A good woman is much harder to find

I'm not sure who coined the phrase, "A good man is hard to find" -- but it had to have been a woman who was as frustrated with finding the love of her life as I am in locating "Miss Right."

As most of you know, I've been able to avoid making a second trip to the altar for over 13 years now. There have been a few close calls and some potential shots that came up short, but another year is about to come and go with me somehow being unable to find "Miss Right."

Over the years since my divorce, there have been a few ladies that had potential -- and some that were great for sowing the ol' oats, so to speak. Some were part of some great moments in my life. Others . . . well, let's just say they had their moments.

Somehow, though, the lady who would be my "Miss Right" seems to not know of my whereabouts. And those that I have been out with recently, some of whom look like they might have potential, turn out to be yet another flake-job dingbat that seems more intent on playing games with my heart rather than trying to win it outright.

Recently, I have had a profile up on a matchmaking website. The profile has a few pictures of me, information about my physical profile, my likes and dislikes, and an honest (if not hilariously long-winded) description of who I am and what I'm looking for.

In the time I have had profiles on different matchmaking websites, I have had the opportunity to meet -- and go out with -- a number of women in the area. And to be quite honest, I'm still trying to find one that doesn't have at least one screw loose somewhere.



I met one a few years ago that lived near Lincoln. We met at a karaoke bar in Lincoln one night and really hit it off. We went out on 2-3 dates (one with our kids to a local pumpkin patch, which was a blast), and everything seemed to be going well.

That is until one day when she broke up with me -- by instant messenger. No phone call. No handwritten note. No court-approved protection order served by a member of law enforcement. She did it through the Internet, from the comfort of her home computer.

Welcome to dating in the 21st century.

The reason she wanted to split up was that, in her words, she wasn't ready for a relationship. I was a nice guy and all, but she just wasn't ready to settle down.

I was fine with that, until she instant messaged me three months later -- to let me know she was engaged to be married.

Huh?

Then there was the woman who thought I was really hot and, from the moment I walked into her apartment, could not keep her hands off me. I usually wouldn't have a problem with that, but there was just one thing -- the gray-haired, slightly-overweight woman who was practically fondling me at the front door was nowhere close to being the thin, blonde-maned dame that was pictured in her profile.

Talk about "buyer's remorse."

A couple of years ago, I actually met someone through one of these matchmaking websites who appeared to be as good as advertised. She had a little drawl in her voice, was blonde and mind-numbingly attractive with a smile that I couldn't stop thinking about. The fact that she had three kids and had recently lost her job was a concern, but I was willing to help her get back on her feet.

Less than two months later, she suddenly moved out after we had a brief discussion about her struggle to find a job. She had temporarily moved into my apartment and, while I wasn't expecting her to help with rent at that time, it seemed she had a lot on her mind and was unwilling to discuss it or let me help her out.

She moved out and, less than six months later, was MARRIED -- to a guy she moved in with in Illinois only a few weeks after she moved out of my home.

Most recently, I met a woman who -- like me -- had dealt with some rough patches in her life. A couple of messy divorces, some health issues and two teenage children (one now in college). It looked like one of those "opposites attract" kind of thing, with her guarded pessimism clashing with my "glass half full and more water on the way" sense of optimism.

Not surprisingly, this one has also ended before it began after I got an e-mail the other day saying that she was interested in another man -- one that she had verbally trashed during our one face-to-face encounter over barbecue ribs at a local restaurant.

Now I know what you're thinking. You're wanting to e-mail me and say, "Mike, ditch the online matchmaking nonsense and do it the old-fashioned way. These online broads are nothing but a hard drive full of nutjobs."

In theory, that's a good idea. Recent history suggests, however, that this approach hasn't worked out so well either.

There was the one woman I met at my dad's 50th birthday party -- and eventually was actually engaged to -- who became power-hungry and was all but moving me out of state when she got a new job. The sex was great, being told what to do, how to do it and where to do it . . . ehh . . . not so much.

Then there was the one that I met through my job and actually ended up having a baby with (and subsequently giving up for adoption). She was a great person but much too shy (and, in retrospect, too young) when it came to dealing with life's issues head-on. It also put a big road block in my world when it came to inter-office dating. I won't say I'll never "dip the pen in the company inkwell" again -- let's just say that the temptation to do such a thing was greatly reduced by this particular experience.

And, of course, there was the wild-and-crazy chick who -- while mind-numbingly amazing under the sheets -- was too much of a party animal and seemed more intent on getting drunk than wanting to establish a solid long-term relationship.

Yeah, I know how to pick 'em, don't I?

I've asked close friends of mine -- on numerous occasions -- to set me up with any single friends they might have. As of this writing, I'm still waiting on one of my friends to follow through on that. I don't know if it's that they value their friendships too much to want to take that risk -- or they just don't have any friends good enough for me (or vice versa).

Now that I'm in the 40-something stage of life, the days of looking for someone to "fool around" with are really not a high priority. Don't get me wrong -- I enjoy "foolin' around" with a member of the female gender (as would most of the guys reading this particular blog). But personal history has taught me that using the ol' fashioned hook-up as the basis for a long-term relationship is like building a mansion in the middle of a beach -- not much of a foundation to work with, and it'll crumble the first time the foundation shifts.

Friends and family keep saying, "Don't worry -- she'll find you someday. The right one will come along when you least expect it."

Funny, but there have been numerous times when the LAST thing I was expecting was for Miss Right to knock on my door, crash into my car, bump into me in the produce line at the grocery store or knock me unconscious with a wayward tee shot on the fifth hole at the local country club, and at last report . . .

SHE STILL HASN'T SHOWN HERSELF!!!

It's reached the point where, in the absence of Miss Right, I seem to have two viable options remaining. Those options are:

1. Becoming a homosexual, orrrr,

2. Becoming a monk.

Now the first option, in all honesty, is not one I intend on entertaining. No offense to anybody in the audience who flies that particular airline, but I was wired by God to be attracted to one gender, and one gender only. And as frustrating as they are to deal with -- I'm not going to be batting from the other side of the plate in the game of life anytime soon, if you know what I mean (and I'm pretty sure you do).

That leaves the option of becoming a monk. In some respects, it wouldn't be that difficult. My head is almost bald already. I sometimes speak in unintelligible tongues. I have little in the way of worldly possessions. Hell -- I'm already halfway there. Then again . . . I'm not sure a monastery would want somebody as tightly-wound and prone to practical jokes as I am hanging around. One whoopie cushion before the morning chant could throw the whole place into a state of chaos.

And so, since these aren't good options, I guess I have no other choice than to continue the search for the seemingly unattainable. Somehow, some way, I'll continue in the hope that I might find that one thing that seems to be missing in my life right now, the one person who can somehow fill in the blanks of my perpertually-broken heart.

Someone who can laugh. Someone who has been kicked in the mouth by life (figuratively speaking, of course) and gets up to kick it right back. Someone who is warm, caring, intelligent and can put up with my quirks the same way I'm willing to do with hers. Someone who isn't some flake-job that runs at the first sign of affection. Someone who gives as good as she gets. Someone truly willing to be a part of something (and someone) special -- not the same old song and dance she's become accustomed to and would like to get away from, but doesn't seem to think she has an opportunity to.

All I need is one good woman. Can she be THAT hard to find?

"It couldn't happen here" no longer true

I took a late lunch Wednesday, and just before 2 p.m. I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. It was a text message from a local TV station and it said the following:

"Shooting at Westroads Mall -- complete coverage . . ."

Considering the number of shootings that have taken place in Omaha during 2007 (somewhere in the neighborhood of 89,274, although I've lost count), this -- in my opinion -- was not news. I deleted the message and headed back up to the office to resume afternoon duties.

A few minutes later, I get a text message from my sister in Norfolk:

"Is everybody in Omaha all right?"

A couple of minutes after that, another message from the TV station:

"Two dead in mall shooting at Westroads . . ."

Soon after, there is a buzz going around the New Business division at Pacific Life -- there is a gunman on the loose inside the Von Maur store.

Oh my God, I thought to myself . . . it's not a shooting, it's a freaking massacre.

Different reports were buzzing on any number of cell phones throughout the office. Some said five were dead, others had it at two. Then it was 14 shot and nine dead.

And, all of a sudden, the phrase "That could never happen here" wasn't true anymore -- senseless, horrible mass violence had found its way into the Heartland of America.

Before the afternoon was over, I was communicating with my sister, ex-wife and daughter via text messaging. I was sneaking a peek on the Internet at the office to see if any information was available. Nobody really knew what to say at that point, because some people had connections with people working or shopping at Westroads Mall that day.

This morning, one co-worker arrived late with a look on his face that needed no explanation. Before coming to work, he had to pick up a friend at the airport who flew in due to a death in the family -- one of the victims at Von Maur. Another talked of her plans to interview the day of the shooting for a job a friend had lined up for her at a store not far away from Von Maur. That, obviously, is on hold for a while.

Wednesday night, I went to my Gretna Poker League game at Jackson's Pub and sat down to a table that had one empty seat. The seat was eventually filled by a young man who, not less than an hour earlier, was still locked down in a store near Von Maur. He had met his mother, sister and niece at Von Maur to help pick out some Christmas presents for his brother-in-law. When he heard the shots two floors above him, he grabbed his niece, turned to his mother and sister and said, "Get the hell out of here, somebody's shooting." How he was able to play cards after experiencing what he went through just hours earlier is beyond my comprehension.

In the end, a mentally whacked-out 19-year-old from Bellevue was found to be the one who created the mayhem and murder in the west Omaha mall. He had lost a job at McDonald's earlier that day, wrote three suicide notes saying he was "going to be famous," took an AK-47 that he had stolen from his stepfather, drove across town and unleashed the bloodiest mass killing in our state's history.

There is no explanation for something like this. All the local media have been tripping over themselves trying to make sense of the senseless, bringing logic to a place where it doesn't fit. Eight innocent civilians who were doing nothing more than living their day-to-day lives were gunned down in cold blood by a horrible individual who wanted to, in his own words, "go out in style."

Why, then, did he have to take so many innocent lives with him? Why did he drive all the way across town to a mall he would -- those who knew him claim -- otherwise never set foot in? Why did he do this? They're all questions we will probably never get answers to.

We've seen situations like this before, and until yesterday we had somehow been able to find a certain peace in knowing that something like that would never happen in Nebraska.

The shootings at the school in Columbine, Colo., hit close to home -- but not in Nebraska.

The horrible one-man rampage at Virginia Tech last year was big news -- but that would never happen here in Nebraska.

Mall shootings in Kansas City, Georgia and Utah were terrible and tragic -- but we'll never see that in Nebraska.

Right?

Yesterday -- it DID happen in Nebraska. And whatever lingering sense of utopia we had about our home and our state are no longer available for us to fall back on when senseless tragedy strikes elsewhere in our world.

The fact that it happened at all is something that will take some time for us to recover from. That it happened less than three weeks before Christmas is something that will be extremely hard for the families of those whose lives were forever touched by this horrible incident. The holidays will never be the same for them because of the outrageous, cold-blooded act of an extremely disturbed young man.

We will carry on as Nebraskans, one way or another. This is still a great place to live, work and love.

But Wednesday's events have shown us that, as great a place as our little corner of the world is, the unthinkable can happen -- HAS happened -- right here. And knowing that now makes the world a much different place for us to live in.

Huskers are back with Pelini on board

The long national nightmare is over.

OK, so it's not a NATIONAL nightmare, but the four-year abortion known as the Pederson-Callahan Carnage came to a conclusion Sunday when Tom Osborne brought a familiar face back to Nebraska to lead the Husker football team.

Granted, Bo Pelini wasn't around long -- he was the defensive coordinator during Frank Solich's final season as the head Husker back in 2003 -- but he made one hell of an impact on Husker fans in his short tenure in Lincoln, turning around a pathetic defense that became one of the nation's best and putting some fire and "badness" back in the Blackshirts.

During Sunday's news conference, Osborne -- the architect of three national titles and over 250 wins in 25 years in Pelini's position back in the day -- said defense was his biggest concern when he went looking for Bill Callahan's replacement last week. And after talking with Pelini in an Atlanta hotel, he pretty much knew he had the guy that best fit the bill.

But it isn't just defense that Pelini had to sell Osborne on. The big thing was whether or not Pelini "gets it" when it comes to Nebraska's history and tradition. We're a one-pony town in these parts -- no pro sports teams within miles of our borders -- so Nebraska football is something the entire state rallies around. Entire generations grew up watching the Huskers. Local kids walked on, got some playing time and some even developed into superstars and legends.

Bo knows -- he understands what the walk-on program means to the people who support this program. He knows what this team means to the people of this state, and he's ready to get to work to build a program that is, in his words, "where everybody in the state is proud of what we have going here."

It would certainly be a turnaround from what we've got going now.

This past season was, in a word, pathetic. The defense, once among the meanest and baddest in the land, couldn't stop a powder-puff girls football team. Opponents scored more often than the homecoming king and the prom king put together. Records were obliterated thanks to a defense that couldn't stop a soft summer breeze if their collective lives depended on it.

Think about it -- in 40 years under Devaney, Osborne and Solich, opposing teams scored 40 or more points against Nebraska FIVE TIMES. That's five times in over 400 games.

This year? The Nebraska defense gave up 40-plus . . . brace yourselves . . . SIX times. Teams put up 60-plus TWICE. Kansas set a record by scoring SEVENTY-SIX points, and had more than a full quarter left in the game before they actually called the dogs off.

Had KU coach Mark Mangino REALLY wanted to pay Nebraska back for all those decades worth of bitch-slappings, the Jayhawks could have hung 100 on the Huskers that day. Easily. And there is no way this year's BlackSKIRTS defense could have stopped them from doing it.

Those days, thankfully, are over now that the nation's best defensive mind is in charge.

Pelini turned Nebraska's defense into one of the best in the nation in one season. At LSU, the Tigers have had one of the nation's best defenses three years running, and will be playing for a national championship this January, thanks in no small part to that defensive scheme concocted by one Bo Pelini.

There had been talk all week that Pelini and former Husker quarterback Turner Gill were the leading candidates. Either way, I felt Nebraska was going to come out ahead on this, and I'm thrilled that Osborne went with Pelini for several reasons:

-- Foremost in mind is the defense, not only from the execution standpoint, but the fact that Pelini is a very passionate and fiery personality. I can't guarantee how many wins the Huskers will have next year or in the years ahead, but one thing I can guarantee is that there won't be a more fired up, passionate team than a Pelini-led Nebraska team. He will have these boys spitting nails and breathing fire, and those who don't simply won't be on the team. That's something that was missing in vast quantities during the Callahan era.

-- Pelini is putting together a very strong team of assistant coaches, many of whom have past ties to Nebraska. People like Ron Brown are going to not only bring the Husker Way back, but are going to also bring a tremendous reputation and sense of class to this program. Pelini is hiring not only some tremendous football talent, but some people of very strong character who will bring so much more than X's and O's to the program.

-- Pelini has a great shoulder to lean on in Osborne, and he's made no secret to the fact that he will bounce things off the legendary coach. Osborne will be a tremendous asset in helping Pelini develop as a head coach -- we all know Pelini is a little rough around the edges in the diplomacy department after seeing him light up Kansas State coach Bill Snyder for running up the score -- and drawing on that knowledge is going to be huge for Pelini.

As far as Turner Gill is concerned, I know there are a lot of people who wonder why he wasn't selected. After all, he's a Nebraska boy, a very close friend of Osborne and -- unlike Pelini -- has head coaching experience.

It's a question that the media -- in its zeal to trip over each other to get "breaking news" -- dropped the ball on. They failed miserably in asking some hard questions of Osborne in this regard, but my guess is one of two things happened in relation to Gill:

1. Osborne was very impressed with Pelini and felt he was just a better fit considering the current situation.

2. Gill is either happy at Buffalo and feels he has unfinished business, or has an opportunity on the horizon (he has been mentioned as a candidate at Washington State) that might be an even better fit for him.

Anybody who says race had anything to do with Gill not getting the job (and, yes, there are those morons out there chirping those very words) are 110 percent delusional. If you know anything about Osborne, you know that he's a man of impeccable character in that regard. Gill is one of his closest friends in the UNL football family and was the best man at Gill's wedding. I think the bottom line with Gill is that Osborne feels Pelini is the better fit considering the current situation, and that Gill is going to come out of this with a bigger and better opportunity for him down the road.

There are still nine months until Pelini debuts as the full-time head coach at Nebraska, and as a lifelong Husker fan I am beyond excited to see what this team does in the years ahead. One thing is for certain -- the legendary Blackshirts are back, and they're going to be "badder" than ever with Pelini in charge.

And when I mean "badder" -- I'm not talking about somebody hanging half-a-hundred on us. Kansas, Colorado and everybody else standing in our way had better realize that they've had their shot -- those days are ohhhhhh-vahhhh.

Urethral spasms -- a good conversation killer

Need a good catch phrase to redirect a topic of discussion that you're not comfortable with? Want to get that pain-in-the-ass guy in the next cubicle to stop poking his head over the wall every five minutes to borrow your one remaining good pen? Would you like to get your overbearing bitch of a mother-in-law to stop calling to complain about the crappy bed you've got in the guest bedroom that's giving her a backache every time she comes to visit?

I got a guaranteed conversation killer for ya', folks -- just throw out these two words and watch people suddenly realize they've got someplace better to be than to stand there talking to you. And those words are (cue the music):

Urethral spasm.

Now for those that have forgotten completely about recent events in my world, allow me to say that last week's surgery to remove a cyst from my testicle, for the most part, went quite well. They got the cyst out, but also had to take the left epididymis because the cyst had basically taken that bad boy hostage and the doctor, thankfully, didn't want to try and play cut-along-the-dotted-line with it. (And, just so you know, the epididymis sits on top of the testicle and serves as, for lack of a better phrase, a holding tank for your sperm before they are ejaculated -- not that I have had reason to DO such a thing lately, but now I've only got one holding tank, instead of two, to work with.)

Unfortunately, the fine medical staff at Emmanuel Hospital in Omaha forgot to cross one thing off the "Things Mikey C MUST do before we can release him back into the general population" list, and that thing was -- to take a leak. Normally, they make sure all the plumbing is workin' before they turn you loose, but I guess they figured, "Hey, the guy just got part of his package hacked off, so there's no need to see if all his junk's workin' or not. We'll just assume he's O.K. Besides, hasn't he had enough pain down there for one day?"

Well, it wasn't working well Friday night. In fact, I'm not sure which level of frustration was higher -- my ongoing drought in the pursuit of carnal relations with the female gender (over two years and counting, thank you very little), or the fact that I couldn't pee to save my soul (and isn't it odd that both of the major frustrating events in my life had something to do with my penis? Oh wait, I'm a guy -- that sort of thing is just natural).

By Saturday, I was in really bad shape. No kidding -- I was in a lot of pain, I was constipated, I couldn't focus on the TV, the laptop or anything else without lapsing in and out of consciousness. Strangely enough, this was a remarkable re-enactment of most of my 20's, only it wasn't nearly as much fun (from what I have been told, anyway).

Eventually, my sister -- who, evidently, drew the shortest straw in the contest to see which family member would have the unfortunate honor of trying to get me to take my meds and not move around so much, per the doctor's orders -- suggested we go to the emergency room. I wanted to go home (we were staying at my dad's in Plattsmouth). In fact, I wanted to go anywhere where I could be alone and suffer in peace and quiet -- like the middle of Interstate 80 during Friday afternoon rush-hour traffic. But, under protest, I went to the emergency room.

And it was there, boys and girls, that I got to experience a "urethral spasm" firsthand. And to make a long story short (although I will make it much longer after this paragraph, don't you worry), if the pain of several hours of childbirth is ANYTHING like the 60-90 seconds I went through during the course of that "urethral spasm" -- I have a completely new and unshakeable respect for any woman out there who has given birth. That was the kind of pain I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. Hell, I wouldn't even wish it on my ex-wife (then again, she was married to me for over five years, so she's already suffered enough).

When I went into the emergency room, my daughter and sister were sitting in the room with me. As we were waiting for someone -- a doctor, a nurse, the janitor, a long-lost uncle, the town drunk -- to show up, my sister got a text message from her husband, who was at the Nebraska-Kansas State game with my dad and his two sons. Jenni remarked that Nebraska was winning 31-10 -- and I was sure that the urine buildup had entered my nervous system and made me start hallucinating. In fact, she had to SHOW the text message to me to keep me from losing my mind.

Eventually, the doctor came in and, after evaluating the situation, said he was going to insert a catheter into my penis. Normally, my response would have been something along the lines of, "Only if you want your epitaph to say, 'I was bludgeoned to death by an irate patient with a broken catheter.'" Instead, I was about a step away from offering to have catheters stuck in every possible orifice -- whatever it took to take care of the problem.

Once the catheter went in, the discomfort began. Any time you have something going in a door that God has marked "Exit Only," it's not fun. It's about as comforting as listening to Hillary Clinton tell us how things are going to be when she is President. So there was that discomfort, followed by a momentary feeling as if the pressure of holding enough liquid to water Grandma's petunias for an entire summer was beginning to subside.

That's when the ol' "urethral spasm" made its appearance.

How does it feel, you are probably asking yourself. I'm going to tell you EXACTLY how it feels, and I encourage you to follow these instructions to get a REALLY GOOD IDEA of what it feels like:

1. Take any kind of metal wire that is connected to an electrical source. The more volts, the better (I recommend 10,000 -- I could've handled more, really).

2. Now take that wire and, without a moment's hesitation, jam it up that special place where your bladder empties out.

3. Leave it there until you come to the realization that, when they announce your death on the local news that night, it will include the words "catheter", "urethral spasm" and "he screamed 'IT (EXPLETIVE) HURTS!!!!' 37 times before he was bludgeoned to death by an ER nurse with a German accent."

And if a family member hears you laughing hysterically as you read this, offer him or her the opportunity to try it for himself or herself. No, really, I insist -- why should I have all the freakin' fun here?

The whole situation lasted, and this is a guess on my part, about 30-60 seconds. It FELT as if it lasted as long as the Clinton and Carter presidencies put together. But once the pain peaked and began subsiding, I actually felt pretty good. And when you drain 1,900cc of urine from your kidney -- is there REALLY a better feeling in the world? (For the record, the doctor told me that, "When you can pee so bad you can taste it, there is about 400cc of fluid in your bladder." Obviously, I had gone well past tasting it -- I could actually SEE it.)

The good news is that, after about 48 hours with a bag strapped to my leg, I went in to see the doctor on Monday morning. He was surprised and disappointed to see the catheter in place ("I'm going to have a talk with some nurses about that," I recall him saying during my visit -- and I'm hoping he passes their names on to me so I can stop by in six months for my checkup and give THEM a "urethral spasm" as a thank-you gift), but was happy to report that everything looked good (which may be the ONLY time I have ever had ANYBODY -- male or female -- tell me my scrotal region looked good) and that I should be dancing within a week or so.

If there has been any good to come out of the insanity of the past week, though, it's in the fact that I've had the opportunity to really educate people about the dangers of "urethral spasms" and what it feels like to live with such an affliction.

It's also made from some very quiet, uninterrupted days at the office -- which is just fine for what's left of me.

Surprise Bible verse determining next move

A year ago at this time, I was dealing with the aftermath of what I thought was my departure from the journalism industry.

For those of you who witnessed it firsthand, it was not a particularly sunny chapter in my life. There was a lot of resentment, a healthy dose of anger, an abundance of frustration and a ton of uncertainty as to what was next for me.

This past winter, I landed a job at Pacific Life. To say there has been a steep learning curve trying to figure out 401K's, IRA's and the difference between non-qualified and qualified money (don't ask . . . I've been there nine months and I'm still not sure) would be an understatement of epic proportions.

In spite of the unfamiliarity with things, I have learned a lot and feel like I'm getting more comfortable with what I am doing now. I had some opportunities to get back into the media field this spring and summer, but didn't give them more than the cursory glance because I felt that this was where I was supposed to be at this point in my life.

I joined a new church near my apartment this summer, and they have a Tuesday evening "class" that talks a lot about God's purpose and how we can use His guidance in our lives. The group meets for dinner at the church every Tuesday, we have a lecture and some discussion time, and recently we had an overnight retreat that was equal parts informative and relaxing.

During that retreat, I was thumbing through the back part of my Bible and came upon a section that cross-referenced certain verses with certain attributes such as dependability, kindness and patience.

There was one, though, that caught my eye. It was one for creativity, and it referred to 1 Timothy 4:14, which states:

"Neglect not the gift that is in thee, which was given thee by prophecy with the laying on the hands of presbytery."

I read this sentence, and it stopped me in my tracks. I read it again. I read it a third time. And then I closed the Bible and asked myself, "What does this mean?"

I began to think about the 20-plus years I've been involved in the media, both print and broadcast. I thought about the Friday nights walking the sidelines taking football pictures, and the weekday afternoons at WJAG when I did my sports talk show. I thought about Nebraska Wrestling Illustrated, and I thought about the long hours and the time on the road and all the things that made the job a real pain in the backside.

And for most of that weekend, I couldn't stop thinking about 1 Timothy 4:14 and what it said. I prayed about it and asked God to give me a sign as to whether or not this is leading somewhere. And, if so, where are we going with this? I continued to think about this and pray about it and talked with one of my pastors at church about it.

Then, the other day, something really strange happened. I was sitting at lunch talking with a co-worker about nothing in particular, when the idea jumped into my head that I needed to call a friend of mine who is a newspaper publisher here in Nebraska. No specific reason to talk to him, other than that I hadn't talked with him in over a year. So I called him and we chatted for about 15 minutes. I caught him up on what was going on with me, and he caught me up with what was going on with his newspaper. During the course of the conversation, he mentioned that his sports editor had left (which is a story in and of itself) and he was trying to piece things together with a photographer and some interns.

I didn't ask anything more about the situation, but when we said our good-byes I wondered if this wasn't God's way of telling me that I need to follow the words of 1 Timothy 4:14. I've asked Him to guide me on what I should do with this, and I'm going to let that be what determines where we go from here. I don't know if it means somebody is going to come to me with a chance to be a sports editor or an on-air radio personality or something else, but I think it's an avenue that is coming around the bend.

Until then, though, I'm going to continue doing what I'm doing with Pacific Life and my freelancing and wait for God to tell me what's on deck for me. As I look back on the past several years of my life, I know there have been opportunities that have come up where I was either in the right place at the right time or had the right people making the right recommendations to those who were able to get the most out of my creative abilities. Wherever this next step goes, I feel I'll be ready for it.

Making fun of mortality

Facing your own mortality is nothing to make fun of -- but I'm going to do it, anyway.

As you may very well know, I've been less than 100 percent physically for the last several months (and less than 100 percent mentally for several years). A recent trip to the doctor led to the discovery of a small cyst on one of my testicles -- which, of course, has resulted in a near-constant stream of "three-ball" jokes from some of my poker buddies.

Whenever a member of the medical profession uses words like "cyst," they generally results in the individual they are examining to start asking a variety of questions. In my case, these questions have included the following:

-- Am I going to die before I see my daughter graduate from high school?

-- Should I make out a last will and testament now, and can I do it with a sentence that goes something like, "My daughter gets everything, and anybody I owe money to can just kiss my ass"?

-- How many more people are going to feel me up without me getting some enjoyment -- or at least a cigarette and 10 minutes of cuddling -- out of it?

Now I'm pretty sure answers to those questions are "no," "probably not" and "everybody with medical training in the greater Omaha area, if you're really lucky" -- but it has given me an opportunity to come to the realization that, eventually, the expiration date God stamped on the inside of my forehead is going to come around and that I need to make the most out of the time I have left, whether it's 24 hours, 24 weeks or 24 (or more) years.

I'm not concerned about the cyst itself. The radiologist I spoke with last week said that he's 99.9 percent sure it is benign, which means that I'll have one more unused spherical object hanging in my scrotal region until such time as the doctor feels it would be a good idea to remove it (and we'll be chatting later this week on how long it will be before she moves that idea to "right about now" stage).

The concern right now is what the radiologist called "unusual activity" in one of my testicles. He couldn't give me a definitive description of what the "unusual activity" is all about (although I would say, with some degree of expertise, that it's due to a complete absence of quality sexual activity with any good-looking single woman within a 200-mile radius of my apartment). That's why I'll be having an MRI done sometime in the very near future to get some more details about what kind of disturbance is going on in my testicular region.

In the meantime, I'm staying positive about the whole thing. First, I'm positive that the pain that this particular situation is causing is nothing short of sister-running-fingernails-on-chalkboard-while-you-watch-NFL annoying, at best, and excruciating can-I-just-jump-off-a-bridge-now-and-dive-headfirst-into-a-dry-creek-bed-to-make-it-go-away pain at worst.

Second, I know that things are in place -- physically, financially and spiritually -- to take care of the situation. I realize that with age comes more medical concerns, and that the number of people who deal with this sort of thing, in each area, know what they're doing and will make it better.

If God says it's time to go, then it's time to go and I'll go willingly (soon after I stop screaming and dragging my feet as they try and pull me away from this earth). Until that time, I'm going to enjoy myself, get caught up on life and have a little fun along the way so that, when it does come, I don't leave anything behind except a lot of laughs.

And my estate, which my daughter already has sewn up, of course . . . and what she does with $17.93 is her business.

* * * * *

Speaking of my daughter, she had her first competition performance of the year as the Millard West band competed in Starfest at Morningside College in Sioux City (which, when translated from its Latin originations, means, "depressing, smelly craphole of a town").

There was a lot of concern going into Saturday's performance. Kylie is a leader in the color guard, and she had expressed several times that the team just wasn't getting the routine down. She had always said this in previous years, but after watching them perform a dress rehearsal of it during halftime of a football game Thursday night, even I was concerned that this was not going to look good when they took the field Saturday.

I chatted with her Thursday and tried to keep her positive, offering her suggestions to help keep the troops from coming apart at the seams. As I drove up Saturday, I wondered if this was going to be a quick trip to watch the train wreck, followed by a quick trip home with a bawling 17-year-old sitting in the back of the band bus and in need of serious psychological counseling to concern myself with.

Those concerns were erased, though, when the band came out and performed quite well in the preliminaries. They finished fifth out of 14 teams and advanced to the finals, where they ended up fifth with an even better performance under the lights that night.

Kylie called with the news as I drove into Omaha late Saturday night, then called back a couple of moments later with some even better news -- the color guard, which looked like a Chinese fire drill on Thursday night -- finished second among color guards that performed at the festival. I'm not sure who was happier -- me, my daughter or the 20 or so over-excited teenage kids screaming in the background during Kylie's call.

The team performs at a competition this weekend in Sioux Falls, then has two competitions the following two weeks on their home field at Millard South, including the State Bandmasters competition. If Saturday's performance was any indication, we should be excited about the band's chances the next three weekends.

* * * * *

A final side note to Saturday -- during some down time between the prelims and finals, I made the short journey across the river to South Sioux City to pick up a copy of the paper I used to work at . . . and to unknowingly put myself through a quick re-hashing of the hell I went through there last summer.

It took one glance of the front page for me to realize that whatever changes I had made to the quality of the paper's design were no longer in place, returning it to the pathetic layout and design that was its signature before my arrival. The one full-time writer that was a big pain in my ass -- and one the publisher was hoping to get rid of -- is still there (and, yes, I think there's a connection between these two notes).

And a quick drive through downtown reminded me of just how depressing the area was to me. Suffice to say that I could not get out of the Sioux City area fast enough.

After her last performance, I went to have a last word with Kylie before heading home, and I found her walking toward the bus and crying like she'd lost her dog. When I asked her what the problem was, she said between sobs, "This is the last time I'm going to march in this competition" -- to which I thought to myself, "THANK GOD!!!" If it's the last time I'm ever in Sioux City (and, outside of a Sammy Hagar concert coming up in November, I don't see any real need to return), the only tears I'd be able to generate would be tears of joy.

That's my show. You've been a great audience. Stay tuned for Hamilton, Joe Frank and Reyonlds. That's it and that's all . . .

Spending $310 million just too much work

Don't you hate it when you make life-changing plans, only to have somebody come along and screw them up?

Late last week, I bought a Powerball lottery ticket. I got a computer-generated series of numbers that, I assumed, was going to be worth over $300 million in annuity -- or $140 million in cash, depending on which way I wanted to go.

As I drove home with the winning numbers in my back pocket, the question suddenly leaped to the front of my mind -- what am I going to do with all this damn money? After all, I'm going to be going from living paycheck to paycheck to having a lot of extra cash floating around.

When I got home, I began putting together a list of how the money would be spent. Obviously, once somebody wins the lottery, there are going to be all kinds of dreamers, schemers and leeches trying to figure out how they are going to get to my newfound riches, so I need to protect myself.

Here's how things break down (and I'm working with the cash amount, because once you get past a certain amount, does it really matter HOW MANY millions you are worth?) . . .

Taxes -- about $50 million. That leaves me with $90 million to play with.

Invest half of what's left -- $45 million off the top, and my month-to-month expenses can be taken care of using the interest. That leaves me with $45 million to take care of the rest of my agenda.

Pay off all outstanding debts -- about $25,000, including loans from family, leaving me with $44,975,000.

Finance my daughter's education -- $100,000 should cover it, which brings me to $44,875,000.

Upgrade my personal situation -- A new car, house and furniture would come in at around $300,000. Amount left: $44,575,000.

Take care of "my circle" -- Set aside $25 million for family and my closest group of friends for them to do whatever tripped their trigger (and if you have to inquire as to whether or not you're in that circle, the answer is no). That leaves $19,575,000.

Spend a week playing poker in Las Vegas, because now I can -- $1 million, bringing the balance available down to $18,575,000.

Donate money to local churches -- A good $5 million will bring me down to $13,575,000.

Hire a lawyer to take care of all the paperwork regarding these transactions -- let's round it off at $75,000 to bring the balance down to an even $13.5 million.

Now here is where the trouble starts . . . what does a guy do with $13.5 million when he's done everything he needs to do?

I'd get bored going on vacations all the time, so that idea is out. I could buy new golf equipment and spend my days playing golf all the time, but that would get boring after a while. I could set up an RV in the parking lot of the Horseshoe Casino and do nothing but play poker, but even Phil Hellmuth has to spend some time away from the felt.

Some past Powerball winners blew their money on bad business decisions, shady characters and a never-ending mix of booze and broads. A guy can get bored really easy when he's got all that money and all that time to work with, creating more problems than he'd have had he not won the big prize.

Unfortunately, these are problems I'm not going to have to worry about, because I found out late Saturday night that some schmuck in Indiana wound up winning the $310 million Powerball jackpot. I'm sure he's frantically running around trying to figure out what he's going to do with all that damned extra cash he's got lying around.

So while he does that, I'm forced to roll out of the rack, hit the showers and get ready for another day on the job at $12.50 an hour, the way I have been every day for all these years. It's another month of living within a tight budget, making the next car payment and waiting for the ship to come in.

And, boy, does that take a lot of pressure off of me -- spending $140 million is just too much work compared to the 8-to-5 gig.

Expressing love to parents no longer taken for granted

As a kid, the thought of going a day without having my parents in my life never dawned on me.

I never even entertained it as a possibility -- although there were many times when my youthful stubbornness could have done just fine without them. If I had a dollar for every time an escalation of emotions ended with me wishing mayhem upon one -- or both -- of my parents, I'd probably be able to enter the $10,000 Main Event at the World Series of Poker every year between now and, oh, 2031.

There are those who grow up without one of their parents. When she was a teenager, my ex-wife lost her mother to cancer. My brother-in-law lost his father when he was young as well.

Earlier this week, my dad entered the hospital to have a lap band tied around his stomach, a rather serious procedure designed to help him do something he's been trying to do for a good chunk of the last 20 years -- lose weight.

It was during the agonizing three hours waiting to hear how things went, though, that I faced the reality that the day may come soon when I will be without one of my parents.

Dad has been battling his weight for a long, long time. When I was growing up, he was never FAT, per se -- but you could tell it had been a while since he'd missed a meal.

My parents divorced in 1986, and it was soon after that he went on this health kick that left me asking one question -- who was this guy and what the hell did he do with my dad?

Dad was eating right. He stopped drinking. He was walking somewhere close to the equivalent of a round-trip journey from Omaha to Sioux City -- EVERY FREAKING DAY. He went through so many pair of tennis shoes, he got thank-you cards from the folks at Nike for years on end.

By the time I got married, dad was in probably the best shape of his life. He weighed the same weight that he was at in high school. Seeing the two of us standing together the day of my wedding, it was really hard to tell which one of us was the best-looking member of the Carnes family.

Then came the 90's. My dad stopped doing the things he had been doing to take care of himself.

He and I didn't speak to one another -- civilly, anyway -- for three years due to a family argument run amok. When I did finally call him to mend fences, we met at a Wendy's in Lincoln that had been a favorite family place to go and eat on our trips to the big city. And I will never forget the day he pulled into the restaurant and got out of his car. Had he not had his "CARNES" vanity license plate attached to the 1988 black Baretta he was driving at the time, I'd have never known it was him.

He was easily twice as big as he was the last time I'd seen him -- and he's been like that ever since.

It hasn't been for lack of effort, though. Diets, exercise, divine intervention -- he tried about everything you could think of, but to no avail. He'd lose 20 or 30 pounds, but it would just come back. Up until just before his recent surgery, he wouldn't tell anybody what he weighed, but my conservative guess was somewhere on the wrong end of 300 pounds.

There were many times when he and I would be engaged in something requiring physical activity (moving me from town to town, mostly). Many was the time when I all but had to hog-tie dad to keep him from overdoing it. The mind was going where the body wasn't about to go, and I could just see him dropping dead while trying to pick up a box.

A couple of months ago, he told me that he was going to have surgery to have a lap band tied to his stomach, which would effectively shrink the space in his stomach, making him "feel full" faster and -- as logic goes -- eat less.

His surgery earlier this week went well -- although the delay in the start of the procedure was enough to almost drive me to the point where my DAUGHTER was going to be without one of her parents.

"No news is good news" was one of the remarks a co-worker said in an effort to try and talk me off the ledge, so to speak. That did little to curb my growing concern and the sudden barrage of "what if?" questions that were creeping into my mind as I tried to work through some annuity contracts at Pacific Life.

What really troubled me, though, was the fact that I had talked to my dad earlier that morning. We talked for about five minutes, and we joked about what was about to take place and how he was going to be good as new -- but not once did I tell him that I loved him.

When Kylie and I are together or talk on the phone, the conversation always ends with her saying, "I love you, Daddy" and "I love you too, Kylie." Even when the topic of discussion isn't a pleasant one, it always ends the same.

My parents and I don't share that greeting often enough. It's not that they don't love me (and vice versa). Far from it -- but for some strange and inexplicable reason, we seem to end conversations ASSUMING that the love is there. It is, of course -- but it's almost always implied and almost never expressed.

It really bothered me, as I stood two steps short of a full-scale meltdown, that the last thing I said to my dad wasn't that expression of love. "See you after surgery," I believe, was my closing remark.

What if I was wrong? What if, perish the thought, something dreadful happened and he died right there on the table? How do you walk around the rest of your life knowing that you had a WIDE OPEN chance to tell your dad how much you cared about him, and all you could muster was a lame, see-you-on-the-other-side remark?

I made it a point, as we left the hospital that night and I hugged him in his bed, to let my dad know that I do love him. That it took telling him as he laid in a half-groggy state in a hospital bed -- I suppose -- beats telling it to his lifeless body after he's gone to the afterlife, but you can bet that the next time I let ALL of my family know how much I love them all won't be so long in coming.

I've tried not to think about it, but I'm fully aware now that the day will come when all the older adult influences in my life will have passed on. It's a guarantee, though, that they won't leave without knowing how much they mean to me.