an army of ermas

Five rules of the Mancave

2012-01-30T11:00:00.001-05:00

By Jason Tudor

Under the tundra, tucked past the laundry room, or stashed in the same room where the ironing board, sewing goodies and boxes of shopworn clothing awaiting transport to a charitable bin is the one room of the house men find solace.

It’s a Fortress of Solitude; a guy-made panic room and beige-walled Tardis sometimes blaring heavy metal or Waylon Jennings ditties. And whether that room is garage, third bedroom, basement or carved out attic space, the man caves across American are sacred spaces.

At my house, my daughter occupies three rooms, including two bedrooms, three beds (she digs the air mattress) and a playroom. She’s like a Trump heiress counting properties along her Atlantic City boardwalk. Meanwhile, the rest of the house belongs to my wife, save the one room, which I’ve captured for you here:

You will note that my mancave is actually a mankitchencave.
The irony is not lost on the author, but I’ve got my own fridge.

All that said, for many men, a man cave of some sort is a must, like a favorite worn shirt or that THING. And since the Ermas are hip-deep in lists, what better way to roll into February and all its amorous then to cover five rules about man caves (the other 13 are classified ‘top secret’):

1. Let him decorate it. Really. Dallas Cowboys jerseys, Night Ranger posters, “Big Bang Theory” ironic tchotchkes. Old beer mugs. He’s taken time to dampen the ground around this spot with his feral spray. Barring bikini-clad pinups, ensure he has full reign to throw up (and that’s probably an apt term for what will serve as décor) whatever he wants.

2. Don’t touch anything. Piles of automotive magazines. Tools tossed into greasy piles making a metal miasma. Stacks of CDs. All of it may look like a hurricane hit it, but there is a sophisticated, meticulous organizational system at work here. Anyone having the impetus to “do him a favor” and “clean up this mess” would only be obliterating weeks of laborious, detailed organization. Besides, those discarded Slim Jim wrappers won’t recategorize themselves.

3. Requirements. Mancaves that are not garages have mandatory stocking requirements. They include: a giant television, a computer, a LOUD SOUND SYSTEM … LOUD, a bar (but where a bar can’t fit, a small fridge), and a lingering scent that will drive most others out of the room.

4. Earmuffs! This is hallowed ground. It’s the one place the man can go with other men and let the language freely flow about fishing lures, shovel passes and bed liners. The syntax that prevails in these conversations sometimes makes drunken sailors blush.

5. Mind the door. I say this with the full knowledge that my own office does not have a door. That said, a closed door is an opportunity to allow man vapors to secrete without hindrance; to crank the volume knob to 11; to play the Imperial March and allow the office walls to reverberate; to think manthings and concoct manideas, most of which we get in trouble for in the first place.

Yes, at times, our knuckles drag. We slobber. We have a favorite pelt we wear often and wash little. It only makes sense that our caves resemble us. So, peek inside and tell me: what’s your mancave like?

Top Five Times Mr. Vagabond and I Didn’t Go to Jail (But Could Have)

2012-01-27T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Carolee

Basically, Mr. Vagabond and I are good, decent, law-abiding American citizens. The “law-abiding” part is diluted by the fact that we are also undomesticated five-year-olds who just happen to have driver’s licenses. Behold, the top closest calls we have ever had with the law, yet remained unshackled afterward. They’re in no particular order. Any near-miss with the pokey is equally unappealing.

1. Walking into a federal prison and not being discovered until we were lost somewhere back in their administrative offices.

This could have ended very badly, especially when the guard (who had left his post) showed up, escorted us outside and said in an threatening tone, “You can’t just walk into a federal prison!” I had to kick Mr. Vagabond in the ankle to keep him from saying what was on both our minds: Apparently, you can! In our mutual defense, the unmanned, unlocked front doors said “Enter” and I was there to serve papers on an inmate. Who knew that the only person who can serve papers on a federal inmate was the local sheriff? Well, ya do now.

2. Peeing on the heads of several well-dressed nuclear scientists at a high-security military installation.

Mr. Vagabond is the owner of this little escapade. Since he isn’t here to defend himself, I should explain. He was working at the top of a 400-foot cell phone tower, and it was a foggy day. Visibility was poor, and he had to pee. Later that day, had a difficult time keeping silent when one of the scientists said, “We almost called off the testing today because it rained for a minute.” You just can’t make this stuff up.

3. Having naughty time outside in broad daylight in a state park at the top of a mountain while using a juniper shrub for balance.

While this was probably illegal, it was also ill-advised. Junipers are prickly. I won’t go into any more detail. You’re welcome.

4. Trying (both unsuccessfully and unawares) to smuggle a half-empty bottle of tequila onto a super high-security Army base.

I swear, we didn’t know it was there. Yeah, that look on your face is how the Army police looked at us, too. I thought Mr. Vagabond threw it away, he thought I threw it away... at any rate, we had also forgotten about the half-empty bottle of wine under my seat and the camera that those fearless, uniformed men found just as they were wrapping up the search of our vehicle. That was a fun day!

5. Traipsing through a graveside funeral in an old cemetery while highly inebriated.

We’re beginning to sound like alcoholics, but there is an explanation. Mr. Vagabond had been out of town for several weeks. When he came home, we celebrated with rum. In our weakened mindset, we figured taking a walk was a terrific idea. The closest place to walk and avoid traffic at the same time was a small cemetery. And so we did. Because we’re smart like that.

I don’t advocate any of the stupidity listed above, but it sure does make for interesting dinner conversation.

You Are Smarter than You Think!

2012-01-25T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Jeanette Levellie

Wanna feel extra clever today? This list of five ditzy doings will encourage you:

1.       When the bill at a drive-in burger shop came to $4.25, Aunt Minnie handed the young cashier a five-dollar bill and a quarter. The teenager gazed at the money for a moment, then said, “You gave me too much.”

“I know,” Aunt Minnie replied, “this way you give me an even dollar in change.”

The cashier left the window to find her manager, who returned with the money. “I’m sorry ma’am; we can’t do this type of thing,” he said.

Aunt Minnie shrugged as the teenager handed her $1.75 in change.

2.       A rural newspaper received this letter from a concerned reader: “I think the Township needs to move the Deer Crossing sign out on Highway 14. Too many deer are getting hit and killed there. They need a safer place to cross.”

3.       When a lady went to the mechanic’s shop to pick up her car after a repair, the mechanic apologized for locking the keys inside. He was busy finagling to get the door on the driver’s side open. The lady walked around to the passenger side. Finding it unlocked, she opened the door, then said to the mechanic, “Hey, this side is unlocked.”

“I know,” he replied, “I already managed to get that side opened.”

4.       If you plan to rob a bank, be careful where you write your hold-up note. One robber put his on the back of a deposit slip—his own!

5.       Believe it or not, I have been guilty of a few dumb doings. While in the lunchroom at a former job, I noticed the clock had stopped. I called the facilities manager to bring some batteries next time he came down to the kitchen. A few minutes later he showed up, batteries in hand.

“Jeanette,” he said, “this clock is electric—the cord is hanging right here.” He plugged it in and set it. Heat crept up my neck and into my face as I said, “Well, the cord and wall are both white—it blended in!”

Jane Austen's Ladies in the Facebook Age

2012-01-23T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Patti Wigington

“Why do you read Jane Austen?” someone asked me once. “Isn’t that boring old chick lit?”

Well, no. It’s not boring, and it’s not chick lit either - it’s actually pretty scathing social commentary, and it’s full of useful bits of advice. The wit and wisdom of Jane still has practical applications some two centuries after her death. But what if her novels took place today, in the age of social networking?

Marianne Dashwood

You know Marianne would totally be on top of social networking. She’d be regularly regaling her BFFs with photos of her cats, comments about the bagel she had this morning, her boring sister Elinor, and that super hot guy from over at Combe Magna who helped her out when she sprained her ankle! But - OMG! - it turned out he’s not so great after all, and Willoughby would be unfriended faster than you can say “Block This User.”

Status Update: OMG I LOVE HIM XOXOXOX!

Emma Woodhouse

Emma only wanted to be friendly towards Harriet Smith because she saw her as a project, sort of a Build Your Own BFF, that she could mold to her own needs. Good thing Emma and Harriet didn’t live in the Facebook Age, because Harriett would be all “Harriet Smith is in a Relationship” and Emma would be all “DISLIKE!!” and then Harriet would be “OMG Harriet Smith is SINGLE again” every couple of days. Meanwhile, poor Mr. Martin would still be trying to figure out how to turn on the Internet, and Knightley would just give up and go to LinkedIn.

Status Update: It’s Complicated

Lizzie Bennett

One of the great Facebookers of her age would have to be Lizzie Bennett. We’ve all got a friend like Lizzie - the one who makes an awful lot of fuss complaining about that guy she hates… but totally doesn’t hate him at all. Meanwhile, Jane would simply like everything Lizzie had to say, Charlotte would offer sage advice, and Fitzwilliam Darcy, who would never deign to send a friend request, would simply be a Facebook Creeper and watch from afar to see what Lizzie was posting about him. Not like he cares. Much.

Status Update: Dearest friends, this man is a total jerk.

Lydia Bennett

Lizzie’s younger sister, Lydia, is a prime example of why really young teens shouldn’t have Facebook pages at all. In the Facebook Age, Lydia would be in constant competition with Kitty for who had the Most Facebook Friends, and all of Lydia’s would be cute boys in regimentals. Lydia is that girl everyone knows who’s going to post a photo of herself partying in Brighton, her corset partly undone, and a beer bong in her hand.

Status Update: IM GOIN TO BATH AN IMMA SEE SOLDIERS!!!

Anne Elliot

Anne Elliot just has better things to do than sit around updating her status. She spent nine years waiting for the love of her life to come back to her, and when he did, she almost lost him again, thanks to the interference of people who thought they knew what was best for her. But Anne prevailed, avoided the drama of social networking altogether, and is now sailing around the world as Mrs. Wentworth.

Status Update: This Person is No Longer on Facebook.

Image credit: www.much-ado.net/austenbook/

Seven Surefire Ways To Lose Weight In 2012

2012-01-20T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Kathy Tirrell

1. Go to the gym.

Now I know what you’re thinking. Oh no, not a gym membership! I’ll go once and never go back again. How on earth is this method ever going to work? Simple. What you’re going to do is WALK to the gym! That’s right. Even if it’s 50 miles away. Walk all the way to the gym and once you get there, walk all the way home again. That should help shed some pounds.

2. Tape a photo of one of those perfect-bodied Victoria’s Secret models onto your refrigerator door.

Or multiple photos, if you want. Yes, a refrigerator adorned with a montage of perfectly sculpted beach bodies might just be the ticket to total fitness in 2012. Why? ‘Cause every time you’re tempted to open up the fridge and grab a handful of fried chicken, darn it all, one of those babes will look you in the eye, admonishing, “You’re eating again? Piggy!”

Of course, you’ll slink away in embarrassment.

3. Tape a naked photo of YOURSELF on the fridge.

No explanation needed.

4. Buy yourself a dog that runs really, really fast (such as a greyhound or a whippet) and take it for a nice walk at least 3 times a day.

Did you know the whippet is the fastest dog on earth? Take your whippet out onto the bike path and perhaps he’ll take YOU for a nice long walk (make that RUN).

5. Run for President of the United States.

Hey, it IS an election year, right? Might as well throw your hat into the ring and run as an Independent. Some of the candidates ain’t looking all that great, anyways. Since it’s sure to be stressful and hectic out there on the campaign trail, with long days and nights, you probably won’t have time to eat anything.

6. Buy a whole bunch of bigger, baggier clothes.

What we’re going for here is the illusion of weight loss. An acquaintance sees you at the grocery store in your oversized shirt and says, “Wow, that shirt is just hanging off you, girl! Have you lost weight?”

And finally, if all else fails there’s this one:

7. Have your lips surgically sewn together.

Nothing beats this one! If the food can’t get into the mouth, the fat can’t get onto the hips. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

Happy New Year!

Five Reasons D.I.Y. Is Really A Four-letter Word

2012-01-18T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Beth Bartlett

Editor's note: I seriously have no idea what this is.
Hold me.

Whenever my husband and I go out to a restaurant or retail store, he will take me by the hand, lean over and whisper in my ear, “We can make this stuff at home, you know.”

What he doesn’t realize, even after twenty-plus years of marriage, is that I go out so I don’t have to make stuff at home. Not making it is a big part of the appeal, but he comes from a family that makes their own mayonnaise, so he never quite understands I’m domestically challenged. It’s cute, in a what-are-those-fire-engines-doing-here kind of way.

There are many projects we’ve tried together, but these are the top five I should never be allowed near again:

Broccoli salad

After performing a CSI-worthy autopsy of deli salad, he gave me the ingredient list: chopped broccoli, golden raisins, normal raisins, bacon and dressing. Sounds simple, right? Except that golden raisins are apparently made from real gold, considering the price. I’m thrifty, so I set out regular raisins to bleach in the sun. Maybe I should have dunked them in lemon juice, because they didn’t go blonde; they shrank into rabbit pellets. I also tried blending the broccoli; it looked like someone had massacred a herd of Chia Pets. Oh, the Ch-ch-chiamanity.

Dehydrated snacks

“If we make our own dried fruit, we can have snacks any time!” he said as he carried in a dehydrator. “It’s easy! Slice up fruit, slap it on some trays,flip the switch and walk away.”

A crucial part of this recipe involves remembering to remove the fruit before the conga line of ants dances through the kitchen. The fruit stuck to the plastic, the ants stuck to the fruit, and the entire colony had the full-on UFO experience as I flung the discs into the yard. I’m pretty sure I heard “Wheeeeee!” with each Frisbee toss.

Candles

Helpful hint: forgetting the wicks and trying to insert them later with a hammer and screwdriver will give you a lovely basket of vanilla-scented firestarters. The wood stove smelled delicious for a month, and every time I stoked the fire I had vivid hallucinations of crème-filled donuts. Good times.

Tiger Balm

Yes, the stinky, tingly stuff you slather on sore muscles can be made at home. When you tire of the hair currently growing in your nose, you can find a recipe for this online; I assume it’s listed on Bachelor Quarterly. Among other things, it requires crushed red peppers, petroleum jelly and a firm discipline of never rubbing your eyes when they start streaming like a garden hose. We now have a 55-gallon drum of stinky, tingly stuff and a corner of the kitchen that makes the cat twitch.

Leather

Actually, he does this very well, because I’m opposed to hunter-induced male pattern baldness in deer and I have no part in this whatsoever. While he doesn’t hunt, he does tan an occasional deer hide for a clueless buddy, I’m assuming so the guy can make an adorable pair of high-heeled boots. My participation is limited to running in small circles shrieking “Eeek! Bambi!” and gagging at the trail of un-deered hair around the worktable, which is located away from the house. Far away. In fact, if I call him for dinner, there may be roaming charges.

Freelancer and humor writer Beth Bartlett calls her sponsor every time she feels the need to make something from scratch. No animals were harmed in the making of this article, except for one unfortunate deer, and we’re sure he’s in a better place now. At least that’s what he said when we did a séance with the new boots. Delve deeper into Beth’s twisted world with her sites at www.wisecrackzodiac.com, and at www.puregeek.me.

So Sorry

2012-01-16T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Angie Mansfield

I've decided to forgo resolutions this year in favor of something far more useful:

apologies. Some of these are for transgressions already committed, while others are more like advance warnings. You be the judge. Names have been changed to protect the probably-not-innocent:

1. Dear Mr. Parker: I'm sorry I blew up your brand new smoker grill. In my defense, as I'm sure you remember me telling you at the time, it bore a disturbing resemblance to a Dalek -- you know, from Doctor Who? You really should watch more television, so you'll be better prepared to protect yourself against these things. Anyway, your smoker had a very Dalek-y shape, and at three in the morning when you've had a few too many mudslides (you know what I'm talking about, don't you, Mrs. Parker? wink, wink) things tend to take on a life of their own. In this case, I could swear I heard your smoker mutter, "Exterminate," as I crossed your backyard on the way home, and so of course it had to go. But I really do regret that the fire took out your carport. My bad.

2. Dear Mrs. Jones: I'm sorry that I told everyone at the neighborhood picnic about your wig. I'm sure this revelation was very embarrassing for you, especially since you worked so hard to get Mr. Everett from two blocks over to finally come to the party this year. My only excuse is that I had no idea it was a secret; I thought everyone knew that seventy-year-old ladies with thinning blue-grey hair can't grow a luxurious red mane overnight, no matter what sort of "cream" they put on it. My apologies, anyway, and please do tell Mr. Everett that, should he agree to accompany you to next year's block party, I promise not to elbow him in the ribs and say, "I guess gentlemen don't prefer blondes, eh? Eh?"

3. Dear Paperboy's Mother: I'm sorry about the nightmares your son's been having. I'm sure they'll pass eventually; I mean, how long can a ten-year-old be traumatized by a woman in a Frankenstein mask leaping out of the bushes at five in the morning and screaming "Boo!"? Honestly, he seems to be awfully jumpy, and you might consider having him talk to a counselor or something about his nerves. Oh, and do you think we could start getting our paper again? It's getting tiresome, having to steal the neighbor's every morning, and I think Mr. Parker's onto me, anyway.

4. Dear Mr. Rogers: I feel compelled to apologize, though I really don't know why you get so worked up. I mean, with a name like that, you should be used to people humming "Won't You Be My Neighbor?" every time you walk by. Clever of you to choose another route to work, though; it took me two whole days to figure out your new routine. But it was all worth it to see the tears of joy on your face when I sang the first few bars at you from behind that Dumpster. You really should look both ways, though, before jumping into the street; then you might not have been hit by that car and given me nightmares for a week.

It's all right, though. I forgive you

Angie Mansfield lives in an undisclosed location. It used to be disclosed, but she’s now in hiding from her neighbors. You know how it is.

Wild Furniture Kingdom

2012-01-13T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Terri Lynn Coop

Welcome to this edition of “Wild Furniture Kingdom,” featuring the “Five Best Feral Sofas of Kansas.” Join me on this photo safari featuring the wildlife that is probably lurking in your own backyard.

Facing life in the wild, our first feral sofa developed a unique protective coloring that allowed it to blend into its environment.

Our second wild sofa is a proudly displaying its plumage and staking its claim on the kingdom. Judging from its flashy stripes, it is most likely an alpha male.

Over time, wild furniture will often lose its fear of man. Our third feral sofa seems comfortable lounging in alleys and likely scrounging in the garbage.

Our fourth stop is a rare glimpse of a nocturnal feral sofa. They hide in dark corners during the day, coming out at night to hunt and forage.

Unfortunately, not all sofas are suited for life in the wild. These two fell to predators and their carcasses serve as a reminder that nature is not always kind.

Many people wonder if they have feral sofas in their neighborhood and ask me about the signs of a wild furniture infestation. I tell them to look for droppings.

I hope you enjoyed this episode of “Wild Furniture Kingdom” and will tune in next time for, “When Recliners Go Wild.”

Terri Lynn Coop is a lawyer, a writer, a Chihuahua owner, a clown hunter, and stalks feral furniture so you don’t have to.

Road Rulz

2012-01-11T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Pauline Campos

Did you know that the shape of the school crossing sign is made to represent a school house so as to help those of us behind the wheel of a car remember to follow the posted speed limits?

Yeah...me neither. Which is probably why I was standing in line with 50 other people to sign in for traffic school. As much as that sounds like it would be made of absolute suckage, I have to admit that (aside from the waking up at 5 a.m. thing) the day was pretty entertaining. And by entertaining? I totally mean educational and *clears throat* always obey the rules of the road, kids. You're too pretty to become someone's girlfriend in prison.

And for that matter, so am I.

This is why I'm here today, y'all. To share with you the highlights of what I learned in traffic school. Keep in mind that some (or all except for one) may only apply to Arizona, so I hereby recuse myself and The Army of Ermas of Any of Your Issues if you try to use any of the contents of this post to fight some crazy traffic ticket in the Alaskan boonies.

That being said...

* Never, under any circumstances, point out to the instructor that you found your almost falling asleep at the wheel on the way in to traffic school ironic, seeing as this whole thing is supposed to be about safety.

* It's probably also an even better idea to not file a formal request to allow those with access to the Internet to send in traffic school payment via PayPal and take the course during a special Twitter party with the hashtag "RoadRulz". Trust me...it won't go over well.

* While the driver of a motorcycle is not legally required to wear a helmet, his (or her) passenger is. Insurance companies are thereby encouraged to point and laugh at each biker who willingly signs off on the safety gear and instead chooses to pay a higher premium on his (or her) insurance policy.

* Homeschooling is required for children ages five and up.

* Well, maybe only if parents of said child who will be in a five-point-harness until she's 30 wish to spare her the humiliation of being unstrapped from her car seat every morning at school drop off from now until her senior year of college, seeing as safety seats for kids are not required for children over the age of five.

* "Work with your neighbor" in regards to class tests means the person sitting next to you, not the people who are laughing at you on Facebook for landing yourself in this mess.

* "So, what are you in for" is an acceptable greeting in traffic school.

* "I was FRAMED" is an (obviously) acceptable response to the aforementioned greeting in traffic school but...

* Streaking blue eye-shadow across one's face and screaming "FREEDOM" upon dismissal tends to be frowned upon.

* Oh right...and the brake pedal's on the left.

Happy Driving!

How To Feel More Like Indiana Jones Jones in Your Everyday Life

2012-01-09T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Harley May

We all know the typical New Year’s Resolutions: lose weight, stop punting puppies, yadda yadda yadda. I want more ADVENTURE in 2012 - above and beyond the normal hiking and canoeing. The authorities tell me that bank robbery and bobcat wrestling is a bad idea, so I’ve decided to pursue a life-long dream: I will become Indiana Jones. If you want break up the monotony of carpool lines, swim meets, and soccer practices with something more Raiders of the Lost Arc-esque, try implementing these tiny things.

1.) Lose your automatic garage door opener. Close it manually and run out while the door is still moving.

2.) Insert the phrase, “Snakes? Why’d it have to be snakes?” in your everyday vernacular. Replace the word “Snakes” with an object you see more commonly. If you change a lot of diapers, “Poop? Why’d it have to be poop?” If one of your co-workers gets to the break room before you and makes a pot of decaf, which is totally stupid, “Decaf? Why’d it have to be Decaf?”

3.) When a band of cowboy thieves takes an item you want or think is very important, shout, “IT BELONGS IN A MUSEUM.” Then make your bottom lip bleed.

4.)    If offered monkey brains, accept it with a smile. Thank your hosts.

5.)    Instead of trying to outrun a boulder, spend some time on the freeway. Just as exciting.

6.)    Rather than carry a taser or a can of mace while running, loop a whip through your jogging shorts. If your shorts don’t have a belt loop, the iPod strap on your arm will work just as well.

7.)    Go to your local library and look for Roman Numerals. If you find the X, BUST THAT MOTHER UP.

8.)    When faced with a difficult decision, simply cut the rope bridge down.

9.)    Initiate foreplay with your significant other by pointing to varying areas on your body and say, “It hurts here.” (note: when you’re wearing an Indiana Jones hat, have the webcam set up, and tell your husband, “Um…I need you for a moment…” expect a crazy look.)

10.)    Show people a photo of Shia Labeouf and tell them he is your long lost son. Maybe don’t do this if you’re only a few years older than Shia Labeouf. You’ll look ridiculous.

The Twelve Days After Christmas

2012-01-06T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Jennifer Caddell

On the first day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the second day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the third day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Three days to prepare for New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the fourth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Four calling in-laws,

Less than three days to prepare for New Years Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under the tree.

On the fifth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calling in-laws,

Wishing I had three days to prepare for New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that tree.

On the sixth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Six bottles of champagne,

FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calling in-laws,

Three drunks on New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that tree.

On the seventh day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Seven bottles of Aspirin,

Six empty bottles of champagne,

FIVE MORE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Forget those calling in-laws,

Wishing it was still New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that damn tree!

On the eighth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

8am school bus is leaving,

Seven bottles of Aspirin,

Six empty bottles of champagne in the recycling bin,

STILL WORKING ON THOSE FIVE LOADS!

Ignoring all phone calls,

Burning three photos taken during New Year’s Eve,

Two cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that damn tree!

On the ninth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Nine spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Aspirin,

Six bottles of vitamin water,

FINALLY DONE WITH THAT LAUNDRY!

Still ignoring the phone calls,

Keeping resolutions from New Year’s Eve,

Two stale cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under that damn tree!

On the tenth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Ten pounds to lose,

Nine spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Advil, (muscles ache!)

Six cups of coffee,

ANOTHER FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calls to my mother,

Three days keeping those New Year’s Eve resolutions,

Two tasty looking stale cookie crumbs,

And crumpled wrapping paper under a brown tree.

On the eleventh day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Eleven minutes of rocking and mumbling to myself in a corner,

Still ten pounds to lose,

Not doing anymore spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Advil,

Six jiggers of Baileys in my coffee,

BURNING FIVE LOADS OF LAUNDRY!

Four calls to the fire department,

Three firemen arrive,

Two tasty cookie crumbs,

And I used that wrapping paper to light the flames.

On the twelfth day after Christmas, my family gave to me,

Twelve boy scouts collecting that brown tree!

Eleven minutes of rocking and mumbling,

More than ten pounds to lose,

No more spinning classes,

8am school bus leaving,

Seven bottles of Advil,

Six cups of Baileys, no coffee,

NO MORE CLOTHES TO WEAR!

Four calls from the psychiatrist,

Three days on Prozac,

Two licks on the cookie plate,

And only a few pine needles left of that brown tree.

Jennifer Caddell is often found in her office conjuring up science fiction stories, writing poetry or hiding in a corner while her children are looking for her. She blogs about food, crafts, and writing at her new site http://colanderhat.wordpress.com

Top Tense

2012-01-04T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Bill Mullis

Amy and I were brainstorming the other day in preparation for this piece. There was a point where we stopped what we were doing, looked each other in the eye, and said, “This ain't going to work.” See, for all the love and respect we have for each other and each other’s work, we harbor no delusions about our ability to work together on a writing project. Yep. Two divas, that’s what we are.

So we drew straws to decide who would have the honor of completing the essay. Amy drew the long straw. After soundly beating me with it, she allowed me to proceed.

To that end, I present the following Top Eight Examples of Artistic Tension:

Top Ten Ways To Get Your Husband To Stop Snoring

1. I don't snore.

2. Yes, you do.

3. No, I don't.

4. I want a divorce.

Top Log(10) Funniest Irrational Numbers

1. π (pi)

2. Wait. Is this geek humor?

3. Ummm. Yes?

4. I want a divorce.

Top Ten Cleaning Tips From Women’s Magazines
1. Put garlic cloves in the microwave for a few seconds to make them easier to peel.

2. What? How would that help?

3. I don't know. It just does.

4. That's stupid. And it's a stupid magazine to put such a stupid tip in it.

5. I want a divorce.

Top ten Craftsmen Power Tools, By Intrinsic Coolness

1. Craftsman 19.2 Volt 4 pc. C3 Combo Kit

2. Craftsman Professional Stapler/Brad Nailer, Heavy-Duty, EasyFire™ Forward Action™ with Rapid-Fire

3. Stop.

4. What?

5. What's funny about a list of power tools?

6. Nothing. I said they'd be cool, not funny.

7. We're doing humor. That means funny.

8. I want a divorce.

Top Ten Moments Of Implied Humor In Fitzgerald, Hemingway, And Faulkner

1. Zzzzzzzzz.....

2. I want a divorce.

Top Ten Flatulence Jokes

1. No.

2. What? You wanted funny.

3. What I want now is a divorce.

Top ten reasons Bill is a stinky goo-head

Oh, yeah? Top ten reasons Amy is a....

Watch it, buster!

In short, it wasn't a pretty evening. But we did at least agree on the following list.

Top Ten Ways For A Married Couple With Widely Divergent Styles To Successfully Collaborate On A Humor Project.

1. Get a divorce.

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

2012-01-02T09:00:00.001-05:00

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.

Linus and His Resolutions

2011-12-30T09:00:00.004-05:00

by Jason Tudor

My friend Linus and I sat in the Irish Pub the day after Christmas nursing beers and watching a soccer friendly when he brought up New Year's resolutions.

"You have any?"

I gave up making New Year's resolutions five years ago.

"I got three."

Lay them on me.

"One, I'm gonna lose 25 pounds and get down below three spins."

Three spins?

"On the scale, moron."

Do scales still spin?

"The point is that I wanna lose weight!"

Well, that is good. You are five feet seven inches. Your heart and your insoles will thank you for that.

"The second is to be nicer. Just, you know, nicer. To be a nicer guy."

All right.

"And third ... I want to learn how to salsa dance."

Umm ...

"Well, actually, I've already started that one. Had to take a break since the wife went home for the holidays. Hey, why'd you give up resolutions? You don't like change?"

On the contrary, I love change. I embrace change like my taste buds meeting a bacon-wrapped hunk of veal.

"It's 2012! You get a clean slate!"

You don't, really. You wake up with the same challenges you had the day before. Bills. Children. Illness. Regret. It's all still there plus a walloping hangover if you did New Year's Eve according to Madison Avenue rules.

"So you're saying I'm not gonna get below three hundred pounds?"

I'm saying you've got to be ready to do it. The thing with New Year's resolutions is the need to be, well, resolute. By its very definition, 'resolute' conjures up all sorts of problems around this time of year. It is difficult to be "admirably purposeful, determined, and unwavering" while retailers, hucksters and every con artist with a racket scream for your money; food flies out of ovens faster than you can pack it down; and the niceness gallops like free zebras across the Serengeti. I think this is just a tough time of year to make it happen.

"Plus all those college bowl games and the party clean up and everything else. There's a lot to worry about."

Something like that.

"Hmm. So you're sayin' don't do it?"

I'm saying don't do it NOW. Smarter people than me have said you should wait so you can ensure you have the willpower, some concrete goals and, perhaps most importantly, the support mechanism, like a friend or two, to help you get there. And you've got some things, like that weight loss, that will probably require some encouragement and coaching from a friend. All you'd have to do is find the right person and ask.

"You're right about that because I really need to make that happen. That resolution will be great for my health, I'll feel better about myself, gain some confidence, and I'll see some long-term benefits. That said, umm, can I ask you something?"

Sure.

"Would you mind being my salsa partner for a few days until my wife comes back?"

Jason Tudor is something of a multimedia alchemist who likes buying gadgets and shopping online, mostly because he has to. He's a three-time Department of Defense first-place winner for feature writing and has three published books of poetry. His illustration work appears on websites like the Zombie Dating Guide, and has commissioned work in anthologies "The Undead That Saved Christmas," volumes 1 and 2. Jason is currently working on three novels, including two science fiction books. As such, he the host and producer of "The Science Fiction Show," a weekly podcast on the topic available on iTunes. His website is www.jasontudor.com

Breaking the Jell-O Mold

2011-12-28T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Sara Spock

My lovely parents are about to celebrate their 44^th wedding anniversary on New Year’s Day. In the tradition of our family, we will gather to cook, eat, give gifts, and make fun of one another until perhaps someone goes home crying. It’s a tradition that harkens back to the days of my grandparents, who had the power to cook a seafood feast fit for Poseidon, castigate half the family over nuts and olives, and scare off the rest of us before dessert.

I never knew just what they argued about, but I always remember the longing looks at Aunt Patty’s Jell-O mold, Mom’s delicious apple pie, and adorable little Dixie cups of ice cream. The dessert spread would fade into obscurity as we were ushered out the door in a tangle of winter coats and car keys. I’m lying about the Jell-O mold, that was a great big “Good riddance!”

These days, family dinners are a bit more friendly. My Uncle Frank roasts a fantastic bird while he deftly avoids roasting my Mother. My Sister’s pie’s are filled with sweet honey, creamy pumpkiny goodness, and not an ounce of bitterness. My Sister-in-Law arranges a gorgeous fruit pizza and keeps my brother busy with beverage duty. Mom, baby sister, and I make thousands of cookies and an epic mess in my kitchen. But even a mess of Spock-Women proportions can’t dampen our joy at the sight of 200 rugelach, packed to their buttery edges with walnuts and brown sugar.

Eight grandchildren run circles around tables, dogs, and piles of unfolded laundry, but who cares. We’re family! My little Paleolithic monkey scoops up a turkey leg to adult shrieks of horror while my nieces hide the salt and pepper shakers. One nephew steals a handful of cookies while the others pretend not to notice. Suddenly, it’s clear why my grandparents kicked us out every year. Spock kids are mischievous little stinkers! Food stealing, window breaking, booger smearing, bicker-making machines. But our generation is happy to overlook these impish tendencies, have a laugh, and enjoy our time together. As long as no one brings the Jell-O mold.

Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer and Chocolate Addict. When she’s not wrestling her 5 year old for a turkey leg, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. blog. post. at. a. time.

True Confessions of a Teacher the Last Day before Christmas Break

2011-12-26T12:27:00.001-05:00

by Jeanette Levellie

My palms were sweating. “I’ve got to get this car to the median,” I thought, looking over my shoulder at three lanes of early morning L.A. traffic. “I need a miracle like the parting of the Red Sea.” Wait, wrong Bible story. This was December 20th. How about a miracle similar to finding a birthing manger in Bethlehem?

“Whatever—just help me get to school on time, Lord.”

It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation. My students had always been generous in past years, but I knew they’d pour on the presents today, since it was my final year teaching at the small private school my kids attended before we moved across the country.

I wasn’t fretting over leaving my teens at home alone while I dashed my husband to the train station, or the expense of fixing whatever troubled our sick car. I was thinking of those beribboned boxes of stationery I’d regift at the next Missionary Mamas Christmas party; the “Best Teacher” mugs I’d drink from twice before giving them to Goodwill; and the matching sets of dish towels I’d put in a drawer to give my kids’ teachers next Christmas. The thought of missing all that loot made me want to cry.

As I put the car in neutral and opened the door to begin pushing, a pickup truck pulled up behind me, the driver motioning me to get back in so he could push me from behind. I was able to turn the corner and ease the car to a stop. I smiled as I waved my thanks to the kind driver, noticing the embroidered name on his blue uniform: CLARENCE. “Thanks, Lord,” I chuckled.

By the time I jogged the quarter mile home, more than my palms were sweating, but I didn’t have time to change clothes. Those gifts were waiting.

My sixteen-year-old daughter was thrilled that she got to drive us to school in her car. Her younger brother was not amused. “Mom, the last time Ruthie drove, she went the wrong way up a one-way street and nearly killed us!”

“We’ll just have to risk it, Ben. I may never have another bonanza like this again. I have to get while the getting is good.” He sighed, and grabbed two overstuffed pillows from the couch on his way out the door. This was the dark ages, before airbags.

We made it to school in record time, with only one mishap—a scratch on the passenger side from a holly bush in a residential neighborhood. “Don’t’ worry, honey,” I crooned to Ruthie, “it’s hard to judge your speed when you’re turning corners. Those people shouldn’t have planted that bush so close to the sidewalk, anyway.”

As Ben staggered out of the back seat, still clutching his pillows, he moaned and slapped his forehead. “We forgot our lunches, Mom. You made us go in such a hurry; we left them on the kitchen table. I can’t make it ‘til 3:30 with nothing to eat!”

I put my arm around his shoulder as we walked into the building together. “Don’t worry, son. I’m counting on at least three boxes of See’s candy and two fruitcakes. I’ll share with you, okay?”

A spunky pastor’s wife of thirty-six years, Jeanette has published articles, greeting card verses, stories and calendar poems. She authors a bi-weekly humor/inspirational column in her local newspaper, and enjoys speaking to church and civic groups, offering hope and humor in every message. She is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to several cats. Her debut book Two Scoops of Grace with Chuckles on Top releases in April 2012. Find her mirthful musings at www.jeanettelevellie.com

Happy Hollydaze

2011-12-23T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Terri Lynn Coop

Christmas means different things to everyone. Fun, family, presents, a grueling ordeal at grandma’s house . . .

To single people, it also means the chance to pick up some extra bucks at the mall. Work the Friday after Thanksgiving? No problem. Work Christmas Eve? No problem. We are the few, the proud – the elves – and it’s our minimum wage job to make sure you have a joyous holiday (insert sarcastic laugh). Hey, those awkward family photos aren’t going to take themselves.

That’s how I, an unmarried childless college student, became “The Talking Christmas Tree” at Sunrise Mall. It was a twelve-foot tall, garishly decorated, low-tech monster with hand-operated controls for the eyes and mouth. Fifteen hours a week I’d jump the candy cane fence, look both ways for idealistic children, open the hatch, and lock myself in the tree carcass, ready to spread joy and holiday spirit, as well as be nowhere near a bathroom for four to five hours.

As any college mascot will tell you, there’s something magical about a big galumphy character costume. Your inhibitions fly to the four winds. I found myself singing off-key Christmas carols at top volume as well as calling out to random passerbys, “Mewwwy Chwwwistmas” (when in character, I had a lisp for some unexplained reason). Break into a random chorus of “Jingle Bells” when someone has their back turned to you and watch the packages fly. Man, I loved that job.

Hey, but it’s all about the kids, right? Unfortunately, most of the little ones were scared to death of me. I was a twelve-foot tall tree with a face bigger than they were. The animatronics were clunky and my sound system wasn’t exactly Dolby. I did my best, but more often than not when the parents coaxed them up my glittery candy cane path, they were rewarded with screeching howls. I wonder how many of the little darlings became lumberjacks to deal with the trauma. Ah, there are no memories like Christmas memories.

A first-grade class made a special trip just to see me (I know!). A fresh-faced moppet approached and I asked, “What’s your name?” (paragraph 3 of the training brochure, “using the child’s name makes a magical connection and enriches the experience.”)

“Mewwy Chwistmas (the signature lisp), what’s your name?”

“TZighisblimi.”

“What?”

“TZighisblimi.”

“Okay . . .”

“The Z is silent and the gh pronounces like sh,” adds the teacher.

Awkward silence.

“Hi there, big boy! What would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas?”

To this day, I address all unknown children as “big boy” and “pretty girl.”

One quiet night, I had some teenagers threaten to tip the tree over. They were rocking it back and forth when I turned the volume up to 10 and sang (yes, sang),“HO HO HO! HEE HEE HEE! SOMEONE CALL SECURITY! HELP THE TALKING CHRISTMAS TREE!”

My band of would-be Scrooges scattered like autumn leaves.

When my tree time was up, I would extricate myself and head to the other mall to don my suspenders and pointy boots for a shift as “photo elf” at Santa’s workshop. It cheers me to know that those photos I took have embarrassed prom dates, fiancés, and now their own children. Ah, the circle of life.

To all the Ermas and our readers, I hope you have a Mewwwy Chwwwistmas!

Terri Lynn Coop is a lawyer by day and writer by night. With her two intrepid Chihuahua companions, she braves life on the prairie and her death-duel with a chronically leaky roof. Check out her photo blog at www.whyifearclowns.net if you dare.

Little Miss Manners

2011-12-21T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Melanie Hooyenga

My childhood was aseries of visiting with one group of adults after another. By first grade I felt more comfortable chatting with my parents’ friends than with children my own age—at least until I was shooed to the other room to entertain myself.

When I was around nine, my parents dragged me to the home of a business associate, Miss Cathy, for an early Christmas dinner. She didn’t have children of her own, but a random little girl was there with whom I was instructed to play. (Really? Why is this okay to do to children? You’d never stick an adult in a room with a stranger and expect them to flop on the floor with a coloring book and crayons and become best friends. But anyway…)

Miss Cathy’s house was not child-friendly, so her solution to preventing us from destroying her ornate furniture was shutting us in a musty bedroom. After lying on the thin carpet, coloring our boring pictures, we decided we’d had enough. Accepting her challenge of being “mischievous children”, we crept from our cell to sneak cookies and juice from the kitchen.

And were busted.

From them on we were commanded to ask permission if we wanted more treats. Me being a social creature, I returned to the living room over and over to interrupt their conversation, and each time I was scolded for not using my manners.

“You should never interrupt when grown-ups are speaking, and you must always say excuse me and wait for permission to speak.” Miss Cathy looked down her nose when she spoke, which may be why I the following winter I pelted her car with snowballs when she passed the bus stop. (Then hid behind another child when she stopped, got out of the car, and screamed at all of us. But that’s another story.)

Hanging with the adults clearly wasn’t happening, so I returned to my fate of coloring until my fingers we so waxy they could remove facial hair, if I’d had any back then. Not knowing the beauty benefits of that much wax, I tip-toed from the bedroom to wash my hands, and froze in the hallway.

The dinner table, which Miss Cathy had painstakingly set with an antique lace tablecloth and her mother’s best china, was on fire.

I raced to the living room, the words bursting from my lips. “Miss Cathy the—“

“Melanie, what did I tell you about interrupting?” she calmly inquired.

“But Miss Cathy the table—“

“You need to calm down and wait until we’re finished talking.”

I took a deep breath, looked at my parents, and decided to hell with my manners. “BUT THE TABLE IS ON FIRE!”

That got their attention. All three adults sprang from their comfortable, non-musty chairs and surrounded the flaming table. Miss Cathy grabbed a pitcher from one end of the table and dumped its contents over the fire. Unfortunately for her that pitcher had grape juice, and her table looked worse than if she’d let us play in the there in the first place.

I still interrupt people, but I also check for the closest basin of water so I can take matters into my own hands.

Melanie Hooyenga is a salsa dancing graphic designer writing her way to publication. When not chasing her Miniature Schnauzer in circles around the living room, she’s dodging woodland creatures that insist on swooping in front of her car. She always loves a good accidental-fire story and asks that you share your catastrophes with her at @melaniehoo.

On Looking Into the Light

2011-12-19T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Pauline Campos

I make sad things funny. It’s a coping mechanism, I am sure. But it’s also an engrained part of my culture.

Sometimes, though, sad things make themselves funny. Like when my aunt told my father to look into the light.

As he lay on his deathbed.

Oh, she didn’t mean it that way. But English isn’t her first language. So while my sisters and I were fighting tears and laughter for two separate reasons, my father’s sisters were rallying my him to stay with us as they rubbed his hands and patted his feet and reminded my father of all the reasons he needed to focus on living.

He was 50 and had gone into the hospital to have heart valve replacement surgery (the original surgery a result of rheumatic fever he suffered as a child) and was supposed to have been released in time to celebrate Christmas with the family. Being the cocky Mexican stereotype that he was, it hadn’t really entered his mind that he might not come home. And because we all believed him to be the strongest man in the world, we had only focused on making fun of him while he recovered.

But problems arose after the surgery. And after a few close calls, the doctors finally told me and my mother to call everyone to the hospital. He wouldn’t make it more than a few hours.

There were only a few people to call. If you break your toe in my family, we are required to turn the waiting room into an ethnic stereotype. Every tia, tio, prima, and primo within driving distance is called to appear at the hospital, waiting for the afflicted to emerge, triumphant and cured. I am sure the hospital staff groans when we all arrive; a Spanglish three ring circus. Even as the doctor quietly urged us to notify friends and family, he looked around at the standing room only crowd already present.

Five daughters.

Two son-in-laws.

One Godson.

One grandfather.

Two brother-in-laws.

Three of four sisters.

One Niece.

One (or was it two?) long time friends.

One uncle who had flown in from Texas.

One aunt who had delayed her trip back to Mexico.

One wife of thirty years…who just happened to be celebrating her 49th birthday that very day on November 27, 2007.

But we made calls. My in-laws were at my house taking care of 5-month-old Buttercup, but everyone else we could get a hold of did their best to arrive before my father left us. And while we waited for the inevitable, my aunts continued to rally my father.

“Rene! Rene! Stay with us! You have your daughter’s Rene. Pauline, Veronica, Sonya, Maria, Patricia!”

Stay with us, Rene! You have the grandchildren!”

“Rene! Dorothy is here, Rene. It’s her birthday, Rene. She needs you to take care of her, Rene!”

His signs were fading.
The beeping was slowing.
The tears were flowing.

I kept my eyes closed. Easier to block the tears that way. I needed to stay focused on catching my mother before she hit the ground when the last beep would eventually fade away. And that damned light over his bed was harsh enough to sting my already tired eyes.

I stood in between Pati and Sonya, with one arm around each of their shoulders. Being six inches taller than both of them, I was able to offer them a place to rest their heads while I used them for support to keep standing.

None of us spoke. We just let my dad’s sisters cry and wail and toggle between English and Spanish while they tried to break through to his spirit. His body may have been failing, but he was strong. Maybe strong enough to make the impossible possible. If only they could reach him.

“Rene!” One of his sister’s cried out. “Rene! Look into the light, Rene! Look into the light!”

My eyes shot open as my face crumpled into a pained expression that had nothing to do with my father and everything to do with me trying to bite back a “What the HELL?” at what had just been uttered.

“Really?

Really?”

She, of course, meant the light over his bed. The one harnessing the power of the sun. The one we would have joked was bright enough to wake the dead had my father not been dying.

But a chuckle, which came out as a muffled sob, escaped one of my sisters. Sonya and Pati, tears streaming down their cheeks, both looked up at me. They wanted to laugh. My father would have laughed. He would have laughed his ass off. But it wasn’t the right time. Later. We could laugh after we got home. After we had signed off on the autopsy. After we got my mother into bed. While we sat huddled together waiting to leave for the funeral home. After we got home from the service. When we needed a reason to remind us that Christmas was a time of happiness. We could, and would laugh about it often. All it took was one of us to dramatically call out, “Look into the light!”

But not now. Not yet.

I pursed my lips and silently shook my head slowly. It was as much an admonition for them as it was a reminder to me not to lose it. Because good God, I needed to laugh.

“Rene! Look into the light!” She cried out, as the beeping slowed even more. “Look into light!”

My father had never listened to his sisters. He never listened to anyone. But as the beep, beep, beep finally drew itself out into a heart-wrenching “beeeeeeeeeeep” until one of the nurses (thankfully) turned off the machines, as I let go of my sisters to catch my mother before she fell to the floor…I had one thought.

“Damn it, Dad! Fifty years! And you listen to them now?”

Dodging the Christmas Bullet

2011-12-16T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Patti Wigington

Years ago, I was faced with spending my first Christmas away from my family. Rescue appeared in the form of a nice Marine I was dating. We’ll call him Joe, in case he’s reading this, twenty-five years later. Joe came from a big family in upstate New York, and he invited me to spend Christmas with them. Great! I’d fit in perfectly and they’d love me.

Being sweet, Joe insisted on buying my plane tickets. Being not-too-bright, he booked the cheapest deal available, which meant two days before Christmas, I flew alone from South Carolina, through Atlanta, and into Buffalo, where I was stuffed aboard a small puddle-jumper into Schenectady. This took all day, and I was boarding planes that got progressively smaller and flying into cities that were increasingly colder. When I landed in Schenectady, it was about ten degrees. As if that wasn’t bad enough, a flight attendant spilled vodka on me, and I changed into the one extra piece of clothing that was in my carry-on bag, which was a black mini-skirt.

Imagine me trying to run across a snowy tarmac in Schenectady wearing high-heeled boots, a black mini-skirt, and a Be-Dazzled jean jacket, looking like an escapee from Santa’s Island of Misfit Hookers.

It got worse. His uber-religious family was horrified that I wasn’t wearing church clothes for midnight mass (just an hour after my plane landed), Joe dragged me to the mall on Christmas Eve to buy presents for all fourteen of his nieces and nephews, and one of his sisters gave me a Bible wrapped in a giant fluffy pink cover that looked like a lacy cake with my name embroidered on it and spelled incorrectly.

And then, just when Awkward Holiday Moments couldn’t have descended into any further madness, it happened. On Christmas Day, in front of the tree.

Joe got down on one knee, in front of his entire family, and presented me with an engagement ring.

Gentlemen, when you go to propose to a young lady, do NOT do it in front of your entire family. Because much like a cornered wildebeest, she could quite possibly vomit all over your mother’s Martha Stewart–inspired living room.

Yep. I was THAT girl. The one who upchucked after a combination of stress, pilfered communion wine, sleep deprivation, a giant sausage and kipper breakfast, and the horror of publicly being asked to marry someone I only vaguely knew while his extended family looked on, grinning at me.

I don’t remember my exact answer. To avoid any further humiliation, I muttered something about “Oh let’s talk about this later,” and beat a hasty retreat to the safety of the guest room. It was all a blur after that, and a few days later I was back in Charleston, not officially engaged, but still in possession of a ring.

I’m happy to report that I dodged a bullet. A few months later, Joe got injured in a training exercise and was sent to a hospital where he fell in love with – and dumped me for – a trauma nurse. I, in turn, pawned the ring for a hundred bucks and bought my first typewriter, which was far more useful.

In retrospect, Joe probably dodged a huge bullet too.

Christmas Chaos

2011-12-14T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Amy A. Mullis

When the Ghost of Christmas yet to come starts spreading its merry magic around, anything can happen. One year, the spirit of Snap, Crackle, and Pop possessed me, and with a happy heart and handicapped hands I set about to make Rice Krispie treats.

I’m not sure where I went wrong, but the next day my family strung electrified razor wire around the kitchen door. Now I can use the refrigerator only when accompanied by a guardian. The egg compartment is password protected.

I might not bake like Betty Crocker, but I mix like a manic bartender. Ingredients disappeared into the bowl like bathtub toys down the drain.

I was elbow-deep in marshmallow crème and crunchy bits when the phone rang.

I looked at the phone.

I looked at the mass of seasonal sweetness glistening in the mixing bowl.

Ring Ring

Surely it was a late night salesman calling with an offer on reindeer rides or antler cleaners.

Ring Ring

Or it could be. . .

Ring Ring

Santa.

I lunged for the phone.

Across the dog napping by my chair. Across the table. Across the mixing bowl full of sticky, marshmallow goodness.

Which immediately grabbed my bosom like a Hoover on a hairball.

I squealed and grabbed at the sticky mass stuck to my sweater. My hands stuck tight.

The phone rang forlornly. Would Santa wait? I couldn’t take that chance.

I wedged a rubber spatula somewhere a spatula should never go and tried to pry myself loose from the goo. No luck. Finally, through the use of my gourmet kitchen superpowers, I pulled a hand free and grabbed the phone. Crispy Christmas spirit clung to my clothes like a solidified lava flow.

“Hello, Santa?!”

Dial tone.

I sat back to ponder the situation, one hand stuck to my shirt in a modified Pledge of Allegiance salute, the other hand held fast to the telephone.

About that time the Captain came in the back door. “Why didn’t you answer the phone? I wanted to ask you about the ingredients for the . . .”

Here he uttered an oath that he generally reserves for finding that I’ve used the last of the 12-year-old single malt Scotch to pre-soak the socks. It’s not something I did more than once, thinking surely if there were any substance that could take on Carolina Red Clay, it would be the stuff that dissolved my taste buds and disintegrated the lining of my stomach. This attempt was unsuccessful, but lead to a discussion called “We Don’t Use the Good Liquor On The Laundry,” which is my favorite lecture after, “We Don’t Shave Sweaters With My Norelco.”

I looked up at him, Rice Krispie clumps hanging from my sweater like Christmas tree ornaments and marshmallow crème tipping my eyelashes like disco balls. The Labrador dozing at my feet dreaming of sugarplums looked like a Candyland Appaloosa.

That night I discovered the true meaning of Christmas. When the chips are down and your snap and crackle have lost their pop, a man who will chisel petrified puffed rice out of your navel is worth more than a herd of flying reindeer.

But these days? I buy Corn Flakes.

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

2011-12-12T09:00:00.001-05:00

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

The Sweet Smells of Christmas

2011-12-09T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Tricia Gillespie

I felt the skin of my arm stick together like a piece of double-sided tape that had somehow made its way into the deep recesses of my armpit. Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead and I went running as inconspicuously as possible through the crowded, candlelit church. I bee-lined for the basement and ran full throttle into my mother.

“Oh, mom! You made it out earlier than expected.” I blurted a quick greeting while pushing her back into the ladies’ room.

‘Mary,’ draped in biblical robes, was stealing one last check in the mirror before taking center stage in the Christmas play. I frantically lifted my arms and stuck my nose into my pits, all my worst fears coming to fruition. Lady’s Speed Stick had failed me, or worse, I had failed Lady’s Speed Stick.

My mother’s eyes bugged and she swung her head in shame as I announced that although I forgot to use deodorant, I HAD taken a shower within the hour.

“Do you think I smell already?” The questioned mainly directed at the woman who’d birthed me.

Before I knew what was happening, Mary popped her nose into the pits and stamped my forehead fresh. Thankfully I used gobs of fig and brown sugar body cream when I dressed, but I didn’t want to smell like a week old casserole by the end of Christmas Eve service.

When ‘Mary’ declared me odor-free, a chuckle escaped one of the stalls. Oh, no, tell me it’s not a guest, I thought.

“Lord, of all nights, on this eve of your son’s birth, please let me know the face behind the chuckle.” This short, but fervent prayer lifted heavenward as my mouth questioned “Who is in there?”

“Diane!” She called back with a chuckle.

“Thank you God” I uttered up to the ceiling. I much rather embarrass myself in front of a friend than a stranger.

If there were ever a time I needed a long lasting deodorant, it was tonight. I spent the evening in a frenzy preparing all the refreshments for the fellowship time directly following the candlelight service. I set up the chairs, decorated the serving table, and enticingly displayed the food. Food must look lovely even if it doesn’t taste yummy.

Now on the eve of this the biggest holiday of the year – the holiday I hug my friends, foes, and family, I forget my deodorant! This year I’m trying to remember not to smell bad. There’s nothing worse than being mistaken for a casserole at the Christmas party.

Tricia Gillespie is a stay-at-home mom and freelance writer who loves Christmas. She’s always on the hunt for vintage ornaments and new holiday recipes; however, she swore off casseroles after her fish-stick/cream-of-mushroom soup disaster. This holiday season she’s trying to remember deodorant, but if she forgets, she now keeps an extra Lady’s Speed stick in her purse, the car, and her desk drawer. You can visit her on her blog, The Domestic Fringe. She wishes you all fresh smelling holidays.

Can't Keep a Good Christmas Down

2011-12-07T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Carole Lee

Holiday disasters come in all shapes and sizes, and no one is immune. From the time my brother was five-years-old -- old enough to climb the Christmas tree -- to last year, the year of “The Casserole,” I have learned that disasters seek us out, as if Santa is on a budget, and trying his best to knock us all over to the naughty side in order to save a few pounds of reindeer feed and shave a few hours off his yearly voyage.

Thankfully, for my mother’s sanity, my brother’s tree-climbing interest lasted only one holiday season. By New Years, the tree looked like a war zone. Not a single piece of tinsel was spared. Most of the branches hung limp and lifeless, and some were broken and dangling. Pine needles littered the brown shag carpet like holiday shrapnel. The obligatory Christmas picture that year featured me, grinning like a three-year-old who had yet to gain an appreciation for rattling Mom’s nerves, my brother, staring at me as if he were plotting my demise (he was), and poor Mom, looking disheveled, tired and staring off into space.

My former landlady, Eleanor, had an interesting Christmas disaster that she shared with me. She divorced young, and raised her two boys on her own. For that, she deserved a medal. What she got was something entirely different, most days. One Christmas, she invited a nice fellow over for dinner, and put her boys on their best behavior. What she didn’t know was that her younger son, Chris, had not only adopted a cat, but he was keeping him in his room. And feeding him. A lot. Eleanor’s friend arrived early for dinner just in time for her to discover that the kitchen stove quit dead with the turkey half raw, the furnace stopped working, the water pipes froze... and WHAT was that smell?! They did eventually track down the odor, which was emanating from Chris’ room. All over his room. He was a little too young to understand that cats need a litter box, and every time there was a mess, he hid it under a toy or a pillow or a blanket. At least her friend brought a bottle of bourbon for them to share after feeding the kids Cheerios for Christmas dinner.

Holiday disasters hit us all when we’re not looking, but the great thing is how families can tighten up and still share joy. When my boys were little, my ex-husband’s grandfather and my grandmother both died on the same day, three days before Christmas, and just a few hours apart. That could have been the worst disaster ever, but we decided that it wouldn’t lick us. We had our Christmas, if only just for the kids, and there was joy.

As far as disasters go, the only thing we can’t mentally recover from is last year’s mystery casserole. At least its physical effects wore off after a few days.

Skatin' Blues

2011-12-05T09:00:00.002-05:00

by Angie Mansfield

You know that moment in every horror film where the blonde / brunette / redheaded bimbo walks, in just her Underoos and a t-shirt, down the darkened stairs / into the creepy cellar / outside on the porch of her remote forest cabin, without so much as turning on a My Little Pony night-light? That moment, when everyone in the movie theater shouts at her not to go down there / in there / out there, because the knife-wielding maniac / evil hell-demon / Richard Simmons is out there, ready to dismember and/or eat her?

Well, someone in the peanut gallery should have warned me.

Even a simple, "Hey, pleasingly-plump girl! That activity is not recommended for people of your gravitational force!" would have been nice.

But no, the cackling hyenas let me go out there, with predictable results.

I am speaking, of course, of my first experience ice skating.

It should be an easy thing to master, judging from the number of toddlers who were zipping around the rink, pirouetting, and pointing and laughing on their way past. Even the ones I managed to trip just popped back up again, flashed me a rather age-inappropriate hand gesture, and sped off on their merry way.

Unfortunately, I have about as much grace as a newborn foal, even on dry land. On ice, as it turned out, I was utterly hopeless.

"Bend your knees!" shouted my not-at-all helpful friend. His voice was a bit wheezy, due to his uncontrolled laughter. "Try just pushing yourself with one foot at first."

This might have been helpful advice, were I able to get into a standing position in the first place. Upon touching the ice, my skates had shot neatly out from under me, causing me to land hard on my ample backside, and I couldn't figure out how to get enough traction to get back up again. Instead, I lay there flailing, entertaining an entire rink full of people, until I finally hit on the brilliant idea of dragging myself off the ice with my forearms, performing a sort of commando crawl.

When I finally managed to get to the wall of the rink and pull myself up, I had to dangle there, arms planted on the top of the wall and feet slipping in every direction as I tried to secure them under me. My friend made the unwise decision to step too close, and I grabbed the front of his parka in one desperation-strengthened fist. I yanked him close, and let him get a good look at the crazy in my eyes.

"Get me...off...these damned things," I growled at him.

The episode wasn't a total loss, however. My skates, as it turned out, made a great roof ornament for Christmas. Come to think of it, I'd better go get them down. After the holidays, of course. Ho, ho, ho.

Angie Mansfield, perhaps unsurprisingly, lives alone with her dog and a jade plant named Fred. Yes, her plant has a name. You can visit him at Jaded Fred, though he probably won't like it.

Holidays on Holiday

2011-12-02T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Adam Slade

“Dashing through the snooow,

In a one moose open sleigh,

O'er the fields we gooo,

Dodging bears all the way,

Bells on cat tails riiing

Knocking down trees tonight

Oh what fun it is to sing

In a Newfie accent toniiight.”

This Christmas will be my first spent away from the family. Let me explain for the sake of those who haven’t read my earlier articles. Because I’m nice like that. Stop rolling your eyes.

Back in April I decided that, as much as I like my family, real bacon, and decent cheddar, I would rather like to fly to Canada and marry my sweetheart. Y’know, ‘cause I’m weird like that.

So I headed to the airport, sat at the wrong terminal for an hour, and I was off.

It’s now many months later and Christmas is approaching. In fact it’s already on the highway in its ’57 Chevrolet, windows down, Radar Love blaring out of the speakers. And it ain’t braking for ice patches, moose, or odd Englishmen with crude goatees.

It’s not that I want to go home. Far from it. I want to experience Chrimbo, Newfoundland style. It’s just that I’m a rather traditional person at heart, and it takes me a while to break a habit. And this one’s a doozy.

My prior Christmases were standard in their, um, standarditude, but I loved them. Early rise, early stumble down the stairs, early cuddle of dog(s), first cup of tea, wait for appearance of grandparent, another cup of tea, open things, rejoice, more tea, too much chocolate, watch grandparent fall asleep while watching classic comedy re-runs and sipping tea. It was simple, it was a little heavy on the tea, but it was very happy.

This Christmas will be a little different. For one thing, I may freeze to death in my sleep. That would be a bummer. We will have lights, and we will have a tree, but it will be a cat friendly fibre-optic tree. There won’t be any dogs to sniff at the cable and give me a heart attack when I think they’ll bite through it.

There will be fun and frolics, and general merry-making, and I will have to find some mistletoe and use it whenever Sweetie is least expecting it, but my brother won’t be there to make retching sounds when I do.

And there won’t be my folks. I’m not one for sentimentality most of the year, but Christmas is special. It’s a time for family.

That being said, I am looking forward to a few quiet days with the missus and the cat. So far we’ve been through two birthdays and a Canada Day together, but not a Christmas or New Years Day. Those were previously spent over the webcam, unwrapping on camera (assuming things arrived on time) and wishing they’d implement Hug-O-Vision.

This time, though, we’ll get to exchange presents in the same time zone, and I won’t have to wipe the lip marks off my monitor.

Uh, not that I ever did that. Honest.

Merry Christmas, folks.

On Shopping Habits of Men

2011-11-30T09:00:00.005-05:00

By Jason Tudor

Black Friday is little more than a notation in the margins of an accountant's ledger now. However, the consumer zombie walk that is the holiday shopping season is underway! That said, many men are not predisposed to this euphoria of wedging into a packed mall in Bayonne and fighting tooth-and-nail for the final ShamWow. Many men believe that December is when NASCAR dies, pro football comes to a head and Santa drops 72-inch LCD televisions down their chimneys.

Many of us just aren't wired to shop. We're wired for laughing at monkeys, nodding our heads in agreement about the Turf-and-Turf, and a whole lot of other things that don't come close to stepping foot in the Yankee Candle Store at the Paramus Park Mall. That said, I'm happy to provide a bit of insight to that wiring and what can be expected over the next 24 days or so about male shopping and co-shopping habits. Even better, it's in list form! I would recommend making this bad boy credit-card sized and stuffing it into your wallets. It could save a marriage. On we go:

1. Men do like to shop. That's why God invented Bass Pro Shops.

2. Men don't like to "shop." That is, if we're the third wheel on some "me and some new FMPs scavenger hunt," that will wear us down quickly. The whole notion of joining a hoard speeding from sale to sale on Black Friday is about as appealing as a canker sore. On the other hand, if it turns out to be a barbarian hoard with looting, plundering and generalized mayhem along the way, we're in.

3. We don't like to shop for clothes. We just go buy them. Really. Clothes are utilitarian. When we walk into a store, we think, "Shirt. Pant. Shoe. Sock." Colors and seasons are best left to foliage experts. In fact, if our clothes are washed well enough, we'll believe those are new. And if you don't believe this, think of how many times a guy has picked up a shirt or pair of underwear off the floor, buried his nose in them, turned to you and said, "Yeah, I think these are still good."

4. We like parking. This is hunter-gatherer material at its finest. There is also a level of hubris generated by the proposition of cramming a Dodge Ram 1500 into the space the size of a Smart Car. There's another joke here about the euphemism that same hubris creates, but I'll refrain.

5. We will form fraternities of the moment.We know each other, my brother. We're standing in Victoria Secret with our hands in our pockets looking for anything that might be vaguely smeared with testosterone. We see each other from across the store. We nod. Though we're trapped in the girly underwear armageddon, you and I are staring at each other silently saying, "Let's smear each other with deer urine and get the hell out of here." Or something like that.

6. We want to do the thing that gets us back to the remote control fastest. We realize when we go shopping, many times, our roles include chauffeur, skycap, and unshaven sycophant. If that social lubricant gets us home before the kickoff of Roll Tide and the return of our left hands down the front of our pants, the more the better.

While this wiring schematic doesn't cover all guys (insert trite 99-percent joke here) and is incomplete, it gives insight to those men who will stand in the the Mall of America, the North Star Mall and elsewhere with those Thousand-Yard Stares on their faces. Good luck and happy shopping.

Jason Tudor is something of a multimedia alchemist who likes buying gadgets and shopping online, mostly because he has to. He's a three-time Department of Defense first-place winner for feature writing and has three published books of poetry. His illustration work appears on websites like the Zombie Dating Guide, and has commissioned work in anthologies "The Undead That Saved Christmas," volumes 1 and 2. Jason is currently working on three novels, including two science fiction books. As such, he the host and producer of "The Science Fiction Show," a weekly podcast on the topic available on iTunes. His website is www.jasontudor.com.

The Score

2011-11-28T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Terri Coop

Since 1995, I’ve shopped so you don’t have to. Or so you could, depending on your outlook. I’m one of the dealers you see at flea markets or don’t see at antique malls and online. Back in 1999, I was selling vintage toys on AOL bulletin boards when we heard a rumor, “there’s this new website called eBay, where you can sell stuff . . .” We were skeptical, but launched a legend. I’m an eBay OG, from the days when the system would only take 200 sales per hour.

So, where does all the stuff come from? From shopping. I’ve toughed it out at elegant auctions, froze at farm auctions, had a grandma whack me with her cane at a church sale, reached through a crowd of ten-year-olds to snatch a Barbie, and dug through dumpsters to rescue vintage Boy Scout memorabilia. But, most of it comes from relentless searching at garage sales, estate auctions, and out-of- the-way flea markets.

It’s usually a measured job. “Hmmm, that’s a dollar and I can sell it for five.” However, the secret that keeps us digging through your junk is the search for the most elusive of all prey, “The Score.”

The Score is seeing a doll’s foot sticking out of the dollar box at a garage sale. It looks familiar. I approach cautiously. Odds are that half of the other shoppers are dealers as well.

Keeping it cool. Keeping it cool.

I pull out the doll and . . . well . . . angels sing. That little lady is a 1970s icon. Fighting to keep my breathing steady and to project calm, I pick out a couple of generic teddy bears from the box to mask my treasure. On the way out I grabbed a doll dress as an afterthought. It would sell for about five dollars and, hey, gas is not cheap.

Waving to the other dealers, I head to the check-out. Then I hear a voice, “I’m sorry, there’s been a mistake.”

My heart sank. I’d been had. Clutching my bundle tighter I turned to face the music.

“That doll dress is really valuable. It shouldn’t have been put out for sale. I want to keep it because it’s really old and rare.”

Trying not to jump for joy, I surrender the five-dollar doll dress with a poker-faced, “not a problem, I understand.”

I paid my three dollars and beat feet back to the car. I sold the doll for $325.00. Hey, I gave back the dress without an argument and I had a receipt for my $3.00. All’s far in love, war, and garage sales.

I got out of it for a few years. However, a couple of weeks ago I randomly stopped at some garage sales. At one I saw a riot of color and smiling faces heaped in a box. Care Bears. Vintage 1985 Care Bears . . . for fifty cents each. Ignored by all the other shoppers. Was that the sound of angels? Time and sales will tell. However, as I carried the entire box back to my car, I thought, “I’ve still got it . . .”

We no longer shop there

2011-11-25T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Carole Lee

Shopping with Mr. Vagabond is like winding up a Jack in the Box: I know something is going to happen, and I know I’m going to need a sedative afterward. And yet I do it anyway. Through the years, I have learned a thing or two. If I can’t see it coming, I can at least get even afterward.

Our first Christmas, we had a plan. Get into the mall, split up, get what we needed and get out before any elves or hairy old men in red suits did something rash. Like singing. Or spreading cheer. There are enough contagious things going around during the holidays, and the CDC says there is no cure for communicable ho-ho-ho-ing.

He went his way, and I headed through the department store toward the makeup counter. Makeup counters are scary enough under normal circumstances. During the holidays, they become a festival of frenzied shoppers and clerks with gravity-defying eyebrows. Also noteworthy is the promise of a special gift (read: all the stuff that no one bought last season). Women covet free, frosty purple lipstick, even though it was unappealing in the Spring Collection. There is no rational explanation, besides the free plastic tote that accompanies it.

I wedged my way through the eager masses and up to the front of the herd. A Stepford Clerk who smelled of Essence du Jump for Joy approached me with a smile that warranted its own marker on the UV index. Gracefully adjusting a bra strap (mine, not hers), I made my request.

“Perfectionne a la Beaute’ -- economy size, please.”

Her smile wilted slightly. I never have been able to navigate those fancy words.

Just about the time she returned with my purchase, I heard Mr. Vagabond’s voice booming across my right shoulder.

“Hey! You’re not allowed to touch me there!!”

The mass of once-giddy patrons parted like the red sea, abandoning their free purple lipsticks and plastic totes on the counter. On lady scurried off with only half her complimentary makeover completed. Silence fell over the department. Mr. Vagabond stood, looking victimized and glaring at me. Stepford girl gasped and dropped the glistening golden miracle jar on the floor.

I no longer shop there.

He’s a large child, really.

To preserve the holiday spirit, I waited. We women can keep the little things simmering for ages. It’s a talent.

Months later, while standing at the counter of his favorite auto parts store, he regaled the cute female clerk about his awesome, super-modified Jeep. He was mid-sentence, ordering yet another part that he didn’t need, but really wanted, when I casually interjected.

“Just let Me know when you’re ready, baby, and I’ll go out and start the Jeep for you.”

For those of you who have never owned an old Jeep, I should explain. I can neither drive, nor start it. Operating his Jeep requires a level of active participation, coordination and length of leg that I simply do not possess. He prides himself on being the only person who can manage it.

I thought he was going to die. Or kill me. Or both. The girl behind the counter almost looked scared for me from behind the smirk that she couldn’t hide.

He no longer shops there.

Maggie Moments

2011-11-23T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Jeanette Levellie

My husband met me at the door, his eyebrows in V-formation, always a sign of worry. “Why were you gone so long, hon?” he asks. “You just went to mail one package.”

I threw my purse and myself onto the couch, grabbing a cat for comfort. “I had a Maggie moment,” I sighed. He shook his head and grinned. A look of relaxed understanding took the place of the V-formation.

Maggie, bless her darlin’ heart and ditzy head, is a crisis magnet. She’s the one person in our family we can rely on to add drama to our lives. Every errand turns into a screenplay for a feature film. Take a simple trip to the market for a bag of noodles.

“I think it was that checker’s first day on the job,” Maggie moans, dumping her sack of groceries on the kitchen counter. “She didn’t know where the noodles were, and had to call the manager. He showed me the right aisle, but they were out of whole-wheat noodles. So I decided to run up to the Pine Street Market—that took forever since I got behind a funeral—and then I discovered they’d gone out of business. I had to go back to the first market and buy flour and eggs to make our own noodles. It’ll only take three hours. You don’t mind having dinner a little late tonight, do you?”

We’ve tried to analyze why Maggie thrives on trouble above her fellows. We can go to the post office, market, or bank and run into glitches that annoy us to Mars and back. Yet, we only get a tenth of the emotional surge from our episodes as Maggie does. We still haven’t discovered why her predicaments are superior to ours. We may never.

Oh, I see by your knowing smile that you have a Maggie in your family, too. I also see that same look of confusion on your face that we get every time a Maggie moment happens. It sure helps to know we’re not alone.

Although the solution to dealing with Maggies is not easy, it is simple. To paraphrase my friend Jesus, whose family was filled with Maggies, “You just gotta love ‘em.”

“Nutty with a dash of meat” best describes Jeanette Levellie’s speaking, writing and life. She has published hundreds of humor/inspirational columns, articles, greeting cards, and poems. A spunky pastor’s wife, Jeanette is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to four cats. Her debut humor/inspirational book, Mirth and Worth in the Real Lane, releases in April of 2012. Find her mirthful musings at www.jeanettelevellie.com

Getting Thrifty

2011-11-21T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Patti Wigington

I’m not a very good shopper. My friends tell me I shop like a guy – I know what I want, I walk in, I buy it, and I leave. Shopping is a “Wham-bam-thank-you-Kohl’s” experience for me – other than cute shoes and pretty lingerie, there aren’t many things I really dig shopping for.

And yet, I love the thrift store. My thrift store – and by “my,” I mean, the one I go to because it’s convenient and huge and full of good stuff that nobody wants anymore – is housed in a former K-Mart, so it’s basically several acres of stuff. It’s in no particular order, although the women’s stuff is one side, the men’s on the other, and allegedly it’s all arranged by size. There are no fitting rooms, so everything is a crap shoot, unless I plan ahead and wear a pair of yoga pants and a tank top, in which case I can try things on over what I’ve already got on. I walk in, I grab a bunch of stuff, and I walk out.

The thrift store isn’t shopping. It’s a treasure hunt.

Kids need winter jackets? There’s a perfectly nice LL Bean down-filled one at the end of the aisle for just $12 – and it’s Orange Tagged, which means on Wednesdays that coat is only $6. I found a vintage Mary Tyler Moore-esque coat for $8 – the perfect size for my very tall 11-year-old. Like fleece sweaters? Here’s a bunch of them for under $5. Okay, the blue one has a small hole, but I can stitch that shut in five minutes – it’s worth it, because it’s from Cabela’s and retails for $45 new.

There are three aisles of jeans. I’m running between sizes now, thanks to weight loss, but that’s ok. I’ll grab a couple in the two sizes I might wear – after all, they’re only $3 a pair right now, and I can take the ones that don’t fit and give them to my college student. For Halloween, I was a Toddler Pageant Queen, and found a lovely blue formal for only $16. It still had the tags inside it from David’s Bridal, where it once sold for a hundred bucks. It’s a nice dress, and I’ll save it for future costume shenanigans - or maybe a wedding, if anyone ever is desperate enough to tag me as a bridesmaid.

There’s also plenty of awful stuff at the thrift store, but for dirt cheap, I’m willing to pick up things just for the ridiculous factor. I’ve bought fish slippers, three absolutely hideous red Christmas sweatshirts for my daughter and her college friends, and a copper jelly mold shaped like a lobster. And there’s some stuff that’s just so frightening I won’t go near it, like the Vera Bradley bag that smelled like roadkill and beer, or the flannel hoodie that probably belonged in an evidence locker rather than a thrift store.

I’m very excited to announce that tomorrow is Pink Tag Day, which means I’ll be trolling the racks for something good. I need a new pair of jeans… and I’m pretty sure one of my friends will be thrilled with the lobster-shaped jelly mold he’s getting for Christmas!

Thrifty is nifty

2011-11-18T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Beth Bartlett

When I was young and broke, I would leaf through cast-off catalogs at the library and fantasize about buying clothes from Banana Republic or L.L. Bean. Now that I’m older (and still mostly broke) I realize that even if I were a millionaire, I couldn’t order a $70 insulated shirt from those high-dollar catalogs; once you pay $20 for a working TV at a thrift store, there’s no looking back.

Once you get a taste of the good deal, you’re hooked. Some women dream of Brad Pitt; I dream about the ultimate discount store, stocked with everything I want, and I still get change back from a ten-dollar bill. Yes, I’m a thrift store queen. If they don’t have it, I don’t need it, which explains why most of my movie library is still VHS.

My home may look like it’s furnished by a bag lady, but when I glance around, all I see are the amazing bargains I scored, like the $50 futon that serves as our couch (okay, the cats claim it, but they let me sit there occasionally) or the $5 entertainment center which houses the aforementioned TV. OK, so it’s not a flat screen or plasma or LCD, but it does help heat the living room up in winter.

My biggest “get” perches on a shelf below the TV: a CD/cassette player/radio stereo system with speakers and a six-CD changer, all for $6 because a tooth is missing from one of the cogs in the changer. Hey, it’s worth a few hundred bucks to press “skip” on the CD player occasionally.

I admit, I’m a purist. When I hear other people squeal over “just” paying $200 for a blouse at a designer sale, I choke on my McD’s dollar tea. Unless a shirt comes with built-in puppet hands to lift my boobs and make them look perky all day, I’m not paying over $4.

You won’t see me on Black Friday, pushing and shoving with the masses for one-day only deals. But when you try to use that new gadget without reading the instructions, give up, and donate it to a bargain shop, I’ll be waiting.

Throwing elbows

2011-11-16T08:53:00.002-05:00

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.

The S-Word

2011-11-14T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Janna Qualman

Let’s talk shopping.

Because what other S-word gets a lady’s heart pumping, promises a certain amount of action, and, when done right, involves the exchange of money?

Oh, I know it can be scary. We all get intimidated from time to time. Expectations are high. We put so much pressure on ourselves to do it well. (And, sometimes, do it cheaply, but that’s another story.)

Let me encourage you, fair ones. The way I see it—and stay with me here, no letting your minds wander—there are several important benefits worth discussing.

First, as mentioned above, heart health. Gals, we are responsible for our own well-being, and this may be one of the best ways to get a body moving, thus stimulating proper circulation and thorough blood flow. It’s almost as effective as aerobic activity, some might say, and it’s definitely more fun! (Side note: Shortness of breath and fatigue can be symptoms of heart failure, but in this case they mean you’re doing something right.)

Also, when mindful of your technique, it can prove a great approach for building confidence. Since the more you do it, the better you get, and the more sure of yourself you feel, the more satisfactory your results. Am I right?

Feeling good about ourselves and what we’re doing, in turn, makes us feel beautiful. Puts a swing in our hip. Makes our eyes sparkle. It makes our skin glow! And when we feel beautiful, we want to do more of whatever it is we’re doing, thus creating more beauty. It’s a flat-out glorious, rewarding cycle.

Relaxation is another benefit. I, personally, find the whole process therapeutic, almost cathartic. It’s the getting lost in the moment, sort of forgetting about the stresses of everyday life. It’s a great way to decompress, if you ask me.

Variety. It is the spice of life, no? Which is why it’s so great that this can be done alone, or with someone else. Just depends on your mood, I suppose. Sometimes you’re feeling the need to go it alone, take your time, be more thoughtful with the whole process. Other times you want a buddy, someone to assist.

And last, satisfaction. Need I say more?

Shopping. It’s what all the cool ladies are doin’.

Janna Qualman can be found at Something She Wrote.

Image credit: launchboxpro.com

Cart Wheeling

2011-11-11T09:00:00.001-05:00

By Amy Mullis

Not long ago, I had a near-death experience in the grocery store. I was bending over to check out Mrs. Fields’ fat grams when a woman wielding a grocery cart like it was a runaway bumper car rounded the corner on two wheels. If it weren’t for quick thinking on my part, I might have required a trip to the Crisco aisle to disengage that buggy from my body.

For a second I thought I saw a bright light, but it turned out to be Register Five calling for assistance. With that thought in mind, I offer 8 Simple Rules for a Successful Supermarket Experience:

1. Show proper care for your vehicle. For the safety of everyone on the floor, do not select a buggy with uncooperative steering that can be guided only by a team of Iditarod sled dogs. Also, be on the lookout for features that may interrupt the aerodynamics of the cart, such as toddlers left over from a previous shopper.

2. When perusing different item choices on the supermarket floor, please be sure to park only in traditionally acceptable parking areas. Nobody cares if you set up camp in front of internal organs in the meat department, but if you pause to check the fat content in the cookie aisle, we will forcibly transport you to the dairy case and secure you to the yogurt section with string cheese.

3. Please observe crowd-friendly speed limits. I know you’re in a hurry to rush home and get those tacos on the table, but don’t careen around the corners so fast that you initiate an awkward meeting between Betty Crocker and Orville Redenbacher.

4. Practice defensive shopping. You must understand that if you stop in the middle of the aisle while trying to decide between creamy and crunchy, you may end up in a jam.

5. Please show concern for the safety of other shoppers. Do not execute a sudden lane change without at least warning the gentleman who is presently rolling his cart over the heels of your Reeboks that he may suddenly find himself neck deep in summer squash. Likewise, don’t speed up suddenly, causing the six-year-old boy who is riding below the cart in front of you like a mudflap on a tractor-trailer to wrap around your front wheel like freshly chewed bubblegum.

6. Do not accelerate like Richard Petty on the straightaway at Talledega to beat me to the Express Lane, especially if your buggy is loaded like a Conastoga and you’re counting all 24 cans of Friskies as one item to make the 10-item limit. I have killed for less than that.

7. Most importantly, steer clear of the lady dressed in stretchy pants and flip flops, who is wringing her hands and circling the snack aisle with a cart that contains an open bag of Ruffles chips, two boxes of Ding Dongs, and a frozen pizza. It’s me and I can’t decide what to have for supper.

Join Amy Mullis at www.mindovermullis.com for more "Don't Let This Happen to You" moments. And just to make sure there's no trouble, steer clear of Aisle 5.

The Straight. The Proud. The Observant.

2011-11-09T09:00:00.001-05:00

by Pauline Campos

I swear I’m married to the only straight man in the history of the world who notices a new pair of shoes hidden under the cuffs of my flare-bottom jeans. I bet my mom $5 he’d notice, and she owes me.

We trekked out to the stores the other day for a little retail therapy and The Husband knew I was coming home with A pair of cross trainers (for the workouts I keep promising myself I’m gonna do). And I bought them. But I also found the cutest pair of Skechers that were just calling my name. So I left with two boxes and rationalized that the Skechers were actually an investment since they would be my dedicated everyday shoes and therefore would save my new Pumas from
needless abuse and thereby lengthen their precious lifespan by months while I troll around the house and Tucson doing Mom-stuff and really, that totally makes the sixty extra bucks I spent on the second pair of shoes a smart move on my part, right?

Right?

And yet, a little part of me was really hoping this would be the one time in our entire relationship that The Husband would not use his “I’m Observant, not gay” powers of observation to scope out the new kicks I was planning on sneaking in.

I didn’t make it two steps in the door when he oh-so-casually says, “New shoes, huh?”

Oops.

Keep in mind that I had purposely left the empty box for the Skechers I wore home at the store to try and cover my ass. Not that it mattered. I’ve tried everything, including the classic “Buy It Now and Hide It in My Closet for Three Months” move before walking past The Husband in the shoes/dress/T-shirt/Purse I had thought I had so brilliantly Deep-Covered into my wardrobe only to have to answer a raised eyebrow accompanied by a “And how long have you had that?”

“What?” I’d blurt out in my best “What the hell are you smoking now?” voice.

“The (insert item here) you thought you were gonna get past me.”

“Oh,” eyes wide and oh-so-not-innocent. “I’ve had it for months.” Which was technically true.

Gimme that lie detector!

By this time, he’d be laughing. Hard. “I’m surprised you made it this long before pulling it out. That must have killed you!”

Oh snap.

Busted again.

The Genes in my Jeans

2011-11-07T09:00:00.002-05:00

by Sara Spock

I like genetics. Our genes are filled with twisted little secrets about our past and our future, unraveling everything from eye color to hereditary diseases. But in and amongst these micro-marvels there are bundles of ambiguity. When facing down the season of Shopping-ZOMG-Sales-Ican’tbelieveit’sthatcheap-Extravaganza, I’m reminded of one such brainteaser. Why wasn’t I born with the gene that gives you a nose for bargains and an eye for fashion? Why can’t I answer questions like: Does this blouse go with those pants? Can I wear Chucks with this dress? Does this sweatshirt clash with my skirt? Why are those children staring at me in horror?

My sisters will text, call, and email with sales, “Did you see those cute Couture shoes for 42 cents at Mega Cheapo Emporium?” or “Don’t pass up the imported Parisian purses at Deals for Dummies! Buy 1 get 6 free!” and “You’ll never believe it! I found 16 outfits for the boys for a penny a piece!” One will track down jumbo sales on the most fabulous things while I go cross-eyed at the thought of plain white tees at Target. The other can plan outfits for entire flocks of nieces, nephews, and random garden gnomes from two states away. I can struggle into jeans and wear my PSU sweatshirt like nobody’s business! Don’t misunderstand, I love looking nice - but when your brain goes blank and your blood runs cold at the thought of stepping one Tom-soled shoe into the mall, it’s a near impossibility.

I recently started substitute teaching and needed to snag a few updated items for my mostly mommified wardrobe of the latest in Spit-Up Fashion. Spit-Up Fashion: it’s the season that comes between, Large like a Barge and in Charge, and Hand Me the Spanx, I Think My Jeans Will Fit. During the Spit-Up season, friends may have to pry the sweatpants, yoga pants, warm-up pants, and tracksuits away from new moms in favor of actual clothing. The situation can be exacerbated because she may have to size up to dress up. And who wants to admit they’re going from size Hippo to size Elephant?

Dressed in the finest hoody and yoga pants I could scrounge, I forced- er, invited my baby sister and mother to go shopping with me to find new trousers. If I was going into the foxhole, someone had to cover my left flank and those yoga pants weren’t cutting it. Four stores and seven years later, our mother gave up, found a nice bench in the middle of the mall and declared, “I’ll wait here.” My sister bravely soldiered on in search of the perfect 35” inseam, which eventually turned up with a buy-one-get-one sort of bonus sale. How’d she do that?

So, my genes betray me and my jeans don’t fit, but I have a pair of sisters that know how to make me look my best, even at my worst. And when push comes to shove-that-love-handle-into-those-pants, there’s always online shopping with free returns!

~Sara Spock is a Mom, Wife, Penn State Graduate, Substitute Teacher, Freelance Writer and Chocolate Addict. When she’s not freezing up in the face of fashion, Sara can be found over at The Hero Complex where she tries to save the world, one. blog. post. at. a. time.

Shopping with the Sin-dicate

2011-11-04T09:00:00.002-04:00

by Rhonda Schrock

It was a dark and stormy night. Well, actually it was a Thursday. The cupboard was bare and the small fry were threatening to mutiny. My husband, doing the “hard thing,” volunteered to stay at home with Little Houdini, the toddler, and “let” me go with the kids.

As I recall, it all went south over by the meat case. That’s where I ran into our next-door neighbors and made the grave mistake of turning my back on the mob. Mistake number two, as I soon discovered, was letting them have their own carts.

Done with the neighborly chat and ready to shop, I noted that they’d disappeared, leaving me alone sans cart. Muttering, I started on the list, keeping one eye out for any glimpse of them. Catching up in the chip aisle, I deposited my load, which they proceeded to divvy up amongst themselves, and tossed in a bag of Doritos.

A fight broke out when the youngest one proclaimed exclusive chip-carrying rights. The senior, wanting to demonstrate his authority/superiority, snatched them up out of Little Brother’s cart (cart C) and horked them into his own (cart A). In the melee that followed, son #2 saw his chance and darted in to pilfer the grapes from Little Brother, smuggling them into his cart (cart B).

Not even stopping to find a phone booth, I donned my “special suit (you know the one)” and moved to quell the protest. Then, leading the small sin-dicate in 1-2-3 order through the cereal aisle, I exercised my right as a parent to frustrate them utterly and said “no” to chocolate flavored sugar bombs, “no” to Fruit Roll-Ups, and a loud “no” to a plea for Pop Tarts.

I lost them again in ethnic foods. I didn’t actually notice until I was cantering through fruits and vegetables, carrying seven cans with nary a one of my three able-bodied sons – or their carts – in sight. Spotting the neighbors at the end of the aisle, I gave them a weak smile. I would have waved, but I was too busy juggling my seven cans.

When I caught up to them again in dairy, they were still playing hot potato with the chips. As son #1, cart A, made the umpteenth grab and streaked past the fish tanks, a lady standing close by snickered into the yogurt, and when I announced to those remaining that I was considering adoption for the whole lot of ‘em, there were outright guffaws.

Recalling my paranoia in earlier years regarding kidnappers, I laughed out loud. Where, I asked myself, is a good, old-fashioned kidnapper when you really want one? I turned my back for an extra 90 seconds just to give him plenty of time if he happened to be lurking. When he didn’t appear, I reluctantly collected the hooligans, trailing grapes through the baby food aisle, and headed for home.

Now you understand why I voluntarily “admit” myself to the local coffeehouse for regular “therapy.” Twice a week isn’t excessive; it’s the bare minimum. As for the sin-dicate, there will be an altar call when I get back from “therapy.” All little sinners are expected to repent forthwith. And regarding their father, next time I will “do the hard thing” and “let” him take them shopping for once.

Rhonda Schrock is the mother of 4 sons (ages 21, 18, 13, and 5). She is a working-from-home transcriptionist and also pens a weekly column for The Goshen News, appropriately titled “Grounds for Insanity.” You can see why. For more insanity, visit her at “The Natives are Getting Restless."

Man’s Malady

2011-11-02T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Adam Slade

Birthdays are great, aren’t they? All that attention, and all those presents. Nothing gives me more satisfaction than the smile on a person’s face when they receive the brightly-coloured package that I wrapped just for them. The smile generally lasts right up until they get the wrapping off to find ‘Rocks Greatest Hits 1994’.

It’s not that I’m a bad gift-buyer, per se. It’s just that gas stations have a limited selection, and most other shops are shut at that time of night, or need more than two hours notice to order something special in.

Yup. I was a last-minute shopper. I’d find out the date of the birthday/occasion way in advance, find out what kind of things they wanted, then think, “Plenty of time yet!” and forget about the whole thing until someone reminded me three days before the party.

I know what some of you are thinking – typical man – and it’s true. Male DNA is missing certain key... uh... thingies, which makes it very difficult to both retain dates and prepare gifts with more than twelve minutes to go. Also, we’re often lazy. That’s genetic too. To be frank, they are serious flaws of ours, and we deserve sympathy. And puppies.

I mean tattoos. Yeah, that’s it. Grr. Tattoos of puppies.

This pattern continued throughout my childhood years, teens, and into my early twenties, before I came across a way to deal with what I like to call ‘Man’s Malady’. The Internet. Lemme explain.

You see, shops these days are available online, as well as in meatspace, and in many ways they are superior to the old-fashioned ones which expect you to put clothes on before you enter. Online stores are fast to browse, which is ideal for the male’s limited attention span, have the shiny things in prominent positions, which makes them easier to spend too much money on, and, most importantly, they deliver.

Yup. You can order your plastic roses and red lacy lingerie that is only suitable to be worn on a bet from the comfort of your own boxer shorts and stained white t-shirt. You don’t even have to stand up!

On discovery of this, and after gaining a debit card and an account with a positive number, I rejoiced heartily (that’s like normal rejoicing, only with deep laughs and backslaps). Never again would I suffer from Man’s Malady! All I had to do was order something a few weeks before the event and throw the box into a cupboard. The only effort required was checking my fly was closed when I answered the door to the mail-lady. I even remembered most of the time.

Nowadays, my troubles are behind me. As the days pass, I sit back with a smug grin, safe in the knowledge that I’ve taken care of things way in advance. On the night before the occasion, I wrap the gift up tight, then place it reverently – like normal placing, only you have to sing a hymn while you do it – upon my glasses case, so I’ll remember to take it with me when I wake up. Perfect.

Still forget the card, though.

The result of a caveman breeding with an ingot of un-distilled sarcasm, newlywed Adam Slade was always going to go places. Some days he even makes it as far as the kitchen. Adam is an author of fantasy and humour works, and when he's not writing, he's reading or goofing off on the Internet. You can read about his exploits on his blog, Editing Hat, and on his Twitter.

Image credit: timorinvest.com

Ghost town tales: Garnet, Montana

2011-10-31T09:00:00.000-04:00

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.

Where the Shadows Lie

2011-10-28T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Bill Mullis

Maybe it was the dark paneling in the den, or the way nobody went into the living room, or the long dark hallway that led to the bedrooms. Whatever it was, I hated Aunt Margie’s house. I couldn’t stand to be alone in any part of it, especially the hallway. On our annual visits, I would lay awake at night in Joanne’s room, watching the headlights from the highway play against the walls and ceiling, making monstrous shapes that never, ever were still.

On one of these visits – I must have been eight or nine – Grandma and Aunt Margie went into Columbia to do a little shopping, leaving Joanne, six months my junior, and me in the care of the two older boys, my heroes, while they cut what passed for grass.

The very air was baked, caught between the sunlight beating down from above and its reflection flailing from the white sand below. Jimmy and Bobby were covered in sweat and dust as they struggled with a machine that knew it was built for fescue and resented the scrub grass it was being applied to.

But it was cool on the porch, shaded as it was from the oppressive July sun. I played some silly game with Joanne, who was pretty cool for a girl. The game was interrupted by the sound of insulted machinery and teenage voices. Jimmy, who was old enough to drive a car, had a date, and had to know what time it was.

“I don’t know!” I yelled back.

“Go in and look at the clock!”

The door stood blank and incomprehensible. Beyond it lay an unfathomable dread that I had no words for. And my heroes had ordered me into that wrongness. They didn’t know. If they had ever felt what I felt, they had kept it very quiet. And so had I.

“I can’t tell time!” It was a blatant lie, and Jimmy knew it.

He turned off the lawnmower and leaned on the handle. “Fine. Go with Joanne and get the clock in Mom’s bedroom.”

Down by the bank Bobby was whipping a sling blade through waist-high scrub. Joanne put her doll down. “C’mon,” she said.

And because no boy wants to be called baby, I opened the door and crept into the den.

It was dark and cluttered, the single window having long since been replaced by an air conditioner. The dark paneling was interrupted by framed photographs and an ugly painting on the wall. Light from the kitchen window seeped through the gloom. I tiptoed through the den towards that light, afraid to disturb the darkness. Joanne followed sullenly behind.

Past the kitchen was the center of the house, where dining and living rooms met the bedroom hallway. I would have to go down that hallway. I paused to listen to the house breathe.

I’ve been in a lot of houses, some occupied, some empty. There’s a special feel about an empty house, a waiting expectancy, a space to be filled. There’s another feel in a lived-in house, where the very walls take on the personality of the occupants. This house had neither. There was a whole complete family here, and the house, built expressly for that very family, cared not a whit for any of them. It was dead. And a dead house is fundamentally wrong. I stood there in its very center. The air was thick, pressing around me like hatred, and I hated it back.

I tiptoed down the middle of the corridor, unable to breathe in the absolute stillness. As I passed the room the boys shared I peered into the open door and saw little except a teenagers’ mess and the translucent white rectangle of the curtained window beyond.

The short stretch between that bedroom and the end of the hallway was the longest distance I ever had to creep. The mean little bathroom stood off to the left, in an alcove perfect for lurking. Then there was the end, a dead end, and Aunt Margie’s room on the right.

My hand closed around the portable alarm clock by the bed, and what little thought I had left disappeared. I had a visceral need to be quit of the place. Not caring if Joanne was with me, I quick stepped out into the dark oppression, held my breath, and headed toward the kitchen light.

As I passed the boys’ room I glanced into it for the comfort of the white-curtained rectangle of sun.

And screamed.

The window was still there, but in front of it now was a shadow, a deep miasmic darkness that was worse than if the window had not been there. Through it I could make out the dim sunlight, and around it the curtains glowed with the sun. And though I saw no head, arms, or legs, there was the unmistakable, deep-rooted conviction that it was a man. The malevolence was palpable and threatening.

I screamed again and broke into a full, flat-out run. Behind me I heard Joanne scream and felt her rushing behind me.

I was still screaming when we hit sunlight. Jimmy stopped the mower and caught me, and Bobby came up from the road, still clutching the sling blade. He took the sling blade and went in to see what was there, while Jimmy calmed me down. Joanne said she didn’t see anything; she’d screamed because I’d screamed.

Bobby came out and swore there was nothing in the window. They carried me back in, to show them; and all I could see in the window was curtains.

Forty-five years later, the house is still there, and Aunt Margie still lives in it. Her family still gathers there on holidays. Nobody ever died there; no curse follows its occupants.

A few years ago I drove past it on the way to somewhere else.

I didn’t stop.

Bill Mullis lives in the South Carolina Upstate, in a house devoid of wee ghosties, perhaps because it’s overrun with Labs. You can keep up with him on the Captain’s Log feature at Mind Over Mullis.

The Writing in the Mirror

2011-10-27T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Pauline Campos

I’m the kind of person who can’t watch a scary movie without tucking the comforter under my feet when I go to sleep for fear the monsters under my bed will gnaw off my toes. Walking out of a dark room also proves itself as a form of entertainment for anyone else in attendance as I inch my way away from the bogeyman hiding in the shadows. He’s never actually reached out and dragged me back into the darkness, mind you, but that’s only because I’m so vigilant. I mean, how’s he going to surprise me if I’ve trained myself not to blink as I dart my eyes back and forth while keeping my back pressed to the wall until I’ve made it to the stairs and run like a crazy woman while everyone laughs at me?

I’m also the kind of woman who isn’t ashamed to admit I saw a ghost once or that my grandmother smiled at me when I gave her a kiss in her casket. The ghost we call Fred and my in-laws believe he came with the property. He wears a Fedora and a suit and his tie is undone and only shows up to let you know he’s still around. The smile happened when I was six and I thought my grandmother was sleeping and I didn’t understand why everyone was crying. When it was time to go, my mother lifted me up as I requested so I could kiss her and when my lips touched her cheek, she did what she usually did when I kissed her in her sleep and I left the funeral home content in the knowledge that she loved me.

The point is that I’m a believer. I’m not sure if it’s my open mind or my writer’s imagination or some combination of the two, but when the hair stands up on the back of my neck, I listen. And I can guarantee you that I would not be the chick trying to make my dramatic escape from the ax-wielding maniac while in my high heels if I was a character in a horror movie. I’m not an amateur, you know.

So when I found myself waiting for my boyfriend to come home because my key wouldn’t let me unlock the front door, my first thought (naturally) was that the house was possessed and the evil spirit residing in the home we shared with my future brother-in-law just didn’t want me there. This line of thinking was only reinforced when my boyfriend came home, laughed at me because he thought I had forgotten my house key, and quickly unlocked the door. I let it go the first time it happened, hoping it had just been a fluke, but the next day I found myself on the front porch again furiously trying to make the key work before I had to explain to anyone outside of my own head that I was afraid we were going to have to call in a priest. This time, my boyfriend’s brother rescued me as he let us both in upon his arrival from work. Obviously, the evil spirit in residence only had a problem with me. I was relieved. That meant no one else was in danger.

I was jumpy and hyper vigilant when home alone, always waiting for something to reach out in the darkness. I tried convincing myself it was just new house nervousness. I hadn’t even familiarized myself with the layout enough to not walk into a wall on the way to the bathroom at night yet, so maybe I was just over-reacting? But this theory fell by the wayside as I stood in the bathroom one night, drying off after a hot shower. At first I thought I was imagining things. I wasn’t really seeing letters forming in the steamy mirror, was I? I froze. I may have blinked a few times. And when I opened my eyes the last time, I almost screamed.

“Get Out,” was now clearly written on the mirror. I ran, naked and terrified, across the hall and into the room to wake up my sleeping boyfriend to tell him we had to move and we had to move now before anything terrible happened. I told him that something didn’t want me there and wouldn’t let my key unlock the door there was something evil here and to go look at the mirror. So he did.

And that’s when he started to laugh.

“You need to come see this,” he choked out when he could speak again. I found him in front of the mirror where the words “When you get out of the shower, please make sure to clean up after yourself,” greeted me on the mirror. It had been a household reminder from his brother, written in dry-erase marker and wiped off with a napkin. Obviously, not well enough. The residue from the marker had blocked the condensation from forming where the letters had been, allowing the words to slowly reappear as if written by invisible fingers.

“But..but…how do you explain the key? Something doesn’t want me here!” I insisted.

He didn’t answer. My boyfriend simply grabbed my hand, led me into the bedroom, and handed me the shiny new key he had left for me on the dresser that I had forgotten to put on my key ring.

Courting Poe

2011-10-24T07:43:00.001-04:00

By Jason Tudor

Slumped in the plastic cafeteria seating of the Deep Space Communications Station Maupassant, Yeoman Bierce slurped in the last minutes of oxygen swirling around him. Each gulp of air ground against the walls of his throat rasping like sandpaper against pine, the sawdust collecting in his lungs. The final moments of the dying station’s generator power provided lighting from the few LED bulbs that weren’t shattered or smeared dark.

Maupassant’s compliment of 213 communications technicians and naval officers fell when a virus sudden and quick invaded and buzz-sawed through them. Outside making repairs to a long-range radio antenna, Bierce watched for hours through one of the station’s windows as germs exploded and swarmed crew members like a fierce hornets from their nest. They ran around, screaming in terror though Bierce heard nothing … and could do nothing. To stay alive, he huddled outside the station. Eventually, as the oxygen supply in his suit weaned off, he knew he would have to go inside where he would have to take off his helmet.

In a cruel twist, he was not infected. Instead, he waited alone amongst ravaged bodies strewn like rag dolls. Hours turned to days. The stench of rotted flesh pushed through every air duct. Silence. Moreover, there was the unfortunate notion that there would be no resupply shuttle. Still incoming message traffic told Bierce that Naval Command knew of the Maupassant’s fate. Assuming all had been lost, Navy decided to let the station die, a process done remotely and taking less than 48 hours. Days turned to weeks. Air thin, food eaten and only minutes of life left for the once vibrant military post, Bierce whimpered.

Then, something quiet; a shimmering light in his peripheral vision cast against the frost -covered station windows; something pleasant above the gore. Moaning through the pain, he turned his head to see its full resplendence, and sat awed.

Crewman Poe. Bierce managed a smile. He always held a fondness for Poe. Stunning blue eyes. Curling, shiny red hair. Thin fingers and wrists. Soft, unintended touches across communications consoles and repair stations. Seven light years from Earth, the compliment split 70-30 favoring the men. Space stations, despite their technological marvels, were cramped, logistical tea kettles. Intimacy and kindness came in short quantity, often sneaked in uncomfortable places at awkward moments. He now wished that he had acted more boldly, recalling his timidity on so many accounts.

No matter. All of that corporeal … gone. What remained of Poe – what the disease decided it would leave behind -- lie two meters from the heels his blood-stained boots, mouth agape, her last look a frightened, sad one, piled amongst the bacteria-riddled corpses of his comrades. So, seeing her blurred, sad smile glimmering in this spectral light before him gave him both peace -- and worry.

Eventually, the spirit circled and settled before him. He squinted, trying to better make out her face.

“You died unhappily,” he croaked, air becoming harder and harder to find.

“I’m happy now.” Her voice soothed him, like hot chocolate solving chills.

“Where are you?”

“Here. With you.”

“I mean … are you … in heaven?”

“I came back to help you.”

“I wish you’d come sooner. We could have …” he strained to raise his arm and wave it around, “… fixed the station.” He laughed. He didn’t mean that. A tear dribbled down his cheek. “I don’t want to die.”

“I brought you something.” The apparition shifted its form. A small picture frame fell into Bierce’s lap. He turned it over. A beautiful color photograph Bierce and Poe at one of the station’s off-duty functions. Bierce shot the photo himself by sticking out his arm and turning the camera to face them both. Both smiled wildly, looking like freshmen at a Friday night frat party.

“I don’t remember ever shooting … did we … ?”

“This was my favorite,” she interrupted. “It reminds me of how happy we were.”

Bierce’s slid his index finger across the smooth glass over Poe’s face. “We were? You’re so pretty. I wish I had … had …”

“Had what?” The form stirred and moved closer.

Bierce strained extending a hand. Ethereal glimmering tendrils spiraled toward and wrapped around it. He shivered as it entered him, something visceral and codifying. His mouth opened, his back arched and every memory from his birth to now charged into his consciousness. In his mind, the cacophony of recalled sensations played in a colorful, confusing diorama reaching zenith on something near sexual and then careening into the sad as the sensations wound back to the reality of his demise, his weakened shell slouching back in the cafeteria chair.

He drew his hand away from the spirit. Bierce sat for a moment collecting his thoughts again. As he did, the last of the LEDs burned out and the Maupassant went dark. Poe’s fluid visage remained the only light in the room, staring at him as he faded in and out. He wasn’t sure what to say. He spat out the first thing that came to mind.

“What’s heaven like?”

She weighed her response. “Remember that moment we shared. Your hands were warm. Your lips, succulent. My heart almost beat out of my chest. Do you remember?”

“I don’t … warm …?”

“Heaven,” she purred, “is that.”

“When … ?”

“I’ve done what I came to do. I’m being called back now. I’ll miss you.”

With a sad smile, the specter dissipated. Bierce drew a breath, clutched the picture frame and chased after her.

Jason Tudor is a writer and illustrator. He is also the creator and co-host of the Science Fiction Show, a weekly podcast delving into all things Science Fiction in entertainment, books and other media. It’s fun and funny, and you can subscribe to it on iTunes or through the web site at www.myscifishow.com. He can also be found at www.jasontudor.com

Image courtesy Narrenkoenig of DeviantArt

Zombie and Ghost Cake Pops

2011-10-21T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Lisa Dovichi

I’m going to just come right out and say it. I’m a sucker for baking.

And anytime Nearly 4ft has a school function that requires baked good donations, I’m the first mom on the sign up sheet -- as a matter of fact as soon as I hear about a function, I e-mail the head cheese and ask if they need any baked good donations. Well there’s a Halloween Bazaar coming up and sure enough they need donations for a cake walk -- anything Halloween themed.

I’m also going to just come right out and say I’m a competitive over achiever. So the idea of blending in with all the other cupcakes covered in black and orange sprinkles or plastic spider and skull rings stuck in them is unacceptable. I got to thinking, “What could I do that would be fun, have kids wanting mine first, and not cost a small fortune in showing up the other parents?” (Yes, I’m that competitive.)

Halloween Cake Pops!

I’ve never actually done cake pops before but have wanted to for awhile now. The Halloween Bazaar isn’t until the 28^th of October and I figured I needed a test run to make sure they would be as awesome in real life as they are in my head. Let me sum up with saying: They are MORE awesome in real life. The cake is moist and decadent, the candy coating is delicious, and they are so much FUN to make!

Try them out for yourself!

Spooky Treats -- Zombie and Ghost Cake Pops

Things you will need:

Lollipop sticks

Parchment paper

A Block of Styrofoam

Edible Ink Pens

Decorating Plastic Squeeze Bottles

Ingredients:

1 box of cake mix (any flavor)

1 16 0z. can of frosting (any flavor)

Candy Melts (green and white)

Directions:

1.) Make the cake mix according to the directions for a 13x9 sheet. Let cool completely, remove any crunchy crusty pieces, and then crumble into a large bowl.

2.) Add in 1 can of frosting and with a big spoon mash and mix it all together until its well blended.

3.) Line a cookie sheet with parchment and roll the cake/frosting dough (will be sticky) into the shapes and put on the cookie sheet. Ghosts are cones and Zombies are squares. Stick them in the freezer so the shape will set. (I froze mine for a couple of hours) Depending on the size of your cake shapes you should get at least 40 to 50.

4.) Melt Candy Melts in a microwave safe bowl for 30 seconds at a time -- stirring between times until melted. (Microwaves vary -- mine took a minute to melt an entire bag of Candy Melts).

5.) One at a time -- dip the tip of a lollipop stick in the melted candy and then insert the stick into the bottom of a cake shape. Gingerly dip the cake into the melted candy, rotate until fully covered, and then gently tap the sides of the bowl with the stick (while still rotating) to get the excess candy off.

6.) Stick into a block of Styrofoam and let the candy harden.

7.) For Ghosts -- after the candy has hardened take edible markers and draw on the ghostly faces.

8.) For Zombies -- Make eyes by taking some white melted Candy Melts and pouring it into a squeeze bottle. On a cookie sheet, lined with parchment paper, make little candy “dots” and stick them in the freezer to set. Use green melted Candy Melts in a squeeze bottle as “glue” for the eyes. After the candy has hardened take edible markers and draw on the eyeballs and the mouth.

9.) Voila! Delicious Spooky Treats!

Lisa Dovichi is cackling over her cauldron knowing that you'll become the next addict to Cake Pops. When she's not evilly plotting to take over the world with baked goods, she is a cover artist for Musa Publishing, a writer, and a web designer.

The Vestibule

2011-10-19T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Jennifer L. Caddell

The pull was excruciatingly long. It felt like thousands of minibots were invading his body and tugging on every organ, every nerve, even every follicle of hair with needle like talons; trying desperately to pull them through his flesh an into the oblivion beyond. He wanted to scream at the dark but he couldn’t, not when his breath was being sucked from his lungs.

Then, everything stopped.

The pulling, the tingling, everything ended immediately and he gasped for air. He tried to focus his eyes on the figures before him but they where merely ghostly blurs of light and dark shadows fading in and out of his vision. They would not come into focus. But the figures saw him. He knew that instantly when they began to shout at him. They were alarmed by his presence and it didn’t take long for the figures to throw objects at him. The objects didn’t hurt though. They seemed to sail right through him, but the shouting, that hurt. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, they all sounded as though they were underwater, but the noise was so amplified, it shook his ears and his head was ready to bust apart from the sound waves reverberating in his skull. He ran away from the blurred crowd, he didn’t care which direction he ran since nothing seemed to be in his way. He ran through walls, through fences, even through other people until he was once more yanked back into that excruciating pull. The imaginary minibots invaded his body again and all the visions and the shouting figures disappeared. The shadows replaced them with darkness. Once more, he couldn’t breathe until it was over.

The experience never got easier. Every time was just as painfully long as the last. Every damn time it was like this. But he knew he would put himself through it again, and again, because it was a small price to pay for genius.

Eventually the pull faded from his body and the darkness once again faded from his vision. However, instead of seeing blurred figures, he saw a familiar woman peeking at him with a documentation tablet in her hand. She was smiling.

“Well, anything different happened?” The woman was wearing an ancient looking dress, complete with bustle under her stark white lab coat. A wireless communicator was embedded in her forearm. The flashing lights on the communicator told him she had three messages waiting for her, but he also knew she had a habit of ignoring incoming calls.

It took him a moment to shake the nausea from his mind and gut. He tried to step forward but had to brace himself inside the metal vestibule. Lights along the sides of the walls flickered out as the machine shut down.

“No, nothing different.” He managed to crumple into a chair beside the machine. “The same thing, every time. It is always the same exact reaction.”

“Could you at least hear what they were saying?” She handed him a metal bowl and although his stomach turned, he denied the bowl.

“Nope. Just the same reverberating speech.”

Disappointment wavered for a moment across her face before she smiled again.

“I think I know what will work this time.”

“I am not going back through that again today.”

“I’ll do it.” She began to take her lab coat off. “This time, I am going to use one of these primitive hearing aids.” She held a small flesh colored device in her hand and inserted it in her ear.

“It not only amplifies sound, it also filters out sound waves from extraneous noise. I believe it helped people during that millennia to focus on a single sound wave, for example one person’s voice in a crowd.” She paused before entering the vestibule.

"I'd be willing to try anything now." He said while rubbing his own ringing ears.

“See you when I get back.” She squeezed into the vestibule making sure every bit of her dress was tucked safely inside. Once she was ready, he closed the door and flipped the switch. The familiar high whine of the engine’s magnetic turbine vibrated in his ears and his brain. If he kept this up, he would need one of those archaic hearing aides…indefinitely.

The flash of light signaled she had vanished inside. He peered into the small peephole window just to be sure she was gone before opening the vestibule’s doors again. Then he waited while listening to the whine of the engine and making further notes in the documentation tablet. After ten minutes, the shadows of her skirt could be seen reappearing on the floor of the vestibule, then the faded image of her continued to strengthen until she was back to a solid form. She looked ill, but she was also smiling.

“Well?” He asked while grabbing the nearby bowl.

“It worked.” She managed the words just before emptying her stomach into the bowl.

“So?”

“I heard them as plain as I can hear you.” She threw up again, but still managed a smile.

“But.”

“Well, I could hear exactly what they were saying. It was the same word over and over. However, I have never heard this word before, and I’ll need to look it up.” She set the bowl down and slowly walked over to the data base system.

“What were they saying?” His curiosity peaked with excitement. Hearing their words was a HUGE step in their research. He was thrilled.

“Ghost.”

“Ghost?”

“Yes, ghost.” She typed the word into the database.

“What is a ghost?”

“According to the database, centuries ago civilizations thought a ghost was a spirit or soul of the dead that stayed visible to those who were still living.”

He furrowed his brows, “Um… ok. So what is a spirit or a soul?”

“I have no idea. I’ll need to look that up too.”

Jennifer L. Caddell is a published science fiction short story writer who is currently writing her first book in a space trilogy. Jennifer lives in the wet and wonderful Pacific Northwest with her superhero husband, stellar children, and two crazy chickens. Come and check her out at http://jcaddell.wordpress.com

A Smurfy Package

2011-10-17T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Melanie Hooyenga

Halloween is one of the few holidays where creativity is encouraged and pointing and laughing by others is not only considered to be a good thing, it's the ultimate goal. Having been the center of more than my share of jokes (tripping over thin air tends to draw attention) I get a thrill in that breath of a moment between first glance and the spark of understanding that crosses a person's face when they behold my creation.

Armed with the skills acquired in an eighth-grade home economics class, I've turned myself into a flamingo (two pink feather boas and a box of safety pins that didn't stay closed nearly as well as advertised), Wilma Flintstone (red beehive wig, white Styrofoam balls, and a dress I literally sewed myself into), Little Sprout (felt, nylons, felt, felt, and more green paint than will ever come in contact with my face again), and a blow-up doll (best comment from a fellow partygoer: How'd you get out from under my bed?), but the costume that drew more snickering than I anticipated goes back to my college days:

Smurfette.

Between my long blond hair, somewhat capable sewing skills, and a plethora of bright blue clothing at my disposal, I figured I could whip together a costume after class and still make it to happy hour on time.

The hat was easy: white knit cap with enough extra material on top to list gently to one side. Earrings? White plastic shower rings ripped from my roommate's bathroom. Add a pair of blue leggings, white socks, and god-awful white pumps I borrowed from some fashion-disaster down the hall and all I had left was the dress.

This is where my creativity shined.

After cutting the sleeves of a men's undershirt, I pondered the flimsy shirt pooled on the table. The lack of shape and quasi-transparent material seemed a stretch from the overly-starched dress sported by the Smurfette in my youth.

Solution? A wire hanger, unraveled and sewn into the hem of the shirt. The metal hoop kept the "dress" from clinging to my legs and hid the fact that if you looked closely you could probably see my Smurfs.

I headed to the party arm-in-arm with my roommate, ready to dazzle the drunks at my boyfriend's fraternity party, certain they would all be amazed by my ability to turn a few items from my closet into a cartoon masterpiece. Things went as expected for the first hour — me charming and gracious while accepting glowing praise — but then one boy stumped me.

"Where are the other two?" he asked.

"What other two?"

"The other two condoms. Three-pack, right?"

Yes folks, in the dark, black-lit basement, all people could see were my white "rimmed" dress and floppy hat, complete with a reservoir tip.

Never one to let a miscommunication ruin my evening, I strutted my stuff, lamented the early demise of my partners, and managed to win best costume.

Melanie Hooyenga is a salsa dancing graphic designer writing her way to publication. When not chasing her Miniature Schnauzer in circles around the living room, she’s dodging woodland creatures who insist on swooping in front of her car. She’s still looking for a costume idea and asks that you send suggestions to @melaniehoo.

Find Melanie on a regular basis at Hoosblog.

Handyman’s Special

2011-10-14T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Patti Wigington

The house sat waiting, and watching.

It had been a good two decades since anyone had dared set foot within, and the house was getting lonely. The last people to inhabit it had left long ago, fleeing in the middle of the night, taking only the clothes they had worn to bed and nothing more. Their name had been Olsen. Before the Olsens, there had been the Romaletti family. They had fled in the night too, sometime in the spring of 1991, as had the Cosgrays and the DeLaHoyas before them. But despite the influx and subsequent rapid outflux of Olsens, Romalettis, Cosgrays and DeLaHoyas, Geigers and Terhunes, and even a solitary Smythe, everyone in town called it the Winter House.

It sat high on a hill above the town of East Liberty (there was no West Liberty), a silent and crumbling sentinel on two acres of overgrown brush. The front porch had collapsed on one side, giving the house an off-center appearance, like an old man after a stroke. The windows had long since been broken out by teenagers brave enough to throw rocks but not quite daring enough to open the doors. On the right side of Winter House, a squared-off turret rose to meet torn and tattered shingles, many of which had been scattered by the four winds. The red paint hadn’t been touched up since the Cosgrays bought the place in 1979, and the wrought iron of the widow’s walk hung down like sharp black teeth.

On the east side of the hill, a small cemetery overgrown with magnolias lay. The main crypt held the mortal remains of old Josiah Winter, who had built the place during the Civil War (or as the locals would have it, the Late Unpleasantness). Josiah had met an early demise when it was discovered that the slaves he claimed had run away had in fact been cooked and eaten by Josiah and his family.

Back in the 1920s, one of the grandsons of Josiah Winter decided he should restore their ancestral home to its former glory. The grandson, one Hubert Winter, had made a great deal of money in stocks, and spent a significant amount of it on chandeliers, champagne, and fancy cars. For four glorious years, Winter House was once again a place where the upper echelon of East Liberty’s society came to hobnob with one another. At least, until the night when Hubert Winter hacked his wife and their three children to death with a garden scythe, and then flung himself headfirst from the widow’s walk into the concrete driveway below.

Down on South Grant Street, what was left of the driveway coasted down the hill to the road, where a simple chain provided a barrier between the house and the rest of the world. And yet, that barrier was merely a chain with a faded “No Trespassing” sign dangling from it, not a fence or a wall, and so occasionally, people managed to find their way in.

Far less occasionally, they found their way back out.

East Liberty had, like many small towns, its share of drifters. Transients came in, seeing East Liberty as a nice place to stop for a while. The climate was good most of the year, and folks were friendly. If someone happened to wander into town, a rucksack on his back and looking as though he needed a shave and a hot meal, everyone knew to send them on down to the South Avenue Church, where Reverend Delbert and his flock would make sure they had dinner and a bed for the night. If they were interested in doing a bit of labor for their keep, they could earn a few dollars by sweeping out the VFW hall.

And on their way back out of town, headed west, inevitably the drifters would move down South Grant Street. The soft and lush growth of the azaleas would call to them as they passed Winter House, the smell of lilacs in the air even during the cold months. Any wanderer with a sense of adventure would ignore that chain completely, pushing it aside, climbing over it or under it, and eventually make their way up the driveway.

It was often noted, with some degree of satisfaction, by town elders, that transients never stayed long in East Liberty. They were always gone by the next day. This made everyone happy, especially Mayor Titus Meador, whose wife Lois had a thriving business as a realtor. In fact, no one was as thrilled as Mayor Meador the day that Lois got a thick package via certified mail, full of notarized papers with signatures she had trouble reading. Because despite Lois’ inability to make heads or tails of who was authorizing it, she had enough of presence of mind to know that she had just been offered the chance of a lifetime, to list the Winter House for sale.

Lois happily made her way to South Grant Street to pound the blood-red “For Sale” sign into the ground at the foot of the cracked driveway. She even drove up to the house for a quick look and to take a few exterior photos, which would come in handy when she marketed the house at a low price as a handyman’s special. In fact, everyone in town was pleased when they saw Lois’ sign.

After all, Winter House was waiting, and watching.

And it was hungry.

Image credit: aishagrace.wordpress.com

The Ghost of the White Masque

2011-10-12T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Amy Mullis

When I was a kid, other children were forbidden to run with scissors or guzzle

strychnine. I was forbidden to watch Dark Shadows or Alfred Hitchcock movies.

My parents instituted these rules out of self-preservation. A scary commercial or two and

I would hide all the knives in the house to prevent passing marauders or random serial

killers from dropping in to decapitate me. For weeks after, nobody could make a

sandwich.

But it took more than a set of unsupportive parents to hold me back. I had the entire

collection of Agatha Christie murder mysteries on a bookshelf in my room. And the

folks always went out on Saturday night. It was their date night.

*Cue scary Psycho music*

One Saturday evening, after sloshing through a particularly delicious parade of Christie-wrought bodies, complete with a psychopathic grandmotherly-type poisoner, I stayed up to catch an old Alfred Hitchcock film with my sister. This particular sister was a troll when it came to sharing a bedroom, but her willingness to let me stay up to watch a forbidden flick was endearing. I was 12 and able to take care of any threatening

circumstances that should arise.

On a totally unrelated note, I’d been watching Dark Shadows every afternoon, an activity

banned by my mother, who was a coward. But just now she was off munching movie

popcorn somewhere with Dad, and Alfred Hitchcock ruled our black-and-white airwaves.

At 11:00 the movie wound down and I glanced nonchalantly under the couch cushions

for drooling monsters. I headed to my safe, comfortable bed, but was delayed by a sudden

crisis.

I had to go to the bathroom. I had to go with that special urgency that could resolve itself

upon sudden contact with the undead.

There were two doors into the bathroom, and only one of them had a lock. The other lead

to the kitchen. I slunk past axe murderers peering in the kitchen windows and

disappeared into the bathroom. My sister sighed and used the kitchen sink to wash her

face.

I didn’t know she used Noxema.

If you’ve never witnessed the Cold Cream Face, just imagine a cross between the Joker

and Ghosbuster’s Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man. After the meltdown. Then throw in a

touch of Frankenstein’s finest for good measure.

I peered out of the bathroom door to make sure the path toward the bedroom was safe,

and clear of homicidal maniacs. I couldn’t help but notice that a bizarre form had

possessed my sister’s body and was staring at me from a pasty white face. To an

impressionable young girl pursued by serial killers, a female with a face full of Noxema

is as close to zombie as she’s likely to get; especially if it’s a sister who’s stingy about

sharing her room.

I screamed.

The face screamed, the horrible white skin cracking around terrible dark eyes. Luckily I

was holding my belt, a fashionable white number typical of the 1970’s, with double rows

of metal eyelets.

A weapon! Slinging the belt like a whip, I attacked the alien form. It screamed louder.

So did I. If any old deranged alien zombie swamp monster thought it could pass me on

lung power, it was mistaken.

“It’s me!” screamed the deranged alien zombie swamp monster.

“AAAAIIIIIEEEEE!” I answered, wielding the belt with ferocity and a certain amount of

flair.

There’s a little dance that generally accompanies the shrieks of a terror-stricken belt

wielder. Although it is difficult to describe without a visual demonstration, aficionados

of the horror genre or random passers by with even a brief familiarity of the work of Mr.

Hitchcock can appreciate the steps.

The monster lunged at me, hideous hands outstretched. It spoke. “It’s me. It’s ME!”

The monster had taken over my sister’s body. And it was after mine.

I did the dance. I screamed louder. I beat the air with enough fervor to split atoms.

The monster began to laugh. It called my name. I’m pretty sure it wet its pants.

At some point, it occurred to me that if a zombie was going to eat my brains, it would get

the matter over with instead of convulsing in snorting heaves on the kitchen floor. I

screamed slower, paused in the belt buckle aerobics, and studied the situation.

Sis was leaning against the kitchen sink, holding her sides while she laughed and thought

up ways to use the whole episode against me.

“It’s Noxema!” she snorted, wiping the white cream with a tissue. “You should have

seen the look on your face. I’ve never seen anyone so scared.”

There’s a moment directly following total humiliation when you try to salvage any shreds

of dignity that may be wisping by like cobwebs. Chin up, I headed toward my room.

“Too bad you can’t tell anyone.”

“And why not?” Noxema zombies don’t take direction well.

“Because Mom will know you let me watch Alfred Hitchcock. You’ll be twenty years

past the Pond’s Seven Day Beauty Plan before you’re allowed to watch television again.”

She snorted one last time and turned her back.

And that’s how I got a room of my own.

Amy Mullis hides from Things That Go Bump In The Night at her blog, Mind over Mullis.

Join her there to munch chocolate chip cookies and swap stories. The scariest stories

involve teaching the kids to drive.

Highway Robbery

2011-10-10T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Terri Coop

I saw the white flash just a moment before the collision reverberated through the car and sent my
Doritos and ice tea flying.

What the hell was that?

Grabbing a flashlight, I got out to check for damage.

Not even a dent.

Walking down the road looking for a wounded animal, I saw nothing save a few scraps of litter around a signpost and my tire tracks in the gravel. Turning the beam onto the sign, I laughed.

“Hey, Wolfman! It’s been a long time since I’ve been to the House of Screams. Gave me nightmares for a month. Glad to see you’re such a responsible corporate citizen.” The tension relieved, I looked at my watch just as the numbers turned over to midnight.

I heard rustling and panned the flashlight toward the sound. Hands, dozens of them, skittered along the roadway. Some picked up bits of paper and others smoothed out the gravel.

This is insanity. I’m asleep or unconscious from the crash, I thought, backing away. I caught a whiff of cold rot and an icy hand grabbed my wrist. Raising my eyes, I saw a nightmare. The wrecked mouth moved in a chant while the dead eyes looked to the moon. She tightened her grip on my wrist and I saw a bracelet on her arm glow, disappear, and reappear on my arm. Then, with what looked like a smile, she dissolved into mist. The hands retreated into the night, leaving me alone on the side of the road.

“Well, that’s ten bucks I lost.”

In the dark silence, the cultured voice sounded like thunder. I turned and saw a slender well-dressed
man in the shadows.

“Let me introduce myself. Call me . . . “

“Wolfman.”

“Ah, you flatter me. Glad to see I’m recognized. Welcome to the staff of the House of Screams. I can’t believe you fell for Lila’s stunt. Most people don’t swerve. They run her down and keep going. But, you...” his voice trailed away as he pointed up the road.

My eyes followed his gesture and a veil of ice descended over me. My car was wrapped around the tree. Smoke crept out from underneath and through the window I could see a figure slumped over the wheel.

“No.”

“Yes.”

I dropped to my knees waiting for tears that didn’t come.

“Yes, you are quite dead and the dead don’t cry, so stop trying. And Lila was able to bind your soul when you went for a stroll, meaning that you took her place. This section of road now belongs to you. Stand up and meet your crew.”

Realization dawned in my soul. It wasn’t cold that I felt, it was lack of heat. I exhaled and saw no vapor cloud. I touched my hand and felt the smooth cool sensation of a marble statue. A noise interrupted my musing. The rustle of hundreds of hands dropping from the trees and emerging
from the weeds.

“Ah, here they are. Ready to get to work. I’ll cut you some slack tonight because you are new. However, from now on I expect this mile to be spotless.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me?” I said, watching what looked like my own blood trickling from a wound in my chest.

Wolfman came close enough for me to smell his warm fetid breath. As I watched, two tendrils of his
breath formed into small snarling beasts.

“Mocking me is a poor choice.”

Despite my new cold countenance, I drew back. Instinctively, I knew I didn’t want to press the matter.

“Smart girl. There are things worse than death. Now, I need to get back to the House of Screams. I have a show to organize. After you prove yourself, feel free to ask for an audition. You are a lovely thing and Marie Antoinette is starting to get a bit . . . um . . . scruffy.”

“What? Those were real ghosts?”

“Of course. Anyone can use projections. However, the real ones are so much scarier. You, yourself said you had nightmares for a month. Music to my ears. However, you need to get to work. First order of business is to clean up that mess,” he said, looking toward what was left of my car.

“What do I do?”

“Just tell them what you want. They are quite well trained,” he said, disappearing into the night.

I looked down. For a moment I had forgotten the hands. Row upon row of white hands. Not knowing
what else to do, I pointed and said, “Go on.”

The hands moved as one, swarming over the wreck, dragging and pushing it into the underbrush.
Dozens more followed picking up glass and smoothing out the ruts. Watching my body sink into its final resting place, I felt nothing. I belonged to the night now and I had work to do. This section of road wasn’t going to clean itself.

Terri Lynn Coop is a lawyer and writer who just scared herself. She’ll never drive Route 171 into Joplin again after dark. Come keep her company at http://www.whyifearclowns.net

The Vanishing

2011-10-07T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Kathy Tirrell

Hi there. My name is Janet. I’ve always been a sensitive sort of girl. In fact, a psychic once said I have a light blue aura surrounding me. I did a little research and found out that means I am keenly sensitive, which just confirms what I already knew.

Anyway, about a year ago, I fell in love with this married guy at work named Johnny. We spent a lot of time together, working on projects, and there was plenty of flirting, but no actual affair. However innocent the whole thing may have been for him, it was dead serious to me. I found myself constantly thinking about him and fantasizing about his big strong arms wrapped around me at night.

I had a friend at work named Molly who was totally into candle magic, witchcraft, and all things paranormal. So one day over lunch I brought up something I’d been pondering.

“So listen,” I began. “If someone wanted to make a certain someone fall in love with her, how might she do that?”

Molly nearly choked on her sandwich.

“Are you serious?”

“I’m dead serious.”

“You want to try to make someone fall in love with you?”

“I didn’t say I was talking about me, but either way, can it be done?”

Molly dabbed her mouth with a napkin and contemplated the question. “There are all sorts of spells. I know a candle magic spell you could try, but I can’t guarantee it will work. And I should warn you, it’s probably not a good idea for you to even try it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it has to do with the idea of messing with free will. What if the guy doesn’t want to fall in love with you? If you’re trying to put a spell on him, he might try to fight it. Or…I don’t know, it might have very negative consequences.”

“I want to do it. Please? Could you write down the steps for me?”

Molly heaved a heavy sigh and said, “Sure. I’ll write down what you have to do and give it to you today before we go home.”

That night I set up 7 red candles in a row on my bedroom bureau. Red was supposed to be the color for passion; I figured that was close enough to love. The idea was to start out with the lighted candles spaced a couple of inches apart, then each night I was supposed to move them closer and closer until at the end of the week they were all touching. I also made up a little chant to say while I lit the candles. It went like this: “Johnny and Janet are too far apart; let them grow closer and closer in heart.”

And I’d fall asleep each night dreaming of Johnny.

On the last night of that week around midnight, wanting to ensure Johnny would fall madly in love with me, I took out a photo of him I’d clipped from our newsletter at work. It was a small picture I could easily fit in the palm of my hand.

Clasping the photo tightly between my hands, I rubbed it in a circular motion while chanting my little love mantra. I did this for a couple of minutes, really concentrating on Johnny and then, all of a sudden, I’m not kidding, the photo…

Vanished! I swear to God, it vanished into thin air. I searched all around the room, everywhere I could possibly look, but that photo was gone.

When I finally mustered enough of my sanity back, I grabbed my cell phone and punched in Molly’s number.

“Hu--lllo,” came her half-asleep voice.

Talking really fast and probably sounding hysterical, I explained to her what had just happened.

“Holy crap!” Molly sounded wide awake now.

“Yeah, really! So how do you explain this? What does it mean?”

Molly exhaled into the phone.

“It means… somebody or some thing does NOT want you getting involved with this guy.”

Needless to say I quickly got over my fascination with Johnny. But that picture of him has never reappeared again.

Kathy Tirrell loves ghost stories and lots of other kinds of stories. She also likes to blog, so if you’d like to read some of her thoughts on what goes on in this crazy world, visit her at It Bloggles the Mind.

Image credit: blog.timesunion.com

Lights! Camera! Ghost!

2011-10-05T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Beth Bartlett

We knew the hotel was haunted. The hubby and I had worked off and on at the old hotel for years, and we both witnessed enough weird stuff to fill dozens of campfire ghost stories. But when we drove up to the hotel to celebrate a wedding anniversary, we realized the hotel was infested with weird, scary pests of an entirely different type: TV people.

A huge sign was posted in front of the hotel. With all the warmth and friendliness of a Facebook Terms of Agreement page, it basically explained that if you went into the hotel, you gave your permission to be filmed for a ghost-hunting show. I suddenly had a vision of shuffling down to the ice machine in my PJs and someone shining a flashlight on my massive butt, saying, “My God, that’s the biggest ghost I’ve ever seen!”

I shoved my trepidations aside and made an oath to drink warm cola and tap water for the entire evening as we checked in. Other than seeing an odd number of people running around in black shirts, I didn’t experience anything out of the ordinary, and I looked forward to a romantic evening in the Jacuzzi suite. Once we set down our bags, my hubby wanted to “have a look around” which, after many years of marriage, meant he spotted someone with a piece of technology he had never seen before. I’ve never been afraid of losing that man to another woman, but I’ll be seriously worried if female androids are mass-produced.

After 15 minutes, he bounced back into the room, telling me the identity of the show. At that time, it didn’t mean a thing to me, but it was the favorite show of our friend.

“Can I call him?” my hubby asked, practically dancing in place.

“Oh all right.” Hey, I’m a good sport.

He put the phone on speaker and dialed our friend’s number. Our friend is a big man. 6’4, tattooed, bald, 400 pounds, and if he walked into a biker bar, they would call him sir. He picked up the phone. We told him the news. He giggled like a blushing schoolgirl, and I’m pretty sure he squeed.

Apparently he also possessed transporter technology, because he appeared at our door in fifteen minutes. He definitely missed his calling as a pizza delivery guy. Within seconds, the two men were off hunting the ghost hunters.

I amused myself by watching the Discovery Channel and hoping a ghost would show up, because at least then I could play a game of cards. Gin, maybe some poker. But not Indian Poker, since it’s very difficult to get a card to stick to a non-corporeal forehead. As the hours passed and I sat wondering if a floating
head could even play cards, I heard the doorknob jiggle. I ignored it, thinking hubby had left his key behind.

Jiggle. Rattle.

“Weird,” I thought. I called out his name, waiting to hear “Let me in!” Nope. Nothing.

Rattle. Twist.

I peeked out the peephole but couldn’t see anything. The doorknob was silent now, so I sat down in the buttery soft leather chair and decided to watch the door.

Five minutes passed.

Jiggle.

Rattle.

Rattlejigglerattletwist.

A chill flared up the back of my neck as I approached the door. Of all the weird experiences I had in that hotel, nothing had ever tried to hurt me. Flying fuzzy balls of light, full-size apparitions walking past me into the elevator, paintings and furniture that would occasionally tip themselves had just been par for the course, but this was new.

I put my hand on the doorknob. I turned and yanked it fast in case someone was pranking me. The door whooshed open, and I was staring at the denim-clad backside of a cameraman losing his balance. Somehow he had perched one cheek on the doorknob so he could film into the room across the hall, but he lost his rear wheel drive when I threw the door open. Past him, the ghost experts were sitting in a dark room talking about electromagnetic fields and trying to maintain a spooky atmosphere while the hall lights blazed and tourists stumbled past. I blushed and muttered, “Sorry,” he apologized for freaking me out and they went back to their darkened lair.

The guys came back from their quest with autographs, our friend headed home with photos and the crew went away with some decent ghostie footage (captured later in the night) but I had the scariest story. I came this close to being on-camera, big butt, PJs and all.

Freelancer and humor writer Beth Bartlett has lots of ghost stories, and if you keep the margaritas coming, she will tell them all. The names in this story have been omitted to protect the clueless, the notso- clueless and the hubby who finally turned up to share the anniversary Jacuzzi soak. Visit Beth’s psychi -humorist side at www.wisecrackzodiac.com, and her nerdy side at www.puregeek.me.

Image: courtesy of www.freedigitalphotos.net

The Mystery of Nancy Drew and the Ghost Under Carrie’s Bed

2011-10-03T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Harley May

This entire essay will probably make our Erma Editor Stacey Graham (avid ghost hunter that she is) shudder.

In contempt.

See…I don’t like ghost stories. Before you gasp and unfollow me on every social media outlet available, PLEASE LET ME EXPLAIN. I hate being scared to the point of “TURN ON THE LIGHTS AND PLEASE DEAR GOD, HOLD ME.”

I attribute this stifling fear of the ghostly paranormal (fictionalized or not) on my first sleepover. At the age of eight, my dear friend Carrie Franklin seemed so much more grown up than I was (also eight). She already had her own American Girl doll and she’d watched The Goonies and Grease. She led me in Nancy Drew adventures on the playground where we solved little made up mysteries. She was always Nancy and I was always Bess, which was fine. I guess. I mean, it really wouldn’t have killed her to let me be Nancy every now and then because people should share and take turns and my idea about the stolen umbrella wasn’t “stupid.”

I’m not bitter about any of this. Shut up.

Anyway, when I received the invitation to sleep over, I was thrilled. Everything went swimmingly as far as slumber parties go. We ate popcorn and watched The Sound of Music (which I brought from my house thankyouverymuch). After we’d Doe a Deer’ed to our heart’s content and giggled and been tucked in by her mother, Carrie told me a secret: a ghost lived under her bed. His name was Choon. The way Carrie told things so clear and matter of fact, I absolutely believed her and didn’t care for this information at all.

I started to cry. When Carrie’s mother came to see what all the fuss was about, I told her I wanted to go home. Only this wasn’t your typical small town America. My mother couldn’t come get me from four blocks over because my house was a thirty-minute subway ride away. No one in their right mind would or should travel the subways at this time of night.

Carrie’s mother explained all this to me, but still I cried. She stared at me sitting on the bed and said, “Well, we’re just going to have to get rid of Choon. I’ll go get a garbage bag.”

That stopped my crying right away. When she returned, she got on her hands and knees with the black garbage bag and said, “Choon, come here. Get in this garbage bag.”

My little girl self got as far away from the edge of the bed as possible while Carrie’s mother made a lot of noise as she shoved something into the bag. She stood up to walk out of the room and whatever was in the garbage back moved. It kicked and grumbled as she dragged the bag away.

So you see, that experience in my little girl mind felt just too real. When the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I feel the need to keep my back against a wall, I stop watching/reading whatever it is that makes me feel that way. Ghost stories and I just don’t go together. Got it? Good.

And no, I won’t help you clean out the stuff under your bed.

A Rocktober to Remember

2011-09-30T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Jason Tudor

Rocktober looms just one day from the posting of this column. For those not familiar, those 31 days are the time that every radio station that programs classic rock or something like it changes the name of 'October' to 'Rocktober." I know. Clever as a cavity.

Live in any large city long enough and one endures 'Rocktober' over and over and over again. "It's Rocktober the Fourth, so let's get a little Zeppelin Four going!"

One particular Rocktober, my "Science Fiction Show" co-host Michael Wistock and I were trying to figure out the name of the band that played a particular song. We knew it was from the early 1960s or 1970s. We knew the melody and could sing a few bars. We dug it and each time we heard it, we dug it more. So, we figured, "Let's call our local station and get the answer."

Two rock stations lined the dials of San Diego radio for rock. The first, 101 KGB-FM, did not answer the phone (granted, we were hailing them at about 2:30 in the morning). The second station, KPRI, did answer. However, imagine our surprise as we discovered that one of the two purveyors of 'Rocktober' had turned into an EASY LISTENING RADIO STATION.

No matter. We recognized the personality who answered.

"Hey," I said. "Who sang this tune?" I belt out a few bars that include the words "dykes and fairies."

No dice. Mike chimed in with his rendition (which he probably still breaks out for his intense Petaluma Saturday night "Guitar Hero" sessions).

Zilch.

We naively believed Mister Overnight Guy would be able to help us. Sadly, despite both my friend and I doing our best American Idol audition, he knew nothing. Before hanging up, we requested an Iron Maiden tune, forgetting that the next tune from that station would probably be Seals and Crofts "Summer Breeze" or something from Bread.

As it turned out, we got our answer from a radio station in Los Angeles. Rocktober lived on, and looms for you tomorrow. Bob Seger, Boston, Peter Frampton, Aerosmith, and all the love you can cram into an elevator will be yours from Rocktober First to that Rocktober Halloween to remember. Party on!

The song, by the way, is "I'd Love to Change the World," by Ten Years After. Enjoy.

Jason Tudor is the creator and co-host of "The Science Fiction Show," which airs
weekly. He is also a writer and illustrator. You can find more of his work at
www.jasontudor.com

They Call it Puppy Love

2011-09-28T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Patti Wigington

Two years ago, we lost our beloved golden Labrador, Tanner, to cancer, leaving us with a single dog, our goofy Retriever mix, Brisco. After Tanner died, Brisco helped fill that dog-shaped hole in our hearts. Then we noticed he was getting kind of lazy. A three-year-old dog probably should be doing dog things – chasing the cats, digging holes in my herb garden, hunting for cheese -- not napping all day. So we figured it was time to be a two-dog house again – we were ready for a second canine companion, and clearly, so was Brisco.

Fast forward to a sunny summer morning at the local Farmer’s Market. The county Humane Society had a display table up – along with two adorable puppies. The pups couldn’t be adopted then and there, but that didn’t matter. The old bait-n-switch had worked, and the next Monday I dragged my husband with me to the animal shelter.

Just to look.

And when we got there just to look, we learned that someone had dropped off a female Blue Tick Coonhound mix and her litter of ten puppies – two of whom had lured me in at the Farmer’s Market. TEN. That’s a lot of puppies. At two and a half months old, they leaped around their kennel, yipping and rolling their plump puppy bellies, scrambling on top of one another, each hoping to be Top Dog.

Nine of them looked like black Labs, but the tenth – and bounciest – looked like a hound dog. With long floppy ears, and big brown paws, he made it clear that we needed to pay more attention to him than anyone else. And we did, and I fell head over heels in love. Two days later, once our adoption paperwork was processed, Bandit came home to be our newest family member.

Brisco welcomed him, and the two of them play non-stop – this is the most exercise Brisco has gotten in ages, and it’s good for him. Bandit is busy learning that we poop OUTSIDE, and that “treat” is a magic word, and that cats are not his friends (at least not yet). We humans are relearning how awesome it is to have two dogs in the house again.

In the three weeks we’ve had him, Bandit has nearly doubled his weight. He’s had his first trip to the emergency room, thanks to a lacerated paw that won him a few stitches, and he’s discovered that tomatoes can be eaten straight from the garden. He’s shredded a Samsung charger cord, and thinks socks are the best toy ever, except for crickets. It’s like opening up your home to a wayward toddler – only there’s less laundry and more fur.

Bandit’s going to be a good dog. He’s learning from Brisco, who is a REALLY good dog, and he’s smart. But more importantly, he’s full of love and silliness and fun, and the boundless joyful energy that one only finds in puppies and kindergarteners. I’ve never had a dog this young, and had no idea what fun it could be.

I’m even willing to sacrifice a few more socks and charger cords in the name of love.

Shouting Food

2011-09-26T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Jeanette Levellie

           Red potato salad with green onions shouted at me a few days ago, demanding I ask my husband to make a batch. I was quick to obey. Since Kevin has perfected this recipe to an art form, he was eager to assist me in indulging the food voices.

            Don’t pretend you don’t hear them, too. When you are reading in bed at night, the chips you hid from your kids holler to you from the sock drawer. You make sure no lights are oozing from under closed bedroom doors before you slip the drawer open and ease the bag out. You even place each chip on your tongue lightly, allowing it to soak in before biting down. You can’t risk waking anyone with loud crunching. Those chips are yours, all yours.

            And we’re all familiar with singing ice cream, chattering cookies, hollering pizza, and humming donuts. They sneak up behind us as we drive to work, write emails, and watch TV. No activity is sacred to these tormenting treats.

            Right before we went to sleep last night, one accosted me. “I wish we had some dark chocolate truffles,” I said to Kev.

            “Sorry, hon. We have Girl Scout Cookies in the pantry. Do you want me to get you some?”

            I sighed. “No; thanks anyway. I’ve had enough sweets today. I just wanted to entertain my tongue. I need to say “no” more often to screaming food.”

            “Good for you, Jeanette. The Apostle Paul would be proud of you for keeping your body under control. G’nite.”

            “Wait,” I said as I flipped my bedside lamp back on. “I didn’t say I was cutting out snacks forever; only that I’d had enough sweets for one day. Can you please get me a bowl of that red potato salad?”

“Nutty with a dash of meat” best describes Jeanette Levellie’s speaking, writing and life. She has published hundreds of humor/inspirational columns, articles, greeting cards, and poems. A spunky pastor’s wife, Jeanette is the mother of two, grandmother of three, and waitress to four cats. Find her mirthful musings at www.jeanettelevellie.com.

The Wishing Balloon

2011-09-23T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Pauline Campos

I am the oldest of five and the mother of one. For those of you not familiar with the Number of Siblings to Children Ratio Theory, it basically means that everything I couldn’t have as a kid (because my father would have had to buy or do the same for each sister after me) I do for Buttercup. Pre-school is a perfect example, so I wanted to commemorate the event with a little gift.

I bought a balloon that said, “You are so special to me!” And I presented it to her in class.

Buttercup smiled and tightly held on to the balloon as we walked to the minivan. I tried getting her to tell me about her day, but she kept saying she had to make a wish. I honestly had no idea what she was talking about.

It wasn’t until we got to my van that Buttercup looked up, let go, and wished on her balloon.

As it floated into the clouds, I vaguely remembered her cousin coming to visit. We had gone to a grocery store where they give the kids a free balloon in the checkout and Buttercup lost hers on the way to the car. To calm her down, my nephew told her not to be sad because you could make a wish on a balloon. So she did. And she remembered.

“What did you wish for, baby?” I asked as the heart-shaped balloon floated out of view.

She turned to me and smiled.
“I wished for happiness, Mama.”

The Date

2011-09-21T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Jennifer Caddell

(Sung to the tune of ‘Do You Hear What I Hear’)

Says the dressed-up mom in her husband’s ear,
“Do you hear what I hear?”
There is silence while her husband drinks his beer.
“Do you hear what I hear?”
The calm,
The calm,
Before the food arrives,
Just a quiet date with her favorite guy,
Just a quiet date with her favorite guy…

Says the dad in his darling wifey’s ear.
“Do you see what I see?”
He is whispering to his lovely dear.
“Do you see what I see?”
No looks,
No looks,
From the patrons near,
No glaring eyes or trembling looks of fear,
No glaring eyes or trembling looks of fear…

Says the waiter to the mother and the dad,
“Do you know what I know?”
He’s a handsome and dashing younger lad,
“Do you know what I know?”
“The menu,
The menu
It has no mac and cheese,
There are no jelly smudges on its sleeves
There are no jelly smudges on its sleeves…”

Say all parents to the people everywhere,
“Listen to what I say!”
Toasting their glasses everywhere,
“Listen to what I say!
A date,
A date.
We’re finally on a date,
No one’s arguing for the fondue plate,
No one’s arguing for the fondue plate…

Jennifer L. Caddell is a published science fiction short story writer. She is currently writing her first book in a space trilogy. Jennifer lives in the wet and wonderful Pacific Northwest with her superhero husband, stellar children, and two spacey chickens. You can visit her site at http://jcaddell.wordpress.com

Cook-a-foodle-does

2011-09-19T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Adam Slade

It turns out I can cook. It came as quite the shock, I can tell you.

The jaw-dropping discovery was aided by my darling wife, who will be named Sweetie for the entire article (because she is one). Y’see, Sweetie is an author, like me, as well as a nurse, and if I was to say to her, “What’s for dinner?” after she’d just got back from a twelve-hour shift she’d rightly feed me my own kneecaps.

So, after asking her a few probing questions about how the hell certain ingredients became edible, I decided I’d prove to myself that I was more than a Ramen eating water-burner, and prepare something for when she got back from work the next day. Something that didn’t come in one easily microwaveable package.

The next day came early. Too bloomin’ early, in fact, as Sweetie gets up at five in the morning on day shifts. I waved her off, then headed to the kitchen to begin my epic voyage of self-discovery/mutilation. I shall recount it in the form of a recipe. Be sure to follow the instructions to the letter:

1.    Remove pork joint from freezer early enough that, by the time of preparation, it is defrosted on the outside while still rock solid on the inside. Try not to drop on the cat’s head.

2.    Fill pot with about half an inch of water. That’s somewhere between ‘a smidgen’ and ‘yay much’, depending on the pot’s size.

3.    Place pork into pot, add onion.

4.    Remove onion, take off outer skin, dice, place back in pot and cover with lid.

5.    Realize you forgot to preheat the oven, but throw the pot in anyway. Cook at 350 degrees because that’s what the default setting is and you can’t remember how to change it. That’s probably Fahrenheit.

6.    Check on the pan after one hour and realize that the butcher tied string around the joint for some reason. Remove string with blunt knife while burning all ten fingers and screaming insults to the god of livestock.

7.    Check the meat every twenty minutes for the next two hours because you’re paranoid that it’ll burn and Sweetie will divorce you for being a terrible chef. In the gaps, soak throbbing fingers in ice water.

8.    After three hours cooking time has elapsed, take six reasonably-sized potatoes and peel skins. Aim for 80% potato skin, 20% human.

9.    Dice potatoes and throw in a pan of water. Once water is boiled, allow it to splash onto the stovetop, then turn down to medium heat. Remember the carrots shortly after and throw them on top of the potatoes. Sweetie likes ‘em a bit crunchy anyway, right?

10. After five minutes panic because the meat is done but you haven’t finished the potatoes. Turn oven off and add water to top of meat to stop it solidifying.

11. Drain potatoes, remove carrots, mash potatoes (add a little milk and margarine/butter, then squash them till your forearm cramps).

12. Remove meat from pot, put on plates with the oniony watery stuff that it was cooking in. Dollop mash and carrots on the side.

13. Serve, all the while apologizing in case it’s awful.

To my great surprise, the meal turned out edible. In fact it was lovely. The meat fell apart beautifully, and the mashed potato was as creamy as... uh, a very creamy thing on its creamiest day.

Next week? Fromage de tete de porc, avec asperges a la vinaigrette.

I’ll keep the ambulance on standby.

The result of a caveman breeding with an ingot of un-distilled sarcasm, Adam Slade was always going to go places. Some days he even makes it as far as the kitchen. Adam is an author of fantasy and humour works, and when he’s not writing, he’s reading or goofing off on the internet. You can read about his exploits on his blog, Editing Hat, and on his Twitter.

Bathroom Secrets, Songs and Rituals

2011-09-16T09:00:00.001-04:00

by Kathy Tirrell

After a brief delay, thanks to Hurricane Irene, my 20-year-old son has begun his senior year of college. He lives at home, along with his older sister and brother. Now, instead of sleeping half the day, at least 2 out of 3 will be waking up earlier each morning.

That means my household is back to“Flurry Mode”in the mornings. Yes, it starts up again--everybody making a mad dash for the bathroom as soon as they arise. Thankfully we have two of them (bathrooms, that is), just about a necessity in a house filled with five grown-ups.

But even with two bathrooms, you'll still hear the occasional,“I NEED to get in there!”

Makes me think back to my youth, growing up in a house with six people (two parents and four children) and, God help them, only ONE bathroom!

My dad always got up first so he could get in there and shave and groom himself before heading off to work. Let's face it, the poor guy pretty much had to be the first one up, sharing living quarters with five females. Five females!

We all know girls need to do a lot of primping in the bathroom. There are legs and armpits to shave, faces to scrub and moisturize, stray face hairs to pluck, pimples to conceal, and teeth to polish, not to mention shower rituals that include shampooing, rinsing, and conditioning. So sometimes we had to double up performing our beauty routines.

My sister Rose lathered up behind the shower curtain with me stationed at the sink shaving my armpits. Why I even came up with a catchy little song to sing while doing so: “I've got those hairy underarm, hairy underarm blues, duh duh duh duh-- da.”

Trust me, it was catchy. You'd have to hear the melody that went with it to truly appreciate it.

But beyond sharing space, Rose and I used to chitchat, spilling secrets while we groomed. I probably learned a whole lot more about her personal life than I needed to know. She was the youngest in the family, yet somehow much more experienced than her older sister.

She was also quite blunt when it came to her opinions. One time I recall criticizing some of her sexual antics, to which she replied,“Well, at least I have a boyfriend.”

Ouch! Way to stick it to your older sister.

Fast forward to 2011. Some things are different and some remain the same. My husband, the man of the house, gets up first to shower and shave, same as my dad did years ago. My two sons struggle to pry the bathroom away from their “gotta primp” sister and mom.

But of course, unlike the old days, nobody's sharing any secrets with Mom.

Kathy Tirrell is a wife, mother, reporter and freelance writer, not necessarily in that order. Visit her at It Bloggles the Mind, to read some of her other thoughts on what goes on in this crazy world.

Welcome to the Building

2011-09-14T13:49:00.001-04:00

by Sarah Garb

Living in our Washington, DC apartment building for the past six years, my husband and I have discovered that it is extremely easy to evade the Office of Tax and Revenue. Simply move away and let the Office of Tax and Revenue continue to send their bi-weekly notices, probably notices of Very Bad Things or Big Bucks Owed, to your old apartment for the new tenants to find. Every other week or so, we (the lucky new tenants) receive a letter for Marissa Martinez, diligently write in “Not at this address,” and pop it in the outgoing mail slot. After six years of this game, it is clear that the Office of Very Bad Things / Big Bucks Owed is either extremely patient or willfully ignorant.

Today I found one such piece of mail addressed to Not Us, and was about to grab a pen when I realized that it wasn’t addressed to our friend Ms. Martinez, but to someone I know from work. Whaaa?

I could not get my head around it for a few minutes. “But that’s our address. But her name. But that’s our address.” The most logical explanation I could come up with at first was that this had to have been a work-related mail error. This would mean that my employer, for some reason, had begun issuing bills on behalf of the electric company, but it seemed temporarily plausible. I tracked down my co-worker and found out that she had, in fact, moved into our building, onto our very floor. With an apartment number only one digit different from ours.

“Oh cool!” she said. “You can introduce me to some people in the building--I haven’t met anyone yet.”

Oh sure…except that a) we know hardly anyone in the building, b) we don’t know the actual names of the people we do “know,” and c) the names we have given them are Crazy Lady and Drunk Guy. So not likely we’re going to set her up with any fast friends.

While this connection doesn’t mean my co-worker gets an entree into a new set of fifth floor best buddies, it does mean that I have to rethink my concept of what is acceptable to wear when leaving the apartment. Gone are the days of taking out the trash or fetching Marissa Martinez’s mail in my pajamas. I mean, if I step out in some terrible Polarfleece ensemble, without having showered yet, to dash down the hall, it’s OK if strangers catch a glimpse. But to potentially run into someone I know is a whole different story.

And I’m not talking about some kind of normal pajamas that I’m claiming are ‘terrible.’ I mean that I once had a lady on the elevator down to the laundry room say to me, “Girl—you got on the outfit from hell!” And she was right. There was extreme rainbow plaid paired with traffic-cone orange, accented with blue and purple striped fuzzy socks crammed into the too-small black dress shoes that were closest to the door.

But on the plus side, that’s a third building resident I know. For those of you keeping track, that brings the neighbor gang to: Crazy Lady, Drunk Guy, and also Outfit from Hell Lady. It’s a very unimaginative, observational naming system, but I can totally fill this co-worker in on all the key players at 1480 Yarmouth Street NW. And I’ll also tell her to start expecting letters from the Office of Tax and Revenue any day now.

Image credit: http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_2sYXHRFeJNk/SJEdJyJBooI/AAAAAAAADbM/9nTIwS_LiKI/s400/Mailboxes.jpg

I married Peter Pan

2011-09-14T08:55:00.001-04:00

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.