A Text version of this story was posted a long time ago. I’ve been fooling around with video just for fun. I have about 21 of them now. What a learning experience!
If you like this video, please share!
PB & Kindle
Buy now on Amazon
Excerpt: For the love of cake
You know how I love cake. Always have. I just found a few words about cake in my first romance, Bears in the Hibiscus. In this book, it was a huge wedding cake that had been ordered to be the centerpiece in a double wedding…
For weeks after he and Mary were married, Mark offered the leftover wedding cake that was taking up a whole shelf in his mother’s freezer to Jackson and Cameron for their marriage. It became such a joke that Mary was afraid Jackson would actually try to use it. She, Elizabeth, and Cameron devised plan after plan of how to get rid of the leftover cake that wasn’t aging well because it had a custard filling. Most of the schemes involved dynamite of some kind. In the end, Jackson and Cameron, the two lovebirds, opted to get married in Hawaii, so Elizabeth and Mary shoveled the unwanted cake into a wheel barrel, rolled it to the dock, and fed it to the seagulls, bite by bite…
This is a fun book; perfect if you need a break from politics!
Please share this post! Many thanks! Janelle
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“Pig, Pig!”
(romance writer invents a new genre: Pig Romances!)
Blog only (Not in one of my books.)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Note: I use my blog for fun. Please see my books
and short stories at the link below:
https://www.amazon.com/author/janellehooper
‘Tis the season for silly. I found this in my files; it was written after a writer-friend sent me a photo of a pig jumping out of a truck of pigs headed for market in the middle of a busy intersection. The top of the truck was very high off the ground and the pig sailed right over the railing and landed safely on the ground. I wanted to post the photo, but I don’t have permission to use it; I’m sure it’s copyrighted!
“Pig, Pig!” Pigtunia shouted as she stood on the corner of a busy street in downtown Santa Monica. In between shouts for help, she squealed. Squealed until she literally stopped traffic at the busy intersection. Passersby, drivers, kids on bicycles, motorcycles driven by hairy black-jacketed men wearing black goggles—all looked around to see if they could figure out what the pig’s problem was.
Nothing looked amiss. Well, granted, there was a very upset pig on the corner of Cork and Vine, but no one could figure out why. The noise persisted until a businessman carrying a briefcase cautiously approached the angry pig and asked, “What’s the problem, Miss Piggie?”
“What kind of a town is this?” answered Pigtunia. “I’ve been calling for the cops for over twenty-minutes and there’s not a pig in sight!”
“Oh, you want the police? We don’t use the pig-word here unless we’re talking to an actual pig, like you. Here, you have to dial 911 if you need help.”
“Dial? Dial how?”
“Why, on your cell phone.”
“Do you see any pockets here?” Pigtunia asked as she looked down at her legs.
Just then, a news crew and cameraman from a nearby television station ran up and started filming. Sticking her microphone in the pig’s face, the newsperson began to interview the distressed pig. With no prodding, Pigtunia launched into her rant:
I signed up for a road cruise that was supposed to take me along the coast for a 6-day vacation. I was promised fresh mud every day, good food, and luxurious sleeping quarters. What I got was the back end of a crowded truck, “mud” that was far from fresh, sloppy slop, and it was so crowded I had to sleep standing up!” hardly pausing for a breath, she continued, “And as for the ocean views, the darn truck headed east on the freeway toward someplace called Kansas. To make matters worse, some bimbo riding with the driver was carrying a purse made from a sow’s ear and she had some kind of a Spam cookbook in it that looked suspicious to me. That’s when I jumped out.”
“You jumped out of a moving truck over twelve feet off the ground?”
“I did. Who needs it? I’m going to insist on a refund.”
The interview of the distraught pig was picked up on YouTube and got millions of views. In a Kansas meat-packing plant, the owner watched the video and called his attorney. “This is bad publicity. If this keeps up, no one will ever eat pork again. Call the legal department! Send that pig a contract and get her over here. Fly her out here first-class and bring her to me.”
And that was how Pigtunia flew cross-country in a first-class seat with a window view and swilled champagne all the way to Kansas.
But wait. It gets better. When she arrived, the owner of the packing plant took a close look at her and knew she was a very special pig. All of her parts were prime pig. In fact, she was much too good to butcher. The meatpacker made her an offer she couldn’t refuse and Pigtunia found herself in a luxury pin with cable TV and 24/7 gourmet food service.
But wait. It gets even better. Pigtunia was visited once a year by the most handsome pig in the yard. He romanced her for days while she squealed with delight. Each year, when the time was right, Pigtunia gave birth to at least ten piglets, making her much more valuable than she would have ever been in the bacon department…
And, thus, a new romance genre for books was born: Mail Order Jumping Pig Brides.
The end
P.S.: At least every 13th word of this story is true, I swear! Originally, this was an actual email that I sent to my cousin Elaine. I send out a lot of messages like this to friends and family. They’re very forgiving. Sometimes they share them with their friends. What fun!
(Illustration–such as it is–by author. My cousin sent me an actual photo of the pig jumping out of a truck that inspired this bit of nonsense, but it didn’t have the name of the photographer.) JMH
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Bears in the Hibiscus on Amazon
Chapter 3. The Montana Kahuna
Janelle Meraz Hooper
My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper
Mary was so busy getting her ducks in order so she could get out of town, she didn’t have time, at first, to think much about Mark spending the night at her house. When she did, she wondered why had he picked her house when he had a brother nearby? Actually, he had his own place a few miles away, on his parents’ compound. Why was he spending the night on her floor?
Before she went to bed the night before his visit, she made sure he could find the floor. All of the old newspapers, newsletters and mail, were either banished to recycling or put into a box in her car trunk so she could take them to Ray, who ran the layout department. Other peoples’ magazines were a gold mine for layout and design ideas, not to mention leads for new clients for the advertising department. Mary would almost sooner throw away money than old magazines.
A rental car was in the driveway when she got home the next night, and she had a rush of guilt for not offering to pick Mark up at the airport…what was she thinking?
She forgot her guilt when she got a whiff of something wonderful. Something only vaguely familiar. Something—trout! She raced upstairs, not sure which sight was more welcome, Mark or the trout he and Kate were cooking in the skillet.
“Mark! You brought the fish, I could have at least cooked them!”
“That’s okay, sis,” Mark grinned. “Kate wanted to learn how to cook fish that aren’t named Charlie.”
“It smells wonderful! I love the way you cook fish with just salt, pepper, and flour. I hate all those Frenchy sauces.”
“When there’s sauce on the trout, lookout!” Mark cautioned, “It’s probably covering up a fish that’s older than you are.”
“I guess being frozen kept them fresh on the trip,” she said as she admired the full skillet.
“Actually, I got up early and caught these before I left the park. You’d been without so long I figured you were due. Kept them cool in an old Styrofoam ice chest.”
“Did you get any strange looks at the airport when you checked your fish box luggage?”
“No, the floor was covered with ice chests bigger than mine that belonged to people who had been fishing for Kings in Alaska. My little chest looked kind of pitiful next to theirs.”
“The best things come in small packages, they say.”
Mary left the cheerful cooks to change into a boxy pair of khaki walking shorts and a forest green tank top. She had a closet full of similar clothes. Her outfit was fine for the Northwest, especially since she was having dinner with a Montana Ranger, but she had trouble picturing it on a Hawaiian beach. She’d have to dig a little deeper into her closet and see if she could find something a little brighter.
Before she returned to the kitchen, Mary gave herself a quick look in the mirror. What looked back at her was a woman with long brunette hair and a medium frame. She was a few pounds lighter than the last time Mark had seen her, and she’d lost her tan. Both changes could be attributed to an increased workload. She hadn’t stopped any cars lately, but she thought she looked as well as she could without the benefit of one of those instant facelifts she kept reading about in the women’s magazines.
How she hated being the ex-wife. What would this ex-brother-in-law say to Brian the next time they spoke? Maybe, “I saw your ex, she looks pretty good for her age, but your new love is a real knockout.” It distressed her to imagine other people commenting, “I saw your ex, she had wrinkles all over her face! No wonder you’re shopping around for a trophy wife.” Well, she doubted that people would actually make those comments out loud, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t think them. Mary hated most to hear, “When I look at Kate, I can see just how pretty Mary must’ve looked years ago.” Mary loved her daughter, and they did look a lot alike, but who could compete with someone half her age?
Well, she was hungry, and she doubted that her two cooks would deliver fresh, pan-fried trout to her bedroom door. “There she is!” greeted Mark when Mary entered the kitchen, “How about some wine?”
“Oh, you must have found my cardboard box in the fridge,” Mary said as she held out her glass.
“Yep. Park rangers know how to find their quarry. It was marked Wednesday, so I thought it must be fresh.”
“Very funny. Actually, I’ve got a box dated Thursday, I’m giving you the old stuff.”
“It tastes good to me.”
Dinner was delicious. Mary looked down at a plate of fresh trout, green salad with raspberry dressing, and lightly buttered and toasted Como bread, and thought she was in heaven.
After Kate downed her trout like it was a burger at Dollar’s and left with a carload of friends, Mary and Mark settled down with fresh glasses of wine on the sundeck. Mary cringed as a whole flock of fruit bats flew into her big cherry tree. The crows stripped her fruit trees in the daytime and this was the night shift. Not surprisingly, she preferred the crows.
“So, how’s it going, sis?” Mark asked as he eased into a deck chair that had seen better days.
“Not bad. How about you?”
“Good. I’m really looking forward to getting away for a few days. I didn’t get much rest this year after the forest fires started.”
“Kate and I watched the news every night. It was the worst we’d ever seen.”
“That’s for sure. We were lucky we didn’t lose any of the firefighters.”
The niceties were over, and Mary asked what she really wanted to know, “Mark, you know you’re welcome here, but why did you come here instead of the compound or your brother’s?”
“Mom is letting company from Minnesota use my house at the compound while they’re here on vacation. And I didn’t feel up to spending the night staring at the bare chest of Brian’s latest Seahawk cheerleader. I think he should start carding those girls. Besides,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, “I thought it would be tacky to sleep on my brother’s floor when I was thinking about dating his ex.”
Mary choked on her wine, and reached for a tissue from her pocket before wine came out of her nose. “Mark! Don’t go there!” Mary said with surprise.
“Too late! I’ve already bought a ticket! What’s wrong? Have someone else?”
“No…”
“I have cooties?”
“No…Mark, I like you, but I’m just not sure if it’s smart for me to get involved with a Bergstrom again. You’re a great guy, but I don’t think I fit in with the rest of your family.”
“Mary, you fit in just fine. Don’t be intimidated by the Bergstrom money. It has nothing to do with me or us.”
Mary was still wiping wine from her nose when she said, “I can’t help the way I feel.”
“Well, I always like to leave a woman in a state of shock, so I’ll go to bed now,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for the hospitality, sis. I’ll be gone when you wake up, so I’ll call you in Hawaii to see if you’ve managed to get your mouth closed yet.” Mary felt him hesitate as he walked behind her chair, but he kept walking. Was he going to touch her? Pat her on the head? What?
Whatever he almost did, Mary was glad he hadn’t. Her brain was occupied trying to list all of the reasons why their dating wouldn’t be a good idea. Mark had already left the sundeck, so whatever thoughts she had remained unspoken. She was left with an empty deck chair, half a glass of wine, and a big full moon that she was sure was laughing at her. Or was the laughter she heard coming from the bathroom where Mark was? She vaguely felt a mosquito chewing on her bare arm and swatted it with one hand while she finished her wine with the other. She groaned when she heard him turn on the shower. There was no question that Mark was a hunk. Knowing he was less than ten feet from her made her knees tremble. What would Roxanne do? The answer to that was easy. What was Mary going to do? “Nothing!” her friend’s voice ridiculed from the darkness.
The next sound Mary heard was Mark shaking out his sleeping bag. And fluffing his pillow. He made a big deal out of fluffing his pillow. There was something else. She was sure she heard another laugh when she scooted to the bathroom to get ready for bed. He was laughing at her. She was sure of it. And why shouldn’t he?
Kate was due in soon, so any thought of giving in and crawling into Mark’s sleeping bag with him was pointless, even if she could find the nerve which, of course, she couldn’t.
By the time Kate’s friends dropped her off in her driveway, Mark was already fast asleep. How could he do that? How could he make a pass at her and then just go to sleep? Mary was in her bedroom, wide awake, curled up into a tight, fetal position, with her pillow over her head so she couldn’t hear the soft gentle breathing of a man who was totally at ease on her living room floor. For now.
Read the book- Bears in the Hibiscus, paperback & Kindle, suitable for NA (New Adult) & up. Published by CreateSpace.
I’ve got two more in the romance genre:
Custer & His Naked Ladies- Sometimes, Naked Ladies are just old women in capri pants, and Custer is just an ole yeller dog…
Boogie, Boots, & Cherry Pie- “Kiss me, I’ve got cherry pie on my lips!”
All three are available in paperback and on Kindle.
If you like this post, please share! My thanks! Janelle
Indie writers have more fun!* 2016- Photo taken at The High Chaparral Reunion in Tucson after my Geronimo, Life on the Reservation show that I wrote for Rudy Ramos. *And I get to meet a lot of cowboys! ALL of them are taller than I am! I’m working on this photo section. Every time I get a new computer I lose track of my videos and photos–augh!
Don Collier, High Chaparral (and more)
Neil Summers, actor/stuntman
Rudy is currently in Kevin Costner’s Yellowstone series on the Paramount Channel.
Geronimo, Life on the Reservation
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Bears in the Hibiscus
(A humorous starting over romance…)
Janelle Meraz Hooper
My website: Janelle Meraz Hooper
Paperback, Kindle
Suitable for NA (New Adults) & up
Starting over, for Mary, meant going back to work…
…for her back-to-work wardrobe, Mary didn’t get away as easy, but she did discover three-piece suits at Bundles. She bought two of them and mixed or matched the jackets to the skirts and pants. It broke her heart to spend her limited funds on the shoe of choice for employee’s at her new job: an expensive, flat, ugly sandal with cork soles and buckles that she’d refused to wear even when she was in college. She purchased one pair of the gaggers, as she called them, then tried not to look down…
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A few lines from Bears in the Hibiscus…
There is life after divorce! (If you don’t mind a few bears and emus!)
…When Mary’s husband, Brian, decided to end their marriage, it didn’t take him long to pack. That was because he had already been leaving, piece by piece, for years. Most of his clothes were already on the yacht that belonged to his father’s timber company. He had never been the outdoorsy type, so they had no closets filled with tents and blue speckled coffeepots to sort through like some divorcing Northwest couples did. When the end finally came, she didn’t cry a tear; all she felt was relief. As he rushed from room to room, opening closets and cupboards to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, Mary searched for parting words to mark the occasion. She found none. The best she could think of was a few hand gestures that she managed, with great effort, to keep to herself…
Bears in the Hibiscus, a humorous romance, suitable for NA (New Adult) and up. Paperback and Kindle.
Visit me on Amazon:
www.Amazon.com/author/janellehooper
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#1 in my Turtle Trilogy
suitable for most NA and adults
Amazon and others, PB & Kindle.
Published by iUniverse.
See all of my books and stories: Janelle Meraz Hooper
Read the book- Amazon and other Internet bookstores. Published by iUniverse.
Reviews:
Janelle Meraz Hooper gives us more than a story. She gives us a cast of hilarious and memorable characters in a vividly drawn scene. Libroseninguana.com
Light-hearted writing, deep and disturbing content, October 31, 2013 by James R. Muri
This review is from: A Three-Turtle Summer (Paperback) 4 stars
Janelle – our author – has written a novel that disguises years of horror and despair behind cozy country anecdotes, dialogue, and situations. To me, this reads like a psychological thriller / chiller, made all the more so by the calm and carefree rhetorical style used throughout.
To some this would be disconcerting; to me, Janelle has produced a piece of genuine art. If you’re looking for warm fuzzies in a story, the only warm fuzzy you’ll find in this one is basic survival and triumph. I found it impossible to put down. I was struck – to keep hammering on this – by how deeply contrasted the prose and peril were. Excellent read, excellent work, Janelle.
By Marmalade on May 3, 2014 5 stars
This is a gripping story of domestic abuse fueled by the high level of racism existing in Oklahoma in the late forties. It documents the cruelties suffered by the Hispanic, Japanese and African American of that era.
Grace, the youngest daughter of a close-knit Hispanic family, lives in constant terror of being assaulted by her bigoted, mean-spirited husband, Dwayne. She suffers her beatings in silence fearing he will take her daughter, Glory, away from her. Grace is a talented seamstress and with the help of her family devises a plan to be free of her abuser while he is away on military leave.
The characters are fleshed out and the action is fast paced and full of suspense. This is a terrific read that offers hope to the victims of abuse and racism. Well done.
2002 Bold Media 1st place fiction award
Next: As Brown AS I Want: The Indianhead Diaries
Custer & His Naked Ladies
(All books stand alone)
Please share if you like this post.
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Are the Snacks Here Yet?A baseball story
from Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
See the book on Amazon!
Amazon and others. Paperback and Kindle, suitable for all ages.
Published by iUniverse.
Janelle Meraz Hooper
www.JanelleMerazHooper.com
T-ball season is over, and a good time was had by all. Of course, the spring weather was awful—isn’t it always? The grownups sat huddled in their folding chairs hugging their thermal coffee cups and urged their young players to run out on the field and roll around in the wet grass and the muck and have fun. When it actually rained, the adults brought out the umbrellas—not for the little players—for themselves. After all, wouldn’t want to get those camcorders wet, would we? No siree, Grandma and Grandpa back in Wisconsin had to see this!
We were into our second season, and the parents and grandparents could see a lot of progress in our girls’ and boys’ approach to the game. For instance, the first season, our little leaguers spent more time following the snack lady than the ball. You’d think the little rookies had never seen treats before.
This year, they were way cooler. As each player arrived, he’d saunter over to an earlier arrival and quietly ask if the snack mom arrived yet. When a player pointed out a mom with a big white plastic bag at her feet, you could hear a sigh of relief from the T-baller. Then, the player would carefully scan the Mom and the bag. Was the bag big enough? Could someone else’s mom be trusted to bring enough snacks for everybody? Surely, they didn’t have any mothers who couldn’t count?
Their mind at ease on the snack situation, they moved over to hear the coach’s instructions. “No dog-piling!” he pleaded. The team broke into a chant, “No dog-piles! No dog-piles!”
Actually, I was relieved to see some dog-piles. The first year, the T-ball would run through a tiny outfielder’s legs on its way to the alley and they’d never notice—their eyes would be on the snack bag.
This year, the same kids jumped on the ball rolling down the middle of the field like it was the last candy bar on earth. Sometimes, kids playing in other games on the multi-purpose field broke position in their own game to run over and jump on a ball in our game. Now that’s progress.
Yep. The season is over. The baseball pants and tee shirt have been washed and put away until next season—when they’ll undoubtedly be too small—the camcorder has been dried off, and the official baseball pictures have arrived in my mail.
At the beginning of the season I wrote a commentary that said organized ball was a lackluster substitute for a pick-up game in a makeshift field. I was wrong. Baseball is baseball.
Whoever.
Wherever.
Whenever.
Play ball!
If you like this story, please share!
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The Slum Resort
Kindle only
Janelle Meraz Hooper
A few lines…
After Henry had deleted his ex-wife’s email, it occurred to him she hadn’t even asked him where he was. It was clear she had no interest in him, his whereabouts, or his activities. Not even a polite, meaningless inquiry about his health. He never asked her about her health. The answer was always too boring. She was well. Spectacular. Well into her sixties, she was still statuesque and able to beat most comers in tennis games at the country club. Good for her. He was happy she had what she wanted with whomever she had it with. He’d heard through the grapevine that the guy she was seeing in California was a real hunk, tanned, personable, strong, and athletic. The complete opposite from him. Angela had always liked good weather and good men; she was in the perfect spot to find both…
The Slum Resort is available on Kindle. $2.99 USD
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“Anybody want to play?”
a short story from Free Pecan Pie and Other Chick Stories
Janelle Meraz Hooper
Every spring the hamburger joints are filled with ball players all dressed up in their new baseball outfits, their pristine new balls, mitts, and hats scattered on the tables among the milk shakes and fries. It always makes me wonder: they have the equipment, but do they have a passion for the game? Is that all baseball is about—pricey equipment?
Times are getting tough, and excess has been on the minds of many Americans lately. I think that the sport of baseball is a good example. Fancy stadiums. Fancy uniforms. And those players’ contracts…well, let’s not even go there.
Maybe the fancy trappings aren’t necessary. Once, I saw a perfect pick-up baseball game that was low in budget but high in passion. It was back in the sixties, and my husband and I were taking a break from college to visit his favorite aunt and uncle in a little town in Idaho called Clark Fork (population: 125). Uncle Archie was a real mountain man who spent his days hunting, fishing, and trapping. His nights were spent drinking, gambling, and barroom brawling. Aunt Frances raised purebred Manx cats that she shipped all over the world. Her cupboard was full of home-canned delicacies—for the cats. Shelf after shelf was filled with canned kamloop, venison, and elk. Enough for a year. For sixteen cats.
That Saturday afternoon, we were kicking back with Aunt Frances while she watched wrestling when her small porch was filled with the sound of scuffling feet. The screen door creaked. A little hand knocked. When my husband opened the door, a chorus of excited voices of assorted ages all gushed out at the same time. “We’re getting up a game, does anyone here want to play?” Of course we did.
When they left, I said, “We forgot to ask them where we’re playing.”
My husband answered, “There’s only one ballfield in town, honey.”
Going through Uncle Archie’s closets we were able to come up with a mitt and a bat that may have been used most recently for clubbing kamloop before it was dragged onto a boat. Off we went to the ballfield that turned out to be a neglected lot with a rusty chicken wire backstop behind home plate and a cedar railing about eighteen inches high on the street side. The other sides were rimmed in tall, fragrant pines.
My husband pointed to the railing and told me I could sit in the bleachers. Everyone showed up about the same time. This was a logging town, and both teams were wearing plaid flannel shirts and logging boots with their heavy work jeans. Every age group was represented. We only had one ball that I think someone had taken away from their dog, and it was so dirty it kept getting lost in the grass and mud.
The air hung heavy with mist but it didn’t dampen our enthusiasm. We were overcome with joy at the sight of the ball crossing the cedar shingle we were using for home plate. Everyone got a turn at bat, with the older players taking time to encourage the younger ones.
We stayed there playing until we couldn’t see the ball anymore and it was pure joy. I don’t remember who won. What I do remember is the passion we had for the game. Not the fancy uniforms, not the expensive mitts. There were none. It was the game we were there for, and only the game.
So, it’s spring again, and here comes another carload of kids dressed in their shiny new gear. Structured, organized games that are listed on a computerized schedule kept on their mothers’ refrigerator doors. It’s okay. But I keep longing to open my front door and hear a raggy group of loggers asking, “We’re getting up a game—does anybody here want to play?” Of course we do!
*Note: The illustration is not in the book.
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