year for the occasion.

And no. I didn't find myself in the confessional at St. Florian yesterday begging God for forgiveness at the fact that I gasped, squealed, and cried all through the 2 hour and 15 minute movie.

Just to get my blood pressure going and because who doesn't love working themselves into a rage on Monday morning pre-8 a.m., I checked out my favorite forum site to see if there were any new posts regarding what was easily the highlight of my weekend.

And of course, there it was. Subject: Sex & the City. With the message of "Who cares?"

Followed by 82 posts of "I don't" and "Ditto"s.

Pardon my train of logical thought (apparently I did learn something in that freshman year logic course)...but if you're going to go to the trouble of creating a new topic and then posting to it...doesn't that mean you care? Somewhat?

I mean. I have no desire to go see the new Indiana Jones movie. But I'm not creating a whole new forum topic on it.

Now if you'll please excuse me...this Sinful Susie has got some work to do.