A Letter to an Old Friend

Dear Ted,

I know I haven't seen you in probably 13 years. I estimate this based upon the fact that my oldest son, Nile, was only a bit more than one-year-old when I saw you last. We were at Ty and Tera's house in Osage Beach, Missouri. Enjoying our youth as best we could. And you didn't know how utterly terrified I was on the inside as a new dad.

And here you are, not only facing the new dad thing, but facing it quite unexpectedly alone. When I heard the news about your wife, Jocelyn, this week, I literally felt like I was kicked in the gut.

To lose the mother of your child, your first child, just after she literally labored to bring her into the world, well, that's simply something I refuse to believe God, if he exists, would let happen. But it did happen. And it makes me angry, and sad, and frustrated, and wanting to scream.

I can't possibly begin to understand, and therefore can offer you no advice, on losing the love of your life.  But I decided that the least I could do is pass on a few things I've learned about being a single dad.

First off, don't take it too seriously. Yes, you have to be the disciplinarian. But that doesn't mean you have to do it Stalin-style. Enjoy Emmerson's sassiness when she shows it. Let her freak flag fly. And applaud it. I see my sons as an extension of me. A piece of me. My blood. My mini-me's. I'm going to presume that when you look at your daughter, you're going to see your late wife. But make no mistake, my friend, she is half you, and you are her rock for the foreseeable future. So laugh. Smile. And teach her to do the same.

The second bit of advice I have is this: Take time for her. When we leave this world, that 4 p.m. conference call isn't going to weigh in more decisively than your daughter's first school concert, or ballet recital, or soccer game. She needs you more than most kids need their parents. So make sure you answer that call, and don't let the stuff that doesn't matter get in the way of that.

And unless you think I'm telling you that you need to devote your every minute to her, my third piece of advice is, take time for yourself. You'll have even more parenting demands on you than most, as you are her only parent 24/7/365. That doesn't mean you shouldn't take breaks. You do need to recharge, so rely on your family and friends to be able to do that. Because a burned out dad isn't a very effective one.

Finally, as she gets older, I strongly encourage you to take Emmerson on trips to Jocelyn's roots, and also both of your roots in Grinnell, Iowa City, Cleveland, Kenyon, and Columbus. I remember first meeting Jocelyn when she was attending law school at the University of Iowa, and you were coaching on the football staff in Grinnell. This was where your relationship first bloomed, and while it may not seem like it now, someday your daughter will love to learn about these places where you fell in love with her mother.

I am at a loss for words as I sit here trying to imagine the road you face ahead of you. This moment that was supposed to be pure bliss, the arrival of Emmerson, was marred with this unimaginable tragedy. But know that Jocelyn is looking down now and telling you it's time to buck up. Like when you tell your players there's not time for quitting. She was just as much a fierce competitor in this world as you, my friend, and she certainly wants you to keep fighting your way forward for the most precious gift she ever gave you - your daughter.

And remember that when you're missing Jocelyn, and feeling like you're lost or need to talk, you have an amazing network of friends to rely on, from your college buddies and football teammates at Grinnell, to your staff and players at Kenyon, and every other school you coached at along the way. Even guys who haven't seen in over 13 years are here for you.

You and Emmerson are in my thoughts and prayers. And a lot of other people who you haven't seen in a decade or two. And even people who you've never met. And your wife is looking down upon you with pride, knowing that if there's anyone who can do this, it's you, Ted. May she rest in peace.

God bless,

Clemmy

From Russia, With No Love

There's no Perestroika goin' on here.

Tatyana and I first started talking over two years ago on a dating site.

She was a Russian immigrant, having moved here 20 years ago, and she still speaks Russian with her children, and works as an interpreter.

At the time, I lived a little further away from her, and our schedules didn't work to meet up for our first date.

Time went on, and we both ended up in relationships that lasted over a year.

Then, last week, we reconnected on the same dating site. We exchanged emails about what we had been up to, and figured out that we should probably meet up since we always got along when we were emailing or texting, both two years ago and now.

We ended up meeting for drinks and appetizers two days ago at a nice little wine bar that was less than ten minutes away from both of us. I was actually excited, but not overly optimistic, that maybe I'd have a great first date with a Minnesota woman for the first time in years.

As we met for the first time in the parking lot, I felt a little buckle in my knees. She was even more beautiful than her pictures portrayed - a rarity in the online dating world. She was tall, thin, blond, with sparkling blue eyes and a single, heart-melting dimple when she smiled hello to me.

Things started off a little awkwardly, as she insisted on lecturing me, in her thick Russian accent, about my late arrival. I had told her I would be 10 minutes later than we planned. But she still insisted on telling me off. "In my culture, you would no longer be a man, but be a boy, for not respecting me enough to show up on time." She finally gave up the lecture when I assured her (not so honestly) that I'm usually on time. 

We had a fantastic conversation about life as a single parent of boys (she has three sons), about dating as a single parent, and about the ups and downs of relationships. I respected her bluntness. "If I don't like someone, or don't want to date them, I just tell them," she said. "I don't have time to waste." Honesty. How I love that. My dating mantra has long been "I'd rather be hurt by the truth than lied to."

We were both flirty with our words and our body language, and the conversation went on comfortably for over two hours. Knowing she appreciated blunt conversation, I finally just said, "I'm really enjoying talking with you, and I think you're beautiful, and I'd like to go on a second date if you'd like to."

She replied in her thick accent, "I find you to be very attractive, and really enjoy conversing with you. I would really love another date." We said goodbye with a nice, long hug, and as she pulled away she smiled and flashed her dimple. Feeling my knees buckle again, I started high-fiving myself in my brain for FINALLY having a decent first date again.

The plan was that we'd have our second date on Monday, the next night we didn't have our kids. And in the meantime, we'd keep texting and talking on the phone to get to know more about each other. Yesterday and today we had some very good conversations that continued to make me think things were going very well.

And then tonight, in less than a 50-word text message exchange, the Cold War was rekindled in full force (see the photo above for the actual exchange). Because she had decided to leave her kids alone tonight and go out, she wanted me to meet her out of the blue. My GMan had a baseball game, and I told her I couldn't do it, unless we met sometime after 9 p.m. when his game would be over.

She would have none of that. She wanted me to meet her right then. I told her no. Well...you can read it for yourself. But the bat shit crazy came shooting out like a Yellowstone geyser. Here's a hint to any woman wanting to date me: Don't ever ask me to put my kids behind you in priority. Ever. Because you have as good of a chance of that happening as I do scoring a date with a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model.

So, I said the only thing I could think of to what I had hoped would be my next ex-wife: 

Dear Tatyana,

Оставьте меня в покое!

xoxox

Clemmy

The Grinnell Experience

I'm giddy with excitement to be returning this weekend to a place that had a more profound effect on me in four years than any other place or period in my life.

Grinnell College. That liberal, hippy, gay-loving school in The Middle Of Nowhere, Iowa.

Only a few close friends know my wishes when I leave this Earth. I want to be cremated, and have my ashes spread in four locations. One of those is the Grinnell College campus.

A common term used at the college, back in my day, was "The Grinnell Experience."

It was a catchy little phrase that was probably thought up by some marketing major from Coe College turned "communications director," but for some damn reason, the phrase actually made sense.

Grinnell College alums have a special bond with one another, no matter when they attended the school. There's an understanding. "Oh, you also were fortunate enough to enjoy one of Iowa's best kept secrets?" Maybe not a best kept secret to nerds and geeks, but to the world-at-large, it was quite invisible.

I knew this because when my high school classmates asked me where I was going to college, I'd tell them, and they'd say "Oh, Cornell?"

It became much easier to just nod, and say, "Sure!"

So how did Grinnell shape who I am, so definitively in just four short years? 

Well there's the obvious. I met the mother of my amazing children there. And I'm fortunate enough that my parents met the love of their life, and parent of their amazing child (I'll let you guess which one of the three of us that is), at Grinnell. So pretty much my mere existence is a result of Grinnell.

And frankly, next to family, I have nobody in my life that understands me better than the group of close friends I made while I attended Grinnell. We don't all see each other as often as we'd like to, but when we do, we always pick up right where we left off. Just like the days when we were hosting keggers on the roof of Cowles, complete with our mini-golf course, hot tub, and water balloon cannon. Those guys are the closest things to brothers I've ever had, next to my actual brothers.

Oh, and that brings me to one of the other amazing things that shaped me while at Grinnell: I never let my classes get in the way of my education. Yet somehow I still made it through. Sometimes, an all-nighter drinking Milwaukee's Best Light and playing SuperNintendo with your "brothers" can teach you more than an all-nighter of studying Constitutional Law and Politics (with apologies to Professor Ira Strauber).

And there's no question that Grinnell shaped me politically. But not the way most people would think. They assume "liberal arts" is code for teaching us to be commies who love to play hacky sack and protest everything. 

But for those of you who haven't been around me consistently the last 20 years, you'd probably be shocked to know that when I graduated from Grinnell, I was still a registered Republican. In fact I worked on a Republican Gubernatorial campaign more than two years after I left Grinnell.

The most common misconception about the school is that it just turns out liberals, and is an institution devoted to brainwashing their students with an agenda toward all things leftist. Au Contraire.

Grinnellians by and large are outspoken. And not shy about sharing their opinions. But it's not because of any leftist agenda. It's because our professors wanted us to leave school and be able to 1) think critically, and make informed decisions, not just following the crowd; 2) communicate effectively. Because no matter how smart you might think you are, if you can't find a way to articulate that with others, you'll never get anywhere in life; and 3) communicate in both directions. Listening, learning, and processing information from people you disagree with isn't a bad thing. It's educational. You might even find some common ground.

And finally, I have to say, another important thing I learned in my four years at Grinnell: How to tap a keg.

I look forward to returning to my roots. My old stomping grounds. The place where I went from being a boy to a slightly older boy. And the place where I perfected the art of face planting into a comfy spot on Mac Field at 2 a.m., and yelling out for help until my friends would somehow find me each time.

The Grinnell Experience means a lot of things to a lot of people. But for me, it means four of the best years of my life. Even if I don't remember every moment.

See you Friday, Grinnell. And if you hear someone yelling for help on Mac Field, please direct me to my dorm room, and make sure to leave the garbage can near my bed.

Anatomy of a Blocked Blogger

9:04 p.m: I've been staring at a blank screen for the last 20 minutes.

It's the modern day equivalent of a blank piece of paper. A fresh start. A new beginning.

And yet it is still blank. Out of fear. The fear inside that perhaps I'll write something that people will hate. That my words will be a garbled mess that fall upon an audience wishing me death. I write this blog for myself, but I'd be naive not to think that there are people who read it.

9:07 p.m.: Should I write a "funny" piece, or a "deep" piece? I try to mix it up as much as possible. My favorite thing to do in this World (besides things my mother would rather I not write about on this blog) is to make people laugh. But tonight, I'm not feeling the humor. I'm not sad, or deep, either, tonight. Mostly just numb from long hours of work lately, and some outside stress I'm doing my best to ignore.

9:12 p.m.: I have "The Brothers McMullen" on the TV. I remember a time when I thought Ed Burns was going to be the next great thing. But watching this movie makes me realize that his screenwriting is in fact very cliched, and the acting in this movie is worse than a 1970s made-for-TV movie.

9:17 p.m.: Maybe I should write about my memories of growing up in Sioux City. Wait, I've written about four or five variations of that one. Hmmm. I could write about my college buddies. Did that one already too. Ooooh! I could write something about 

9:23 p.m.: Saved by a text conversation with a friend who is going through a "quasi-break up." I could write an advice column on how to break up with dignity. Except I haven't found a way to do that, whether I'm the dumper or the dumpee, in my 41 years. Love is rough, yo. And so is lust, for that matter.

9:29 p.m.: Now I'm thinking about Jerry's Pizza. My Sioux City peeps know what an awesome thing that pizza is. And a select few friends from elsewhere have been introduced to the purely heavenly pizza that is referred to by my mini mes as "that one guy's pizza." Need to find a paper towel, I'm starting to drool.

9:30 p.m.: And I need a Charlie Boy and a Schooner. And Milwaukee Wiener House. Maybe La Juanitas. Maybe I should find a cloth towel instead of a paper towel. Drooling like Niagara Falls.

9:32 p.m.: I don't have to work tomorrow. Perhaps having one more Summit India Pale Ale would inspire my words to flow onto the blank screen. BRB. Need another brew.

9:36 p.m.: I hate the ending credit song choice for "The Brothers McMullen." Only because the song, "I Will Remember You," has been played so much in the past 10 years since 9/11, I can't enjoy hearing it anymore. It's sensually unpossible.

9:41 p.m.: I've come to the realization that there's no way I'll write a decent blog entry tonight. Too many shiny objects for this guy.

9:45 p.m.: Channel surfing, and I'm pretty sure I'm watching a dragon with Sean Connery's voice right now. 

9:47 p.m.: Got an email on one of the dating web sites I'm on. I'm too tired to read it tonight. In all likelihood, it's a spambot email from some Russian hacker telling me "she" has "nakid pitchers on privut web site. click here to see me in nude!"

9:52 p.m.: Interacting with my dad on Facebook now. I always wonder if it is just my dad, or if my mom is sitting next to him, asking "What does LMAO mean?"

9:55 p.m.: Now I'm searching for an old, but not well known, Beach Boys song. "Been Too Long." I know it was after Brian Wilson's "I'm Lying in Bed" semi-breakdown. And for some reason I can't find it. Oh wait, it's "Can't Wait Too Long," not "Been Too Long."

9:59 p.m.: Found the song. Enjoying it, but it's making me think about things I don't want to. Too bad life doesn't have a delete button.

10:04 p.m.: I've wasted an hour now avoiding writing a blog entry. I think it's time to just admit that this night would be better spent having a few more beers, watching some bad movie on Encore, and pondering subjects for a future blog entry.

10:06 p.m.: Throwing in the towel. Covered in drool.

Sunday Funday: Take Back Your WHOLE Weekend

Weekend lovers of the World Unite! Take back Sunday, I say!

It no longer needs to be the second worst day of the week behind Monday. You all know what I mean. That dark shadow that begins to set in on Sunday afternoon sometime, and grows darker as the sun goes down. The dread of the impending Monday. The end of another weekend.

But it doesn't HAVE to be that way. Introducing a revolutionary way to stretch your weekend to the limits: Sunday Funday.

What is Sunday Funday, you ask? Well, let me tell you. It's pure awesomeness packed neatly into the twilight of your respite from work. The idea is quite simple, really, and makes me wonder why it didn't exist during my childhood, when Sundays involved a pot roast dinner with the entire family, and sometimes neighbors as well.

Don't get me wrong. I loved those Sunday afternoon/evenings with my family. But since I have the typical nuclear family lifestyle these days, Sundays spent at large family gatherings isn't the norm.

So, a few months ago, I was introduced to the Sunday Funday. And I'm not looking back.

The basic rules of Sunday Funday are simple. There are no rules. Other than you can't talk about work. Or school.

It seems that having a few cocktails on a Sunday afternoon can lead to some benefits. As Tammy, one of the founders of our particular Sunday Funday gang says, the best part is how brutally we honest we all are with each other. Rena, another original member of our group, said that it's not completely different from a family gathering on a Sunday. "We get to hang out and be ourselves with the people we love." 

Or, put in a less delicate by another founding member (who wishes to remain anonymous), "Sex talk." I don't know HOW it happens, but every Sunday Funday the conversation goes into this normally taboo Sunday subject in most Midwestern towns. But with our group, it's just become a chance to share information that may prove useful someday, if any of us ever are lucky enough to get lucky, if you're picking up what I'm dropping down. It's like a support group, really, for sex-deprived drunks.

Yes, if you hang out with MY Sunday Funday gang, you usually end up having conversations that would make your mother blush. Or in my case, send me The Text. Luckily for us, these conversations don't leave the group, other than the wait staff or bartenders in ear shot, and they're usually either laughing, joining in our risque conversation, or both. Many times we even receive a thanks from our servers for making their Sunday at work less boring.

Our group has also become fond of a particular shot as our signature Sunday Funday drink, which was introduced to me by my friend, Jean. Pancakes & Syrup, aka Pancake Batter. For those of you who'd like to play along at home, the shot is 1/2 Jamison, 1/2 Butterscotch Schnapps, with an Orange Juice chaser. Trust me. Try it on a Sunday afternoon. If you want to spice it up a little, add a bacon strip at the end. No that's not a shot. I mean a strip of bacon. You're welcome.

When I miss a Sunday Funday, I always feel bad. And I usually receive a bajillion text messages from the participants asking me where I'm at and when I'll be there. And I'm usually receiving play-by-plays from multiple attendees, which makes for an interesting game of "piece these texts together into a story that makes any sense."

Now I need to remind you...there are no rules. So whether you create a Sunday Funday group that would prefer coffee and board games, or a Sunday Funday group that does Jaegerbombs and goes to the strip club, create whatever it is that makes you happy and find others who want to join you. And stop letting Sunday slowly take your weekend soul away.

Fight back! Find your own version of Sunday Funday!

Because let's face it, most times Monday mornings really suck, so does it really matter if you deal with it hungover? Or, for that matter, with the faint smell of cheap stripper perfume?

Interwebzless in Inver Grove Heights

I dare you to shut off your interwebz.

Pull the plug for a day. Or two. Or deal with it like I did for 8 days in a row.

It's hard for me to explain the withdrawal I experienced. Considering the fact that 20 years ago, I didn't even know what email or cell phones were. Ok, well cell phones existed, but they were the size of a small puppy, and caused you to grow tumors the size of grapefuits in your head.

But I digress. The point is, for the last week, I felt like I was forced to not wear underwear, deodorant, or wash my privies. And sport a unibrow.

Life without interwebz, and by interwebz I mean on a machine that is bigger than 3 x 5 inches, is rough, yo. I feel like I just pretty much went through the equivalent, technology-wise, of growing up in Compton, CA with a mom who insisted I wear red, white and blue to school every day.

My battle with Comcast was far from epic, but I won. I refused to pay them for coming out to fix my internal line. Whatever that meant.

When the Comcast technician arrived today, he figured it out within seconds. "You have loose connections to your modem, which led them to put a filter on your line that kept you from accessing the internet."

Huh?

"They detected a leakage on your line from loose connections, so they put a filter on your line that shut off those leaks, and made it necessary for me to come out and visit you."

My only question was basic. Why didn't the 18 customer service reps I dealt with so far know this fact?

"Sometimes our maintenance guys are bad about logging their work in the system."

Really?

So someone at your company didn't follow through on their job, and therefore I got to try and guess for over a week why I didn't have internet access?

There was even a tag on my cable hookup that told the technician that was what happened.

"Why didn't the maintenance guy tell the customer service rep this information, which would have saved me a wasted trip to switch out cable modems?" I asked.

"Um...let's check your connection speed now that I have it set back up," he replied.

Accountability.

I live by it in my daily life. With my sons not doing their homework. With my employees not doing their jobs (which fortunately is much more rare than my sons not doing their homework). With my own self. I do hold myself accountable these days. Wasn't always the case, but something happens when you get over the age of 40, you start to realize you're the one to blame, nobody else.

So, me, the guy who refused to have a cell phone when it was cool, and the guy who still refuses to cave to the notion that the only good TV is a flat one, is now saying quite definitively that living without the interwebz is not a good thing. It's counter-productive.

And it's not just my Facebook addiction saying that. I couldn't manage my bank account like I wanted to. I couldn't reply as easily to important emails. I couldn't easily write a blog, unless it was a haiku.

I was ready to throw my phone against the wall every day for not performing like my laptop, and a home interwebz connection could.

So imagine my delight tonight when I had an awesome Comcast technician finally fix my interwebz.

It was only sullied by the fact that my phone decided to stop taking a power charge from any of my three chargers. Goodbye mobile interwebz, hello real interwebz.

So, while the last week has meant you could easily find me via text message, now you'll have to switch to commenting on my Facebook statii (plural of status, no?) to get my attention. I don't think I'll get another text message for at least 31 days, given my history with corporate technology giants.

So, just remember this when you're trying to contact me. Try text/email/phone/smoke signals. Or else I may just miss your message.

Oh and morse code on telegraph works too.

--. ..-. -.-- /  ...- . .-. .. --.. --- -.  

A Swift Kick to the Balls, and a Wake Up Call

"But if you wanna leave, take good care. Hope you have a lot of nice things to wear. There's a lot of nice things that turn bad out there." _ Cat Stevens

What a wild world it can be, this life of dating and relationships. The hardest part after the initial ending of a relationship is finding out that your ex has found someone new. And that she is enjoying it.

It's the emotional equivalent of having someone take over your job and doing it better than you did. "Johnson, we miss you, but our productivity and profits are up since we hired two offshore employees to do your job at half the salary!"

Perhaps a better analogy is a swift and hard kick to the balls. 

This weekend I had that moment. My phone began blowing up Sunday morning, with friends telling me that the Now Ex-Lady Friend® had posted a picture on Facebook of her and her new man friend.

I wasn't prepared for this moment. Fortunately for me, I am no longer Facebook friends with the Now Ex-Lady Friend®, so I didn't have to see this photo myself. (Of course it was only a matter of time until someone kindly sent me the picture). 

Now perhaps at this point you're like any one of my friends or family members who tell me to ignore it. To move on. To let it, and the memory of the Now Ex-Lady Friend®, go. And I agree in principle. I should not let this bother me in the least.

But principle and practice are two very different beasts. One is the theory, the other is reality, and unfortunately, my reality just couldn't stomach seeing her smiling face, his arm around her, and her hand grabbing at his abs, pulling him closer into her.

This was the woman who just two months ago was in San Diego with me, saying goodbye.

And now she was kicking me in the nuts, though not intentionally, I'd imagine, via Facebook.

She had only posted one or two pictures of us on Facebook in the 16 months we were together. She always said she wanted to remain private about her private life.

And here the Now Ex-Lady Friend® was, proclaiming to her Facebook friends that she had found someone new. Someone better. Someone worth posting a picture of on Facebook. Someone worth proclaiming "Here is my awesome man."

I was never that awesome man. I was never the one she bragged about to her friends for all the flowers I sent for no special occasion. I was never the one she said "I have to be with him." I was never the one who made her think about changing her life path over. I was never "HIM."

And after the dull ache in my stomach dissipated, I realized something else. She wasn't "HER."

Sure I may have thought she was the one for me. I may have thought that we'd grow old together, listening to music, laughing at inside jokes, making meals together, and making fun of one another's silly little quirks.

But as I looked at the picture, I didn't see "HER" anymore. I saw someone I didn't recognize. Someone who wasn't the woman I knew. Someone who had found a different path in life to make her happy, and was happy enough to proclaim it to the Facebook world.

And I realized that someone who could do that was either 1) not being honest with me in the first place, 2) not being honest to themselves now, or 3) both. It was my wake up call, FINALLY!

It's a bittersweet feeling, knowing that she is not "HER." On one hand, I get sad trying to figure out if I even knew the real Now Ex-Lady Friend®. And on the other hand, I get joy knowing that at least I've moved on, closed that door, and am slowing beginning my journey to find "HER" all over again. 

It's a slow journey though, which is why in the interim I find dates with midgets and 80's music lovers to pass the time. Since becoming single, I have yet to even kiss a woman good night. I'll go slowly, and deliberately, and hopefully she will make herself known.

She's out there. I know it. And I look forward to the day I find HER.

How Not To Be A Friend

Jenny and I hit it off on our first date.

As friends.

We laughed hard and enjoyed messing with the other people in the small bar we were at.

But there were too many differences in our life for it to ever be more than friends.

She was 8 years younger than me with no kids, but wanted them. I had kids, but wanted no more. She hadn't really gotten her career started, while mine was going along quite nicely at the time.

We hung out in our free time for about a year. She'd hang out with my sons and I, even, I still remember going to Taste of Minnesota and jamming out to bands with her and the mini-mes.

But it was always platonic. We never even kissed each other.

We both ended up meeting other people and dating, so we rarely would hang out, and our texting or phone calls became less frequent. She ended up getting engaged to a guy who wanted to start a family with her, and I was so damn happy for her, even if we didn't communicate as much.

And we always had Facebook as a way to stay up on what each other was up to.

And then about two years ago, she told me she had stage 4 cancer. The odds were not looking good for her.

I kept up to date on her battle on Facebook, and would send notes to her letting her know she could win this thing, with as tough as she was. She stayed positive and truly believed she could win this fight.

Her fiance was by her side the entire time, helping her try and feel comfortable in the darkest hours of chemo and radiation.

And then I got busy, and was not as good about keeping up with her battle because I had silly every day life changes going on around me. Things that seemed stressful: Work stress, moving stress, dating stress, financial stress. Eff all that stuff. She was fighting for her life.

Last week, I realized I hadn't seen anything from her on Facebook for awhile.

I couldn't find her.

Did she unfriend me? No, she'd never do that.

I searched for her on Facebook to see if perhaps she accidentally had deleted me from her friends' list.

No profile.

I went to google and searched her name.

And then I read her obituary from last summer.

The lesson, my friends, is this.

Treat every moment with every one of your friends like it might be your last with them.

And don't take anyone for granted.

I'll miss you, Jenny! I'm sorry I let my stupid life get in the way of properly saying goodbye to you.

Some Beach...

It's my most common daydream.

Selling most of my belongings, hopping into my already abused car with the belongings I want to keep, and driving until I find some beach, some where.

Where I can sit and sip a cold drink, nobody knows my name, and my first world problems will magically disappear.

The daydream has become so persistent that I start looking around at my belongings.

"Wonder how much I can get for this entertainment center the size of a small elephant? Oh wait, people don't have big entertainment centers anymore. They use their walls for their TV."

See I'm not sure I could even get enough money for my stuff to get me to this beach of wonder.

Because I've just never really cared about things.

People always mattered to me more than things. And last time I checked it's still illegal to sell them.

I don't own a flat screen TV.

I don't have a DVR.

Or an iPod, or iPhone, or iPad. I just have iClemmy.

My furniture is worn, my car is at the later stages of it's life, but still holding on.

So then I rethink my strategy. "Okay, how about instead I just walk away. They can think I disappeared into thin air, was abducted by aliens, or I'm drinking 40 ouncers in a secluded bunker with Elvis and Tupac."

This strategy won't work, either, though. Everyone who knows me would tell the authorities to search every beach in North America for me. Eventually they'd find me.

So then the daydream begins to fade, and I realize it will never be anything other than just that.

And then I look at my reality.

Why on Earth would I run away from my life?

Sure, I am not a wealthy man. At least not in my bank account.

But the people in my life, well they're worth far more to me than any bank account. Anywhere.

And despite the awesome meat jokes it allows, it's not my dream job to sell steaks for a living.

But it's a job where professionally, I've grown immensely, and have had the pleasure to meet some really interesting people from all walks of life who wander through my store's door.

And I don't live in a big fancy house in the suburbs like I used to.

That's fine by me. I hated taking care of 2,000 square feet and a half acre of grass anyway.

And I'm perfectly aware, as a 41-year-old single dad, that I probably should go out and spend some money to upgrade my attire now and then, if I ever want to land myself a date or two.

But, trust me, when it comes down to making a choice between keeping my sons fed versus buying a fancy pair of jeans and an overpriced t-shirt, well, you already know the answer.

And my sons. Ultimately they are my anchor that keeps me from heading to some beach.

I know now more than ever they need me. And I know I need them as well. We're the three Clemsketeers. We get each other, in some Little Rascals kind of way, in our all male home.

Us Clem boys, we're inseparable.

So if all three of us ever disappear, well, I hope you will simply tell the authorities the truth.

"I read on his blog that he wanted to go drink 40 ouncers with Tupac and Elvis."

Observations from the Interwebz Dating Scene 2012

Oy, vey!

It's been a few years since I've been on an online dating site.

While some things are the same (including some of the members), it's quite a different world.

Take for example, the MILF profile picture (see above left). This did not exist when I was last trying to find true love through the interwebz.

I found it this week (The MILF pic, not true love). And it changed my life.

And my own dating profile pic (see below right).

If you don't know what a MILF is, or my responding DILF pic, well, it's ok. Just let it go (this means you mom and dad).

If you do know what a MILF is, you'll realize that it's a bit of a shock to see a woman advertise this fact on her dating profile pic.

But hey, I'm pretty sure the DILF pic is going to win me points with JUST the type of woman that will make for interesting future blog entries. So I see it as a win-win.

Another thing changed. Apparently there are a lot more men out there who are unemployed, have no car, and live in their parents' basement.

Because EVERY single profile for women has the following verbiage: "If you are unemployed, have no car, and live in your parents' basement, DO NOT CONTACT ME!"

So I added it to my profile.

I'm picturing some woman who is unemployed, has no car, and lives in her parents' basement reading my profile, falling madly in love, then seeing that last line in my profile and realizing her dreams have been shattered.

Also, I'm astonished at the rise of cleavage pics as the main profile.

For the record, I wrote "astonished," not "offended." I approve of this change.

I'm also seeing far fewer profile pictures that include a shot with the woman and her pet, or just her pet alone.

I applaud the single online dating women of the world for learning that a guy isn't there to date your pet. How about you let them meet your stinky ferret in person to decide if it's ok with them?

And another odd change. Significantly more single women love to get on the open road and get their motorcycle chubby on. Which I fully applaud. That's awesome, truly.

But I can't ever see myself dating a woman with a hog. Mostly because since I don't have one, I know I'll probably have to wear the "I'm The Bitch That Fell Off The Back Of The Bike" t-shirt.

All kidding aside, the biggest change this time around has been that the women are much more aggressive than even just a few years ago.

It used to be weeks would go by without anyone contacting me. Meanwhile, most women will tell you they are constantly bombarded with emails from creepy, horny men. I always hope they don't include me in that group when they talk about them. But they probably do.

But now, for some reason, many more women are making the initial contact. And on a much more frequent basis. I haven't even really settled back in, and I'm finding myself poked and prodded. Wait, what?

Oh WAIT, I know the reason they're contacting me now!

It's because unlike a few years ago...I'm not unemployed, without a car, wondering if I'd have to move into my parents' basement.