Anything you haiku, I haiku better.

By Stacey Graham

Distracted shopping -
Went to Target with five girls,
returned with jock strap

And because no haiku post is complete without one about zombies:

Hills full of children,
laughing as they glide down slopes:
zombies make great sleds!

The Bride's Lasagna

by Stacey Graham

When I was a newly married girl, I thought it was my duty to stuff my skinny husband until he popped out a new appendage. So I drug out the cookbooks and happily scoured  recipes for apparently the most artery-damaging foods on the planet for supper and dessert. Weekly blueberry pies, Baked Alaska, assorted meals with green pepper (they were cheap) and my mother's fail-safe recipe for lasagna. However, this meal I was going to make it my own. I'd put my own stamp of lovin' on it so my innocent husband would adore his bride and her growing waistline.

The sauce was naturally homemade, the noodles freshly done and cranked out from a tiny pasta maker. I was covered in tomatoes and flour and I was going to RULE bride-dom with this dish.

Hmmm, what was missing? Tomatoes? Onion and tons of garlic? Basil and oregano from my windowsill garden of our teeny apartment overlooking the dumpsters and Glisan Street in Portland, Oregon? Ahhhhh, yes. The cinnamon. This bad boy needed a healthy heap o'cinnamon because I had read *somewhere* that Mexican dishes used a bit of the bark to spice up their flavors. Yes. Say it with me now, "Stacey. Lasagna is not Mexican and you're a complete boob." I'm not even sure Mexican meals have cinnamon, maybe they meant cilantro?

The lasagna was huge. I baked for ten even though there were only two of us. My groom looked on in love as I dished out my latest culinary achievement and took a huge bite. And spat it out back on his plate and ran out of the room since the cinnamon had been a little on the heavy side and had caused some sort of reaction to his sinuses. Whatever. The big baby.

Seventeen years later, I still hear about that fiasco. It's taken on Bigfoot sighting proportions in legend and I'm used as a cautionary tale to our five daughters when I try to teach them to cook. I think I'd better stick with granola.


Stacey Graham still hasn't mastered the art of lasagna though she does a grand job of handing out Popsicles and calling them breakfast. Don't judge, you know you want one too. She is the author of the Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and the Zombie Tarot; please visit her at her blog, and on Facebook and Twitter.

Two Doctors Walked Into a Bar

by Stacey Graham

Note: As editor, I asked the Ermas to describe their life 15 years ago. Some columns are hilarious and others more poignant, but when I took a spot I didn't realize that I'd be describing my daughter's experience instead.

My second pregnancy was a breeze. No complications, labor was a short 1.5 hours and on her due date my lovely Syenna was born a healthy weight. At 10 weeks old, I noticed her stomach was hard to the touch - I figured she had gas. Her three-month visit to her pediatrician had yielded nothing abnormal. Two weeks later, however, the world turned upside down. At her four-month checkup, her doctor couldn't feel her kidneys so sent her for an ultrasound; there the technician discovered Syenna's abdominal cavity was filled with fluid. We were in the hospital the next day where they extracted a liter of a milky liquid called chyle from her belly. She was diagnosed with Chylous Ascities,  a condition that didn't have a great batting average due to being associated with cancer, organ failure and ripe for infection from her loss of antibodies. She had nothing else, thank goodness, except for a whopper of a birth defect. In the past few hundred years since Chylous Ascities was recorded as its own condition, there have been less than 400 cases -- out of those only a handful were females. Awesome.

Eighteen months passed with us in and out of the hospital, usually for three weeks out of every four. Three major surgeries, shunts and blood infections from procedures and the tubes criss-crossing her body kept us regular guests at Doernbecher's Children’s Hospital. I had my own mug at the nurse's station. I showered on the oncology floor while old ladies rocked Syenna so she wouldn't be alone. My eldest daughter, who was two at the time, stayed with her grandmother during the day while her father split his time between work, visiting Syenna and I, and still being a fantastic dad. I watched as families admitted their child and the patience of the nursing staff as they guided completely freaked out parents through the horrors of what came next and I said goodbye to a disturbing amount of children as they passed from this life. Our surgeon worried that our marriage would be torn apart since so many couples handled stress differently, it only made us stronger. If we can face down this, what's arguing over who forgot to do the dishes that night?

At her last major surgery, which ripped open her belly for a second time so the surgeon could look for the leak in her lymphatic system, he told me this was it. Our options were limited if he couldn't repair the damage. The operation was not a success and while devastated I asked what the next step was and to move forward. I had no time for weeping. She was put on a cocktail of meds that were piped through a tube into her chest -- and no eating for 13 weeks. By now, Syenna was nearly two years old and hadn't taken a step, she was too weak. She refused to eat the no-fat formula the doctors prescribed so was losing weight quickly though her belly had swollen to 64 centimeters around. Obi-Wan, the cocktail was our only hope.

It worked. Thirteen weeks later, she ripped out the tube and took her first step. This chapter was done. She’s fifteen now and shows off her scars proudly. I think this week the says she was bitten by a shark. Last month she’d been caught by spies but escaped under barbed wire. Nothing is going to slow this kid down. Syenna's case was (and still may be) used during lectures at Oregon Health Sciences University because of its rareness and that she's adorable. CA hasn't returned but it doesn't stop me from squeezing her a little tighter during hugs -- just to be sure.

Stacey Graham has only a slight twitch from her experience with hospitals and went on to have three more children with no medical difficulties. Syenna is a straight-A student and plans to be a marine biologist unless One Direction asks her to be a roadie. Stacey is the author of two books: The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and the Zombie Tarot, as well as an editor and short story writer. Visit her at her blog, on Twitter and on Facebook to say howdy.

I'm all wet: making my own dowsing rods for fun and profit

This month I asked the Ermas to try something new, stretch themselves a little and see what talents they could bust out. For myself I decided to try constructing something. I'm not, ahem, the most adept at power tools so I started with vise grips -- after my daughter showed me what they were. The concept was easy: bend a piece of steel and see if I could find water using two rods as dowsing sticks. I figure if I use them in ghost hunting, I'm going to make my own and find that gusher I know is on this mountain somewhere when I need a new well.

How to use: Dowsing rods have been used for millenia as a way to tap into the Earth's natural electromagnetic fields. They may be constructed of wood, copper or steel and are as easy to use as walking around in the forest looking like a dork and hoping the rods cross. Once they do, it's possible you have tapped into a water source -- or a ghost. Just be careful of what you're digging up, Sparky.

First: steel and grips (which I had been calling a wrench this whole time, who knew)

Second: Bend the steel and grunt like this actually takes effort

Third: Resting the rods easily in your hands, head out into the aforementioned forest and watch for them to cross. The rods are in one hand for this photo, otherwise it's one each, Tiger.

Bonus: I'll be using these tonight at a hotel I'll be exploring for ghosts. I'll keep you posted!

Stacey Graham's newest book, The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide, will be released May 1st from Sourcebooks. When not wandering the woods, she uses perfectly good faucets for water and scares maids in hotels by trying to record EVPs (electronic voice phenomena) while sitting in dark rooms. Please visit her website at Late Bloomer, on Facebook and on the Twitter.

Top Six Ways to Finish an Argument - #1: The Flip-off

by Stacey Graham

No one would call me uncreative.

As the mother of five daughters under 17, settling disputes has taken on epic proportions in my household since no one is allowed to touch another family member in anger. That means plenty of dirty looks, but no sly kicks under the dinner table. United Nations - take note.

#1: The Flip-Off

No, not that kind of flipping. Having a giant trampoline is for more than just being a festive way to break a collarbone. I'll send in the combatants and the family judges the best forward flip. Points are given for style and arm flailing.

#2: The Dance-Off

Similar to the Flip-Off except with less "wheeeeeee-ing," the Dance-Off has its own killer shut down move: The CheeseSlicer. Developed by my then three-year-old daughter to keep up with her older sisters, her signature move shut down the competition.  It consists of kicking out one leg while swooshing both arms down, while yelling out "CHEEEEEEESESLICE-AH!" It's a showstopper.

#3: Enforced Negotiation

Crude but surprisingly effective, the girls sitting on each other and threatening to pass gas in their ear usually clear things up, not to mention the room.

#4: Pantsing

I have to admit, this one wasn't my idea. Come to think of it, Enforced Negotiation wasn't my idea either but I go with the flow. Pantsing occurs most often on the bus or in school hallways. Yes, I get a lot of calls from the office.

#5: Glitter

Another technique developed by the girls, this time by the oldest who must have been sneaking out to raves when I wasn't looking. Its subtle charm is seen as glitter is thrown into your opponent's face -- then you run. Then I get them the vacuum in order to clean up their disagreement.

#6: Death-Hug

As cozy as it sounds, the Death-Hug may or may not consist of choking the breath out of the one you're having a disagreement about lipgloss with. I prefer to think of it more of a gesture of intense affection and a little less than smothering.



Stacey Graham runs An Army of Ermas with an iron fist. An iron fist usually filled with chocolate. Don't judge. Please visit her blog, betwixt & between, and see what mischief she's up to on Twitter. She has two fabulous books coming out next spring, The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and the Zombie Tarot because she's cool like dat. She promises to stop referring to herself in the third person and slipping in "cool like dat" for future columns.

Back fat roasting on an open fire - Zombies chewing on your nose

by Stacey Graham

I have a soft spot for zombies. They reject the commercialism of Christmas and go straight for the heart - literally. Thus, this holiday season, I wanted to share some of my favorites modified Undead songs and share the love. You're welcome, Internet.

The Zombie Christmas Song

Back fat roasting on an open fire
Zombies chewing on your nose
Questionable carols being moaned by a choir
And folks are wearing ragged clothes

Everybody knows a liver and a ripped off ear
Helps to make the season bright
Tiny zombies with their eyes all aglow
Won’t find it hard to eat tonight

They know that Santa’s on his way
He’s got a sleighful of feet to give away
And every Undead child is going to hide
Attacking reindeer as they try to get a ride

And so I’m offering this warning now
If you want to just survive
Keep the kiddies away from the fire
And you may make it out alive

 

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
Ev’rywhere you go
Take a look in the neighbor’s den, glistening once again
With blood and guts and viscera all aglow

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
All they want is more
But the scariest site to see is the neighbor that will be
Hanging from his door

A pair of feet you can’t beat or a big hunk of meat
Is on tap for Lester and Mike
A musical box or a doll that can’t talk
Make the eyes of Angie burn bright
And mom and dad are happy when their kids are out of sight

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
Ev’rywhere you go
There’s some bodies in the well, everyone thinks it’s swell
When they float to the top and you tie them in a bow

It’s beginning to look a lot like zombies
Pile them on a cart
And the thing that will make them run is the promise of the fun
As they eat your heart

Stacey Graham's the mouthpiece for Undead Fred at The Zombie Dating Guide. When not caroling awkwardly outside people's homes - she should really wait until December to start that - she enjoys messing up the classics with her odd sense of humor. She has two books releasing into the wild next year: The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and The Zombie Tarot. Please visit her at her website, on twitter and facebook. Merry Christmas and happy holidays!

Throwing elbows

by Stacey Graham

There are power shoppers then there were my mother-in-law and grandmother-in-law. These ladies did geriatric workouts before heading to the stores for their weekly bouts of elbow throwing, you haven’t seen dedication to the art of shopping until you’ve witnessed a ninety-year-old woman stretching out her hamstrings.

In the morning, my husband’s uncle would drop them off at the entrance of Walmart or Fred Meyers on his way to work with a wave goodbye and promises to return hours later so as not to throw off their groove. They would saunter in and greet the store employees like family, then shimmy down the aisles to pick over what they’d missed during their last marathon shopping trip the week before. Candles, throw pillows, and slippers – you name it, they checked the price and moved on, blocking the aisles with their shopping carts and discussing lunch. My mother-in-law could root out an orange "priced to sell" tag hidden in the depths of a center bin within minutes of rolling up. Shoppers quickly learned to not be fooled by her sweet smile, she'd cut you off at the knuckles if your hand strayed too close to her chosen item. 

As news of their excursions grew, the family knew where to find them at any hour thus they received visitors in the bedding aisle. They'd be hustled off for lunch then returned to the store so they didn't miss another showing of The Lion King on the store's multiple flat screens. Inevitably, there would be mix-ups. We'd receive phone calls at 2am asking for a ride home from the pair, the uncle forgetting to swing by after work.They'd just pile in after we rolled up, sleepy and confused, and chat about what they'd found that day hidden behind the toilet cleaners.

Holidays - schmolidays. For Janis and Gerda, it was Christmas shopping year round. Need slippers in the August heat? BINGO -- Gerda had four pairs tucked away in various sizes. Knife set? Check. Sweatshirt with adorable bunnies splattered across the front? No need to even ask, my friend. Last minute shopping was as foreign to them as spending the week without hearing the ping of the registers.

As age and dementia claimed my grandmother-in-law, the trips slowed but I have no doubt there's a motorized scooter out there with her initials carved into the handlebars.

Stacey Graham runs An Army of Ermas with an iron fist. An iron fist usually filled with chocolate. Don't judge. Please visit her blog, betwixt & between, and see what mischief she's up to on Twitter. She has two fabulous books coming out next spring, The Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide and the Zombie Tarot because she's cool like dat. She promises to stop referring to herself in the third person and slipping in "cool like dat" for future columns.

Ghost town tales: Garnet, Montana

One of my early experiences with the paranormal came from visiting a ghost town in the northwestern USA while on vacation. Now, you’d expect a ghost town to come with the prerequisite residual hauntings or at least a spooky outhouse. This town of Garnet, Montana had its share of rundown buildings as it nestled in a wee valley in the mountains. A gold mining town, it once held the riches of the mountain in its palm and miners flocked to pluck it from between the fingers of the hillside. It grew fat and rich for a time but when the gold ran out, so did the miners, leaving behind a hotel, a general store, small houses and large pockets dug into the nearby hills (plus the aforementioned spooky outhouses).

My family wandered through what was left of the town, along with other curious tourists, trying to get a sense of what it was like in its heyday. Imagining dirty, desperate men coming from inside a mountain wasn’t difficult, what remained of their cabins told the story better than any signage the BLM had provided. Ruined furniture, rusted pans left scattered about filthy cabins and the feeling of failure permeated the broken walls of the houses, why wouldn’t there be a haunting? It seemed as if that was all there ever was here.

I entered the hotel slowly. Once there was grandeur of sorts, now it looked like a woman ruined by too many men and not enough self-respect. Plaster flaked from the walls and heavy tables stood in the middle of the first floor dining room, looking strangely proud of weathering time and being able to show off their wounds left by drunken gunshots and the flying glass of old arguments. I followed my family upstairs to see the rooms. Plexiglas partitioned them off so you could peer inside but not enter. In some of the rooms, the windows were left bare, sunshine squeaked in through the dirty glass and fell onto beds salvaged from the hotel and covered with old quilts. In others, the windows were covered, dusty light shone through the boards that swallowed the glass. These rooms held what seemed to be 100-year-old garbage. It covered the floors and rose up the walls, it smelled like decay and made you want to turn away. I, naturally, couldn’t.

As I got closer, my heart started to beat louder in my ears and my nose started to twitch. I felt lightheaded and wanted to run. I poked my head into the room and at once felt something rushing towards me. I am not particularly psychic, just enough to know when to get the heck out of a place. If I could describe it, I’d say it was pain, screaming and confusion coming at me all at once. I backed away quickly and my investigational gene kicked in. I checked out the other rooms to see if I experienced any similar occurrences and casually asked my husband if he had seen anything out of the ordinary. This man is as intuitive as a brick. “Nothing that a Dustbuster couldn’t help…” he replied.

I knew what I had felt was unusual; I tested it again before we left the building. Again, my heart raced and my nose tingled but this time there was no attack of emotion towards me. I could feel that it sat huddled in the corner, amidst the rubbish and filth, and watched as I moved out of sight and down the stairs, escaping into the light.

I married Peter Pan

by Stacey Graham

Behind every great father is a mother shaking her head wondering where he put the remote.
- s.graham

As Father’s Day approaches and my five daughters are busy gluing sparkly bits to paper in the shape of his head, I realize that I gave birth to my husband’s playgroup rather than his children. Surrounded by elastic hair bands and High School Musical posters, he has entered a land that most men shuffle nervously out of or break into a cold sweat. He takes everything in stride. Every princess tea party, all fairy wands stuck in his underwear drawer for safekeeping, even the pearly pink lip gloss our nine year old daughter slips into his pocket before he goes to work – just in case he needs it. He is the thorn among our roses and he revels in it. I had no idea, however, he was grooming them to take over the world until I saw how he was teaching them to deal with boys. “Tell them they’re great – then eat all of their tater tots and smile. You’ll get away with it every time.” I’m happy to see that my subtle influence wasn’t lost on him after all.

There are certain aspects in his role as father to our Devil’s Brood that I’ve noticed as a running theme in our family:

• Butts are funny. I discovered this not on my own but as an outsider to the jokes my husband has with our daughters. Who knew that a crack would inspire so many to giggle outrageously when flashed peeking from a diaper or worse yet an interrupted moment in the bathroom. His skill at tooting the alphabet has endeared himself to the neighborhood children but I fear we’ll have to move once the girls hit the teenage years and they’re known as the Farting Five. Once, when our third daughter was nearly four-years-old, she was helping me give her father a backrub. I sat on his bottom and rubbed his back, gently cracking his spine and easing the tension from his muscles. Wynter lovingly joined me by sitting on the back of his head, concentrating on helping rub his shoulders so intently that she didn’t notice when she farted directly in his ear and trapped him there by her babyish bulk. He no longer asks for backrubs.

• When did tickling become a contact sport? It will start out innocently enough with one of the girls sitting next to him on the couch reading when he is overcome with the crazy desire to separate the child’s skin from their bones with a frenzy of fingers. Her anguished (?) cries bring in the troops and he is soon covered in little girls all screaming for him to let their sister go or ELSE! He can never let a challenge go unmatched and dives for the nearest body part to torture with the Claw of Doom, his hand outstretched and reaching for armpits to tickle. Drowning in a sea of pink dresses, he gasps for air as they pound him with tiny fists and poke fingers in his ears and up his nose. One by one they fall to the floor only to climb on him again and yell their fierce battle cry, “Set my sister FREEEEE!”

• Not being an overly athletic person myself, I’m shocked to discover my girls are jocks. They must get it from their father who had hidden talents; it certainly never appeared while dating otherwise the whole “I have a boo boo from basketball” episode wouldn’t have occurred. My husband decided to coach our eldest daughter’s Middle School volleyball team this fall. He did the fatherly thing and picked all of her friends from the lineup at tryouts instead of choosing those who could actually tell volleyball from a Volkswagen. Each practice, he would patiently work with the girls as they hurled balls at each other, chatted about braces and how to get away with gummy worms and showed them that kneepads belonged on their legs and not as bra-stuffers. At every game, he’d start them off with the team yell, “Vol-ley-Girls! Vol-ley-Girls!! Volley-ohwhatever…” though he’d be the only person loud enough to hear because they’d have already walked off. He ended the season coming in a rousing 13th and vowed that next year, if they won the championship he’d wear the kneepads where God intended them – front and center.

Somewhere between the delivery room and bringing home their first child, men go through the strangest change. They become more than what they left for the hospital with. In that brief time, they choose to become the men their wives already knew existed and their fate is sealed with the baby’s first breath. To become a father takes an instant but to be a daddy requires a lifetime. My girls lucked out even if he does fart on occasion. 

This post previously ran on An Army of Ermas in 2010. Catch Stace at her blog, betwixt & between, on facebook and the twitter.

Stop looking at me like that

by Stacey Graham

I was a weird kid.

Not the kind that stared down adults until they cried, but if you’ve read my blog and essays here at An Army of Ermas, it’s a little obvious that I was a few apples short of a fruit basket. Yesterday, my daughter and I drove past one of those creepy concrete figurine outlets that dot the northern Virginia/West Virginia byways and while she commented on the majestic 15ft fake stone eagle about to soar over the heads of the various concrete woodland creatures that lined the highway, I spotted… Taffy.

I was about eight-years-old and apparently had little to no contact with the outside world, as my best friend became a slate-gray concrete raccoon that stood about two feet high. How my mother was talked into letting me take this thing home is a mystery though I suspect it was just to get me to shut up about how delightful life would be if only I could bring Taffy to school – to the library – to the pool – on road trips…

I had big plans to paint Taffy in bright sunny colors that reflected her inner awesomeness while still holding true to her raccoon heritage because I’m sensitive like that and it was the 70s- every friggin thing was in bright sunny colors and I nearly vibrated with sensitivity (aside from the whole serial killer thing). Taffy remained gray, however, the victim of my mother’s screaming fit as I tried to dump a gallon of leftover paint on top of the raccoon… in the living room, on the new orange shag carpeting. Mothers can be so fussy.

Taffy remained my constant companion for a year or so before she vanished. I don’t like to point fingers but I suspect my mother of misdeeds involving play dates with breathing children and midnight roadside drop-and-dashes at concrete outlets but today all is forgiven. Taffy’s coming home.

Sandbox Killer

by Stacey Graham

From the tender age of four-years-old I wanted to be an archaeologist - or more accurately, someone who found dead things, buried them and then feigned surprise when I found them with their buggy feet in the air in the dirt. It was either archaeology or I was practicing to be a serial killer. My mother, patient woman that she is, watched from the kitchen window as her fourth child scoured the yard (and neighbor's yards) for anything that wouldn't run too quickly away from chubby hands such as worms and dolls. Off to the sandbox or garden I'd scurry like a pirate ready to bury her treasure, sidestepping the swing and trucks littering the landscape, and ready to burrow. At home this didn't turn many heads but it was more challenging at the playground.

"Mom! I found a bug! It's dead (squish), see?"

My mother, knowing what was coming next but not wanting to alarm the other parents would nod and give me the eyeball treatment where she'd wiggle her orbs in a desperate attempt to talk me out of creeping out the other children, while she smiled.

"That's great, Stacey. Why don't we go on the slide?"

"Pfffff." I would run off, looking for the right sandy soil to give it a proper burial. "Mom! Get me a stick! I can dig a hole right here next to this dog poo!" My mother, looking properly mortified would move me away from the offensive spot and distract me into the sandbox.

"Let's make a sand castle. See? Take the bucket, fill it with sand and.... Stacey, get the bug out of the castle."

"But Mom, I can just dig it out later. Then we can take it home and I'll bury it there."

"Let me see what other toys we can find, stay right there." The poor woman crossed the park to our car to check the trunk. I could see her arms flapping and her mouth moving as she practiced what to say to the psychiatrist when they finally drug me in for treatment. By the time she'd returned, she found me happily patting sand inside a plastic bucket.

"Look, Stace, I found a shovel and a... what's that poking out of the bucket?"

"It's a head." Barbie's face didn't betray the indignity of being buried with bug bits up to her neck in sand. Her blonde locks streamed out beside her in a pinwheel of tangles as I carefully combed them clear with my fingers.

"I think it's time to go home," she said with a sigh. With a nod to the mommies that had inched away from us, we gathered up our toys and headed for the car while she mentally mapped another park for future use. We were running out of sand.




Stace is still digging up old things though now she's focused on ghosts and zombies than bugs. She is the author of two books to be released Spring 2012: Girls' Ghost Hunting Guide (Sourcebooks Jabberwocky) and Zombie Tarot (Quirk), and a published short story writer. Please visit her website, facebook page and on Twitter at @staceyigraham.

Fool on the Hill

by Stacey Graham

I started it.

I take total blame for planting the seed that blossomed into a five-year house-building spree that started with a bulge. A leak in our rented townhouse's bathtub wall took my husband to Lowe's, telling me before he departed, "I have turned on all the faucets to drain water from the pipes so I can fix the leak. Do. Not. Touch. Them." Ten minutes later, I touched them.

Why are all the faucets on? 

What is wrong with that man?  

Completing the task of being very careful to twist every faucet into the "off" position, I resumed my perch at the computer and went back to work on a story, its deadline looming. Thirty minutes later, around 11p, my toddler came downstairs for a drink, switched on the light in the kitchen and there it was. The kitchen ceiling, bloated and discolored, hovered over her head. I believe I may have squeed a little. A quick trip next door for a neighbor's help and a sharp pointed stick relieved the ceiling of its burden but left a bigger problem. A giant, gaping hole -- but after I shut my mouth I assessed the situation dispassionately. Then ran in small circles trying to figure out how I was going to explain this to my husband.

Drywall led to a love affair with Home Depot, its orange-aproned handymen the siren call to a man trapped in a cubicle daily.

"Stace, I'm going to build us a house."

"Don't get excited, Tiger. You've only replaced a ceiling panel, you may want to pace yourself." Handing over the bucket of drywall mud I could see the light in his eyes. I knew I was doomed. "How long is this going to take?" Resisting the urge to roll my eyes, I waited for his usual answer to the honey-do list.

"Months, tops."

Five years, multiple thousands of dollars, 43 windows, 5.5 acres, five kids and two dogs later we moved in. We have two doors for two out of four bathrooms. My kitchen counters are painted black wood of questionable heritage and the geothermal unit that was going to save our power bill shuts off in the middle of the coldest nights, leaving us to huddle under blankets until I stumble downstairs and beat it with a stick. 

But he's happy.

Home sweet home.


Stacey runs the joint, enjoys Ermas danceoffs, and has been known to bite the heads of rabbits. Okay, they were chocolate but they totally had it coming. Please visit her blog, check out zombie dating tips, and see what mischief she gets into on Tuesdays at The Austen Project on Twitter (hashtag #A4T) - a running novel conceived and written on Twitter by a merry band of Janeites. Follow her on Twitter: @staceyigraham

Warning: DO NOT LET THIS WOMAN COLOR HER OWN HAIR

There should be a warning label slapped to my forehead before I head to the checkout counter:

DO NOT LET THIS WOMAN COLOR HER OWN HAIR

I never learn.

Ahhh, to be 17 again

I'm mildly obsessed with my hair - having frosted, teased, permed (oh sweet Jesus), colored, highlighted, cellophaned, flirting briefly with a Bump-It, long, short, red, blonde, dark brown and yes, green after an unfortunate encounter with an Ash blonde shade over frosted hair in high school. I've spent countless dollars perfecting the carelessly smushy bed-waves that could have been more easily accomplished by simply rolling off my mattress and out the door. Ringlets? Yes, please. But after years of perming my already wavy hair, I walked out with Super Tight curls and never once a ringlet nor corkscrew gracing my head.

So I did what any normal young adult would do - I cut it all off to start over. Yep. I'm a genius. I didn't go crazy, just a nice bowl cut that reminds me now of Vector from Despicable Me. That's right. I was a goddess. Add in my new favorite color of Stoplight Red and I was a walking pencil eraser.

Fast-forward another fifteen years and five children -- I'd let my hair grow out to my bottom, stopped coloring/perming and allowed my naturally auburn hippie roots run free. Angels slept in my pristine locks and visions of shampoo commercials played on loop in my head. This had to stop.

"Hey babe, why don't you ruin your hair by going platinum blonde?" my husband said. Okay, he didn't really say that -- aside from the blonde part.

"No, I gave all that up years ago. I like my natural highlights." Silver glittered in my hair, glinting in the sunlight and blinding pilots overhead.

"I like them too. Here, I bought you this box." Handing me the offending cube, I remembered the joy of experimentation - of not having to explain to my children why Mommy now has streaky hair - of being young and free. No more dark circles under my eyes after endless nights of colicky babies! No more catching sight of myself in the mirror and thinking my mother had snuck in behind me! Oh my god. I'd have perky boobs again. Grabbing the box, I ran to the bathroom and doused myself in chemical goodness. Twenty minutes later, I emerged. Fresh. Staggering brilliant. And slightly orange. Auburn has a memory and it doesn't let go easily.

 

A year later I've run the gamut of Woodland Creature brown to Blaze o'Glory red. Guess which one I chose today? They never mentioned the pink streaks on the box...

As for the long locks? There's something sinister that lurks in the minds of women right before a newspaper interview or conference where photos will be taken - we suddenly NEED a haircut. A trim turned into a lopping and poof, I was back to sporting a sassy new shoulder-length cut in a matter of minutes.

Just call me Vector.

Resolution 2011 - The Cone of Silence

by Stacey Graham

My resolution was simple. Get more writing done while still being Mother Extraordinaire to Daughter #5. She's the last one home and when she boards that giant Twinkie of a school bus next August I'll have books to write and blogs to pen. But until then, I need a little help, thus The Cone of Silence. I've upgraded since the last pair but the concept is the same: a visual signal to my offspring that when the Cone of Silence headphones are on my head -- no pleas for juice, telling me that the dog has once again rolled in raccoon poo, or that while picking their nose they've poked their brain. It can wait until I finished a chapter. Unless it's the raccoon poo.

Vyolette Stella has different ideas about my resolution. When she sees the Cone of Silence headphones on and me seated at my desk, it's her signal that I'm suddenly working a drive-thru and desperately needs her order.

:: Grabbing mic ::

"Hello! I would like to order a pizza. A pizza with pineapples, and two cakes, a seahorse, and Justin Beiber. And a Diet Coke."

"Beiber? Vyo, I need to work on this. Can we play later?"

"PFffffffffffffffffffSHhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh"

"What was that?"

"I can't hear you. You need to talk into the speaker thing."

"A mic." I adjust the mic to be near my mouth and not inside hers. "Vy, how about you work on a puzzle until I'm done with this one page?"

"HONEY! I need that pizza quick! I'm dyiiiiiiiiiiing here." She clutches her stomach and rolls on the floor, only to be licked by the dog. "Send help. Fading fast."

"Vyolette..." Grabbing the headphones off my head, she wandered the room.

"Hello. We need a chicken order... Hey Mom, this isn't plugged in.... And some salmon and a Christmas tree so we can blast off. We need a CHICKEN!"

So the writing part of the resolution is taking a little more effort on my part but the headphones work – at least until she finds that Christmas tree.

Stacey enjoys long walks, sleeping, and zombie poetry. She is the author of The Zombie Dating Guide, and the new website: Coffeehouse of the Damned. Stacey isn't above begging for votes for her Austen-inspired short story, Willoughby's Boogie Nights at BadAusten.com.

Deathwish Wynter

The US Park Service knows my name. They know my family. They have flyers posted outside the White House with our picture on it for easy reference.

We're not terrorists.

We're *that* family.

We've lived in the Washington, D.C. metro area since 1999 and as per tradition, we travel to see the National Tree on the White House lawn each week after Christmas so as to look at the new ornaments on the Oregon state tree (where we're from) and gaze in wonder at the sometimes ugly decorations on the large tree in the center of it all. There are usually hundreds of people milling around, circling the same tree, taking photos or getting warm at the giant fire pit set up at the far end of the space allocated near the grandstand where the president stood hours or days before making speeches and smiling widely at the crowds.

My daughter, Wynter, was born on Christmas day. No child has as big a heart, as wide a smile or feet that can wander off quicker. Her nickname is Deathwish Wynter due to the escapades she gets herself into; Christmas is no different, it just involved more park rangers. 

Each year, as we make our way downtown, I give the lecture, "Girls, everyone has a buddy. You will not leave your buddy's side. You will not chase trains nor climb into the Nativity Scene. Is this understood?" Naturally, they nod. They knew I had Santa's ear.

"Husband. As I have infants to carry, you are Wynter's buddy. You will not leave her side nor hold hands with good-smelling strangers like last year. Is that understood?" A brief wave of his hand didn't convince me but I had last minute breastfeeding to do; after five kids, I always have last minute breastfeeding to do...

As we approach the White House, the rangers walkie-talkie each other like Secret Service agents on alert. “The Grahams are here. Wynter is wearing a purple coat with a blueberry knit hat… quick! She’s making a run for it!” I don’t even have to walk up to the presidential platform anymore for announcements to be made, they’ve already seen my frantic dash around the tree, bobbing infant on my hip and wild look in my eyes.

A large, muscular ranger has my small person in tow, her hands occupied with unwrapping a sucker he kept in his pocket for such occasions. “Here she is, Ma’am, you may want to consider GPS next year. We’ll see you climbing into the Sculpture Garden pond in the summer, see that Lily keeps her clothes on this time.” With a nod, my tax dollars at work melts back into the crowd.

“Husband! That’s not me!” Startled, he looks from the tree to the family he’s been following for the last fifteen minutes. They’re not his. This year there will be two GPS units under the tree…



Stacey may be found this year chasing her daughters around the tree, at her blog and The Zombie Dating Guide where she's enhancing Christmas carols for Undead Fred.


Merry Christmas from the Graham Crackers!!

The Mom Herd

by Stacey Graham


My toddler just tried to convince me her father told her it was okay to eat two pop-tarts the size of her head.   What's worse is that she almost had me believing her.  Definitely a sign to get out of the house more, I'm going back to work outside the home.  No more DVDs of princesses outwitting evil animated overlords, no more fishing choking-hazard sized dolls out of the toilet because "they wore a swim suit"; I'm going back to where women wear shoes all day long.  My friends think I'm crazy.

"Give up happy hour?" Marlene asked.  Like sneaking wine in a sippy cup on the cul de sac was such a covert operation that they felt naughty and delicious at the same time. 

I'm breaking from the Mom Herd mentality that stalked my days for the last ten years.  Clothed in light brown capris with the mom butt looming in my future, I knew I had to make a run for it.

"I don't want to," I half-lied.  I didn't want to get up and look human before 9am but sacrifices must be made for the sake of my sanity.  "Bryan totally supports this since he'll be home with the girls while I’m working."  Yeah.  Working from home for him meant no shaving and...wait, it did me too.  Nevermind.  Years as a freelance writer had me spoiled, good lord, I actually have to wax that unibrow more often now! 

"I have two interviews lined up for next week..." I started.

"Have you finished the paper mache state of Virginia yet for 2nd grade?  Mrs. Zimmburton said in the class newsletter that you were in charge of the Piedmont."  Becky examined her nails while I backed away; I knew what was coming next.  "You know, you really need to check with us first before you go running off.  As Room Mother, you have a responsibility to..."

I can't wait until next week.



Ironically, Stacey returned to writing after forging ahead into the workforce after this article in 2008. She couldn't keep up with the shaving. She's now happily fishing more Barbie shoes out of the toilet and bouncing on trampolines with her four-year-old when not writing about zombies. Please visit her blog and The Zombie Dating Guide.

Photo credit: toothpastefordinner.com

I'm a bit of a worrywart.

by Stacey Graham

Photo credit: piddix.blogspot.com

I was an active yet clumsy child so spent a majority of my time in arm casts, recovering from knee surgery or in full leg braces. Thus, my spidey-sense is on high alert whenever my children attempt anything remotely dangerous, say... opening an olive jar without proper eye protection.

"Careful! The olive juice is highly caustic and can cause blindness!" I would yell out.

"Mom, it's olives floating in water. Relax, would you?" My four-year-old is a mouthy little thing.

"Yes but one drop and... I got nothing. Give Mama an olive and stop smirking."

I've read the warning insert in boxes of tampons about Toxic Shock Syndrome every month since I was sixteen, positive that one day I'd be the topic of an after school special on the dangers of absorbency. I'd picture my mother looking distraught while I gasped out my last breath in the hospital room.

"Mom, I know you told me not to use the Super Plus..." I'd start.

"Shhh, darling. That's not important now, but since you mentioned it, didn't you read the inserts?"

I see where my daughter gets it.

We live atop a mountain in the wilds of northern Virginia, fraught with danger as the girls bring
home various forms of flora and fauna. Poisonous fungi fill bags in the kitchen next to benign white-capped mushrooms. The eight-year-old studies them intensely but I'm not sure for what purpose. I quietly deposit them into the large kitchen garbage can while she sleeps and tells her the woodland creatures carried them off at night the next morning. She bought that for a while but now I get the "Mom is insane" look and she wanders off for more specimens. The others climb trees, scale woodpiles where I'm sure snakes hide, they're always on the lookout for the fox kits that live on the lane (though they are quite aware of the risks of rabies and stay far away) and sneak toads into the house in small baskets. The little voice that tells them to be cautious? The one ever-present in my head but not theirs? It's at Disney World without protective headgear.

I'm sure they get this from their father.



Visit Stacey at her blog where she would like nothing more than to wrap each and every one of you in cotton wool and feed you chocolate. On her off days, Stacey enjoys zombies, ghosts and telling dirty jokes. 

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

Photo credit: sapanavora.com

by Stacey Graham


As a child, I swore that one day I would grow up to be a Supreme. It didn't matter that I was short, tone deaf and six years old; I would knock Diana Ross off her heels and take over. I had the hand movements; I could harmonize (in my own way) and could rock the feather boa as well as any of the rest of the girls. My mother had other ideas.

"Stacey, you can be anything you want. Why not be a nice housewife and have children."

"No. I need to be a Supreme. Watch this!" And I would jut my hips out in time with the music, tossing my arms around with dramatic fervor. My sister's lipstick creating a band of red around my mouth, I pursed my lips and threw in a Jagger Swagger for effect.

"Stacey. Really. This is going too far. Besides, the Supremes didn't sing Brown Sugar, that was the Rolling Rocks."

"Stones, Ma."

"Right. Stones -- Rocks. Big difference." Throwing a wink my way, I knew she was teasing but this wouldn't crush my ambition to rule the Motown scene.

Until Barry Manilow came into my life.

Barry and I had a strained relationship. My mother loved him so the record player had him on loop. I tried to strut to Copacabana but with little enthusiasm. How could Lola compete with Ain't No Mountain High Enough? 'Nuff said. To make my mother happy, I stuck yellow feathers in my hair for Halloween to show I was cool. Of course, having a ten-year-old dressed as a hooker wasn't what my mother had in mind around the neighborhood begging for candy but she made the best of it by playing the song on the car tape player as she followed behind me to tip off the houses that I wasn't nuts -- I had a theme, people, a theme.

The 70s finally died a horrible death and I threw out my sequined beret for rubber bracelets and tulle skirts. I drew the line at a cone bra. That would have looked silly. Duran Duran covered my wall and I became Rio and I danced on the sand. Okay, on the sidewalk in suburban San Francisco. Whatever. In my mind I was on the beach being chased by Simon LeBon. Stop looking at me like that.

I flirted with punk bands, turned my nose up at Country and fell in love with Mozart during my teen years, but my heart stayed with the 60s and I memorized the top of the charts for the decade. The Beatles and Donovan, Doors and Joplin -- they're still inside with Diana Ross just waiting for my big moment. Now I just need my mom to turn off that damn Manilow tape and become the backup singer I know lurks inside.



Stacey Graham runs this joint and is available for children's parties as long as there are no clowns. They give her the willies. Please visit her website and The Zombie Dating Guide where she shows that she lucked out getting any dates at all during college.

There are neighbors -- and then there are neighbors.

Photo credit: John Wagner/Hallmark

by Stacey Graham

For eight years, we lived in a townhouse community. I watched as young families moved in, popped out a few kids then moved onto bigger and better living arrangements. We were building our own house but were content to stay on our tiny block in a rural northern Virginia village as my husband traveled to construct the house himself after work and on weekends as the neighborhood always provided a constant source of kids and gossip.

I met my neighbor, Betsy, in my nightie and clutching a bat.

I like to make a good first impression.

One warm summer night while my husband was out of town, I awoke around midnight to the sound of fluttering in my bedroom. Not being too alarmed as large bugs in Virginia are more common than teeth in some regions I rolled over and went back to sleep until it tried to get my attention by attacking my face. Remember the scene in the Wrath of Khan where they stick a bug in a man's ear? Yes. Like that. Did I mention I was seven months pregnant with my fifth child? My mattress was never the same, just sayin'. Smacking myself around the head and shoulder region repeatedly, I valiantly fought off the horrid thing and rolled off the bed making my way on the floor to the bedroom door. Turning on the light switch, I grabbed my child's baseball bat from the hallway and faced the beast. All seven feet of him. Okay, maybe it just had seven feet. Whatever. It revved its engine and I knew it was coming for me again so ran out of the room and locked the door behind me. Stop looking at me like that. You know you would have done the same.

With my husband out of town and my only other option was to wake my eleven-year-old daughter to kill the bug, I determined that bothering my new neighbor, Ben, was the answer. Waddling next door, still clutching the bat, I knocked as quietly as I could while trying to cover my fanny in the night breeze. The door opened to Ben's wife, Betsy, who looked only mildly concerned. Apparently she's seen all this before. Sheesh, Virginians...

"There's a BUG in my ROOM and it's HUGE and will eat my braaaaaaaaaaaaain!" I pointed to my disheveled hair as a visual aid. "I'm your neighbor, Stacey, where is Ben?!"

"He's asleep." Grabbing the bat from my hands, Betsy crossed my lawn and went straight upstairs into my room without another word. I followed, staying a healthy distance away from the woman with a weapon, her other hand now holding a towel from the bathroom.

"Stay here and don't wake the kay-ids." Her southern drawl only made me feel more stupid. A belle was going to beat my bug. Closing the door, she readied herself for battle. I pressed my ear against the wood, waiting for screams of terror - a thump of a body hitting the floor after the bug had attacked - anything to give me a reason to call 911. Nothing. Not a peep.

Minutes passed. I had to pee.

More minutes passed. I finished peeing. I was pregnant. Wha?

Out of the stillness, a crack of the bat came from my bedroom. At last! Victory?

The door opened, revealing Betsy holding something wrapped in a towel - but not wiggling. "I'll just take this out; don't you worry yourself anymore, okay?" I walked her downstairs and opened the front door. "You're not afraid of mice, are you? Cause then you're on your own." I nodded, there are some things a woman should never be expected to handle alone, fuzzy creatures that eat your eyeballs apparently at the top of both of our lists.

As the years passed and many many margaritas, gallons of milk and birthday cakes changed hands over the deck separated by only a whisper of air, Betsy and I never talked about our bug adventure. When we finally moved away to our new house, my thoughts were not of the memories we shared nor the promises of future bar-be-ques, I wondered who would have my back in a zombie apocalypse? Betsy's on my team, they'd better man up before starting anything with that belle.


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Stacey has quite a collection going of children and zombies at her house. To find out which is which, please visit her blog and The Zombie Dating Guide (dang it, I gave it away, didn't I?).

Old people are a menace.

by Stacey Graham

There. I said it.

My parents are in their mid-70s, one with advancing Parkinson's Disease but doing well and the other regularly lifted 80 lbs of chicken feed weekly for her crazy brood on her tiny farm. Since last Sunday was my birthday (and Father's Day), I received phone calls and made them as per the holiday.

Me: Happy Father's Day, Dad! What's new in the world of Parkinson's? (seriously, it started out like this)

Dad: I feel great. We're moving forward with a new therapy - the hyperbaric chamber. It will push oxygen into my brain to help it function better.

Me: So you'll essentially blow up like a frog in biology class?

Dad: That would be fun, but no.

Me: Can you text me while they're doing it?

Dad: No. But I'll hum.

Me: Hum?

Dad: Yes, it will keep my mind off of things. You know, like, being pumped full of oxygen. And now I'll be thinking of frogs.

Me: Sorry. Can you take photos while you're in there? I haven't seen a hyperbaric chamber before.

Dad: *sigh* No.

Me: You're no fun. Want to see the new tattoo I got for my birthday? I can text you so you have something to look at in the Chaaaaaaaamber.

Dad: No... Is it a frog?

Me: No. I'm just kidding. I got a nose piercing instead.

Dad: Good. Save the tattoo for when you hit fifty.

Me: Dad, Bev (sister) told me you like peanuts a lot lately.

Dad: Yeeeeess, why?

Me: I heard you should probably request a blue hearing aid next time too. They don't have the same crunch as a peanut but they are a bit more expensive. Just sayin'.

Dad: Shut up.

Me: What? I can't hear you? I'm enjoying a delicious snack of hearing aid peanuts.

Dad: [hangs up]



While on the phone with my Dad, my Mother called and left a voicemail:

Mom: Staaaacey? Can you wish Bryan (husband) a very happy Father's Day? I hope he has a wonderful day with his fabulous daughters - and you too. I don't want to use up all the tape on this message (tape? on a voicemail?) but I just wanted to tell him Happy Father's Day.

I'll be sure to tell him. Right after I call my shrink about how both parents forgot to wish me a happy birthday though they've both essentially spoken to me that day.

Callback to mom:

Me: Hey Mom. I told Bryan he's fabulous.

Mom: Thanks. Did you make him a cake? Men like cakes.

Me: Yes, Mom. Chocolate with strawberries. You know, how I like on my birthday.

Mom: Yes, well, about that...

Me: What?

Mom: I forgot to send your card with $5 in it.

Me: No problem, I'll bill you later.

Mom: Oh, you. And tell Bryan his is coming too.

Me: It's not his birthday.

Mom: I know. But I can't make him a cake and your skills are, well, in another direction.

Mom: Why are you humming?

Me: I'm thinking of frogs.

Mom: My children are weird.

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I'm really not that odd in real life. No. Really. Don't mind the zombies, cupcakes and margaritas that make regular appearances in my blog. Speaking of the Undead, pick up today's dating tips and haiku at The Zombie Dating Guide!