Only a really frustrating day these days warrants two posts in one workday.

Hello frustrating day.

Impatient Amy keeps knock knock knockin' on my door. Unknown numbers keep calling my phone-- for legitimate reasons, but it's never the leasing company in Oak Creek popping a bottle of champagne and handing me over the keys to my brand new one bedroom (gasp! what a concept!) apartment.

And to top it all off I've come to the horrifying discovery that my current evil leasing company's "No move out between November 1 and March 31" policy is completely legit according to Wisconsin state law. 

And could end up costing me thousands of dollars. Thousands of dollars I don't have. Joe the Plumber. Ha. Try Amy the 23-year-old. I'll yap your ear off about my struggles as a member of the middle class. 

Dracula I'd like to borrow your coffin for the day. I wouldn't mind hiding from the world until some hope seems to surface.  

Channeling Veruca Salt

Every once in awhile, a member of my family likes to remind me of what an impatient little child I was.

I want this and I want it now. I want to go here and I want to go now.

Little Amy is creeping into Adult Amy.

Oh how I missed that stylish mullet and jean overalls.

It has officially been a whopping almost 48 hours since I submitted my apartment application, and I have heard not a thing. Not a, "Congratulations!" or a, "You're too poor!" or even a, "What the heck do you charge on that Target Visa every month anyway?!"

I know, I realize, these things take time.

But I want that apartment. And I want it now. I want to spend my weekend purging my closets and my cupboards and dreaming of a garbage disposal and a dishwasher. I want to go window shopping for new furniture and find fun frames at Target to upgrade my art prints from poster material to, well, art. 

And for pete's sake I want to be able to throw a proper goodbye party for me and the ants. Is that too much to ask?

Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be preparing some cracker crumbs and candy bar pieces for my little friends. Let me know if the phone rings. 

And oh yeah-- Happy Halloween!

I heart OC

It was in complete amazement that I found myself in the leasing office of an Oak Creek apartment complex yesterday at 10:10 a.m.

With a hope that I've typically had reserved for calorie free german chocolate cake and white zinfandel, I handed over a check for $20 and application, in attempts to convince my new friends that I was the girl to occupy the vacancy.

Oh yeah. And that I had the money to pay for such a thing too.

And just like that, I had abandoned my downtown apartment and all the dreams that Amy Guckeen possessed when she graduated from Marquette in 2007. The girl that had planned to move to Long Island to work for a Catholic weekly and take the Long Island Railroad into the city on weekends, the girl that just HAD to live downtown no matter what the cost, the girl that had Carrie Bradshaw-esque feelings walking downtown at night amidst the city lights (umm...bad judgement by the way), lost.

Replaced with the practical, budget friendly, "I can't stand all the noise and people digging through my trash, and don't get me started on the traffic" coupled Amy.

I may have just made that sound like a bad thing. I didn't intend to. But as I said, more practical.

I didn't quite realize what a big deal moving from a tiny apartment to a much more spacious one in the 'burbs meant until a few of my best friends approached me, mildly horrified.

"YOU'RE MOVING?!" they exclaimed.

Well. Duh. They had spent some time in my apartment. Of course I'm moving. I'm not about to spend my 20s in an apartment that's smaller than a college dorm quad.

And then it hit me. This wasn't just about me moving to a bigger space, in a quieter neighborhood. It was about me. Becoming more and more coupled. Abandoning some of the things I had thought I had wanted in life. And making room for the things I had forgotten to include on my list that mattered most.*

Like not having to cohabit with a colony of ants. Or pay obscene prices for parking and rent.

Oh yeah. And that whole having an adult relationship thing too.

I'm glad the reality check came. I'm out of college. My top five apartment must-haves do not need to include "good bars within walking distance."

Those $10 martinis add up a bit too fast.


*For the record a move to the suburbs had been in my plans before I met Seth. Man or no man, the budget speaks for itself.

End of Week 4

Another week down, another pound down.

Making the grand total for October: 4 pounds.

Old Amy's dieting standards would say, "Ack! That's no good!"

Amy's healthy eating standards say, "Yes! That's healthy!"

I'm not feeling deprived (hellooooo Halloween candy). I'm not feeling stressed to lose xx amount per week. I'm just happy when the scale goes down.

And happy that I've made it to another Wednesday. My official "off" day of the week!

Moooooving...

Last night around 10:11 p.m. central standard time, Seth and I discussed a very important, and ridiculously grown up topic.

Me. Getting the heck out of my overpriced downtown studio.

If it's not the ants that have decided they LOVE living with me (no matter how much ant poison I use, or how squeaky clean I keep my apartment-- they have built permanent condos in the always fabulous #405), it's my arms falling off carrying my groceries three blocks from my ridiculously overpriced parking garage to my apartment. If it's not the elevator getting stuck forcing me to entertain the lovely 911 operator (true story) until I am unstuck, it's the drunk homeless man somehow finding his way into the building at 2 a.m. and screaming as loudly as possible for an hour on MY floor of all floors.

For reasons only post-college traumatized Amy can understand, when I chose my apartment, I did so in order to justify two conditions:

1. I want to live downtown.
2. I want to live downtown.

Being the solitary non-accountant in the family, I didn't really think about what that meant from a budgetary standpoint.

Or from a safety walking from your car to your apartment after dark aspect either.

The time has come to move.

Which sounds incredibly exhausting just thinking about it...

Don't feel hate, hibernate!

Like a bear emerging from its cave at the end of winter, this morning I opened the door to my apartment.

For the first time in 36 hours.

It was glorious.

By Friday night, despite having the morning and a bulk of the afternoon off, I was like a mama bear missing her cub. I was hungry. I was tired. My back hurt. My list of things to do was monumental, a far cry from the Friday nights of my college years when I would customarily be napping at that time before spending a night on the town.

I just wanted to be alone. I was surrounded by teenagers. And I had worked, in some capacity, for the past 11 days straight.

I needed a Sunday. I needed a day of rest. 

So after playing at mass on Saturday, I holed up in my apartment. Grabbed some lemon water and saltines-- my new guilty pleasure, and found the one thing I had been looking for, that without, was turning me into a cranky you know what.

I slept. Didn't put a speck of makeup on. Was content in my glasses. Read an entire book. Talked to the people I loved. And slept.

And come 7:30 this morning, stepping out into the brisk air, I felt like I had hibernated for an entire winter.

No case of the Mondays for this member of the rat race. 

*Zzzzzz Zzzzz*

Apparently it took writing a blog post to get God's attention. Thanks Big Guy. Although between you and me, you're kind of overwhelming me these days.

Anyway. Onto the rest of my readers that didn't create the world. 

Hello!

I'm voting today.

I'm also sleeping in. So chances are likely if you're reading this before 9 a.m. (and if for some reason I'm feeling particularly sleep deprived, before noon) it is very likely I have not crawled off the air mattress yet.

Oh the joys of pre-publishing.

There are two things in my life that are taking priority on this beautiful day off today:

1. Having clean underwear.

2. Voting for president.

Whether I have clean underwear while voting is still up for grabs. I certainly hope so. 

Happy weekend!

"Oh hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii"

I just caught myself using the fake phone voice. 

You know what I'm talking about. One minute you're pounding away at your keyboard, letting all your aggression out via angry typing that could wake the whole office out of their post-lunch coma, and the next thing you know your phone is ringing.

You think of a naughty word. You think of two or three naughty words. How dare that person interrupt your no good, absolutely horrible, could not get any more ticked off mood.

And then it hits you, like magical fairy dust.

The fake phone voice.

Oh hiiiiiii. How are youuuuuu? Oh I am JUST wonderFUL! How are YOU? Oh you ARE? Oh that's just WONDERFUL!

It's enough to make the person angry typing in the next cube over want to fling their stale granola bar at you that they've been meaning to eat for the past six months.

And then the phone conversation is over and you hang up and resume the angry typing. And everyone in the office wonders just what in the world took over your body while you were on the phone, and where the heck that delightful presence has gone.

I've been doing a lot of angry typing lately.

God and I aren't speaking. It's completely and totally immature on my part, and no matter all his failed attempts at trying to reengage contact-- New Kids on the Block on the radio on my commute into work, fluffy bunnies outside my apartment, sunny days-- I'm still not returning his phone calls. 

Which is kind of hard to do when you work for a Catholic newspaper and all.

I've heard of crises of faith and all and there's certainly been moments I haven't felt like praying or going to church (usually during some sort of semi-annual sale somewhere), but I think for the first time in my 23 years of life, I'm actually encountering a crisis of faith.

And it's not because I don't have anything to say to God. I have plenty. He just hasn't been listening. No matter how loud I've been shouting while I cross the Hoan Bridge.

Seriously. Shouting. 

There's a lot of stuff going on in our country, in our world, and of course in my own life, that keep me up at night. That make me rant to my parents so much it requires three phone conversations a night. That make me scour websites endlessly looking for more information, for more links, for more, more, more.

And of course, as I learned somewhere along the way, through my struggles and frustrations there's really only one place to take it all to if you really want something to get done.

God.

But I'm starting to feel like that kid jumping off the diving board at the swimming pool trying to get his dad's attention.

Dad! Dad! Are you watching me? Dad, look! LOOK! You're not paying attention! DAD!!!

No answer. No response. Just me flailing about in my one-piece from seventh grade on the diving board, trying to keep my balance before I do a belly flop in the water.

Which would be ridiculously troublesome. Particularly since I can't swim.

I've tried vigil candles. Pilgrimages to Holy Hill. Daily mass. Confession. Reading the Bible. Putting money in the collection. Donating items to charity. 

All things I generally thought would make God say, 'Hey! Amy's asking for my attention over there!'

Nope. Nada. 

I'm not really sure what to try next. The angry typing isn't getting on his nerves enough to listen to me. And I'm sure not heading off to the nunnery anytime soon. 

Wednesday is Weigh-in Day!

Hello Mr. Scale. Might I say you're looking rather adorable today?

End of week 3. Result: -2 pounds. 

Which, if memory serves me correctly, puts me at -4 pounds for the month. If I manage to dodge the Halloween candy and cut back on the soda for another week, that just could mean by the time the ghosts and goblins come out I could be down a total of 5 pounds. 

I'm feeling a bit skeptical of the whole -2 pounds this week thing. I'm not feeling deprived or worked overly hard (perhaps it's the joy of my delightful Wii Fit trainer), and I just got switched on one of my prescriptions which could spell out the return of everything I've worked so hard (ok, kind of hard) in the past 3 weeks to lose. 

Nevertheless, I'll ward off the sodas and the DiGiorno stuffed crusts for another week. Pass me my water and join me in a jog will you? :)

So long, farewell

It is by far one of the strangest experiences I have ever had.

Y'all may have read about Katie, a Marquette University graduate that I had the pleasure of singing with in the Marquette Liturgical Choir while I was in college.

Katie entered the Poor Clares in Indiana, a cloistered order (translation: ridiculously limited contact with the outside world) on Sunday. I will never hear her gorgeous soprano voice sing the "Ave Maria" again.

Saturday evening I was lucky enough to catch Katie on chat in Gmail. As our all too short conversation was drawing to a close it hit me.

What do you say to someone that you will never talk to again?

People come into our lives and people go. An exchange over peaches in the produce aisle with a stranger will likely never happen with the same stranger again. But what do you say to someone, who saw you gain and lose the freshman 15 and all the other dramas of college life, knowing that you will never speak again?

Goodbye just didn't seem good enough. 

Tuesday = post things you forgot about

Something tells me that I never posted pictures from our vacation up north last month. So while I'm busy helping put this week's paper together, you can enjoy the view!

Two of my most favorite guys in the whole wide world. 
The view from our porch. 

Seth, Mom and Dad and I in Two Harbors, Minnesota. 
My nephew Andrew. Future member of the Coast Guard.
Throwing "kerplunkers" (a.k.a. big rocks). In the water. preferably not at Aunt Amy.

Dear Catholic Herald: Thank you for my boyfriend

Happy anniversary dear Aaaammmyyyy!

9 months.

We could've made a baby in that span of time.

Lucky for all parties involved, particularly the well-being of my father, Seth and I are a bit more old school than that. First comes love then marriage then comes a baby in a baby carriage. 

And hopefully it'll be a super cute baby carriage. 

When that day comes of course.

I'm finding more and more as the Seth the Southern Charmer relationship progresses that I am becoming less and less of Amy the Cynical Love Bug to Amy: Let me tell you all about my wonderful boyfriend so you can vomit in your mouth.

Blech. I mean come on now. Nine month anniversaries? Who looks forward to nine month anniversaries? What are we, in middle school now, where an entire 24 hours in a relationship is an accomplishment?

For the Amy that's taken up writing in her diary every night and drinking chocolate milk again, I guess you could say so. 

p.s. Happy anniversary to my Southern Charmer!

I'm hangin' tough

It was like opening my Easter basket from when I was five all over again.

Please don't go giiiiiirrrllllll...it would ruin my heararararrrrttttt...

Turning the key to the Happy Honda this morning I had to do a double check to make sure I wasn't decked out in OshKosh B'Gosh overalls with matching mullet and Barbie plastic lunchbox-- complete with a thermos.

How cool was a thermos for a five-year-old?

By far one of the coolest items ever to grace an Easter basket of Amy Guckeen was the year I found a New Kids on the Block cassette amidst the Cadbury eggs and licorice jelly beans. When it came to childhood crushes, the five New Kids were like nothing I had ever experienced before.  The 15 year or so difference made no difference to me. I was in love. As I informed each of them every night, their faces displayed so beautifully on my pillowcase. 

And then I discovered my beloved Jordan had a rat tail. And it ruined my love for boy bands completely.

Except for The Beatles. They didn't mess around with the rat tail business. 

Then again, they were in a grade much higher than that of today's boy bands. 

In my short-lived life of riding on the bus in middle school, I used to believe strongly that whatever song was on the radio during my literally 2 minute ride would dictate how the rest of the day would go. Good songs = good days. Bad songs = might as well hide in my locker if I could get my hips to cooperate in finding the correct angle. 

And then the morning of our school shooting I heard "Love Shack" and that kind of blew my whole theory. I love "Love Shack."

Listening to an old New Kid favorite on my drive in to work, I couldn't help but wonder if the superstitions of 7th grade Amy had returned.

It's Friday. The leaves are beautiful. Sure I miss my man friend but I sure love not having to share the Wii Fit. The weekend is ahead of me. Sleep is on the horizon. Curling up with a good book and lighting some Yankee Candles is on the agenda for tonight. And I feel fabulous. 

It's going to be a beautiful day. Thank you New Kids. 

I'm alive. It's amazing what clarity comes with a good night's sleep and realizing that being away from your boyfriend is not the end of the world. 

It's just a much needed opportunity to clean the bathroom. 

As Wednesday is weigh-in day and it is now Thursday, but I was too busy drowning in my own Kleenex yesterday to post my results, I'll tell you now.

Number of pounds lost for week 2: 0

Which I'm totally fine with, considering my indulgences in Minnesota over the course of the weekend. It's a new week, and my Southern Charmer was kind enough to stock my fridge with healthy choices.

And a bag of frozen Milky Ways for when the going gets rough. Which I'll happily report I only used once yesterday. And it was only for one bar. (They're minis too!)

Happy Thursday! :)

Accentuate the positive

I have un-Catholic Match'd myself.

Account completely gone. Sianara. Hasta la pasta. I will not be sad to never hear from you again.

Launching attacks on my beloved Sex & the City was one thing. Disagreeing on the nature of relationships was another. But in the past weeks I have read things in those forums that were no less than despicable. Posts filled with complete and utter hatred. 

Getting a good laugh and perhaps upping my blood pressure over my peanut butter & jelly lunch was one thing. But after the things I've read in the past few days, it's not just about not logging on for a few days. It's about having absolutely, positively nothing to do with that website. What a way to destroy one's faith in your fellow Catholics. 

It's okay to have different viewpoints. Actually, it's more than okay, it is WONDERFUL to have different viewpoints. And it's okay to share them. And it's downright fabulous to agree to disagree. Spice up life a little. But when personal attacks are being waged, when hateful words are being swapped, when lies are laid out on the table, when closed minds are boarding up shop even more and making room by spewing out more hateful words, there is no room for God. 

How interesting that a website devoted to helping Catholics find love has so much room on its site for completely removing that essential element of love for neighbor. 

There is enough sorrow and suffering, enough hatred and sin in this world today. There's no reason to add to it. And certainly no reason to spend an hour of my day reading such material.

You've got to accentuate the positive

Eliminate the negative

Latch on to the affirmative

Don't mess with Mister In-Between

You've got to spread joy up to the maximum

Bring gloom down to the minimum

Have faith!-- or pandemonium liable to walk upon the scene

4:47 a.m.: Still bawling

It is 4:38 a.m.

I'm aware that I should be asleep. I'm aware that outside my window there is nothing but darkness and silence, with the exception of Seth's Trooper backing out and heading back to Tennessee.

I am of course bawling. He's prepared me for the fact that he would have to leave to tend to some things at home before a permanent move north for the past two weeks. Logical Amy not only says this makes sense, but encourages this trip home.

Emotional Amy is of course hugging her boxes of Kleenex for dear life.

And yes, I mean boxes not box. It's that bad.

Monday will mark our 9 month anniversary. It's shocking to me that we're still in the single digits when it comes to our time spent together. I feel like I've known him forever and obviously have decided that I want to know him forever. 

Two weeks in Tennessee seems like a short amount of time when forever is involved. Again. Emotional Amy = hugging her boxes of Kleenex.

It's not as if I have a lack of things to do in these next two weeks. I have story assignments to complete, masses to play at, an apartment to clean, phone calls to be returned, nights out at the bar to be had, books to be read. A Wii Fit to exercise with.

I still have two legs, two arms, my soul and my brain. My heart's still there too. Aside from this ripping in half sensation. I'm still Amy. I'm still the Amy I was 9 months ago before Seth walked into my life. So I'm not sure why this should be so hard, when all the things that kept me happy and content nine months ago are still there. 

Then again, logic defies emotional Amy. 

And thank goodness, it would appear sleep will too.

Good night. 

To eat birthday cake or not to eat birthday cake... that is the question

There are so many McDonald's and Culver's and Burger Kings and Wendy's and...

ugh. You get my drift. There's a lot of all those between here and my beloved home state of Minnesota. And when you're in the car for six hours, or at least when I'm in the car for six hours, I dream of chocolate milkshakes.

So maybe I give myself a healthy eating FAIL for Friday, but Saturday I stuck the course. Diet Pepsi Jazz and plenty of water mixed with a healthy sandwich, salad, and minimal Cheetohs.

I even passed up this birthday cake.

Then again, I don't like birthday cake so much.

German Chocolate Cake however... that's a different story.

Ok. So maybe Saturday I should only give myself a C- for healthy habits. But at least I threw in a couple rounds of kickball.

Tomorrow Seth returns to Tennessee for a couple weeks to take care of some things before a permanent move north.

Jimmy John's lock your doors. Healthy eating Amy may be making an appearance outside. And we all know it's best for her if she doesn't fall into your trap of a #16 with salt & vinegar chips. 

Happy birthday to you...and you..and you and you!

Insanity has taken over.

I say this because in the time I've attempted to write this blog post I've already been postponed to read my snail mail, send some snail mail, checked someone else's e-mail, and filtered through my own e-mail.

Ugh. Is Friday yet?

Oh wait it is.

The big Guckeen birthday weekend is upon us, posing not just a double, or a triple, but a quadruple whammy when it comes to the birthday candles in the next week. Seth's, my sister-in-law Michelle's, my dad's big 70th on Sunday, and my nephew Andrew's on Wednesday.

Trust me, that adds up to a lot of cake.

Hitting the road for the grand shabang today poses the usual problems. Stops for milkshakes and Big Macs are abundant between here and my home state.

But I will prevail. Nothing like a Wii Fit telling you you're more than a little out of shape to guard your mouth against cheeseburgers.

See you Monday. 

One week down, three to go

Week 1 down.

Along with 1.5 pounds.

Woo-hoo!

Simply by cutting out soda (that includes diet folks) and watching my portions a bit more closely (not to mention avoiding the McDonald's drive thru) I've managed to drop a decent and healthy amount of weight in one week.

Let's see if I can keep it going. A really big birthday party looms in my future on Saturday. 

And the cake is going to be amazing.

Somewhere between washing dishes and wrapping birthday presents and making dinner I didn't have much time for exercise last week, but that'll all change today as I take on my new personal trainer.

Our brand new Wii Fit.

Say what you want about video games, but jogging with that thing yesterday certainly had me working up a sweat. 

Awwwkward

I live for awkwardness.

I've been there. And I've done that. Worked out with my ex-boyfriend's mom. Sent cranky text messages about a friend to the friend that had made me cranky. Sang the wrong verse at mass-- and sang it loudly and proudly. 

And this morning, I have taken awkwardness to infinity and beyond.

As many of you know, of all the Catholic dating websites I was registered for earlier this year, I've kept open only one-- Catholic Match, for the sheer pleasure of raising my blood pressure to astronomical heights everyday when I peruse their forums. 

But it's ok. I branded myself with the ***No longer seeking*** disclaimer at the top of my profile.

Because hello. My man is making me dinner tonight. Why would I seek elsewhere?

Thanks to my job with the Catholic Herald, I find myself out and about often enough. There's been a few times I've seen some guys on Catholic Match that I've interviewed, or met on assignment. Times some guys I recognized from my alma mater Marquette have shown up in my bucket of matches.

And then there was the time that this guy, who at the very least can be described as a one time very, very close friend in the not so distant past, checked me out on Catholic Match.  

Maybe this doesn't sound so awkward to some, but considering the fact that:

a. This guy knows me well enough to not need to check out my Catholic Match profile

b. For the next few months every time I log in I am going to have to view his name and photo on my home page and be reminded of our all too awkward history

c. I, at one point in time, thought this gent was the cat's meow and would have been celebrating with ridiculous glee at such an occasion

It is awkward enough. 

Do I believe he looked me up purposely with romantic notions? Um no. Of course not.

But that fact that his cyberspace equivalent and mine have met...awwwwkward. 

Woe is us

If you're anything like me these days, a permanent case of the Mondays seems to have set in with all this financial hullaballoo. And my "Woe is my bank account" tune seems to be translating to other portions of my life too...

Woe is my feet, I can't find my autumn shoes.

Woe is my arms, I have no idea where I packed my sweaters.

Woe is my belly, I really want that Big Mac.

Woe is my nose, my allergies are ridonkulous right now.

As I was contemplating all these woes yesterday at mass, God seemed to know just how to drive the point home that everything would be ok. And that St. Anthony would help me find my shoes and sweaters. And my guardian angel would keep my hands off that Big Mac.

In case you missed it because you were spacing out about the Brewers/Packers games, here's a recap.

Brothers and sisters:

Have no anxiety at all, but in everything,

by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving,

make your requests known to God.

Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding

will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. 

Finally, brothers and sisters,

whatever is true, whatever is honorable,

whatever is just, whatever is pure,

whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious,

if there is any excellence

and if there is anything worthy of praise,

think about these things.

Keep on doing what you have learned and received

and heard and seen in me.

Then the God of peace will be with you.

Then the God of peace will be with you... I like that...

*Sigh*

Wake me up. I must be dreaming.

Either that or it's a chick flick come to life. 

Good thing I don't know Hugh Grant or Colin Firth personally, otherwise I'd be on my way to the mental institution, convinced I'm actually living the life of Bridget Jones.

Another weekend, another picturesque 48 hours with Seth the Southern Charmer. 

Tired of the eternal sirens and late night drunken screaming that is downtown living (thank you Brewers for a full 6 months of inspiration for this), Seth and I escaped the city for a pre-birthday weekend birthday weekend in Manitowoc and Door County. Nothing but sunshine, Lake Michigan and beautiful silence.

And of course, that darned caloric challenge all that romance provides. From wine tasting at the Von Stiehl winery in Algoma (tasty) to a four course breakfast at the Westport B & B, there was plenty of fun-- and yum, to be had. 

My healthy eating report card for the weekend? I'll give myself a C+. Kept it down to 2.5 cans of soda and capped off the weekend with a very healthy dose of pork chops and sauerkraut. But I sure didn't need that frou frou martini looking thing on Friday night.

We'll see what the scale has to say on Friday...

Happy Friday!

Lord help me, I want to talk politics.

But, remembering a lesson from my grade school days, I will distinguish what is appropriate and inappropriate for this time and space, and politely keep my mouth shut, sipping my hot chocolate.

*Smile*

That's right, I said it. Hot chocolate. I'm allowing myself one treat a day, and because I am my sister's little sister, chocolate is king in my world.

And there's nothing like prolonging the chocolate experience like a good glass of hot cocoa.

Oh how they go

Oh how those calories fly.

In what I had thought was to be Seth's departure yesterday (now postponed until after his birthday extravaganza), I had planned the ultimate NO Kleenex Needed plan to keep me out of the Ben & Jerry's Wednesday night and in the land of the living.

Happy Hour with five of my Marquette favorites.

Even after a lunchtime haircut at Bayshore a.k.a. The Island of Buttery Salty Pretzel Goodness, I stuck to my guns and returned to my desk for a lunch of lettuce and tomatoes. No Dr. Pepper. No pretzel with cheese.

*Tear*

Over my Miller High Life Lite (note: a significant step down for this picky beer drinker) however, with all my calories mapped out for the day, I met the devil of my day's healthy eating plan.

The Buttery Salty Popcorn Goodness that is a Marquette campus bar.

If only I'd gone out on October 2, instead of the first. Perhaps my guardian angel (whose feast day is today) could've protected me.

I would like to say I was strong enough, but with no dinner in my tummy, I was not. Piece after piece the popcorn flew, destined for no other location than my tummy. 

How the calories can fly when there's salty goodness involved.

Day 1: I am my father's daughter

Day 1: I feel like my father.

No matter where we go, whether it's spending the night at my brother's house, to the cabin, or on vacation, there is one essential thing my father must pack every time.

The oatmeal.

This morning I pulled out a package of my father's yummy little secret and ate.

Day 1: This is not so bad.

Given the day I had yesterday, which by far was one of the worst in a long time, old Amy would say that that was an excuse for stop at Dunkin' Donuts this morning and a lunchtime snack at Einstein Bagels.

Oh yum.

But no. Despite the screaming match I had with God yesterday (ok perhaps it was one-sided, he didn't really yell back), despite the amount of used tissues in the garbage, despite the flavor of the day at Culver's, I am sticking to this. 

Amen.

My first mode of action? Ditching the soda. Well, at least bringing it down to two cans a week. Since Seth's arrival I've been moaning and groaning every time I get a tummy ache (read: every day) because I've loaded up on too much Coke instead of agua. 

And second of course, sneaking a walk in everyday.

And no, that does not include my walk to and from the Happy Honda in the morning.