The Pioneer Woman

My Hometown Signing

Ree — Tue, 09 Feb 2010 18:01:39 +0000

First, is it my hometown if I live there now but didn’t grow up there?

Because I also call the town where I grew up “my hometown.”

But this town—this town nearest our ranch—this is my hometown, too.

What does it all mean?

Who am I, anyway?

Where do I belong?

Okay, second. During the course of my six-week book tour in November and December, I chronicled road trips and hotel rooms and the people I met and the food I ate like no one’s business. My camera was attached to my hip the entire time, because…uh…why would I blog for 3 1/2 years, write a cookbook, then take a trip as a result of the cookbook and…uh…not blog about it?

No, no, no, no, no, no, no. That’s not how it works. You + Me = TruLuv4Evr. I take you where I go.

Unfortunately for you, however, I went a little nuts. I shared everything with you, from being backstage at The Bonnie Hunt Show to the toilet in my hotel room in Salt Lake City. Thank you for loving me through those days.

Since I am an imperfect person and blogger, however, I inevitably had lapses in my coverage and wound up with a handful of signings (Los Angeles and West Chester, PA, to name a couple) with absolutely no photos of my own to show for them. Fortunately, plenty in attendance showed up with photos and I’m in the process of piecing together enough photos to write about those days. They were as much fun as any of the events; it’s just that I either left my camera at the hotel or (even worse) showed up to the signing without a memory card.

The pain. It’s still acute.

Another cookbook signing that flew by without my adequately covering it with my camera was, ironically, the signing in the small town where I live. Held on Halloween night, it was the day after a signing in Tulsa…and the day before I was to fly to Denver with my sister-in-law and mother-in-law. That I neglected to take many photos that night is a testament to just how busy my mind was then. Do I have the kids’ schoolwork all organized for this week? Did I wash the soccer clothes? I’ll miss my baby. I can’t wait to eat sushi! My Spanx are cutting off my circulation. I wish I’d gotten a haircut. My cuticles are dry. What if my armpits sweat when I’m speaking in Denver?

Little did I know how prophetic that last one would be.

I did get a couple of shots of the signing. And it was very special for me. Friends from around town, older ladies from my church…lots of people stopped by to say hi and lend their support. Even the mother of my best friend from high school, and even Jenni and Danny, our sweet friends from Kansas.

Not that I got a photo of them. That would have been way too logical a thing for me to do that night.

I even got some trick-or-treaters, who happen to play soccer with my children!

I gave them Ritz crackers. It was all I had, man.

And a fluffball showed up. I gave him a Ritz cracker, too.

Jane was there. She lives in Dallas now but is from this small town, and happens to appear on page 201 of my cookbook in the Cowgirl Dinner Party section. She’s wearing a lime green cardigan.

Ranchelorette, anyone?

Did I just say that?

This was after the signing was over, and I have no idea what was happening. I truly don’t. I do know that I look like a dork when I’m cracking up.

I wish I’d known that a long time ago. Because I crack up a lot.

Lord help me.

I have no recollection. And I was only drinking bottled water.

At least…at least they told me it was bottled water.

But these pictures, I remember. The woman on the left with the funky gray bob is Cathy, a good friend and Jane’s mother. Cathy owns this old building, which she renovated and turned into Townmaker Square, where artists and vendors showcase their offerings. Great building. Great for the town. Great, great, great.

So earlier in the week, Cathy’s moving some boxes. She’s moving boxes of my cookbooks to her store. She’s moving boxes of my cookbooks to her store so she can…well, sell my cookbooks at her store, I presume.

Then she slipped.

Then she fell.

And after most of the attendees had left the signing, she showed a small group of friends what the fall did to her hip.

And they screamed. This is saying a lot, especially for Melody (short black hair) who’s Dr. Mike’s nurse.

If you’re unfortunate enough to have been reading this site since the early days, you might remember the time Melody told me to bring down a urine specimen to the office, and I put it in a brown paper grocery bag because I was embarrassed, and Dr. Mike answered the door instead and smiled because he thought I was bringing him lunch.

Don’t ever move to a small town if you have any ounce of pride.

Anyway, back to Cathy’s massive contusion. If you’d like to see it, scroll down a bit.

Cathy gave me permission. She’s open like that.

To protect your delicate sensibilities, I blacked out all but the bruise.

Not that Cathy cares. She’s open like that.

I already said that, I guess.

Okay.

Last chance to back out.

Here it is:

Have a wonderful Tuesday!

Love,
P-Dub

Ever See a Deer Jump Over a Fence?

Ree — Mon, 08 Feb 2010 18:38:53 +0000

If so, these photos will be nothing new.

But if not…

You might enjoy this glimpse into what it’s like to be truly free.

Oh, sure—deer have plenty to worry about. They’re skittish, programmed to live on high alert in anticipation of looming predators. That’s why they took off as soon as they saw me.

Either that, or they didn’t like my hair color.

It’s been known to happen.

By “truly free”, I mean they aren’t shackled by the chains that inevitably wind their way around the human condition.

I mean they don’t have to live with things like morning traffic, the uncertain economy, a fully-scheduled calendar, job security, test results, or whether they’re being a good friend, father, sister, grandmother, or cousin. Or girlfriend. Or boss. Or neighbor. As deer, they don’t have the capability to dwell on the past…or worry about the future. They aren’t even aware of the passage of time; they simply eat for today.

And, when appropriate, run from redheaded predators.

If a deer has an issue, it doesn’t stop, ruminate, think it over, talk it through, yell it out, debate it, argue it, or give it a diagnostic code so insurance will cover it.

It simply jumps over the nearest fence…

…And finds another place to eat.

Now, I’m not necessarily saying I wish humans were like deer. We are human, after all—set apart by our maker to evolve to a higher level of consciousness… behavior… being. There’s simply more to being a human than living in a field and grazing, and I’m glad there is. It’s a busy life—sometimes a stressful, congested one. But it’s a full life, too. Full of failures, sure… disappointments… tragedies. But also full of love, triumph, adventure, learning, compassion, consideration, empathy. A herd of deer doesn’t give one thought to other herds of deer, unless the other herds of deer come eat their food. We humans, on the other hand, have the capability to reach out to humans in need, whether they’re down the street… in the next state… or across the ocean.

No, as simple and uncluttered as a deer’s life is, I wouldn’t trade it for what we humans have for one second.

Though I have to say, I wouldn’t exactly mind having their muscle tone. And energy level. And metabolism.

And laundry pile.

On the other hand, I’ll bet they’d give their right hoof for one of my doughnuts.

At least that’s what I tell myself.

From the Standpoint of a Sausage

Ree — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 16:44:56 +0000

The Beast. It sees.

And plots its wicked course.

With one chomp, I’m gone forever.

Contrition dies with me.

My aunt. Dear Bea.

I watch. Watch from the Great Beyond.

The Beast, he plots again.

Flee, Aunt Bea. Flee!

His evil knows no bounds!

With no regret, he chomps.

And gobbles down my kin.

Cousin Jill!

Grandpa Hank!

Uncle Bill!

Brother Frank!

The Beast grows ever fatter.

No guilt bars his digestion.

The Haircut Chronicles

Ree — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 14:34:37 +0000

As wonderful as it is living a peaceful, bucolic life surrounded by cloven-hoofed creatures, there are certain harsh realities when it comes to living in the country—especially if you’re female. Aside from the stereotypical chores that historically (and eternally) fall onto a woman’s lap—laundry, gardening, cooking, etc.—there are also the things we women miss out on by virtue of the fact that we live far away from civilization.

Starbucks, for one. That’s a given. Lunch dates, for another. Not happening. Shopping for sales—no. When you live in the country, you shop if and only if you can steal away enough time to make a three hour round trip to the big city and spend the entire day looking for bargains and shopping smartly. But that never happens. When you live in the country, you usually have about an hour of actual store time, so you grab whatever you can get, robbed forever of the luxury of finding things on sale. Throw four kids into the mix, with their jeans, underwear, socks, t-shirts, sweaters, coats, shoes, boots—and don’t even get me started on the homeschooling materials—and any sale item I’ve been lucky enough to score in the past ten years has been a complete accident.

Haircuts are another thing. Since I’ve lived in the country, I’ve gotten my hair cut an average of probably once every year—and that accounts for a couple of two-year stints where shears came nowhere near my hair. Because a haircut is a time commitment—a chunk of time so huge, it just keeps getting shoved to the bottom of the priority list. I’ve always been a long hair person, but even more so in the country, where the length of one’s hair is directly related to the length of highway it is to the salon in the big city. Having a style that requires frequent trims for maintenance just isn’t an option.

Fortunately, both my girls have long hair too. And ponytail holders are a mainstay. The three of us are in such a habit of getting up, washing our faces, and pulling our hair back into a rubber band, that we all but forget that occasional haircuts are a necessary part of the grooming process.

A couple of days ago, though, my ten-year-old said something along the lines of “Mama? Will I ever get my hair cut again?”

I imagine this was similar to the time my oldest brother came home from kindergarten with his first illustrated story. The picture, scrawled with Crayola crayons, showed my brother, standing alone in the backyard of my parents’ house. And the simple, gut-wrenching caption read, “Doug has no dog.”

My mom still cites this as one of the five most devastating moments of her life.

They bought him a Basset Hound puppy the next day.

I didn’t buy a puppy; instead, I called a salon in the big city and made a couple of appointments.

My girls were excited. Their hair had really been neglected. Neglected by themselves. Neglected by their mother. Neglected by the world.

Uh…remember the movie “Nell” with Jodie Foster?

It’s the first thing that popped into my mind when I saw this photo.

I’m just being honest.

Gaw anja…gaw anja…gaw anja…

If you saw the movie, you’ll understand.

The same stylist cut both the girls’ hair, and though I didn’t really want to be a stage mother, I went back to the chair with them.

“So, what do you do to style your hair most of the time?” the stylist asked my oldest.

“Umm…” my girl began.

“I mean, do you prefer to blow dry it with a round brush? Or do you use a round curling iron? Or do you like to straighten it with a flat iron?”

“Umm…” my girl repeated.

I couldn’t control myself.

I had to speak up.

Our daily peace on the ranch depended on it.

“Oh, my gosh–FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS GOOD AND HOLY, please do not do anything that will require a flat iron! Please don’t do ANYTHING that will require a round brush! We don’t even HAVE a round brush! We barely even have a REGULAR brush! We do ponytails, only PONYTAILS! We have to do ponytails! Our daily peace on the ranch depends on it!” By the end of my outburst, I was in tears.

“Umm…okay,” the stylist responded.

My girls looked at each other, then spoke in unison:

“Mama, could you please leave now?”

I went ahead and granted their wish, scooting across the parking lot to a beautiful, glowing Starbucks so I could order about eleven cappuccinos. It’s the kind of mom I am.

And when I came back, the girls were all finished.

Wait a minute.

Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter?

And remember my mountain girl? The one raised in an isolated shack by her paralyzed mother?

She’s not a mountain girl anymore.

It’s amazing what a difference a little pair of sharpened scissors can make.

The whole thing was so exciting. New haircuts. On a Thursday. The whole world was ahead of us! “Let’s go out to LUNCH!” the three of us cried with excitement.

Of course, we couldn’t. We didn’t have time. It was a long drive back home and we had to help feed the horses.

But we’ll try again sometime.

The Funniest Thing I’ve Ever Heard

Ree — Thu, 04 Feb 2010 13:15:02 +0000

If you are surrounded by children and in desperate need of cheap entertainment in your life, you need only take a few moments to sit…and watch…and listen. Because children, for all their needs and wants and demands, are actually quite hilarious.

Just gol-darn, dang hilarious.

And I’m not talking about the times they make funny faces. That’s funny, too, but more predictably so. And I’m not talking about the moments they dance jigs around the living room with socks on their ears. That can be funny, but in a more overt way. And I’m certainly not talking about the times the two genders swap clothes for the day and then suddenly your girl’s wearing plaid flannel and your boy’s wearing a cute purple stripe knit dress with an empire waist and a sparkly pineapple applique. And bubblegum lip gloss. And a stylish scarf.

Okay, that’s pretty funny, I guess. If I’m super, duper bored.

No, the moments I’m talking about are when the children unintentionally take on the qualities of adults—and I don’t necessarily mean the most flattering qualities. I love it when I catch them making excuses, rationalizing, blowing smoke…just like we adults do.

Especially when they don’t realize they’re doing it.

This isn’t the funny part. This is my girl, who just happened to notice that the calves in front of the little kids are starting to kick and go a little crazy.

This isn’t the funny part either. Well, it’s sort of funny. My girl, three months her male cousin’s junior, is attempting to order him to step up to the plate, man up, and help. What you can’t see from the photo is that her cousin’s little sister (front) and my oldest boy (second from the front) are struggling mightily in their attempt to keep the unruly calves under control. My nephew, meanwhile, hasn’t moved forward to help at all. Instead, he’s just standing there looking busy…and watching it all unfold.

You’d never catch me doing anything like that. I never, ever leave my wingman.

This isn’t the funny part, either. Well, I suppose it’s somewhat funny. Here, my girl is attempting to guilt her cousin into demonstrating a shred of courage and chivalry by helping his younger sister and cousin, who are clearly having a hard time in the front of the line.

This is the funny part. “Look. They’ve got to learn sometime.” That is a direct quote, honest to Pete. Nice try, son. Here’s a quarter—call someone who’ll buy that line.

The whole thing left my girl completely disillusioned. Because after living and working on a ranch her entire life, she knows a lame excuse when she hears one.

Not that she’s ever heard that sort of thing from her mother.

Yep, I’ll say it again: it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard.

It was so funny, I cracked up right there in my manure-caked boots.

It was so funny, I rolled on the floor laughing out loud.

Never mind that “the floor” happened to be the ground, and the ground happened to be covered in manure.

Now, some would say I had that coming for laughing at a ten-year-old boy.

Some would say I got what I deserved.

And they would probably be right.

But it was totally worth it.

Except that I totally reeked on the ride home, and as a result, Marlboro Man seemed very, very distant. He wouldn’t address me directly, and when I reached out to rest my hand on his leg, he recoiled.

I stank.

And that wasn’t really funny at all.

Parasites

Ree — Wed, 03 Feb 2010 16:19:07 +0000

Me: Yuck. It kinda bugs me when the birds hang out on the horses’ backs.

Him: Okay. And remind me again of why that would bug you?

Me: I don’t know. It just seems to me they’re hitching a free ride, just following the horses around so they don’t actually have to work to go find their own food.

Him: Well, the horses don’t go out and find their own food. As you may have noticed, that’s what we’re doing in this pasture right now. We…are feeding…the horses.

Me: Well, still. Look at that one! It’s just using the horse for a warm place to sit. The horse is the one standing up and doing all the work.

Me: And furthermore, look!—they’re picking bits of hay off the horses’ backs. They don’t even ask; they just help themselves!

Him: Actually, they’re picking mites off the horse’s back.

Me: Rice? That doesn’t make any sense. Hay, I can understand. Grass, sure. But rice? I don’t think so.

Him: I said ‘mites’.

Me: Mice?

Him: Mites. I said ‘mites’. The birds pick mites off the horses’ backs. It’s a necessary part of nature. And look—the horses actually love it.

Me: Well, I’ll be darned…you’re right. They do like it! It must tickle nicely somehow. Would you like me to do that to you sometime?

Him: Here, let me run you home real quick.

Me: What? What are you talking about? I thought I was going to help you feed.

Him: Well, I just assume if the whole “help” factor was removed from that scenario, it would probably make more sense for you just to go home.

Me: So you’re saying you don’t want me to pick mites off your back?

Him: Probably not.

Me: How about rice? I’d be happy to pick rice off your back.

Him: That’s okay.

Me: If you ever have a mice problem, I’ll pick those off, too.

Him: Okie doke. Here you go.

Me: (Getting out of the feed truck) I love you, honey.

Him: I love you, too. Thanks for the help.

Me: Hey, anytime. You need anything else, you know where to find me.

(Feed truck peels out and speeds away.)

____________________________________

The preceding scene was brought to you by the Men Driven to the Brink by Their Motormouth Wives Foundation.

Miss Mustang 2010

Ree — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 16:17:17 +0000

It’s that time of year again, ladies and gents—time for the most gorgeous and talented mustangs of the world to unite in the spirit of healthy and cut-throat competition. Girls started arriving yesterday, boasting their thick fur coats and slimmed-down physiques. As long as I’ve emceed this event (see Miss Mustang 2009 | Miss Mustang 2008) I’ve never seen a more gorgeous crop of contestants.

Meet RuthAnn, our lovely contestant from Pennsylvania. With big city determination and Amish roots, RuthAnn brings a breadth of qualities to Miss Mustang that we’ve never seen before. Her quiet grace has already charmed the hooves off of her fellow competitors, and she’s a horseshoe-in for the Miss Congeniality award at the very least.

Speaking of big city determination, Roxanne comes the San Francisco Bay Area, where she works as a systems analyst and regularly lopes in marathons to stay fit. Her athletic ability is not to be matched.

A clique forms every year, and this year the Terrible Twosome is turning out to be Muffy and Buffy, two preppies from Massachusetts and Connecticut, respectively.

Between their old money breeding and their Ivy League educational backgrounds, Muffy and Buffy keep to themselves, discussing such matters as Sperry Topsiders, madras Bermuda shorts, Hilton Head Island, and—of course—their stud boyfriends Skip and Chip.

They’re going to have to open up, or popular opinion will quickly turn against them.

Plus, preppy is so over. As it turns out, pink and kelly green do not go together. Never have. Never will.

It’s the pink and green that killed preppy. Everyone knows that.

Please help me welcome Sondra, our beautiful mustang from Missouri. Sondra attends school during the day, waits tables at night, and spends any remaining waking moments volunteering her time at an area oat kitchen, where she does her part to stamp out mustang hunger.

(Hey, Sondra—you’ve got ice on your back. Not sure if you were aware.)

Paula, our girl from Idaho, is embracing the Miss Mustang emphasis on healthy bodies and good eating habits. Paula, like our organizers, is dismayed by the emphasis on extreme thinness, both in Hollywood and across the country.

“Whoever said visible ribs and sternums were attractive needs to just shut up and eat more hay,” Paula said in a pre-pageant interview.

It’s brutal honesty like this that’s made Paula a favorite among judges.

There are so many beautiful contestants: Monique from Montana…

Claire from Colorado…

And Fiona from Florida.

Fiona’s cute and all…but get this: she only has one good side.

Seriously. She’s terrified to move for fear her bad side will be photographed.

One can hardly blame her. Poor Fiona.

Now, wait just a minute. What are the Barbi Twins doing here?!? We’ve kicked them out of the pageant several times before, and they just refuse to give up!

Girls, girls, girls. We don’t allow twins to enter as one person! Please don’t cause a scene; remember the glory days.

I can relate. I was right there with you!

Ophelia from Ohio would like the emphasis to steer back toward the field.

Sorry, Ophelia.

And Erika from Delaware just wants everyone to get along.

But not Toni from New Jersey.

She wants Barbi Twin blood.

This may prove to be the most violent Miss Mustang in history.

Whatever carnage unfolds, I’ll be sure to keep you posted.

In Love With What He Does

Ree — Mon, 01 Feb 2010 13:54:28 +0000

Until about a month ago, Charlie was on the dole. By that I mean he never went with Marlboro Man to work in any official capacity, and pretty much did nothing to earn his keep around here. Oh, he’d accidentally tag along here or there when we gathered cattle, and he’d accompany Marlboro Man to the barn from time to time to watch him saddle horses. But in terms of Charlie being any sort of official working dog…

Well, let’s just say that’s never exactly been his calling.

Until now.

A month or so ago, when we were all cooped up in the house for days on end during the winter storm, Marlboro Man decided to take Charlie with him to feed horses. “C’mon, Charlie,” Marlboro Man said. “You come feeding with me.”

Charlie looked at Marlboro Man, rolled over, and continued snoring.

But Marlboro Man was insistent. “Let’s go, Charlie,” he said, walking toward Charlie’s warm chair by the fire. “You’ve got to start pitching in a little more around here.”

Slowly but surely, Marlboro Man coaxed the furry lump out the door and into the frigid temperatures.

And with that, Charlie’s free ride was over.

Now, a month later, I wouldn’t necessarily say that our ranching operation would shrivel up and cease to exist without Charlie’s help.

But I will say that something has been awakened in Charlie.

Suddenly, after a lifetime (read: two years) of leisure, Charlie can’t get enough of ranch work. Now, after being nothing but a big bump on our living room furniture for the greater part of his life, Charlie leaps to attention anytime Marlboro Man’s boots clomp across the floor. Because that sound—that clomping of the boots—means action…work…productivity. Charlie’s gotten a taste of purpose.

And he never wants to be without it again.

Finally, at long last, Charlie has realized that there’s more to life than napping. That languishing on an ottoman is no way to spend your days. That using your various strengths to contribute to a greater good is really what life’s all about.

Not that homeboy is one speck of help beyond just sitting in the feed truck and looking pretty.

But at least he believes he’s being useful.

Chowhound

Ree — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 21:27:14 +0000

The thing about a book tour—well, there are so many things about a book tour; this is just one thing—is that you really don’t eat that much. Before I embarked upon my 23-city book trip at the end of October, I received a very nice note from an established author in which she listed ten to twelve helpful tips she’s figured out through trial and error of being on the road a few times. Being a first-time author—a clueless, scatterbrained one at that—I really had no frame of reference at all and appreciated any seasoned advice I could get. The truth was, I had no idea what to expect.

Her advice was incredibly helpful…except for one point in particular. And the second I read it I thought to myself, “Ppppttttht. Yeah, right. NOT!”

That piece of advice was this:

Take healthy snacks with you on the road, because you’ll forget to eat.

I immediately discounted it. Such a suggestion would never, ever apply to me. I’d never forgotten to eat in my entire life; I’m simply not wired that way. Plus, though I’d never met this author in person, from her pictures I knew she was on the thin side. Skinny, even. I may have drifted in and out of being thin throughout my life, but never, ever have I been overly skinny. And never, ever, never, ever, never have I forgotten to eat. Ever.

Ever.

My point is this: by the time I returned home from the final stop of my book tour the week before Christmas, I’d lost fifteen pounds. Turns out that the excitement, the travel, the pace, the late nights, the early mornings, the adrenaline, and the energy that comes with a book tour proved to be too profound a combination even for me, a lifelong chowhound, to escape. I was having such a big time, such a wonderful experience meeting and talking to so many folks, that I forgot to eat—and not just once. Enough times to result in a cumulative drop in caloric intake sufficient to shed a nice wagonful of flab. My jeans felt so much better when I buttoned them. I was a new woman, and just in time for Christmas!

And then I came home.

And this is what I’ve been doing ever since.

Slowly, bite by bite, I’ve taken it upon myself to avenge each and every hunger pang I felt while I was on the road.

And my jeans…they don’t feel so loose anymore.

Firestomping, Stilletos, and a Ranchelor Update

Ree — Fri, 29 Jan 2010 19:20:04 +0000

While Josh stomps out the fire that he started when the pipe he was cutting from an old barn caught the grass below on fire, I will give you an update on The Ranchelor.

The Ranchelor, you may remember, is a hairbrained idea Marlboro Man and I had a couple of years ago, one that would mirror the concept of The Bachelor, in which several women would vie for the affection of a nice, single cowboy. Of course, we’ve known from the beginning that our concept would be decidedly different (no mansions or hot tubs or bikinis or cat fights, hopefully), but the overall concept would be the same.

The whole Ranchelor saga would be chronicled online, though, not on TV, with daily reports of the cowboy, the girls, and the adventures and competitions that would demonstrate to the girls the rigors of life in the country. Two bloggers, a couple of good friends of mine, have already signed on to live here during the process and help me with the chronicling and commentary, and the three of us have begun figuring out the whole thing.

The more we talk about it, though…the more I think about it, the more stuck I get on the details. One thing that’s hanging me up is the idea of The Ranchelor being any kind of beauty contest, or even any kind of contest that seeks to measure one person’s worthiness against another’s. The contestant selection process—which would most definitely have to take place unless we only received eight applications—seems daunting to me. How do you weigh one nice girl against another, one sweet smile against the next, and ultimately make the choices?

Yes, I have four children. How could you tell?

And then there would be the elimination process, which I definitely believe we’d have to rethink. The narrowing down, the selection process—one in which girls would be picked off, one after another—oh, I just don’t know. There’s just something so Soup Nazi about it.

“No love for you!”

So I think we’d have to just keep all the girls till the end, and see what happened after that.

Which brings me to the next point: what’s the overall objective here, anyway? To find Josh a wife? Hmmm. I’m not sure it could or should work that way. To find love? Maybe, but if the girl is from a distant location, what happens then? No living together allowed! Addie would roll over in her grave! It would have to be a long distance romance, unless of course the girl decided to move closeby to…where would that be, exactly?

Or is the ultimate goal just fun and friendship—a 30-day (maybe 14-day) adventure with eight girls and a cowboy, and all the fun and chaos that ensues?

If the latter is the case, I think everyone wins.

But somehow…I wonder if it would be that simple.

So the more we talk about it and think about it and try to plan it out, the more we realize that a possible Ranchelor will ultimately have very little to do with The Bachelor on ABC. No hot tubs or bikinis…no evening gowns or helicopters…no overnight dates or engagement rings or elimination ceremonies or being caught canoodling with the producer of the show. (If you aren’t watching this season, you’ll likely have no idea what I’m talking about. But gosh, wasn’t that girl pretty?)

But the Biscuits and Gravy competition? Yeeeeehaw! That’s a definite.

And the Manure Shoveling Contest? Woooooo, doggie! A must.

We might even have the girls stomp out a fire or two.

Hopefully nobody will be wearing stilettos.