They're at it again!

Single, married, engaged, off to become a cloistered monk, I don't care what you are. You should all join Catholic Match today purely for the joy of reading the forums.

I think some CMers need to invest in a Wii and duke it out over boxing. 

I can see the headlines now:

"Man kills Woman over baseball question on Catholic Match"

Eek. Whatever happened to the whole love your neighbor as yourself rule? 

Ramen noodles for dinner? Check!

Whew.

One week since I logged into my blogger account. I'm already scratching off my plans for stopping at Starbucks over lunch. I have to punish myself somehow if I'm ever going to learn that blogging is as essential as brushing my teeth and attempting to get a perfect score on our Wii shooting range.

Some big changes are heading my way causing me to punch numbers and wonder if I really could survive with just basic cable and endless packages of easy mac.  

Does basic cable have Bravo? Cause I really can't miss out on Project Runway.

(On the bright side, blogging will probably be at an all time high a month from now). 

As is my regular morning ritual (it gives my jaw really good exercise-- all that dropping motion), I hopped on the Catholic Match forums to see what the hot topics were on board for today. And how appropriate it was when I stumbled upon this question:

--How important is status (career, money, job) when selecting a potential mate?--

Inevitably, the conversation drifted to one topic: how much moola does your man need to make?

Up until about seven months ago, I was a poor journalist waiting for my prince to come. And I imagine I wasn't the only one dreaming of some lawyer or stock broker prince that would rescue me from my ramen noodles but allow me to write for pennies for the rest of my life.

My prince came. He's actually out back, watering the horse. (Ok not really. If I can't afford the electricity to blowdry my hair anymore, I can't afford a horse). And as is reality, he's not a lawyer or a stock broker or some other occupation that earns gazillions of dollars.

But he's still mine. And to me, that's all that matters. Who needs cable when you've got each other?

Reading through the forum, one girl in my age range, a couple years younger, took a bold move and laid a figure right out there on the table. And my jaw dropped.

$90,000.

So yeah. I'll admit it. Sometimes I need a reality check that I really don't need to pay $18 to get my eyebrows waxed. Bellying up to daddy's bank certainly gets that point across from time to time. But whoa dude. That's a huge chunk of change.

Of course the elder CMers kindly offered that reality check-- that most college grads make somewhere in the 20k, 30k if they're lucky range. And then put out the reminder that we "millennials" are of a different mentality entirely when it comes to money. We want it and we want it now. What our parents achieved in their older years we want by the time we turn 23. And don't bother telling us otherwise.

As my best friends will tell you, I don't often admit when I'm wrong, but I'll admit, I've fallen into the millennial way of thinking post-college. As life is about to take an unchartered fork in the road however, it may be time to remind myself that if my parents could live off of Hamburger Helper for a few years, I can certainly put down those expensive bing cherries.

It's a good thing money can't buy you love. Cause I really don't think I could afford the pearl I got when I met my Southern Charmer.  

Isn't it good to be us...

Seth and I have gotten so good at this couple thing, that as of this exact moment, we are synchronized dentisting.

I bet you wish you and your significant other could say the same thing right now.

It's ok. I know you're jealous. 

Can you do that?!

There was wine. Candles. Flowers. Long walks under the sunshine. Time spent sitting near a grotto. A long Sunday drive in the country.

Happy 6 month anniversary to me....sans Seth the Southern Charmer.

If you consider getting tipsy on blackberry wine and playing excessive amounts of Super Mario World on "our" wii a successful 6 month anniversary, then yes, I did celebrate accordingly, minus the man that was 50% cause for the celebration. 

But before I restrained myself from throwing the classic controller across the room when one of King Koopa's evil cronies got me for the five bazillionth time, I decided to take advantage of the past 6 months of blessings and took a drive to Holy Hill. Where there were candles and flowers and sunshine and Sunday driving.

And a bit of shock n' awe. 

Sitting at the Lourdes Grotto, thinkin' and prayin' about my man friend and what direction our relationship was headed, I came face to face with something I have never ever seen before in my entire life.

For anyone that's been in that area of Holy Hill, you know that at the grotto there are two faucets that dispense holy water. Visitors can buy a small plastic container for $1.42 in the gift shop and fill it at the grotto. Bam! Portable holy water.

Back to me and my "Holy Mary, I miss my boyfriend" prayers.

So I'm sitting there. Praying. When a group of tourists comes up and fills their Aquafina water bottles up at the Holy Water spouts.

And then they began to drink.  

I'm not talking a sip here and a sip there. I'm talking it's hot out, time to not just wet my whistle, but drown it out completely. 

One of my best friends in high school used to find it amusing to find my mom's supply of holy water and threaten to drink it. He never did. Either out of respect for my family and our faith or for fear that his sinful intestines would burn if touched by the stuff.

I am of course kidding. Sort of. 

Watching the pilgrims Sunday, my thoughts went immediately from all my special intentions to high school memories of screaming, "Drew! Don't drink the holy water!"

After some extensive googling however, I'm discovering that perhaps all my screaming at him was in vain. Huh. I think for now though, I'll keep my holy water in my holy water bottle, and my drinking water in my drinking water bottle. 

Unless of course it could guarantee a speedier return to my Southern Charmer. ;)

 

I am failing miserably at this whole blog thing. I can't even muster up a post during this supposed "Seth Week," which just happens to be named for a certain man friend of mine that I happen to be more than fond of. 

In my defense, I've got a monster toothache and am still recovering from my Southern Charmer's absence (but really...do I ever actually and completely recover?)

I'd promise that I'll try to do better next week, but something tells me I shouldn't make empty promises. I will try though. Really hard. Because there were some really quite amazing moments from the 11-day Seth extravaganza.

Not to mention Sunday is the big six monther.

Half a year. Wow. Happy anniversary honey. 

Don't blink!

You're not welcomed into the Guckeen Circle of Trust until you've survived a staring contest with my nephew.

Needless to say, Seth survived. 

Attack of the Used Kleenex

There are 25 dirty kleenexes in my garbage can.

Given the five hours I spent bawling yesterday, at an average of five kleenexes an hour that just can't be right.

Seth, I'd wash your undershirt from yesterday if I was you.

He's come and gone. 11 days of delight replaced with cold pizza and dirty dishes. 

A full recap to come, in the July edition of Seth Week. 

The Magic of my Man Friend

As of June 15, 2008, my apartment and I hit that ever important mark-- our first anniversary.

We weathered the gap in the window where the occasional wasp comes in, the uncontrollable heat that has left my kitchen window open on even the coldest days in January, and the incident with the scary drunk man in my hallway the Monday before Thanksgiving.

And yes, we even survived the Big Scary Bug Incident of 2007. 

But it took a full year for the Cleaning Fairy to gather up enough courage to pop out of her hideaway. When she sprinkled her magical fairy dust over my apartment yesterday, oh did she sprinkle it.

For the first time ever, I walked out of my apartment Monday morning with dishes piled up in the sink, clothes all over the floor, beauty products sprawled out like an obstacle course in front of my full-length mirror....only to return Monday evening to find everything had been picked up. The dishes had been washed. Order had returned to my abode.

Who knew Seth the Southern Charmer moonlighted as the Cleaning Fairy? 

I think I've found myself a keeper. 

The man friend has landed

Seth's in town.

And is supposedly cleaning my apartment as we speak.

One meet n' greet (the Marquette friends at a wedding over the weekend) down, two meet n' greets to go.

And so far so good.

The 1,000,000,000 square sudoku puzzle

I can, with about a 95% success rate, tell you exactly what my father is doing right now.

A sudoku puzzle.

Well. Either that or out on a walk or cleaning the house. But when it comes to relaxing, I guarantee you, my dad will pull a book from his stack of countless sudoku books.

Looking in the mirror this morning, 39 hours away from Seth's arrival, I find my life lining up just like one of those little numbered boxes that manage to stump me nearly every time.

For the next 11 days, Seth and I will embark on what can only be described as baptism by fire into the land that is my life. He'll meet my best friends, my old classmates, my brothers, sisters, nieces, nephews, mom and dad. I'll even throw in an old flame or two. Likely my childhood librarian as well.

I suppose I can refrain from introducing him to the man that delivered me. You've got to draw the line somewhere.

I'm not so worried about how the actual meet n' greets are going to go-- I have faith that my friends and family know how much Seth means to me and vice versa. It's more or less how it's all going to come together in the end-- where everything and everyone is going to fit in the ginormous sudoku puzzle that seems to have become my life.

If only I was bold enough to tackle those puzzles with black pen instead of with a hearty #2 pencil and eraser.

Reclaiming my kitchen

I'm becoming domestic.

Well. I'm becoming domestic. Again.

With a kitchen smaller than my twin bed and a singular countertop that is honestly smaller than my computer monitor at work, there hasn't been much room in the past year for my old cooking shenanigans-- whipping up a quick batch of chicken parmesan after work, making apple crisp just because I feel like it, baking six different kinds of Christmas cookies to hand out to my favorites during the holidays.

My last gourmet meal was chicken nuggets and tater tots.

No really. And even that's testing the confines of my kitchen.

With Seth's impending arrival (t-minus 60 hours and counting! but who's counting...) and the extended length of his visit (11 days) I'm feeling an added pressure to don my old Domestic Goddess tiara and prove to him that not only can I be witty, caring, spontaneous, and just plain old amusing-- but I can make a pretty mean meatloaf too.

Don't even try to tell me that the way to a man's heart isn't through his stomach. I know otherwise.

The grocery list is endless, my ideas for tasty treats and adventurous entrees keeping me up at night. Just what sort of recipe do you make for your boyfriend that's considered to be bringing your A-Game?

And even worse-- what if I've lost the magic touch when it comes to my three best friends-- paprika, chili powder and garlic salt. What if, after a year of being missing in action, they don't respond to my loving caress?

Stay tuned.