Preface: Hurrah. I figured out how to put pictures in this post!
Blog: Well, I have to confess that it took me a while to gather the courage to post to my new blog again, titled Reflections from Cinnamon Ridge. I named my blog this because most of the blogs I’ve read are meandering things that are sometimes very entertaining–and other times not. I won’t get into specifics. Suffice it to say, I’m out of there if I’m yawning. So reflections seemed appropriate, and I live on Cinnamon Ridge. You can connect those dots.
As I set up my blog, I naturally wanted it to be read by as many of my friends as possible, so I connected to every social site I recognized.
Well, hmm–okay, I have to be honest. Aside from Google and Pinterest, I recognized only two of the social media sites, Facebook and Twitter, and since my FB page is already linked to Twitter, I connected this blog with only Facebook. I don’t know what I imagined that would do. In my mind’s eye, I envisioned a Blog button on my Facebook page, something little that you could click on if you wished to go read my blog. Same for Twitter. Tasteful, low profile, barely noticeable.
I thought my blog would be seen by only my dear girlfriends on Facebook, along with Chris Peck, the only guy I know, aside from my husband, who is confident enough in his masculinity that he dares to read romance. And he even outclasses Sid by posting publicly on my site about my books and sometimes other romances that he’s read. Big applause for Chris Peck! He’s blazing a trail for all the wimpy guys who are afraid to jeopardize their tough-guy images by reading love stories. When most men read romances, they try to hide it!
I know you read the title of this blog, and I’ll get to the point in a moment. First I have to tell you about my first self-publishing blog disaster. I happily blogged my heart out, saying whatever crossed my mind, some of which I NEVER would have said if I had known what would happen when I clicked on “PUBLISH.” Envision me smiling as I clicked that button, feeling very proud of myself. I was getting it. I could do this darned social media stuff. What fool ever said an older (note I did not say old) dog can’t learn new tricks? It was a piece of cake!
After closing up here at Word Press, I jumped over to my Facebook page to post my great news. “I HAVE A BLOG! YOU CAN READ IT IF YOU WANT. JUST CLICK ON THE LITTLE BUTTON THING AND YOU’LL BE THERE!!” To my immense dismay–translate that to horror–the first thing I saw was a huge post already on Facebook, not only on my page but also on my news feed! Well, I may need to read Social Media Savvy for Dummies, but even I knew what that meant. I couldn’t have been more embarrassed or upset if I had just published:
My blog had gone everywhere, even to Twitter. And I’d talked about taking doctor-ordered pictures of my body parts, complete with a metric ruler, and how those photos might have gone to Instagram, and–well, I wanted to open this gigantic bottle of wine, drink every last drop all by myself, and hope I could find my way to bed afterward.
I’m not sure how much this bottle holds because I haven’t bothered to look. I’m sure it is in liters. I’ve never bothered to learn the metric system because I’m a feminist, and a man developed it. How do I know this for certain without researching it first? Well, think about it. When a guy is bragging about how long “it” is, which sounds more impressive, 6 inches or 152.4 milliliters? Nuff said.
“Hey, babe, it’s this long!”
Anyway, I didn’t open the wine and by morning I felt better, largely due to my wonderful friends on Facebook. Okay, one lady got caught by surprise while reading that blog post and choked on her Pepsi, spewing it all over her keyboard, but she didn’t blame me and was very sweet about it. I could only hope that the pop didn’t dry between her keys overnight and make them dysfunctional.
I‘m joking. My friend didn’t really get the hiney-lick maneuver.
I was still worrying about my blog when my wonderful nephew Dustin came to visit us on Saturday, bringing along his son, Thomas. Dustin is the nephew who first convinced me that I absolutely had to have an Instagram account. He said something like, “It’s what’s happenin’, Aunt Cac. It’s the bomb.” Having Dustin and John around is good for me. (By listening to them, I learn how to talk cool.) Later that night, while playing with Instagram, I saw a pic and asked Dustin, “What are peeps?” I’d just read it in a Robyn Carr book, which just goes to show that Robyn is not only a fabulous writer, but she hangs out with younger people and already knows how to talk cool. I was amazed to learn that peeps are people. Dustin grinned and said, “You and the Unc are my peeps. I come from really good peeps.” Thanks to Dust, I’m now almost as smart as Robyn Carr. Yay!
This is a pic of Dustin and Thomas right after they got here. Excuse the grocery sack and eggs on the counter. He brought coop-fresh eggs and stopped by a store for milk because his uncle was fresh out. The eggs were from John’s coop, not Fort Knox. Because of my hand surgery, I haven’t been going to see The Girls as often as I’d like, and our chickens are in molt, which means they aren’t laying as many eggs. John’s chickens are first-year babies and aren’t doing molt this year, so he’s got eggs coming out his ears.
This isn’t my son John, of course. But you get the picture.
Over the course of his visit, Dustin showed me how to log into my Instagram account. Wow! I didn’t know I could do that.
Not really my pics. I take shots of interesting things, like Sid’s remote.
Come to find out, the only picture I’d ever added to my Instagram was of a remote control. Don’t ask me why I took that fascinating photo. To make you yawn in a blog, possibly? Nope, I’m not that cruel. What I am is mystified. How come do I have Instagram followers when I’ve never posted anything but a remote control? I’ve got it! All my followers are guys!
Me, running, with a bunch of guys following me. You just can’t see them. And if you believe that’s me, I’m selling the Golden Gate Bridge for a really cheap price, free delivery.
I knew it it had to be guys following me on Instagram from the start, and now I get it. What man can resist a remote control, especially when he knows it belongs to some other guy? He’s gotta have that pic and compare that remote control to the half dozen that he has. It’s the equivalent of the tool comparisons that take place at urinals in men’s restrooms across the world. This male quirk begins when little boys are about four, and it follows them to the grave. Is his tool bigger than mine? The eyes of teenage boys get stuck in a sideways position while trying to see how they measure up.
Then they suddenly realize that it isn’t okay to look at other guys. This is when they develop what I call the “stare only at the wall” syndrome.
But looking at a wall IS no fun. So all guys eventually develop the remote control fetish.
Is his remote control better than mine? These stink! I need to throw them away and buy decent ones!
Mystery solved. Until a few days ago, all my Instagram followers had to have been male remote control addicts because I posted a picture similar to this.
Sid’s Sony Remote. Maybe tomorrow I’ll take an Instagram pic of his living room remote, which looks like it belongs in a space ship. That’ll give my guy followers a thrill.
Anyway, now that I’ve determined beyond a shadow of doubt that I never sexted half of the world’s population, I’m over my fear of blogging. If I make you yawn, tell me. I’ll try to liven it up with my next installment. I’m going to plaster this one all over the Net. I’m going where angels fear to tread. I am woman; hear me roar. (I presently have this site disconnected from all social networks.)
Now onward to this blog’s title, “Why Should All Men Read Romance?”
“What is it that my wife really wants? Maybe Lori Copeland can give me a clue.”
Don’t you just love this picture? Here’s a really masculine man reading a romance in a public diner, bold as brass. And look at the expression on his face. He’s finally understanding what Ethel wants from him. Ethel has always refused to tell him, of course, so all his life, he has walked around scratching his head, wondering why she expects him to be a mind reader. Who can understand women? Well, this man finally knows the answer to that question! Another woman!
So news flash, you guys; understanding women, as Sherlock would say, is elementary. Between the covers of romance novels lie the mysteries of what women really want in a man and what they yearn to experience in a relationship.
If you hit the nightspots and strike out with women, stop wondering what’s wrong with you and start reading romances! If you know some skinny nerd with horn-rimmed spectacles who attracts girls like an overripe banana does fruit flies, stop wondering what females like about him and read a romance! You can start with this one!
To be released January 6th, 2015
Order it now and forget about buying those little blue pills from online pharmacies in Canada. If you never make it to first base, you won’t need them, anyway.
Okay, okay. I plugged my own upcoming release. So, sue me. I’m not implying that guys can learn everything they need to know by reading this one book. But since I’m the one telling them how to learn to be successful with women, they should at least read one of my offerings. Don’t you agree?
Read romances, guys! Why is your girlfriend snuggling in the corner of the sofa with a book instead of snuggling with you? Well, hello, look at that dreamy smile on her face. She’s reading about something that she finds very appealing. The minute she finishes the story, steal it and read it from the front page to the last. Don’t ignore the parts you feel are unimportant! Bad mistake. Your lady absorbs every nuance of every scene, wishing she could experience that kind of romance in real life.
Legal Disclaimer: If you’re a lady who reads paranormal romance and your honey jumps out at you from a dark corner wearing a rented wolf costume and vampire teeth, I am not responsible if he bites you.
Off I go until I get brave enough to do another installment.