Shootin' the Breeze

and random targets

Archive for the tag “trophy wife”

Valentine’s Day

It is almost Valentine Day again. I’m glad. I am blessed to have the same girlfriend as last year and the year before and so on and so forth. Lucky me!

Shootin' the Breeze

Sugar and I got engaged on Valentine’s Day.  I know what you are thinking — how unoriginal!  Yeah, I suppose Groundhog Day would have been more unique, but I am part of The General Public, and many of us in The General Public think it is romantic to propose on Valentine’s Day.

It is also a convenient way to remember the day of engagement for those who mark anniversaries of important events.  If we had gotten engaged on Super Bowl Sunday, for example, it would be difficult to keep track of the specific date, since the NFL has changed it over the years.  The Super Bowl used to be in January.  So if we had gotten engaged on a Sunday in January for the Super Bowl, the date would not always fall on a Sunday and if I waited for the Super Bowl in February to recognize the anniversary of our engagement, I…

View original post 205 more words

Super Bowl Suspense

Anyone who has read my recent posts is aware of the following:

1.  I have an official Broncos jersey;

2.  I am an unsigned free agent;

3.  I was recently injured.

For an update, I am pleased to report that I have removed myself from the injured reserve list and declared myself ready to play in tomorrow’s Super Bowl for the Broncos. 

I am waiting by the phone for that call from Coach Fox.  With all the distractions this week in New York, the poor man has not managed to find time to get me signed and to fly me out to the team hotel.  Apparently, he does not see the need for me to practice with the team.  I appreciate the confidence that he is showing in me, but I would be more comfortable having a little time to practice.  I’d prefer getting out there with some time to spare rather than this last minute stuff.  I suppose he wants to surprise the Seahawks.  “Hey, Pete Carroll, get a load of who we just added to our roster!”  Coach Fox wants to see the fear in Pete’s eyes right before game time.  I understand the psychological warfare.  I get it.  I will go along with the surprise strategy.      

I am wearing my jersey as I type these words.  I don’t even have to pack.  I am ready, Coach. 

I am all dressed up with somewhere important to go.  Like I said, all I need is that call. 

Sugar acts like the call won’t come.  She said we are going to a Super Bowl party tomorrow.  She should have told them that I will probably be playing in the game and can’t attend the party.  Won’t they feel silly when they are watching me on TV? 

If Sugar does not take this more seriously, I might not get her a ticket.  She might have to watch the game on TV. 

That will teach her an important lesson.  Next time I tell her that I will be playing in the Super Bowl, she better pay attention if she wants to sit in the stands with the wives of the other players.  For a trophy wife, Sugar has a lot to learn.  

Snow Day III

cowsonroad

It’s April 17th, which in many parts of the country is Springtime.  Right?

This is the third day of a big snow storm.  We are still snowed in.  Schools are closed.  Many roads are closed.  County offices closed at noon.

Miss Sugar, aka Miss Texas, grew up in Texas, as you might guess.  Although her parents had a condo in Frisco, Colorado, she was snow-deprived most of the time, except during family vacations to Colorado to ski, during which ski vacations she actually hoped for snow.

Therefore, being married to me is, I believe,  like being on a permanent vacation for Miss Texas.    Here at Cross Creek Ranch, she does not have the demands of her former life as a professional model and the burden of television appearances.  Out of the spotlight, she is living the dream in “cooler” surroundings.   She can go snowshoeing in April.  Try that in Texas.   Now she has resided in Colorado for about half of her life and is no longer snow-deprived.

Here at our private resort, we do not have a ski lift but we have cross country skis if Sugar gets tired of the snow shoes.  We even have “apres ski” stuff to do.  We can sit in the “lodge” by the fireplace, watching the snow come down.  If we were drinkers, we could even sip wine in ski attire, provided we could get out to drive to the liquor store.  Instead, we have artesian well water, right out of the tap instead of them little bottles.  We have a hot tub (really) that I have been meanin’ to fix.

I reckon lots of beauty queens would love to hang out here, but they ain’t allowed because I picked Miss Texas.  I don’t mind getting snowed in with her.  And she loves being here with me.  She hasn’t said that in so many words today, but I can see it in her eyes.  She knows she is one lucky trophy wife.

And I know that I married way above my station in life.  I am way out of my league.

But you don’t hear me complaining.

Like I said before, below:

https://cowboylawyer.wordpress.com/2012/12/08/the-parable-of-the-pickup-and-the-porsche/

https://cowboylawyer.wordpress.com/2012/06/05/my-station-in-life-23-2/

https://cowboylawyer.wordpress.com/2012/06/25/dallas-revisited-18-2/

DEADLY DANGERS AT CROSS CREEK RANCH

              It was high noon.  Miss Sugar, my trophy wife, was fussing in the kitchen when she hollered, “Big Bronc, they’re coming!  Lots of ‘em.  You better be ready.  I’m gittin plumb nervous.”

           Soon they commenced to coming up our lane to the ranch house.  Dozens of folks arrived in waves.  We was surrounded.  

            Me and Texas Bob took our stations, him by the cantina, me peeking out from inside the house.  We was ready, providin’ there warn’t too many of ‘em.  I lost count at 65.  That seemed about right for me and the little woman and Texas Bob.

            Also, Texas Bob had brung a woman with him, as was his way.  She was a spunky redhead, a fancy dresser, name of Ginger.  I’d seen her before.  Once down in Fort Worth Stockyards, at the Cattlemen’s Club, Bob and Ginger was there with me and Sugar and we had a good old time.  Now we four was going to have a different kind of party.

            The womenfolk tried to help, but they was just gals.  Bob and me would have to “do the heavy liftin” as far as taking care of the situation.  The way I looked at it was, we’d done it before so there was no need to think we couldn’t handle this situation just like we done other times.  As you can tell, I don’t scare easy.

             So what are you’all thinking we was facin’?  The people surrounding us had been invited to our annual John Wayne party, this one to celebrate the 105th anniversary of his birth.

              We had a band.  Karen aka Sugar had been preparing food for weeks, baking and freezing a score of pies and all.  She done what she could, but of course I was  the one who set up the folding tables and chairs.  I unloaded the keg.  I dished out the barbequed pork.  Karen only made a dozen or so sidedishes and her special Texas  barbeque sauce.  I appreciated that minor assistance.  Like I said, she done what she could. 

             Texas Bob manned the cantina bar, like the experienced barkeep he is.  He served beer, margaritas, sangria, sweet tea, and lemonade.  He was very popular.  But the meat was my department.   A feller ought not to delegate the biggest job.  That buck cain’t be passed if Big Bronc wants to keep his title of King of the Wild Frontier, assumed by him after the untimely passing of Davey Crockett.

            Anyways, I expect none would argue when I tell ya’all that a good time was had by all.  No brag.  Just fact.

            After the crowd thinned out, Bob and me loaded the chairs and tables into my Ford F250 Supercab shortbox pickup truck.  We picked up the garbage bags too while the little ladies messed around in the kitchen on account of they ain’t no dang good at loading pickups. 

            Sugar and Ginger got along like peas and carrots.  Some say Ginger made her way out West by way of Jugtown Mountain, New Jersey.  If that ain’t true, it should be.  It is well known that Texas Bob is Miss Sugar’s Daddy.  The DNA results proved that.  As for that Ginger woman, the rumors are that she might be Sugar’s biological mother.   Regardless of whether the rumors are true, Sugar treated Ginger just like kin.

            You might be wondering why this tale is called Deadly Dangers at Cross Creek Ranch.  I’m fixin to tell you why or I’ll be a blue-nosed gopher. 

             Recall what I said awhile back about Miss Sugar making a bunch of side dishes.  Well, one of them was something called Three Bean Salad.  (This writing technique is called foreshadowing.)

            I reckon I might not have done a proper job of securing those garbage bags.  A couple days later, Max, our ten year old yellow lab, seemed bloated and was having trouble breathing.  We speculated that he might have been bitten by a rattlesnake.  (See also Sharpshooter blog.)  We took him to a veterinary emergency room where x rays showed that it was not a bite by a snake, but rather, lots of bites by Max as he consumed “leftovers.” 

           He had surgery.  The doctor told us that she recovered from his stomach a couple pounds of deadly Three Bean Salad. 

            As a result, I’m betting that our next party menu will not include Three Bean Salad.

           

Sharpshooter

My trophy wife, Sugar, was outside with the dogs while I watched Chisum.  As it turned out, viewing the John Wayne movie was a good way to prepare for my imminent deadly showdown.

I heard my wife’s alarming scream.  Then she called out to me, “Al, come out here.  Hurry!”  I moseyed up from the couch, ever obedient, ever vigilent.

I still did not know what she was frightened about.  (Girls can be overly dramatic and mysterious).  I empathetically inquired about what was troubling her.  Her response was not responsive to my question.  She uncalmly commanded, “Get a gun.”  Well, that was the main idea.  She was much more eloquent.

As an aside, in order to give some background to the scenario, I want you, gentle readers, to be informed that Sugar grew up in Texas.  Also, she is of Italian extraction.  You may combine your prejudiced stereotypes as you imagine  her emotional communication.

Further, Sugar’s desire that I bring a gun was not unrealistic.  I possess several firearms, including a pair of Colt .45s in a quickdraw holster, various rifles, and a couple shotguns.  They are part of the decor of our mountain cabin and readily available.  The NRA sends emails to me daily concerning unconstitutional threats to gun ownership.  I also am a member of the Single Action Shooting Society (SASS) which sponsors cowboy shooting competitions.  My SASS alias is Big Bronc.  Her’s is Miss Sugar.  Clearly, it was not unreasonable for her to ask me to get a gun.

So I emerged from the front door unarmed.  Sometimes I opt for hand-to-hand combat.  I wanted to assess the enemy’s strength before selecting a weapon.  I try to make it a fair fight.  No sense wasting ammo.

“Who needs killin’?  It don’t make me no nevermind.”   I stated the obvious.  “Womenfolk got nothin’ to fear when Big Bronc is around.  I will fight to the death anyone that threatens you and them yeller dogs.”   This little gal surely knew she could count on me.

“Oh, Big Bronc, there is an evil rattlesnake down there.  Please protect me and our precious pets.  You are so brave and strong and handsome.”  Those were not her exact words, but I knew that was what she desired to tell me.

“Get the shotgun with the snakeshot shells!,” Miss Sugar daintily suggested.  “Shoot it from up here on the porch so you don’t git yerself kilt.  I ain’t in the mood to call no hearst.”  She doesn’t talk like that either, but it would sound more like an authenic western story if she would have.

So I went to the toolshed and got a shovel.  I know she wanted me to use a gun, but this particular shovel is a narrow type of spade known in these here parts as a “sharpshooter.”   It is a weapon with which I have beheaded unfortunate snakes in the past.  Yes, this was fixin’ to be a fight to the death.

Miss Texas noticed what I had selected.  “You dang fool!  That rattler is going to bite you.  They can strike further than that little shovel.”  I wish she didn’t talk like that.

So I walked over to the snake, carrying only the sharpshooter shovel.

It was coiled and shaking its rattles.  It was a mean one, poised to strike.

Women are no help at a time like this.  I didn’t need some girly girl weeping about me.  I can take care of myself.  Still, through it all, I could hear Sugar’s sweet voice.  “Watch out, you idiot.  He is going to strike.”  I supposed that she was addressing the snake, giving him one last chance to retreat.  That is certainly how I took it.

Members of the general public are not usually quick enough or coordinated enough or brave enough to attempt what I was about to do.  That mean old snake probably did not recognize who he was facing.  He probably thought I was a member of the general public.

Instead, he was dealin’ with Big Bronc, the toughest hombre north of the Pecos, or at least the North Poudre Irrigation Canal.

I met his steely glare.  He didn’t show any fear as he hissed and rattled, but I had a feelin’ that, deep inside his cold heart and reptile brain, he knew this showdown would be his last.

My calloused hand was ready for action.

“Say when.”  I confidently offered him that advantage as I smirked.  (I have found that smirking intimidates.)

The tension grew.  Then Old Snake Eye made his move.  It was the moment of truth.   Or consequences.  One of us would soon be dead as a doornail.  He had my vote.

A blood-curdling scream broke the tense silence.  (Sometimes smirking alone is not intimidating enough.  One has to be adaptable when engaged in a fight to the death.)  I should not have called it a scream.  It was more like a war-cry.  A manly war-cry.

Well, I’m here to tell you that with one lightning fast blow, I pinned that coiled snake to the ground.  The blade of the sharpshooter got it right behind its open-mouthed head.  I did not let up until I cut its head clean off. Sugar warned that the venom is still dangerous, even after it was beheaded.  Like I don’t know that.

I scooped the detached head into the shovel and proudly showed her the proof of my victory, waiting for her to praise my skill and courage.  She did not express her admiration in words, but I could see it in her eyes.

“Shucks, M’aam.  It weren’t nothing any old hero wouldn’t do.”

I could tell she longed to reward me with a kiss.  There was things I had to take care of first.  After disposing of my vanquished foe, I put my trusty sharpshooter back in the shed and quietly rode off into the sunset.

Post Navigation