The jOYs of Life

by Michelle Hoppe

  Rush to the beach

  It’s very quiet in the house right now. Hubby is off working, James is spending the day with friends playing football, the baby is sleeping, and all is right with the world.

  Well almost all is right with the world. Actually, it’s been raining cats and dogs; okay really big rain falls here in Washington. The dark clouds just keep rolling in and the rain keeps coming down. To think just two weeks ago I was complaining about the heat. Such is life when you live on the Washington coast.

  The local weather reporter reports it’s going to continue raining for several more days. I guess someone forget to tell Mother Nature it’s a holiday weekend. The reason I know it’s a holiday weekend is because of all the RVs and campers crawling past the house for the last twenty-four hours.

  The ‘rush to the beach’ traffic started at about noon yesterday and has continued through this morning. Families packed to the roof tops with BBQ equipment, footballs, sleeping bags, and if the local grocery store is any indication, lots and lots of junk food. Oh the planning, leaving work early, and driving; only to arrive on the local beach to watch rain drops hit the sand.

  What a great time for one and all.

  I cannot imagine a more relaxing way to spend the day then cooped up in a 6 x 10 trailer with three kids, singing in unison, “Mom, I’m bored! When is the rain going to stop?” Right!

  It’s easy to picture said mom, turning to dear old dad and hissing the following, “I told you this was a bad idea. We could be home, in our 2000 square foot house, with doors between us and them, but NO, you had to drag us out here.”

  “It’s ok honey, it’ll stop raining soon, I’m sure of it.”

  “Oh shut up and pass the cookies.”

  Ok I have to confess, I’ve only ever gone RVing once. It was with only one of our children, and it wasn’t raining. Therefore, I can only imagine what these families are doing in those trailers parked side by side, from this end of the beach to the other—six miles away. I’m just glad I’m not in one of them.

  If for some reason I had the desire to travel on a holiday weekend, gawd forbid, it would not be in a RV. Come to think of it, I would leave the kids at home if possible. No, my idea of a weekend away is a nice hotel room, preferably with a king size bed and room service. And depending on how my week was, I might even take hubby with me.

  So, my plan for the three day weekend is to do as little as possible that involves going out in the rain. I’ve rented a couple of movies to watch, I have a fresh pot of coffee, and if the mood strikes I might even eat some cookies. At least mine won’t have wet sand on them!

  You’ve heard of best laid plans?

  Once again the house vibrates with the voices, games, and size twelves of James and his friends. Their football game got called off for rain. Apparently our house was closest to the field, had the only ready stock of snacks, and of course Mamma Hoppe wouldn’t mind them hanging out for a few minutes until the rain stopped.

  Oys!

  I took my cookies and headed to the office.

  The boys hadn’t given up hope the rain would stop, and the reason I know this is because every fifteen minutes or so, they would all troop out of his room to the front door. Once arriving at that portal, they’d open it, stick their heads out, and in one voice state the obvious, “darn, it’s still raining!”

  After they have discerned it is indeed still raining, they pull themselves back through the doorway and proceed to slam the door in frustration. I believe I’m going hoarse asking them to stop. I even tried to explain, “It is not the door’s fault it’s raining.”

  I don’t think they believe me.

  The boys seem to have run out of things to do, well except eat, which they are managing to do in large volumes. If I want to know what they have been doing, all I need to do is follow the trail of discarded fruit snack wrappers to their current location.

  Let’s see, so far they have watched a movie, at full volume. Played video games at full volume. Now re-supplied with small plastic beads, they have once again littered the house with ammo, at full volume. And made sixteen trips to the front door, at full volume.

  Help! I need to find the volume control button.

  You may be wondering where dear old dad is during all this. He heard the noise when he called home and suddenly decided he had to go back and add another coat of paint at the project house.

  As for me, I’m taking my cookies, my movies, and locking myself in my room.

  If anyone knows a ‘do not rain’ dance please send instructions as soon as possible.

  Chapter 8

  Mandatory meeting…or not!

  James, Jeremy, Jason, Jordan, Jeff, Jerrod, Jorey, Jeffrey, John, Matt B, Matt J, Matt C, Michael, Mikey, Mike, Matthew, Morgan, Mitchell, and Nick. Then we have Trisha, Tamara, Tami, Tracy, Terri, Theresa, Tia, Tammy, Judy, Jackie, Jennifer and Amy.

  Ok, this is not a list of names for a new baby; it’s the list of guests James wants to invite for his 8th grade graduation party. I’m thinking 1990 was the year of the J.M.T’s.

  It always amazes me when this group of boys get together and start greeting each other. I couldn’t tell you which boy is which because for the most part they don’t call each other by their first names. James is known as Hop, Hoppe, Hopsters, Hop-A-Long, The Hop, and several others I can’t think of at the moment. And of course James has names for all his friends that are in no way similar to their actual first name. Usually it is some slang of the last name or a nickname only the boys can understand.

  Yesterday was the mandatory meeting for next year’s football team. When I arrived at the high school, oh gawd, he’s in high school next year. My baby is growing up…don’t anyone tell him I called him my baby, for goodness sake. He is now taller than I am and five times as strong. But I digress.

  When I arrived at the meeting, I saw all the young men James has played football with for the last four years. Many of them on the above list, though as I said earlier, I couldn’t tell you which one belongs to which of those first names. Anyway, when I walked into the little theater, they turned as one and in less than gentle voices, exclaimed. “Hey Hop it’s your mom.”

  And as if they had planned it, shouted in unison, “Hi Hop’s mom.”

  When did I become Hop’s mom? I have a name, really I do. My daughters’ friends all called me by this name when they were in school…it’s Mrs. Hoppe. Granted a lot of their close friends called me mom, they still do, but never Hop’s mom. I really don’t mind being Hop’s mom I guess, there are worse things they could call me I’m sure.

  Back to the meeting.

  After the boys all greeted me, I told James I would find a seat in the back and would see him after the meeting. I turned around to find a place to sit with the other moms only to discover there were no other moms, there were no dads in attendance either. Apparently, this mandatory meeting was for the boys only, and I had arranged my schedule to attend unnecessarily. I turned and looked to see if James and his friends had noticed my confusion and was happy to see they were engaged in a game of keep away with someone’s hat.

  Trying to look unflustered, I took a seat in the back of the room. I had fifty or so chairs to choose from so it was difficult deciding which one to use, however I settled on one in the middle. Twice James turned to see if I was hanging in there, his smile reassured me it was ok I had attended.

  It wasn’t long before the coaching staff arrived and for the next forty-five minutes I pretended to listen as the head coach explained why high school football was not like middle school football. He lost me after about three minutes. I sat through the entire meeting, eyes glazed over and thinking of the possible twist for my new book. I’m sure James was paying attention and will be able to fill me in on anything really important.

  After the meeting broke up, the boys headed to the locker room to get outfitted with gear. James looks like he’s four times his normal size once they got all the pads and stuff on him. This exercise took over
an hour and by the time he returned to the car, it was a little over two hours out of my day to attend a meeting I didn’t need to be at.

  When James got in the car, having tossed his gear in the back seat, he started talking about all the upcoming football events. First we have spring training, which starts this afternoon. At the end of June is football camp, five days at Eastern Washington University learning how to hit someone and put them on the ground. Beginning July 1st we get to have a month of weight training, then in August we get serious with fall training. Their first game is September 3rd and the fun continues through November.

  I know one difference between middle school football and high school football—the time involved. I don’t think James will be crying boredom this summer…not if his coaches have any say in it.

  Note to self: Call mother of son’s friend to confirm meeting time, location, and IF you have to be there!

  Chapter 9

  The great cookie caper…

  Well it’s all true…not only do husbands pretend to be listening, they also don’t seem to pay any attention to what we are doing.

  Point in fact…

  Last night I was in the kitchen. I had taken a package of chocolate chips, pecans, and coconut out of the pantry. My darling hubby was in the dining room sitting at the table and talking to me as I worked. The plan was to make macaroons, while he updated me on the day’s happenings.

  The layout of our home allows someone sitting in the dining room to see what is going on in the kitchen, so any excuse for what happened later is not available to dear hubby. As we talked I took out a cookie sheet and spread a mixture of coconut and pecans evenly on the tray. Next I added a few drops of cream to the chocolate chips in a pan, and heated them for several minutes over low heat until they were melted. Then I poured the heated chocolate over the mixture on the tray and spread it into the coconut and pecans. Now I know this is the easy way to make a treat, but come on, my time is pretty tight and I’ve found my boys will eat just about anything if it’s wrapped in chocolate.

  Not more than five minutes after pouring the chocolate, the fun started. Hubby had finished doing his paperwork, given me all the updates, which by the way I was able to remember even after I left the kitchen, so I have proof I was paying attention to him!

  As I rinsed the bowls and pans to put away, the love of my life walks over to the pantry. I heard him mumble about something and turned to assist. “What are you looking for?”

  “I know there was a bag of chocolate chips and some nuts in here just a couple of days ago and I can’t find them.”

  Wondering what was going on, I did not immediately enlighten him to the fact I had just used them, although the smell of freshly melted chocolate still hung in the air. “What do you need chocolate chips and nuts for?”

  “It’s my turn to fill the cookie tub.”

  “What cookie tub?”

  “The one Susan gave me.” This was said as he started pushing everything on the top shelf out of the way in his search for the missing items, his tone confident that I would certainly now understand what was going on.

  “Stop, they are not in there anymore, I just used them.”

  “What!” You would think I’d just bought a new car or something from the sound of his voice. “For what?” he demanded.

  “Duh, for the macaroons I just made. Were you not paying any attention to me?”

  “You were cooking, what was to pay attention to?”

  “Well if you had spent even a moment looking in my direction, you could have said, hey wait, I need those. I guess now you’re going to have to fill the cookie tub with macaroons. And just what the heck is this cookie tub thing all about.”

  Some background information (the short version)…Susan decided to make Mark some cookies and put them in a plastic container. After eating all the cookies, Mark went to the store (like a good boyfriend) and bought cookies, filled the tub and returned it to Susan, which Susan then filled with freshly baked cookies to return to Mark. This apparently has been going on for weeks … so much for diets. Anyhow, hubby is working on a remodel of Mark’s home and on Friday, Susan decided she didn’t want the cookies Mark bought, so she gave the tub to my hubby. The catch, now my dear hubby has to return the container to Mark with cookies in it.

  Unlike Mark, my better half decided to bake cookies rather than buy them, leading to the search of the pantry for missing chocolate and nuts.

  After explaining all this to me, hubby turned to look one more time in the pantry, just in case I forgot about some extra baking supplies. “I don’t want to give Mark macaroons, besides I need to bake them, not you.”

  “Well then I guess you’re off to the store.”

  “Why do I have to go to the store, you’re the one who used my chocolate chips and nuts? You go to the store.” This was said as he started on his third macaroon, “Mmm these are good. Please.”

  How do you resist the little boy in your hubby, when he is standing in front of you, a freshly made treat in one hand, a lop sided grin on his face, and that pleading look in his eyes that says I’m afraid of the grocery store and I don’t know where everything is!

  Twenty minutes later I returned from the store and my husband started mixing cookies. Following the recipe on the back of the chip bag, he managed to find all the other ingredients with only minor frustration at the way I have the kitchen set up.

  “Why don’t you put the mixing bowls in this cabinet, it makes more sense.”

  “Why don’t you get out of my kitchen?”

  “It’s our kitchen and the bowls should be over here.” After stating this fact, he took the entire set of stainless steel bowls and made space in the cabinet where he felt certain they would be better off. Two minutes later, they were back where I had them. Dear hubby discovered the door would not close with the larger bowls in that particular cabinet.

  I didn’t say I told you so or anything. Just smiled at him, and continued to watch his cookie making skills develop.

  Soon the house was filled with the sweet smell of cookies baking. The cookie tub was filled and set aside for delivery to Mark. The kitchen would take some doing to make it look like it did before hubby started, but he does know how to load the dishwasher. Working quickly, he started putting things away and proceeded to load the dishwasher, only to discover the cookie sheets and large mixing bowls do not fit.

  “They don’t fit.”

  “No.”

  “Now what?”

  “It’s called a sink, babe. Add some soap and use the sponge. I call it washing dishes by hand.”

  Looking a little disgusted with the suggestion, he turned back to the dishwasher to see if there was any way to move the upper basket out of the way to make room for the larger items. At this point I went in the living room to ignore him.

  Later, the sound of the water arm in the dishwasher hitting the sides of cookie sheets, with each spin could be heard throughout the house. I still have no clue if they came clean, because I refuse to unload the thing and put it back together. That chore will be waiting for him when he comes home this evening.

  Note to self: Install a lock on the pantry!

  Chapter 10

  Ouch, damn, Ouch

  The weather here on the Washington coast is stormy. Not as tempestuous as predicted, however rainy enough to cause waterlogged roads, rivers to rise, and beautiful silver gray clouds to race over the low hung sky, closely followed by rainbows.

  I’m going to start this entry with a disclaimer—no children or animals were injured in the events of yesterday afternoon. The only thing to suffer injury was this author’s hand, wrist, and arm. All medical reports indicate a full recovery…okay are you hooked now or what?

  It’s not as dramatic as I’m making it sound and there are no medical reports, unless you take what my youngest daughter said as a report. It went something like this, “What were you thinking?”

  Don’t you just love when your twenty-year-old daughter (assuming yo
u have one of those) makes you feel like a less than intelligent human being? For those of you without the benefit of a real live twenty-year-old daughter, think of how a mother explains to a two-year-old what hot is.

  Got the picture?

  Good, moving on.

  It started as a simple afternoon of writing. Hubby was off working, son was out with friends, dogs were sleeping, and the house was very quiet. Perfect conditions to fire up the old computer and write. I was hot and heavy into a love scene between Jason and Victoria (book two of the Belle Tori series), when hunger suddenly gripped my body like a lover wanting more.

  As I tried to finish the scene before my stomach caused further rebellion; I continued to hammer on the keyboard. Words flowed like honey on a hot summer day, turning blank white pages into rivers of black type. Driving thoughts of food from my mind, had to, because the idea of Jason pouring chocolate syrup all over Tori’s body in hunger wasn’t working well, I steadfastly tried to keep going.

  Alas, hunger won out.

  I hit the save button, an effort to prevent computer elves from running off with my hard earned words, and headed to the kitchen. I pulled out a pan of left over lasagna from the refrigerator. Spooning a medium portion onto a plate I placed it in the microwave to heat. Have you ever been so hungry, you stood in front of the microwave, counting down the seconds to the ‘ding, I’m done’ sound?

  Well, the ding finally rang though the room and the smell of newly heated lasagna filled the air. Opening the door, I carefully pulled the hot plate of bubbling cheese-covered delight from the oven. Quickly lowering it to the counter, I stirred it with a fork to make sure the middle had heated.

  Why is it the middle of leftovers never seems to get as hot when reheating in a microwave?

  Oh, anyway, it appeared all the various locations on the plate were equally hot, so I picked up the plate, planning to carry it to the dining room table. Now here is where it gets a little confusing. Somehow, I still cannot figure out how, I lost my grip on the plate. In an attempt to keep the food from sliding off the plate onto the floor, which by the way would have landed hot tomato sauce and cheese all over my little white dog, I managed to drop the plate in a forward motion, sending the hot food instead onto my left arm.