At some point Katie realized she did not have her grandpa’s attention so proceeded to gently pat him on the chest. Her efforts were not rewarded. So she moved to plan B, which involves patting harder while voicing, in an ear piercing shriek, “Ga boba ddabda.” Which loosely translated means: “Hey you. Ya, you…big guy, I’m talkin’ to you!”
At this point my dear husband usually gets the message his princess is trying to tell him something. He looks down at her and asks, “What do you want sweetheart?”
Now having him hooked, she starts over with the day’s events. My darling husband sits there, a quizzical look on his face as he tries to understand the unintelligible language coming from this tiny person. Desperate to comprehend, he looks to me for translation, which of course I give.
“She wants you to know she got a new toy today from her great grandma. She had cottage cheese for lunch. We played outside for a while in the rocks, oh and sorry for putting rocks all over the deck again…”
“Wait!” he interrupted. “How the heck did you get all of that from ga dab bup?”
I smiled that smile…you know the one, where we tell them with our eyes we understand because we are female, and they don’t because they are male. “I’m a writer remember, I read between the lines.
My husband may never understand the concept of pretending to understand, however I will never grow tired of watching his attempts at it.
Chapter 3
bOYs…Oy Vey
What makes more noise than teenage boys? This is not a joke, by the way. I’d really like to know if there is anything as loud as four fourteen-year-old boys, with size twelve shoes, running through the house with little cap guns that shoot small, hard plastic beads. They sounded like a herd of elephants with their trunks in knots. Small bursts of laughter until the bead hit, and then ouch mingled in. All accompanied by the sound of shoes pounding hard on the floor as they attempted to rattle the house from its foundation.
Twice I tried to grab their attention as they flew past my desk, James yelling, “Careful, don’t hit my mom or we’re in trouble,” to no avail. On the third trip around, I was standing. The look on James’s face made it almost worth it. You might know the look if you have kids. It’s the deer in the headlight, quickly followed by the ut-oh now I’m in trouble look.
James went on defense and quickly turned to his friends, “We better take this outside guys.” I watched as they turned and headed to the back door. I heard several of them utter “Sorry Mama Hoppe” as they went.
Now mind you, going outside only solved the problem of the house shaking, because believe it or not they had their inside voices on before exiting the back door. Once outside the noise level went to an all-time high. I think if the EPA had an office in my town they would have been knocking on the door to issue a fine for violation of noise ordinances.
I’m really surprised the neighbors didn’t call the police. All I could do was hope against hope the boys would run out of little plastic beads soon.
What a silly thing to hope for.
They did, and it was at that moment one of the boys decided the little gravel rocks on the driveway out back might work better than the beads, and the fight was on.
Don’t get this wrong, these boys are very good friends and they would never try to really hurt each other. They play football together, and during the season the other three are responsible for making sure James doesn’t get tackled. These three boys are part of the front line; James is a running back. So it’s in everyone’s best interest to do no serious damage, however popping one another in the back of the legs with small rocks apparently doesn’t cause a lot of permanent harm. Just small discomfort and a slight sting according to the boys, as they assured me it was all right and they wouldn’t break anything.
Can you believe it? They thought I was worried about them breaking each other. It was with some difficulty that I convinced them it was the windows of the house I was most worried about. Small though the rocks might be, and the fact they were throwing them at a downward angle notwithstanding.
You would think I had taken every toy known to man away from the boys when I put a stop to the rock throwing. Remember these are fourteen-year-olds who should be able to find something else to do with little trouble, however I must report it took them about fifteen minutes of grumbling before they hit on a new idea to fill the time.
This game involved more yelling, laughing, loud talking, and the sound of skateboards hitting the sidewalk out front as they landed. Did you know, if you get a running start on a skateboard, run it up a ramp made of bricks and scrap plywood, and launch yourself into the air, you might land with your feet still on the board? Notice I said might, because as far as I could see and hear it only happened every few times. Mostly they did the crash and burn into the grass.
Each crash was followed by loud roars of delight from those not lying face down in the dirt. The jump was discussed at length, the ramp repositioned, and the next fearless soul would get their board. A check was made of the wheels, trucks were adjusted, wind speed checked and the next flyer took off. All without benefit of a control tower or landing lights, brave boys.
This exercise continued until my hubby arrived home to take the boys to the movies. Oh joy I thought, finally some peace and quiet. Right! Turns out it was too late to make the one p.m. showing, so it was decided they would attend the four o’clock show instead. This decision was followed by several minutes of phone calls to keep other parents up to date on schedules, then a return to the front for more daredevil leaps off a makeshift ramp.
My husband assures me, as an expert on fourteen-year-old boys, this is all normal. How does he know he’s an expert, you ask? Well according to him, when I posed just that question, it’s because he used to be one. Now I know why my mother-in-law has gray hair.
Pardon me, I need to go check the mirror, I feel my hair turning grey as I type.
Note to self: Stock up on slippers!
Chapter 4
Barking dogs be damned!
It was exactly 5:41 a.m. when James’s dog, Blue, decided it was time for everyone in the neighborhood, or at least those living on both sides of us, to awake. I know it was 5:41 a.m. because as I was jumping out of my skin at the sound of her fearsome bark, I could see the red numbers of the digital clock glowing in the semi darkened room.
Leaping from the bed, ha ha not really, I kind of rolled over, more falling off the edge then anything. However it sounds better if I say leaping from the bed, so…
Leaping from the bed, I ran to the kitchen door to see what the racket was about. There, standing by the back gates was Blue, her neck hairs on end, barking as if the entire criminal population of this city was marching down the alley to steal everything we own.
My darling husband, laying on the couch in the living room, watching me as I yelled at the dog to either tell me what was going on or shut up, started laughing.
“What’s so damn funny?”
“You are. There is no one there; it’s probably just a cat.”
I was not amused! I turned to look through the dining room into the living room at his reclining figure, “Can’t you teach the dumb thing to bark only when it’s something important?”
“Cats are important!”
Grumbling under my breath, I turned back to the open door and demanded the dogs come back inside. Yes, we have two dogs; however the little one doesn’t find it necessary to bark, because Blue can pretty much wake the dead with hers.
As the dogs calmly walked into the house, I looked to see if anything was amiss. No sign of burglars, no kids playing, no car or truck, not even a damn cat. Blue walked past me, brushing her white fur up against my leg in an attempt to make me feel better, I’m sure. Looking down at the dog, I asked her, “was all that noise necessary? You do know it’s too damn early to be up on a Saturday?”
I think she has been taking lessons from hubby, because she gave me one of those looks. The kind of look that says you wouldn�
�t understand even if I explained it to you. She walked into the living room to be rewarded for her early morning foray. Sauntering up to the couch, she laid her head next to hubby’s hand for a pat. My husband said, “Good dog.”
“What? Don’t tell her she’s a good dog, when she is out there at this gaud awful hour barking at nothing!!”
“But she is a good dog. Didn’t she quit barking when you told her to shut up?”
“She also woke everyone in a six block radius and I don’t think telling her she’s a good dog is the best reward for that!”
Ok, I know what you’re thinking. It’s 6:00 a.m. and you and your hubby are having a really stupid discussion. I have to agree with your assessment, and all I can say in defense is I really wasn’t awake yet. Oh and I think the dog most likely was agreeing with you as well, because during this conversation, she simply sat there basking in the glow of praise from my hubby.
It's now a little after 10:00 a.m. and as I sit here writing this account of the mornings events, I see that Blue has fallen to sleep under the dining room table.
Maybe I’ll wait till she is dreaming sweetly, then I’m gonna start singing.
Chapter 5
The perfect reason not to have a yard!
Saturday afternoon my darling husband and I had an interesting conversation, it went something like this.
“I want to have a yard sale next weekend,” my husband stated out of the blue.
“Really, I like the yard, why do you want to sell it?”
Giving me a strange look, he ventured on, “I’m not talking about selling the yard; I mean taking all the stuff we don’t use and putting it out in the yard to sell.”
Duh, sometimes my hubby doesn’t get my humor. “No kidding, I was joking. A yard sale is a good idea.”
Again with the look, one that clearly said I’d be lost in space if I didn’t have him to keep me in touch with reality, he continued. “In the morning I want to go through the storage shed and sort out the things we don’t use or need. The shed is getting impossible to walk into with all the stuff we’ve collected.”
Now I must explain when my hubby uses the word ‘stuff’ he is referring to my possessions. Anything he brings home is important, business related items or tools. What I bring home is stuff. Therefore I knew he wanted to clear out things which belong to me to make more room for things which belong to him. So I posed the following question.
“We are talking about getting rid of everything not used or needed? Not just my things, right?”
“Of course,” he assured me with a smile.
Ok, a little background on the storage shed in question. It is about two hundred square feet with floor to ceiling shelves on three walls. Along with the items stored on the shelves there is a lot of high quality ‘junk’ sitting on the floor. Of these two hundred square feet, my Christmas decorations take up about 5 square feet. That is a total of seven storage bins, neatly stacked one on top of the other so they only take up a minimal amount of floor space.
As for the shelves, I have two, each nine feet long and two feet deep. On one of these shelves are banker boxes with files for our construction company going back seven years, as required by the IRS. On the other are assorted items which I don’t want to part with, however in the name of family harmony I will go through and try to make some hard decisions and condense the pile.
The rest of the items in this shed are camping equipment, fishing gear, paintball supplies, go-cart parts, electrical supplies, plumbing supplies, lumber, etc. all of which belong to James or my husband. I went to bed wondering just how many of these items would find their way into the yard sale pile.
Fast forward to Sunday morning and you find me sitting at the dining room table eating a wonderful breakfast made and served sweetly by dear hubby. He was trying to soften me up I’m sure.
After delivering the plate he said, “I’m going to start moving things out of the shed to make it easier to move around, so when you’re done come on out.”
“Sure, just remember you’re going to get rid of stuff too.”
Again with the friggin look, “I told you we are getting rid of a lot.”
It was about this time I thought, okay maybe he really will surprise me and there will be more to this yard sale then a few old clothes and household items. I ate my breakfast with renewed hope. Silly me.
Upon stepping out the back door, I saw he had moved all the camping, fishing, paintball, go-cart and lumber items to the side yard.
“You’ve gone through this stuff already?”
“No, there’s nothing in that pile for the yard sale, I just put it over there out of the way until we get the rest cleaned up.”
When I looked at the stack I admit I lost my temper, “Wait just a second! There are only two of you and there are six sleeping bags in that keep pile. You don’t need six sleeping bags. Oh gawd, you don’t need three tents either.”
To forestall an argument, he took my hand and pulled me toward the open door of the shed, “We can think about that stuff later, for now let’s get the pile inside sorted.”
Now you must use your imagination, because I can’t very well tell you exactly what I said to the man I married when upon entering the shed I saw that everything he had in the get-rid-of pile was mine. I will say I surprised myself, didn’t know I knew that many four letter words.
The only smart thing my husband did Sunday morning was quickly leave the area while I sorted, stacked, and organized those things I could not live without back into the small corner of the shed which I call my own. I’m proud to say I was able to part with about 50% of the ‘stuff’. After completing my cleaning, I called you know who back into the shed and told him we could start reloading those things we were keeping, and I didn’t want to hear anything about needing six damn sleeping bags. If I could condense so could he.
The next two hours were spent waiting for my husband to find something, anything he was willing to part with. At the end of the morning, there were two sleeping bags, one tent, an old light fixture, and three rusted screwdrivers in the yard sale pile. His contribution to the national pastime of selling things you paid top dollar for two weeks ago at a yard sale for twenty-five cents.
Chapter 6
Valleys, hills, and lumps…oy vey!
This morning my hubby awoke at the crack before dawn. Like normal he made sure, with little effort, to make enough noise to wake the dead. Rolling over to pull a pillow onto my head, I attempted to ignore the fact it was still dark outside and tried to resume sleeping.
It didn’t work.
Ten minutes later he walked back into the room to hand me a cup of coffee.
“Morning sweetheart.”
“It’s still dark.” I snarled at him.
“It will be light in another twenty minutes. If you get up now I’ll help you make the bed.”
Ok, so he thinks this is an incentive for me to stumble out of bed half asleep, which I did, go figure.
While pulling the sheets up, Hubby suddenly flipped the sheet back and exclaimed, “Look at all the curves and low spots in this bed. No wonder I can’t sleep.”
“Really, and I thought it was just because you enjoyed making me get up early.”
“How old is the damn thing anyway?”
“It’s too early to ask me questions. It’s old, that’s all I know, and you’ve been sleeping on it for a long time, and are just now realizing it’s got low spots?”
“Maybe it’s time for a new one. Why don’t you go shopping today and see what’s available?”
“Yippee, I’ve got lots of time in my day for shopping.” This was said with a grumble as I took my cup of coffee and went to the living room to hide.
At about nine a.m., with my mother in tow, I headed out to shop for a new mattress. The little town I live in has only one furniture store, and I don’t really like shopping there. So with a full tank of gas, I headed six miles up the road to the next town, where there are a total of seven furniture st
ores. Not sure why so many for a town of fifteen thousand, maybe because they don’t make furniture to last anymore.
My gawd, when did they decide we needed this many choices in bedding?
Euro tops, pillow tops, no tops, foam filled, air filled, coils with interconnecting wires, coils without. Firm support, medium support, plush, hard as rocks, and soft as a baby’s bottom.
I was overwhelmed.
Prices ranged from a couple of hundred to over four thousand. Now tell me, who in their right mind is going to pay four thousand dollars for a mattress that only has a ten year warranty?
Each store assured me they had the best of the best in mattresses. All the sales people invited me to remove my shoes and lay down to test the delights of each style. Several told me we would sleep better with a new mattress. And at one store the sales person followed me from bed to bed offering pillows and giving a running dialogue about the benefits of each.
The most fun I had was at one store where I got into a conversation with my mother about which of the beds would be best for sex. The color of the salesman’s cheeks set off the blue of his eyes very nicely.
Yes, I know, my mother said the same thing!
The last store we went into was having their annual chair sale. Mattress shopping was pushed to the back burner and my new chairs for the living room are arriving later today. Mom’s chairs had to be ordered so she doesn’t get them for two weeks; however they are very pretty and should go well in her dining room.
When Hubby gets home, I’m sure he will get over the shock of the chairs pretty quickly. The mattress is another story. I have chosen the one I like, however I don’t think my darling husband has the faintest idea of what he is in for. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when they ask him to remove his shoes and offer him a pillow.
Chapter 7
The jOYs of Life Page 2
