Unemployment bliss

It has been nearly a month since I quit my job and entered the great club of unemployment.

Am I supposed to be hating it by now?

(Checks her bank account).

Ok. Maybe I do just a little.

When I began entertaining the thought of quitting my job and moving to Alabama to cut down on those long distance phone calls, dreams of productivity danced in my head. I'll plan the wedding! Exercise for hours every day! Clean the house! Start my own freelancing business! Volunteer! Bake the neighbors cookies!

And then TLC started running "What Not To Wear" marathons. And Seth decided it would be a romantic thing to bring home the much coveted Beatles Rockband.

Don't get me started on the "Law & Order: SVU" marathons. Or the fact that I can finally watch Oprah again. Speaking of which...

Adventures at an Alabama pool party

Something tells me I should cross lounging by the city pool off of my list of things to do while unemployed...

Bittersweet home Alabama

** We now interrupt the ridiculous amount of unpacking for this special announcement... ***

One of the clearest memories I have from my first few weeks at Marquette University (most other memories were fogged by too many $5 bills donated to the Keg Brothers at 1435 Kilbourn) is coming home from my Intro to Communications discussion section, closing the door to my all too tiny dorm room, and bawling my eyes out.

Yes, I do realize this was quite the trend during my first semester at college.

A full two weeks into my career as a Southern Belle, today I recreated that scene from McCormick Hall. Twice.

I'm not going to pretend this is easy. It's not. As much as I love my Beatles, I'm not going to tell you that all you need is love to move across the country, away from your career, your best friends and your family. The promise of less snow isn't quite that great.

But seeing the same sight when I close my eyes at night as when I open them in the morning (Seth the Southern Charmer of course) sure makes it a little easier.

leaving, in the happy honda

All my bags are packed. (Well minus my blow dryer)

I'm ready to go. (Ok, I guess I probably should vacuum)

I'm standing here outside my door. (It's freezing! And you wonder why I'm moving south)

I hate to wake you up Wisconsin to say goodbye. (Because I realize after a Packer win, even in the pre-season, on Monday you could still be hungover)

But the Chicago traffic, it could be sheer torture

The Illinois drivers are waiting, they're blowing their horns,

Already, I'm so lonesome (only for the Spotted Cow, Von Stiehl wine and cheese curds) I could die.

So kiss me (no beer breath please)

And smile for me

Tell me that you'll wait for me (with a glass of Leinie's in hand)

Hold me like you'll never let me go (except at 1:30 p.m. you really must let me go. Southern Charmer's orders)

Cause I'm leavin

In the Happy Honda

Don't know when I'll be back again (perhaps when my Wisconsin wine supply runs)

Oh Wisconsin, I really am ridiculously excited to go....

Things I have discovered...

while packing up my life. A week from today it's goodbye cheese curds and beer, hello....

Well. I hope somewhere in Alabama there's still cheese curds and beer.

1. Our apartment is infested with spiders. Little ones, big ones, brown ones, black ones, even lime green ones. And they are scary.

2. Boxes attack. I mean, how else can I explain all these strange bruises? Surely I didn't run into them myself. I'm much more coordinated than that. (And for some reason, the boxes are only multiplying. Where did all this stuff come from?!)

3. No one needs that much mustard. And I mean no one.

4. Fievel has been sleeping in our storage closet for I'm not sure how many months. Last time I checked rent payments are not accepted in the form of mouse poop. Pay up my little rodent friend.

5. I still don't know if I'm entirely prepared to wake up to this every morning...

Dum dum da dum...

There in my mailbox, it sat.

The yellow letter. A shade of sunshine that would be classified cruel and unusual punishment if manufactured into a bridesmaid dress, but apparently the perfect hue to be obnoxious enough to make busy brides open it asap.

"Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that your bridal gown has been received by our store!"

Excuse me while I squeal.

Now, if only I was moving to Minnesota so I could try it on every other day.

Two weeks from today, the moving trucks will have pulled away. The Happy Honda will be in drive (what will no doubt feel like perpetual drive, oh 10-hour drive how I don't look forward to you). And the Wisconsin chapter of my life, in all its glory of fried cheese and beer, will be closed.

I really hope you can get mozzarella sticks at the grocery store in Alabama. Otherwise I may need to cancel those movers.

I'm really not kidding. 

Amy's guide to churching it alone

In honor of my last two weekends churching it alone, I give you my February 2008 post on the single girl's guide to putting some class in attending mass...

You would think, of all the places to be single, church would be the most friendly.

For as long as I can remember, mass has been a group activity. From birth til I was 18, Mom & Pop Guckeen and I settled into a pew smack dab in the middle of St. Anne's church. Always on the right side. God forbid we'd switch it up and sit on the left. Our seating arrangements rarely varied. Me, Mom, then Dad. Unless of course I was playing that mass. It probably would've been a bit hard to play piano from that far back.

At Marquette it was much of the same, my usual spots switching depending upon whether I was cantoring, playing, or singing with the choir. The only time I sat in a pew was when I was doing soundcheck.

Pews are hard. I didn't like it very much.

So imagine my surprise when June rolled around and there I was. Alone and in Milwaukee. In a pew. (Well technically a chair, the cathedral doesn't have pews). Sunday after Sunday after Sunday. All by myself. My right hand shaking my left at the Sign of Peace. 

Okay. Perhaps that's an exaggeration. But in my 9 months of going it alone, I believe I have established the official rulebook on how to church it alone. 

5. Choose your seat wisely. There's nothing worse than feeling like the smelly kid at the Sign of Peace, unless of course, you are smelly. Then you deserve it. Don't sit somewhere where you'll need some sort of extendable arm just to shake hands. I've heard they're expensive and hard to come by. 

4. Always put money in the collection. Even if it's just 50 cents. You likely spent at least 10 times that at the bar last night. You must thank the house of the man who turned water into wine. And we're talking classy wine with a cork. Not something that comes in a box. 

3. When in doubt, just sing really really really loud. 

2. Never sit on the outside end of an otherwise empty pew, obstructing all other potential traffic in and out of the pew. You are single. You have your own space in just about every other social situation. That doesn't entitle you to your own pew. You're bound to get at least one parent, no doubt envious of all the extra room your butt is enjoying compared to their cramped slab of wood with six kids under the age of 5, that will despise you purely based on all that excess space. And they will not intervene when their child decides to start throwing their ever so pointy G.I. Joes at you.

1. It is never okay to check someone out when they're coming back from communion. They are in the process of digesting the Body of Christ. Going up for communion, that's another story.

The times, they are a-changin'

My favorite imagination game as a child was house.

Well. Maybe it was Miss America. But for the purpose of this entry, we’ll pretend it was house.

My 15 children and I had it made. In my little head, I was, of course, married to some hunky Baywatch star (perhaps the root of my problems lies in my pre-adolescent passion for all things David Hasselhoff) and the biggest concern I had to deal with was making sure all the babies were fed and diapered at 1:15 p.m. sharp. Even then I liked things to go according to schedule, according to plan.

I resigned from my job today. And the heart of the reason lies in the fact that I’m not just playing house anymore. I’m living it.

Or I was at least until employment cruelly ripped my fiancé out of my arms and into the state of Alabama. Now I’m living some strange version of house that 6-year-old Amy likely could not have wrapped her brain around.

Things are so not going according to plan.

There are reasons beyond Seth of course, as to why I volunteered myself to join the league of the unemployed. Don’t think I’m one of those girls giving it all up for the sake of some man. But for all intensive purposes, those reasons became a bit harder to deal with when the only other person wishing me good night in person day in and day out was Hannaford the Honey Bunny.

Although my mom, for the record, has been pretty fabulous from afar in helping me keep it all together.

So off I go into the great blue, or should I say Southern, yonder.

I’m saying goodbye not just to friends, co-workers and mentors – I’m also bidding farewell to my alma mater, where my education didn’t just grow, but my faith and sense of self did as well. Gone will be the city lights and traffic jams, replaced with Sundays spent on the front porch and visits from Petey the Peacock.

I kid you not.

I could not be more excited, more energized by this monumental change about to take place. Although sometimes I think I've taken my original goal of getting the heck out of Minnesota just a little bit too far.

Although as the Happy Honda steers over the state line come August 31, I may just wet my pants a little.

And oh yeah. I’m unemployed now... well, as of August 27. So what else will I have to do but blog?

 

The life of a Southern Woman

I have reached perfection. Completed the circle. Am floating on Cloud 9. Achieved nirvana.

I have the perfect ratio of hangers to clothes that need to be hung in my closet.

I consider it the first small feat of many that I shall achieve as a soon-to-be housewife.

Ahhhhh.

Many have warned me, but few have educated me on the culture that is the American South. I know it's part of the United States. I know it's hot. And I certainly know my hair will likely not cooperate with the humidity. But as for the traditions and overall mindset of what it's like to be a Southern woman, I have no clue.

As if you couldn't tell. For some reason I think this picture wouldn't get me in to the Society of Southern Belles.

But I have a feeling the perfect ratio of hangers in your closet helps.

They must have books on this sort of thing. How-to diagrams?

I figure I will need an apron. A good pitcher for sweet tea. Knitting needles (and perhaps some knowledge of knitting). A fancy hat for church. And yeast. Definitely yeast.

That is the thing that makes bread go? Right?

Say what?

I have taken up running.

All right. Let's give a second for all my reader friends that can remember my permed hair so not waving in the breeze as I refused to even run so much as .0008 of a mile during those pesky Presidential Fitness Tests in grade school, to get up from the chairs they just fell off of laughing, and catch their breath.

Kind of like I have to do every 10 seconds when I run. Or jog. Or feebly hobble along. However you see it. Since I can't see it, I'll just pretend it's at least a jog.

But let's face it. This girl does not jog. And yes. I am this girl.

Friday night, I realized the ridiculousness of this new pastime as I jogged/hobbled around the park near our apartment five times.

And for the record, I was not running all five of those times. Except for when some redneck gave out a "Whoop!" of encouragement while driving by. I'm not sure if it was to shock me into a sprint or indicate that I really need to purchase a more supportive - and confining- sports bra.

I have never been a runner. Speed walker? Yes. Take a trip with me to Target and I'll whip you into shape in no time as you try to keep up with me somewhere between the toilet paper and hair care aisles. Runner? No. I'm pretty sure a turtle lapped me in the park Friday night.

Which is why I really can't explain what has brought me to this method of torture, the madness that actually surpasses mini golf in my varying levels of hell. I'm not worried about fitting into my wedding dress. Certainly don't have an itsy bitsy teeny weeny yellow polka dot bikini waiting for me in my closet. Yellow was never my color anyway. And I sure as hell did not invest in the regimen of diet pills and cellulite creams they were selling at the Brookfield Bridal Expo.

Although I am loving those new gummi vitamins.

As a senior in high school, in a desperate ploy to magically turn my ex-boyfriend/prom date into my boyfriend/prom date I became obsessed with dropping as much weight as possible. Which translated into a no carbs, high in pickles, tuna, beef jerky and insane amounts of water diet. Oh. And don't forget the exercise. Two weeks = -10 pounds. I gained it all back after a bowl of Cocoa Pebbles on the big day.

And I actually got locked out of the house because Dad wasn't expecting me to come home so early. Ouch.

That's me in the middle. Yes. I know. Aside from dropping a ridiculous amount of weight I also tried to stage my first wedding and become the poster girl for why teenagers should not be allowed to go tanning.

But let the record show - even then - I didn't run. Maybe overdose on the circuit at Curves with my mom. But run? Never.

So why am I sitting here - tennis shoes on and hair pulled into a 'do that would rival Pebbles?

Beats me.

Hindsight is 20/20

I made the mistake of driving by my old apartment Friday evening.

Mistake as in the east side was flooded with out-of-towners trying to get to Summerfest. (Cue the non-ladylike profanity. Must get rid of that before I become a Southern Belle).

And mistake as in it reminded me of different - not necessarily better - days.

While I still had the taste of excitement for post-grad life - before health insurance became a phrase I used often, and while I still had the title "intern" tacked on after my name, there was the promise and glory of life living downtown Milwaukee. It may have momentarily become a distant second behind my first love - New York - but let's face it, it's not really a high achieving life goal to marry an Irish bartender and reproduce as much as possible living in a tiny efficiency on Long Island.

Not that that wasn't an option. The job was there. But the HR contact's comment of, "You can get a waitressing job," was not so consoling. Here's hoping Martin the Bartender isn't still holding out for me. But I trust that he keeps my picture close to his heart, as he probably does for all the other college co-eds that happened upon his bar over spring break and fell in love with the idea of marrying their own Boondock Saint.

And so, there was Milwaukee. And even though there were drunk homeless men digging through my garbage, a colony of ants that declared war on my toothbrush (make that new toothbrush every other day), no air conditioning, and ridiculously non-Amy friendly parking situations, that little overpriced apartment and the surrounding neighborhood will always hold a special place in my heart.

It's the place I got to call 911 for the first time. Damn elevator. The place I was when the first African American was elected President of the United States. The place I discovered that even the brightest of Marquette grads can lose their cell phone in their mailbox after a night of too much whiskey. The place Seth and I shared our first kiss and our first "I love you." The place Lauren and I sat for eight hours straight reading the last Harry Potter book. And the place I eventually outgrew when I knew that my life wasn't just for one - but two.

It's kind of like all my old clothes that are too big for me now. They were glorious - quite tasty days - but as my body seems to have shrunk, my dreams and my life are bigger than I could ever imagine. Helps to have the best guardian angel around. :)

And just to be fair to Seth the Southern Charmer, any photo of me and another man must be balanced with a photo of me and MY man. I love you honey!

Friday Favorite: A.G. Phone Boy

** Amy's note: In this great journey to the altar, Fridays will be a time to reblog my favorite memories from meeting and falling in love with my Southern Charmer. And so I give you, the first phone call.

I was up to my eyeballs in bubbles. At 7:15 p.m. I had already downed not one, but two glasses of White Zinfandel.

And not like wine glass size either. Like regular glass size.

By all accounts, it wasn’t a very classy bubble bath. Not like the ones you see in movies.

I blame it on my rubber ducky shower curtain and the fact that my tub isn’t even long enough for me to extend my legs while sitting. That and I was drinking wine out of a Jimmy John’s plastic cup.

Still, I was totally trying to have one of those wine and bubble bath movie moments.

Then it happened. The Marquette Fight Song, “Ring Out Ahoya” ringing from my cell phone. It was time. I had a gentleman caller.

Not quite. It was just my best friend Lauren seeing if she could spook me into thinking the moment of my phone date had finally arrived. Figures.

I’m not the type of girl to wait by the phone for a guy to call. The last time I can honestly say I did it the phone call didn’t arrive until around 2:30 a.m. and all my friends declared him a piece of “couch material” upon hearing my reenactment of the phone conversation.

If there’s anything you don’t want, you don’t want my friends to call you couch material. It’s not good.

Monday night I found myself back in the waiting by the phone saddle again. Only this time I’d never had that stammering, heart pounding, “Oh my goodness I’m going to pass out” with this guy in person. Just emails and a couple of photos spread out in the world of online Catholic dating.

From the Catholic Herald to the Y to the bottle of wine to the bathtub, the questions would not stop hounding me…

Will he laugh like Urkel?

Will he put words together like Ozzy Osbourne or more like Anderson Cooper?

Will his accent be so thick I can’t understand him—ala Sean Connery?

Will our conversation be so painful I’ll constantly be doing the awkward turtle?

Thankfully the date fell on the same night of the State of the Union address. Five minutes of that in my mom’s old recliner and I was out like a light. All phone date worries aside.

Until 9:18. When my phone was ringing out ahoya yet again.

It was either fight or flight. And I chose fight.

Or rather. To answer.

On the other end, a delightful, yet slight southern drawl greeted me. Which for any woman I think would put her at ease. And with that 56 minutes ticked by. No Ozzy Osbourne sentences. No Urkel laughs. No awkward turtles. Just a guy and girl. Trying to get to know one another.

Getting to the guts of the guest list

There they were. In the midst of the Wisconsin heat (that definitely rivaled Alabama's this week), leaning against the apartment door, begging to be opened.

My heart skipped a beat. The Jaws theme began playing in my head. And my right hand started to cramp.

Our Save the Dates had arrived.  

82 of them to be exact. 82 for the guests that had made it through the first round cuts, and the second round cuts, and the third round cuts. They were going to the finals. And they were guaranteed first prize. 

Since becoming a bride-to-be, I've taken up running. Started weight lifting. Cut back on the soda and started to drown myself in at least eight glasses of water a day. I adhere to a strict sleep schedule and attempt to find joy in washing the dishes and other housewifely duties.

I even think twice before I pop open a bottle of wine for "just a sip."

But nothing in this pre-wedding conditioning routine has come anywhere close (not even the running... yuck!) to slicing and dicing the guest list.

In my own little perfect world, I had 300 guests alone on my list. That was before I remembered my groom had friends and family too. And certainly before I realized each guest came with a rather steep price tag. (And that our reception hall can only fit 200). 

So began the slicing. And the dicing. College friends. Work colleagues. Hometown buds that remember the mullet but missed the whole time period of gaining the freshman 15 to losing the cancer 15. Distant family members that probably wouldn't even recognize me if I ran into them in the mall. 

And Jesuits. Off went the Jesuits. They wouldn't have even brought dates. 

If I wasn't spending a lot of time in purgatory before, I sure am now.  

The Tuesday Tantrum

There comes a time in every relationship, when all you want to do is scream.

And so, the Monday bliss gave way to the Tuesday tantrum.

Which by today will hopefully have given way to a case of the Wednesday "Wow I love my fiance THIS much."

Relationship frustrations drive me nuts. Not only because I prefer perfect harmony in life (henceforth why I never parallel park) but because they don't always get resolved on my timeline. Seth and I have a fight? Boom. I want it over now, forgiveness and everything, so I can check it off my list and get back to my regularly scheduled programming.

There is no time for stewing in my world. When a Guckeen starts something, we don't stop until we finish it. Unfortunately not all parties involved always feel that way about squabbles. Which leaves me in a huff in my cubicle, because the one thing I really want to get crossed off my to do list is just not cooperating.

And there's nothing I hate more than an uncooperative to do list. Cue the screams.

I'm aware that fighting is healthy. I'm aware that disagreements are good. I'm even more aware that discussing disagreements are really good. Nearly all my arguments with Seth have amounted to really good things, save one or two instances when I was, in typical Amy fashion, overreacting. And all have resulted in, for some crazy reason, me loving my fiance that much more.

That doesn't save those little in between moments however, when all I want to do, especially in this heat, is holler.

Somewhere in the sky...

I was on cloud nine.

That's the only way to describe my mood Monday afternoon at work. It was hot. It was humid. I was force feeding myself a Lean Cuisine (all part of the year long bridal slim down). And all I wanted was a chocolate milkshake from Culver's.

But I could not be happier to be alive. Or engaged for that matter. 

Love makes you do crazy things, and as I'm discovering in the countdown to June 12, 2010, being engaged makes you do even crazier things. Like reprimanding your fiance for not calling you at exactly 9:30 p.m. because you don't just need a week of beauty sleep leading up to the Big Day, you need a whole dang year.

Just as pregnancy has morning sickness and heartburn and all sorts of other things I don't even want to consider for a good five years, I'm finding that being engaged comes with quite the timeline as well. And I'm not talking about how many months before you're supposed to buy your dress or mail those invitations.

Stage one: Weeping

As many people know, on the fateful night my Southern Charmer laid the rock on my finger it was freezing and raining. Luckily, that's not the first thing that comes to mind when I think of that moment. It's more less how I was blubbering like Baby Beluga - in public no less.

I've never been one for being a pretty crier. Ask anyone that's ever had to drop me off at an airport. I get red, I get splotchy, I wail and of course mutter - correction - blabber on about incoherent things. Multiply this times 20 if I manage to spot myself in a mirror mid-cry.

Mid-spiel about all the things he loves about me and his insanity for wanting to spend the rest of his life with me, I went into the ugly cry. Some brides likely wept. Not me. But at least I can say they were tears of ultimate joy. 

Stage two: Obsessive phone calling

The next stage of engagement begins immediately after, or sometimes during, the said proposal weeping. Mine began in the parking garage when my mom couldn't possibly understand why I was asking her to go wedding dress shopping with me. And continued straight down the Guckeen line into best friends territory. As luck would  have it, half of them didn't answer. 

Stage three: Shock (or perhaps, terror)

There is a point, in becoming a bride, when sheer terror sets in. I can remember the exact wall I was staring at in John & Erin's house during our engagement celebration when it hit. Oh my god. I'm a bride.

As a child, teenager, and who am I kidding, at times college student, I had a secret notebook of wedding plans that I tried my best, and as far as I remember, secretly kept hidden from the rest of the world. No one needed to know my 14-year-old plans of having 12 bridesmaids that eventually got pared down to six during college, and axed to five when it was time to actually pop the question. 

Except now everyone did. Everyone needed to know my wedding plans. Everyone wanted to know my wedding plans. And as the bride, I actually had to make them. (With my groom of course). 

Stage four: Awe

Who am I kidding? If I had to give a dollar away to starving children in Africa for every time I stole a glance at my diamond I'd have solved world hunger by now. I know the exact location where I can get the best light to make that baby shine (in our church... usually during the homily) and when it's safe to stare at it for more than five seconds at a time (when everyone is out to lunch). I've gone entire flights making the passengers around me squirm because they're positive I'm destined for the loony bin - or whatever place you go when you can't stop staring at your ring finger. 

Stage five: Insanity

You would think the staring at the ring finger for obscene amounts of time would fit into the insanity category. But that little quirk looks like nothing compared to the whirlwind I have become when it comes to wedding planning. (Note: I said whirlwind. Not bridezilla). 

I never pictured myself as a June bride, but due to constrained budgets, my fall 2009 wedding was out, and due to impatience, a fall 2010 wedding was wayyyy out. Which somehow booked me a wedding in the most wedding crazed month of the year. And gave me the creeping suspicion that every person engaged or even relatively close to engagement was going to steal my church, reception venue, DJ, florist and god knows what else.

Stage six: Bliss

The church is booked. The reception hall contract signed. The photographer set to go. The check off to the DJ. And somewhere, little mice are sewing my wedding dress. Aside from that sticky little bit about my fiance being in Alabama and me in Wisconsin. Life could not be more perfect.

At least until the Save the Dates arrive this week and need addressing. 

Monday, Monday

My Dad used to blare Ed Ames while cleaning. If there's one way to drive a teenage girl nuts, that's the ticket.

But for some reason good ol' Ed's version of "Monday, Monday" blasts through my head every time the dreaded day comes around.

Another day, another dollar I guess.

While submerged in bubbles last night, Dad and I had a little talk, as we so often do these days. It's the benefit of having him in heaven. There's no call waiting, no busy signal cause he's on the internet.

The topic of conversation last night? My career. I was asking for a few strings that only heaven can pull in the Huntsville area, seeing as we're officially a year away from W-Day and Alabama residency is imminent. And Dad (or my conscience, whichever you prefer) wanted to know why I had given up writing so easily in the past few months.

Hmm. Valid point. Now that my job title is "assistant editor" rather than "reporter" my workload has inevitably been more tearing other people's writing apart than penning my own. And since I did just kind of win first place from the Catholic Press Association for my online dating story, it isn't just a valid point - it's a valid concern. I've been writing since I was five. Why stop now?

Especially when there's vendettas against David's Bridal to be written.

Are you there blog readers? It's me Amy...

If there was one guaranteed way to *frustrate* my Dad, I sure knew the magic secret.

Only hours after he meticulously Ajax'd and Spic n' Span'd the bathroom, he'd hearing the bath water running.

Didn't it only make sense to take a bubble bath when the bathroom was Jim Guckeen spotless?

Somewhere in the back of my head, I was expecting my first Father's Day without Dad to be a bit more difficult like this. I had the Door Peninsula Strawberry Wine in the fridge. The oreos in the pantry. The Kleenex primped and ready to go.

But for some reason, the tears only managed to come when I was cleaning the bathroom. Figures.

Hours after Ajax'ing and Spic n' Span'ing my own domain, indulging in - what else - a bubble bath, the reason I haven't spent my day sucking on a wine bottle and going through insane amounts of Kleenex hit me.

There dads out there who aren't dads - at least not in the way we honor them today. Dads who beat their kids. Dads who are alcoholics or drug addicts or whatever other destructive vices that are out there. Dads who wish their kids were someone or something else. Dads who don't see their kids, don't know or care to know their kids exist. Dads who never say "I love you." Dads who never give a hug or a kiss or just call to say "Hi." And for those kids, who may never know whether or not their father loves them, today is a much harder day than it is for me.

Because I'm just a kid - a kid whose father always said "I love you," who never felt her father wished she was something else. There were always hugs. I always knew he was proud of me, no matter how small the task I had just accomplished. Looking back on my 24 years of life, I can't think of a single moment with my dad when he was, what some may call, a "bad" dad.

And I can't think of a single moment when there might have been any doubt in my mind, whether or not he loved me.

Happy Father's Day Dad. Hope you're enjoying a cold one in heaven with Grandpa.

Wedding plans are on the table. And I've even got a groom that's up for the Milwaukee Bridal Expo. Could life be more perfect? (Well, as perfect as can be under the current circumstances).

I thank all of you for your thoughts and prayers over the course of the last couple months. The death of a parent is a particularly hard road to walk down, but it has been much easier with the love of friends and loved ones. 

Before I move this blog over to the Bride's Bungalow, I leave one lasting tribute to the man that'll be walking me down the aisle in spirit June 12, 2010. Here is the eulogy I gave at the funeral a month ago...

I don't have to look very far in my life to find my father. He's in the way I clean bathrooms, my love for the library and post-it notes, my method of cleaning off my car when it snows, the reason I carry a rosary with me when I fly, and the way I can never rest until the kitchen is spotless.

In case you couldn't tell, Dad loved to clean. And he loved to teach his children how-- at least those of us who would listen. He never taught me how to mow the lawn though-- no hard labor for his little girl.

As the baby by 17 years, I never experienced the dad that was working two jobs or the dad that was going to school. I am the lucky one. I got Dad to myself. At least until Michael came along. Then I had to learn to share.

He gave me hugs and I love yous. A debt free education to Marquette University and a strand of pearls to go with it. Plenty of other presents accompanied by the tagline, "Just don't tell Joan." He always ensured I had enough quarters for laundry and the perfect amount of air in my tires. "Dad, what should I do?" was always followed by not just a piece of advice, but a piece of really good advice. And every one of my tears, even in the end, was accompanied by "You'll be okay."

One of the last things I got to tell my dad when he was in the hospital was, "Thank you-- for everything." His response? "Thank you for being you." And that was dad-- you didn't have to be an accountant or hit a home run or get straight A's to earn his love. It was just there. He was the perfect dad-- always there, always loving you, always proud of you, always making sure you were taken care of. 

Alive and moderately well

Working on settling into a new routine... minus Seth... well minus him being in Milwaukee. For now it's phone calls and dreams of sweet home Alabama. As soon as I determine how the pre-wedding workouts and running my own errands and what not fit into my schedule, I'll be back. There is after all a wedding to plan!

Silence

It is remarkable how silent silence can be.

Seth left today. Off for an opportunity that we have said over and over again will be good for us-- in the long run.

In the short run, aside from our engagement, I don't see how 2009 could get any worse. Then again, my car was making a very strange rattling noise this morning.

James Roger Guckeen

October 12, 1938 - April 6, 2009

I know. I know. It has been awhile. I blame it entirely on the fact that:

a. My dad is still in the hospital
b. I have strep throat
c. My former landlord came thiiiiiiiis close to taking me to court
d. Seth the Southern Charmer is moving to another state
e. Work has been incredibly crazy
f. I have laundry to put away.

Sadly that's not a multiple choice quiz and it's been all of the above. And that's not an April Fools joke either.

I realized today while taking the trash out that you have no idea how lonely life can be until you've found someone to de-lonely your life with. (Taking out the trash = general lonely activity in general). As if 2009 hasn't brought me enough sucker punches, Seth and I are back to the long distance relationship for the time being. It's the best career move he could possibly have made and will be better for us in the long run, but for the time being I'm maxing out on my Kleenex use.

And my electricity use too. For some reason when he's gone I like every light in the apartment on. Makes life not so lonely.

Since it's back to eating lettuce out of a bag for dinner and relying on my stuffed bunny Hannaford to tuck me in at night it's back to the blog for me.

After all. If you guys won't keep me company, who will?

There is a canadian goose and a mallard duck staring at me right now.

Either they really envy my rockin' St. Patty's Day hoodie or they want my Blue Moon.

Take the sweatshirt my feathered friends. But please leave the beer. 

It's miraculous the difference a week makes. Last week at this time I was scrubbing my hands obsessively in the ICU to prevent spreading even a mini mini germ to my dad. Today I'm enjoying the Wisconsin sunshine on my patio-- and of course, in honor of St. Patrick, a beer.

Although I'm not really sure how he went from chasing the snakes out of Ireland to becoming the patron saint of alcoholic beverages.

Dad is doing better. He'll be moved from his current hospital digs to the ones in my hometown on Thursday, just in time to coincide with my planned trip to Minnesota. I'm super pumped to see him without all the scary IVs. 

Seth is away for the week, spending some much needed time with his mom and brother. While I miss him (particularly his mad dusting skills-- our living room is so dusty!), I'm discovering that time away can be just as rejuvenating for us as a couple. Particularly when things get so stressful.

Plus, it leaves me a bounty of alone time to wedding plan.

Well I best be going-- another duck has joined my company and my Blue Moon is running out. Either time to retreat from my own wildlife center-- or go get more beer.

Happy St. Patty's Day!

Mini blog vacation

Dad's in the ICU in Minneapolis (where I am right now-- yucky snowstorm). Your prayers please.

I'm getting married.

Sometimes with everything going on I manage to forget that little factoid. 

By now, most readers of my blog know that my dad was diagnosed with lung cancer last month. 

I don't have to look very far into my daily life to find my dad. He's in my joy for cleaning bathrooms. My need to keep track of my to dos on post-it notes. The way I brush off my car when it snows. My always on time mentality. My addiction to Sudoku. And the reason I am at mass every Sunday. He was even my personal cheerleader yesterday when I did my own taxes for the first time. 

So it doesn't take much to figure out that if ever there was a Job moment, a "desert" in this Lenten season, this would be it.

Cancer sucks. 

 

The first time

The first time.

There are things you'll never forget. 

Your first date.

Your first kiss.

The first time you go wedding dress shopping.

Which is exactly why I haven't gone. 

There is something completely and entirely magical about trying on a wedding dress-- something completely and entirely different than the hours you spent in the prop room during play practice in high school, fighting over who got to wear the one wedding dress on the entire costume rack for the evening.

And that one was ugly anyway. With that big old bow and scary puffy sleeves.

Which is why I'm saving myself. Even though the five-year-old in me is whining with a little, "But I want to go wedding dress shopping nowwwwww...."

No no no. I want to go with my mom. Which complicates the process since she is about 300 miles away on most days. I want to go with my maid of honor. But she's pretty much in the same locale, give or take 50 miles. And I know that as horrific as it may be for my very best friend, I need to go with him, cause he'll be brutally honest.

Like, "Amy. What are you trying to do? Attract pigeons with all those shiny sequins?"

Alfred Angelo's 81 Bridesmaid Flavors

Shrimp. Espresso. Mocha. Tangelo. Pistachio. Grape. Pink sorbet.

I thought I was picking out wedding colors. Not my menu.

In my head it's simple. I want brown bridesmaids dresses. I want my accent to colors to be a light pink and a light orange.

On paper-- not so much. Do I mean pink sorbet? Coral? Tea rose? Shrimp? And what's this light orange business-- is it burnt orange? Tangelo? Spice? Peach fizz?

Even white isn't just white anymore. There's white. Diamond white.

I'm sure if I looked hard enough I could probably find New Fallen Snow White or Creamy Vanilla too.

Make no mistake about it. I'm girly. Almost two months since we got engaged and I can still waste a pretty decent chunk of time staring at my engagement ring.

But really? Tangelo or Peach Fizz? Couldn't I be spending my time solving world hunger or creating world peace or something?!

Sunday morning wedding planning

475 days to go.

Thank you theknot.com. I'm sure that ticking time bomb every time I log in will feel just wonderful when it's something like 26 days to go and 1,527 things left to do.

I am completely and entirely befuddled at my current indifference to wedding planning. I'm aware of the likely cause, but still surprised that instead of logging on to The Knot when life throws me too many curve balls, instead I hit up my $2.99 Easy Sudoku book from Target.

I haven't touched my Martha Stewart planning kit in at least three weeks. Haven't given second thought to how I'm going to weave my wedding colors-- brown, pink and tangelo-- into our summer themed wedding. When discussing my hair stylist's baby shower with her on Friday, for the very first time it occurred to me-- oh yeah, I get a bridal shower.  Huh. And one of those bachelorette thingers too.

The only thing wedding-esque discussions Seth and I have had lately pertain to failing items in our apartment. Cheese grater coming apart? We'll register for a new one. Missing a mixing spoon? We'll register for a new one. All our forks seem to be jumping ship when they hit the dishwasher? We'll register for some new ones.

Comforter has a few holes in it? We'll register for a new one.

I'm just kinda interested to see what kind of shape that poor thing is  going to be in 475 days from now. 

Back from the dead

Thanks to my lovely fiancee, here I am -- back from a much needed blog hiatus. I believe his direct quote was, "You don't have to blog about the wedding. Blog about the snow! And how much it sucks!"

Sitting on our comfy couch with some toaster streudel in hand and no plans to go outside today... well the new fallen snow doesn't suck so much. It's actually kind of pretty.

The wedding planning is going along smoothly, although be it at a turtle's pace-- our date isn't until June 12, 2010, and given the fact that we have both the church and reception hall secured, I'm in no big rush to hop on the planning bandwagon until about June. The fairy tale wedding I've always dreamed of as a little girl has morphed into something entirely different than the 7-year-old Amy would have ever expected. And when I figure out exactly what that vision is, I'll let you know-- for now I'm trying to figure it out myself.

It's amazing what adulthood, a horrendous economy and a diagnosis of cancer in your family can do to put things in perspective.

Diary of a Type A Bride

I don't recognize the woman in the mirror.

Long gone is the Amy that lounged in her pjs all day, watching marathons of "Whose Wedding Is It Anyway?" and "Bridezillas." The Amy that passed by the bridal magazine rack at Borders and considered the word bride as a far off description of something that may happen, not necessarily will happen. 

I've become one of them.

Note to self: I will not become a Bridezilla. 

There's a code among soon to be brides and those that have gone before them that apparently goes unspoken, unbeknownst to the world of single women out there, those untouched by the ring finger bling. 

Being a bride is a terrifying thing. And I'm not talking about the whole committing yourself to someone for the rest of your life thing.

Before the awe at the sparkliness of the ring even begins to wear off, the lists begin to pile up in the part of your brain reserved solely for wedding planning.

The same part of your brain that triggers hysterical crying and PMS induced rage at non-PMS times of the month.

Colors. Date. Wedding party. Caterer. Photographer. Church. Marriage prep. Registries. Guest list.

I could go on, but next Christmas would be here by the time I'm done.

Visions of sugarplums and dancing bridesmaids in my head, the whole process of being engaged is clearly not as much of a charmed life as I had originally hoped. Although dang, that ring sure is sparkly. And my fiancee sure is amazing.

The easiest decision, which just happens to be the one thing that provoked all this stress, was saying yes. 

SURPRISE!

My excuse for such a belated start to blogging in the new year.... it really is time consuming being a bride. :)