A Man-Type Blog

th (1)You would think that with the amount of writing I’ve been doing the second half of my life, my family – i.e., my mate/husband/soulie – would get excited when I write something new. I mean, I write all kinds of things: mysteries, comedies, poetry, blogs, biographies, novels – let’s just say most everything except dissertations and financial reports. But noooo…whenever I talk about my latest gig, my soulie smiles and nods and looks at me like a deer in the headlights. Like he’s already changed the channel. Not in a mean way – more in an “I know you so nothing you write surprises me” way. So for all those (mostly) men out there that don’t quite get it, here is a manly blog any man can understand.

Saturday Night Cattle Fever

The weather cracked with electricity outside. Thunder rumbled and echoed like a 9-pin no-tap game. The Super Hero hadn’t seen a storm tumble in like that since the white walkers arrived on Game of Thrones. And he didn’t like it.

The Super Hero adjusted his mask and cape. He needed to gather his herd of USDA Prime steers and head back to the corral before the rain came. His partner, the back-up quarterback, nodded to the Hero. No mindless, idle chatter needed. “Home,” was all he said, his Pall Mall filtered extra-light dangling from his lips.

The heat rolling in before the storm was unbearable. Our Hero hadn’t felt this hot since Anna Nichole Smith’s spread in 1992. But that was nothing to the hockey freeze that might follow if didn’t get his Grade A’s to shelter. Keeping his Eye of the Tiger on the approaching weather melee, the Super Hero shouted, “Omaha! Omaha! Set! Hut!” and the cattle drive began.

Onward the cattle plodded, their steps falling in line like the Michigan State University Trojan Marching Band. The wind picked up, the sky darkened. All the Super Hero could think about was pizza and beer and darts. If he could only get back to his Man Cave.

Would his cattle make it? Would he make it?

The back-up quarter back threw his GPS in a spiral pass to the Super Hero, who caught it with one hand. Hero nodded. No need to ask for directions here, mister. He’d find his own way. Thoughts of dinner crossed the Hero’s mind as he barely missed a turkey with a 10” beard. Fortunately, the Tom was faster, and the Hero’s permit wasn’t until Fall.

The Super Hero and his cattle finally reached the hill’s summit, the wind howling and the trees dancing. But this was no time for a parking lot party. Not with the storm beer barreling in on polka wheels. He could clearly see his 6 bedroom, 3 bath, bi-level ranch with wrap around cedar deck, hot tub, 30 x 30 pole barn, and exposed lower level complete with built-in bar, 55” flat screen, and leather-cushioned pool table waiting for him.

The prime cuts seemed to know they were home, too, as they poured through the stainless steel gates over to the Scott’s fertilized grass fields. The rain exploded above their heads, soaking both the Hero and his back-up, bringing nourishment to the countryside and fresh water to the hydroponics in the greenhouse beyond.

The Super Hero parked his orange SRT Viper GTS into the furthest stall of his four-car climate-controlled garage, and closed the door behind him. He took his Tony Lama’s off at the back door, did the Discount Double Check to find his keys, hung them on the  on the John Deere key rack, and entered his Home Sweet Home.

The cattle had been saved. Life was good.

And so would be the Rib Eye Angus with drawn garlic butter and the Blue Moon with the slice of orange. The only thing better would be a baseball double-headed on TV tonight, and a shot of bourbon. Both could be arranged.


P.S. He didn’t get it.

March Madness Mamma

printable-march-madness-bracketFriday at noon I’m taking the Women’s March Madness Weekend into my own hands — and into the hands of loved family members. I’m busting out of this basketball-crazed household and going to a world filled with sister-in-laws, goddaughters, daughter-in-laws,and mother-in-laws. We will be pedicuring, manicuring, shopping, wineing, and whining, talking and laughing about anything but “THE” tournament.

Of course, I had to jump into my family’s competitive male circle and fill out the March Madness brackets before I left.

Have you ever seen these diagrams designed by the left hand of God? They look like a spider’s nest.  64 perfect little lines connected 2 at a time, narrowing down to 32 little lines, narrowing down to 16 little bigger lines which break down to 4 decent sized lines which flip into 2 important lines that poke into a big box from either side that will hold the logo of the winning team. You need a magnifier to read the teeny type on the 64 lines, and and patience to finally narrow it down far enough so you can thread the needle into the box.

Plus all these team names make my head spin. I know what Eagles  and Wildcats and Badgers and Cardinals are, but they also have Blue Hens, Billikins, Aggies, Sooners, Tar Heels, Crimsons, and Jaspers. Am I supposed to know what they are? Are they supposed to help my picks?

But I am a team player. I love my boys and cousin boys and all who encourage me to enter these nonsense pick ems games. I wanna be a cool mom, a cool granny. I don’t want to get lost in the nonsense of girlhood where you run around saying “Who’s THAT? What does THIS number mean? I don’t WATCH basketball.”  So the other day I sat down and tried to take the challenge seriously. I didn’t pick by the color of their uniforms or the cuteness of their mascots. I read the competitors side-by-side statistics and even their strengths and weaknesses. No way my family was going to call me a dumb redhead!

At the moment I’m in last place (out of 7). Pink toenails and lunch at an Italian restaurant will do more for my psyche than triple-overtimes.  But just want them to know — if I win, I DO want the trophy. I’ll take a picture of it and post it in a blog. To show you what women can achieve.

Of course, I might put a hat and purse on it first…