Rachel Callahan

Pleading Insanity Due To Internal Parasite.

September 27, 2010 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Pregnancy: The Psychoses.

Pregnancy is a voluntary state of insanity.

It makes you do things, think things, and eat things that you would have never DREAMED of doing, thinking, or eating before nor (ohISoHope) after.

Ali and I went to lunch with Ashley, AJ, and Tessa last week. After lunch, we walked down the street to a local bakery. We got each of the girls a cookie, then sat at a table to let them eat their treat.

I’m not usually a cookie kinda girl. Especially the type they were having – completely iced sugar cookies, airbrushed and shaped into butterflies. WAY too sweet. Definitely not my thing.

But they just looked So. Darn. Good.

Luckily for me, I have a generous kid.

“Can I have a bite?”

“Sure!”

Mmmm…they taste even better than they look.

AT THIS POINT, a sane person would have simply walked up to the counter and bought a $1.50 cookie of their own. I mean, how hard is that?

But for some reason, I didn’t. A decision I shall rue for quite some time.

I just sat there and lusted after their cookies.

Ashley’s parents were walking by, and so they stopped in and were visiting with us.

I couldn’t very well ask Ali for ANOTHER bite and look like a total PreggoPig. It would just be uncouth.

While all of us were talking and I was thoroughly distracted, Noah took the opportunity to, yet again, completely hijack my mind AND body.

I noticed a big crumb on the table – must’ve fallen off my cookie bite. And without hesitation or thinking about it, I reached down, picked it up, and popped that crumb into my mouth.

From the table.

And, as I ate said crumb, I all of a sudden realized: That was not a crumb off of Ali’s cookie. That was a crumb off of a Petit Four.

We didn’t have any Petit Fours.

Which meant it belonged to the previous user of the table. Or maybe the one before that.

OHMYGOODNESSWHATHAVEIDONE?!?!?!

Then, my mind went into manic overdrive…

Seriously?? Did I just pick up a large crumb off the TABLE of a PUBLIC ESTABLISHMENT and eat it???

Did Ashley see it?

Did her parents see it?!?!?!?

Did that crumb come off of the person’s Petit Four before or after it touched their mouth??

Did I just swallow a horrible disease?? At least we’re in a snobby part of town. “Ladies Who Do Lunch in Fancy Dresses” eat here. Surely they’re not disease-ridden.

But then again, what if the Ladies Who Do Lunch in Fancy Dresses are the Desperate Housewifey type…ew!!

Maybe if I drink a lot of my coke really quickly, it will wash the germs straight through me.

Nope. I still feel gross.

I really want a cookie. Those cookies were much better than that Petit Four crumb.

Funny…I usually like Petit Fours.

It was probably stale.

WHAT AM I THINKING?!?!?!?

I really want a cookie.

******

But no, I still did not go buy a cookie. Mainly to punish Noah for his ridiculously disgusting behavior.

….I just REALLY hope that he doesn’t develop a taste for Placenta.

A Plea for HoundsTurf.

September 26, 2010 Rachel Callahan Football and I have a Complicated Relationship, Utter Silliness

Yesterday was a very emotionally fragile day at our house.

And not because of the three year old that lives here, OR because of the pregnant woman.

Luckily, Ali and I were invited to attend AJ’s Princess Dance Birthday Party during the most tumultuous part of the day…Because no little girl needs to see her Daddy in that much pain.

(If you’re not from around here, Alabama very nearly lost to Arkansas – they were behind the entire game, once even QUITE behind, nearly to the point of despair. But they managed to just barely, with quite a bit of luck, pull out a win.)

Fortunately for Ali and I, the Princess Dance Party had the most amazing timing and lasted until the end of the game, so we were able to leave with confidence in our hearts that when we arrived home, the atmosphere would be one of joy (or at least relief), rather than the infernal den of gnashing teeth that it surely was while we were Princessing around.

But next week’s game isn’t going to be easier.

And so, I think our team needs some new motivation – a new edge to throw off the opponent.

Boise State got SmurfTurf, and went from being a nobody in football to a potentially (albeit controversially) BCS frontrunner.

But we can’t go red, because a) Eastern Washington already jumped on getting HellTurf, and b) it’s HORRIBLY disturbing and painful to look at.

So my suggestion to the University is to take our one trademark that is unique only to our team and absolutely COVER our field with it.

I recommend implementing HoundsTurf immediately.

It would most certainly have a disablingly dizzying effect on the other team.

But our team? They’d be completely immune to it.

After all, all Alabama fans and players have been repeatedly innoculated from the Dizzying Poison of Houndstooth Overexposure, thanks to Guys with bad taste in pants, Girls with Houndstooth Overzealousness, and Toddlers with Sadistically-Houndstoothy-Mommies:

It’s our secret weapon. Let’s use it.

Giveaway – $100 Shopping Spree from CSN Stores!

September 25, 2010 Rachel Callahan Giveaways and Contests

I love it when I can give away a great deal to you guys, so I’m always excited to give you free shopping trips from CSN stores!!!

CSN Stores is an exciting online shopping destination – they have over 200 stores that specialize in every item imaginable – from toys and games, to shoes, to fitness equipment –they also have cheap bedroom furniture, just in case Ali’s bed doesn’t hold up after all!

(Not at all likely, I know.)

Their whole listing of stores can be found here, and you’re sure to get lost in the endless possibilities! They have great brand name coverage, an awesome rating and review system, and great tools to help you find exactly what you’re looking for.

If you would like to win $100 to spend at any way you want to in any of CSN’s 200 stores, simply leave a comment here with what you’d like to go shopping for!

You can earn up to four extra entries if you:

Tweet, blog, OR Facebook about this giveaway
Follow CSN Stores on Twitter or Facebook
Subscribe to OR Follow my blog
Follow me on Twitter OR Facebook

(be sure to leave separate comments for your extra entries.)

Best of luck! This giveaway is open until Monday, October 4th. The winner will be randomly selected and posted on my giveaway winners page on Tuesday, October 5th.

Also, keep your eyes out for another giveaway for CSN Stores coming soon on my other blog, Alabama Bloggers!

Disclosure: I received no compensation or review products for this giveaway. I just really love being able to give you fun things – is that so wrong, FTC?? My opinions are always my own.

Would You Like That Deep-Fried or Dried?

September 23, 2010November 3, 2013 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Can I get a copy of that recipe?, Pop Post, Pregnancy: The Psychoses., Weird Strange and True

Birth, although an amazingly beautiful and miraculous occasion, is, let’s face it, also pretty fantastically disgusting.

You’ve got blood and guts and possibly poo and definitely puke and meconium and blood and guts and…Placenta.

There’s just nothing pretty about placenta.

(I would normally insert a picture of a placenta in all it’s glory right here, but the picture almost made me gag, which guarantees, apparently, that most of you would SURELY gag. So if you really want to see the loveliness of a Placenta, check it out here.)

I mean, it’s pretty cool and all that when we’re pregnant we actually grow an extra ORGAN that supports and nourishes our baby, but when it decides to come OUT, it’s not a pretty sight.

I had a C-Section with Ali, which I let Chris watch in entirety and am now kinda jealous that he’s seen more of me than I have. And, since I was quite curious about the whole thing (I really should have watched – maybe next time), he described, in great detail, the Placenta-Removal-Process for me.

After they removed Ali and cut the umbilical cord, they then tugged like a leash on the still-attached-to-my-Placenta end of the cord – tug, tug, tug, and out popped the Placenta, dangling on the end of it, looking very much like they’d just removed my still-living heart, Indiana-Jones-Temple-of-Doom-style.

Despite watching them slice me open, cauterize (aka burn) me, pound on my belly to get the Ali to come out and play, and reach into my abdomen up to their elbows, I’m pretty sure that that the placenta removal was the most disturbing part of the entire process for Chris.

…which makes me wonder what he would have said if I had requested, at that moment, for him to save it so that I could….eat it.

Because, yes, people do.

After all, most animals eat their placentas – why shouldn’t we?

(For the same reason we shouldn’t greet one another by sniffing each other’s butts, but that’s just my opinion.)

According to some, eating one’s own placenta after birth provides great nutritional value, and can also help with post-partum depression and lactation.

I personally think also it would greatly help with losing all of my baby weight, because if I managed to choke down my Placenta, I don’t think I’d ever be able to brush my teeth, tongue, roof, palette, and throat hard enough, OR with enough bleach, to feel like my mouth was sanitary enough to hold food ever again.

But, there are plenty of recipes for Placental Cuisine.

The most humane way to eat one’s own organ (and almost palatable in thought) is to have it cooked, dehydrated (think placenta-jerky, or placenta roll-ups), then ground into powder and inserted into capsules.

I might could manage to swallow a pill of my own guts.

Other options include Placenta Meatloaf, Placenta and Onions, and I’m sure someone out there has made Placenta Brownies.

But really, if you’re going to eat yourself for nutritional benefits, it seems like you might as well get all the nutrients possible, without letting any get cooked, dried, or processed out.

Which is why there are an abundance of recipes for Placenta Tartare.

According to Tom Cruise, who is apparently an expert on Placental Culinary Arts (which makes me wonder how many and whose Placentas he’s been snacking on), Placenta Tartare is best prepared by combining one pound of freshly ground placenta, one teaspoon of brown mustard, one-half teaspoon of Tabasco sauce, one teaspoon each of Worcestershire sauce and brandy, one egg, a pinch of salt, and ground white pepper.

And, it’s delicious on crackers or toast, and when paired with a nice merlot.

Or, more realistically, after you’ve had so much crack that you think “Placenta” is another word for “Filet Mignon”.

But, since Noah’s most likely going to be born the week of Christmas, at least now I know how we can save some money on Christmas dinner…after all, who needs a Honey Baked Ham when you can have fresh Placenta?

Don’t worry – I’ll be sure to serve it up with a gourmet side of breast-milk cheese.

All Little Girls Need Beds of Steel…Right?

September 22, 2010February 17, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Anal Retentivity to a Fault, Chris, Guest Post

Remember a few months ago when I ever-so-gracefully broke Ali’s bed?

And remember that Chris “made it work” until he could PROPERLY reconstruct the bed??

Well, life got busy, summertime came and went, and somehow, three months flew by with her bed in the “make it work” transitional state.

But then, Sunday night was The Chosen Night of the Grand Bed Redesign.

Ali and I snuggled up in mine and Chris’ bed and watched Tinkerbell, all while the background noises of drilling, welding, soldering, and erecting huge steel columns were wafting through the air from Ali’s bedroom.

(Okay, maybe not all that, but I could TOTALLY imagine Chris in there with a welder’s full face mask on…)

Well, here’s what really went down in there, as told by my husband…

******

Hello, blog readers. I am the daddy. When my princess has a broken bed, I immediately assume that cheap foreign furniture is to blame, and I seek to remedy this situation, and by remedy, I mean re-engineer the bed to make it invincible to jumping, overloading, Jack Bauer, & nuclear holocaust. The basics.

Lets start with said furniture, from a large unmentioned furniture chain named after a girl. This is a trundle bed, so there is no boxspring, just a mattress on boards that WERE supported by this:

Ever so unsecurely stapled and lightly glued to the side supports, hence the previous collapse. It took me about 2 minutes to pry off the remaining side with a flat head screwdriver:

A few weeks ago I took one of those long daddy trips to Lowe’s, where engineers have to be alone and carefully consider all available options for hardware. It also didn’t hurt that a storm broke out while I was there and extra consideration beat sprinting to the truck in the rain with a buggy full of overdoing it.

I left with what I felt was a truly optimal solution. STEEL. I model it every day at work. I studied it in college. It’s my friend.

Anyway, if you ever need it, Lowe’s carries various and assorted lengths of perforated steel angles that were practically labeled “big girl bed reinforcement kit.”

I replaced 24 staples and 2 1×1 boards with:

5 steel angles,

1 steel plate,

2 bolts, and

64 #10 screws & washers.

For the geeks out there, no explanation is needed for the horizontal brace I bolted to the angles. I’ll spare the rest of you.

This is where my tinkering stopped and the old bed reappeared:

But the steel is there. Like Jack Nicholson, you want me on that wall, you need me on that wall. To provide the very bed of freedom….. Or something like that. I had Ali jump up and down on the bed while I watched from underneath.

Funny, it didn’t budge.

So the finished product is restored to its former self, but this time, girly bed is, as they say, strong enough for a man, but made for a princess.

There is something truly satisfying in the soul of a man taking great care to protect his family.

Maybe not from from the British Army or wild Cherokee raiders, but at least from dangerous bedroom furniture.

Adventures in Illnesses. Of Every Variety.

September 21, 2010 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, It's Tough Being a Girl, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience., On a more serious note. . .

So this week isn’t starting off with quite the happy vibe I would hope. I’m thinking about declaring Wednesday to be Monday and starting over, but two Mondays in one week sounds rather worse than just accepting that it’s a bad week and moving on, so I think I’ll just look forward to next week.

(Maybe I’ll even daydream that it will be fall by then!! Or at least below 80 degrees!!)

Ali got her second cold in a month last week, and gave it to me halfway through the week. I thought I had ditched it (despite not being able to take anything halfway potent to treat it) by Friday afternoon, but then on Sunday afternoon, I found myself increasingly ill with Bronchitis (or something) as a result of it.

(Which, by the way, I sincerely apologize to all Moms of the toddlers that I kept in the nursery Sunday morning. I really thought I was totally over it. But if it’s any consolation, they slobbered on me MUCH more than I slobbered on them. In fact, I’m still picking the Ritz Cracker Paste off of my dress that one of your kids very lovingly painted onto me.)

So, Sunday night, I went to bed feeling like death. And Monday morning, I woke up feeling like Double Death, and coughing up creatures that must have been relatives of Ali’s friends from last week.

But, being the good Mommy that I am, I took Ali to Gymnastics anyway, and just sat comatose in the back corner of the room, trying to stay away from all other humans.

When they finished up, Ali’s coach came and got me and told me that Ali had just started complaining that her neck hurt. She was crying a bit, and began to get more and more frantic. She buried her head, turned all the way to the left, into my chest and refused to move it.

No one remembered anything specific that she did to hurt it, so the only thing we could figure was that she did a bad forward roll or something.

I held her for about 20 minutes trying to get her calmed down enough to leave, but without success. So I put her in her car seat (which only ramped up the hysteria) and drove across the street to buy some Ibuprofen and Chick-Fil-A.

(Thinking, of course, that if she was being overly dramatic, being distracted by Chick-Fil-A might make it all go away.)

The meds helped her calm down some, and although she was excited about Chick-Fil-A, she refused to move off of her laying-to-the-left-on-me position to eat, but she did still eat, all the while giving me quite the case of greasy-boob.

(Good thing she stayed laying in that exact spot for the rest of the day so that no one could see the damage.)

I had to wait for the Pediatrician to open back up after lunch, so I figured it was a good time to observe her and see if it got better. And, since my normally refusing-to-snuggle child wouldn’t move off of my now greased and snotted chest for well over an hour, I decided she probably needed to get checked out.

(Of course by now I’d been holding and/or carrying her for 2 1/2 hours, and between my own Double-Death state and the fact that I was also carrying newly-third-trimester-Noah around, I felt so cramped and uncomfortable that I felt like I might be going into labor any second – you know, just to make the day a wee bit more interesting.)

So we headed in for her second X-ray in her life, of course both being while I’ve been pregnant so couldn’t accompany her. Luckily, her Pediatrician has the most amazingly magical X-ray tech ever who, despite Ali not even moving without crying before the X-ray, was able to gladly get her to join her – talk that poor X-Ray tech’s ear off the entire time.

(Which is probably why it took so long – hard to lay still when you’re jabbering continuously.)

The X-rays didn’t show anything, so they just told me to rotate Ibuprofen and Tylenol and that it could hurt for up to a week.

Which means I might be carrying around two kids for a week..

(If Chris thought I snored with ONE baby laying on my lungs, try adding a 35 pound one and the Double Death of Bronchitis…he’ll never notice my “normal” pregnancy snoring again.)

Ali’s Nap was rough, and after nap continued on the roughness trail, and her position on my chest was apparently a non-negotiable point.

That is, until Daddy got home, at which point (due to some combination of his charismatically charming self and the little-more-than-a-normal-dose of Ibuprofen I’d just given her) she perked up nearly to her normal self so that she could play with him.

I’m thinking that The Magical Daddy needs to stay home tomorrow. That, or I need to hire that X-Ray tech to come over and play.

Ali Get Your Gun and the Explanation of Freaky Baby.

September 19, 2010 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Kids: The Experience., Mystery Solved, Pregnancy: The Psychoses.

We decided it was finally time to register for a few things for Noah. And, since it’s been four years since I’ve filled out a baby registry, I learned a few new things.

My first surprise was that although adults (especially husbands) are completely mesmerized by the privilege of using The Barcode Gun, kids find them completely archaic and even downright dull.

Because really, how does a barcode gun compare to their mastery of the iPhone?

(This picture was taken at lunch on Monday when, after trying to encourage Ali and Kendall to actually CONVERSE and INTERACT for a while, we finally gave in and let them do what they both really wanted to do…play games on our iPhones. At least their knees were touching.)

We did convince Ali to give The Gun a try, but what with it not having a touch screen, interactive games, or EVEN a color display, she declined further grueling barcode-scanning labor.

Secondly, there are some new products on the market this time around.

BUT, just like you shouldn’t register for trash cans and plungers on your wedding registry (and yes, I’ve seen both), you most certainly shouldn’t register for anything that resembles the torture device utilized in The Pit of Despair:

(If only the similarities ended at the visual horror… but I’m pretty sure I’ve had more than a few years sucked right off the end of my life from months of torture suffered under the Pump of Despair.)

And finally, I learned the secret of Freaky Baby’s Freakiness.

Our registering took place at the new store in town, buybuy Baby. And, although we’re all thrilled that Babies R Us finally has some competition, the whole city is a little scared of Freaky Baby:
I always assumed that what made Freaky Baby so very, very Freaky was a bad Photoshop-Crop job, but I now possess the Knowledge of the Truth Behind the Freakishness…

Besides his positioning on the delivery trucks, I noticed that he was also displayed prominently on all of the employees’ nametags, so I mentioned it to one of them.

“Oh wow – so you have to actually WEAR a picture of Freaky Baby???”

The Store Clerk rolls her eyes.. “Yes… isn’t he disturbing?”

“Quite. He spooks me and all of my friends.”

“Well actually, he’s two babies – the two store owners took their baby pictures and spliced them together, making up the two halves of Freaky Baby.”

“Whaaaaat???”

“Yes! You see? There’s a shadowed side and a light side? And see how his eyes, eyebrows, and shoulders are different? That’s their two different baby pictures mooshed together, and that’s what makes him look so freaky.”

And somehow, I’m now even more freaked out than ever.

…and I apologize in advance for all of your future nightmares about Freaky Baby and the Pump of Despair.

…Because I Like To Make an Impression at Social Events…

September 17, 2010November 12, 2013 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck

Chris and I had the privilege of attending the Birmingham Restaurant Week Preview Party on Wednesday night, compliments of Birmingham Magazine, from whom I won a contest for two tickets.

(Which, by the way, if you’re in the area and don’t know about Birmingham Restaurant Week, you absolutely must check it out – it starts today and goes through next week, and all of the best restaurants in town are participating in serving up highly discounted and quite elaborate meals from their menus. That, coupled with the Birmingham Greek Festival that is also next week, is a total excuse to eat out all week long.)

Anyway, it was quite the lavish occasion – I actually even had the thought that this was the first event I’d ever attended that my photo might end up in the “Social Scene” pages of one of our local magazines.

(And, of course, it would be when I was gargantuanly pregnant.)

At any rate, it gave me an excuse to wear my awesome sequined shirt (luckily it still fit nicely over my pregnant belly, although I didn’t get a picture of us, so it might not have fit as nicely as I imagined it did…and if it didn’t, I sure hope I don’t end up in the Social Scene Shots), but a lot of people decked out much fancier in their cocktail dresses.

There was much food, much mingling, many Birmingham Socialites, and a live band. As we were out on the patio drooling over all of our samples of delicious cuisine from all of our favorite restaurants, I was watching a table where there was a painting easel set up. I saw someone walk up to the canvas, add a few thoughtful brush strokes, and walk away. I remembered seeing someone do this out of the corner of my eye earlier.

“Oh look, honey! They’re doing one of those cool paintings where everyone puts their little touch on it, and by the end of the night, it’s a masterpiece!”

We were both intrigued.

When we finished our feasting, we walked over to the table. No one was there, so we quickly read the sign that said that the painting would be auctioned off after the event. There were two palettes full of colors sitting out, along with a bunch of paintbrushes…

So far, the painting was of a chef, all in white, with the exception of his polka-dotted scarf. It was already great, but definitely looked as-of-yet unfinished.

Being that Chris is the more artistic half of our family, I chided him to leave his mark.

“You should TOTALLY add something to it.”

And, being that Chris is Chris, he noticed the big blank chest of the Chef’s outfit, the large glob of red paint that was as yet untouched, and said that the Chef really looked like he wanted – nay NEEDED – a big Alabama A on his chest.

He pondered, he sized the chef up, he thought about his strategy for implementation.

And, as we were standing there analyzing, the lady that had been manning the table walked back up.

“Isn’t it beautiful? The artist is here tonight working on it. She’s amazing!! She’s doing it a little at a time throughout the evening, and at the end of the evening, it will be one of her valuable original works of art, and we’ll auction it off.”

Our hearts stop beating.

“Oh…yes…it’s lovely!!!”

We ~~run~~ wander off as quickly as possible….and as soon as we’re safely out of earshot, I burst into a fit of HorrifiedNervousRelief giggles.

Chris, although not laughing, was quickly turning an Alabama A shade of embarrassment-red.

“You just almost TOTALLY sold me down the river!!!!!”

“I know!! I can’t believe that…it would have been hysterical!!! I mean terrible!!!”

“Let’s never speak of this again.”

…Good thing blogging doesn’t require speaking.

The Three Little Pigs: A Modern-Day Adaptation.

September 15, 2010January 26, 2013 Rachel Callahan Storytime, Utter Silliness

No, this isn’t a profound commentary on society – Philosophy wasn’t my favorite college course, if you haven’t noticed by now. This is simply what my imagination does to entertain itself while reading children’s books for the ten thousand five hundred and seventy third time…

Once upon a time there were three little pigs who lived at home with their Mother. The Mother Pig had bought a self-help book entitled, “Parenting Adult-Aged Pigs”, which enlightened her to the fact that she was making her boys into Mama’s Piglets by letting them live with her well into their 30’s.

So she sat them down and told them that it was time for them to become men and go off on their own.

They cried their little piggy eyes out and stomped their soon-to-be-marinated pigs feet and begged her to at least let them take their Sony Playstation with them.

Although Mother Pig was a bit fond of playing Guitar Hero 5 after she tucked them into bed at night, she figured that it would only be fair to let them take it.

(Plus, then she’d have an excuse to buy that Wii that she’d been eyeing.)

So the three little pigs packed up their Aeropostale man-purses and went on their way.

The first little pig was the laziest of the three of them – he had really not spent more than an hour away from his Playstation (or bed) in at least 6 years. He decided to apply for welfare and get government-subsidized housing.

The second little pig wasn’t much more industrious. He rented a room at the extended stay motel with the blinky-light sign that had a few missing bulbs.

The third little pig wasn’t really any smarter than the other two, but had pickier taste in his dwelling, so he decided to build a brand new house with a 120% Mortgage, even though he had yet to find a job. But hey – he could live off that 20% for a WHILE.

Well, their no-good friend the Big Bad Wolf headed over to Mother Pig’s house for his daily routine of playing Playstation with the pigs and mooching whatever food was in the house, and was shocked and surprised to find them gone.

At first, he figured that would just mean more food and Playstation for him, but when he found out they took the Playstation, he was furious!

Mother Pig gladly gave him all of their locations – no more Big Bad Wolf muddy paw prints in her house.

He stomped his paws and raked his claws all the way over to the first little pig’s studio apartment.

He roared through the door, “How DARE you take the Playstation??? This is WAY too far for me to travel!! I’ll have your chitlins for dinner for this!!!”

The little pig yelled back, “I don’t have the Playstation! I get it on Mondays and Wednesdays, and today is Tuesday!!”

The Big Bad Wolf yelled back, “If you don’t open up that door, I’m going to huff, and puff, and pick the lock of your flimsy door!!!”

So he huffed, and he puffed, and he got out his lock-picking kit and picked that door right open.

The little pig squealed at the sight of his angry friend and fled the scene, leaving the Wolf to completely tear apart his house in search of the Playstation.

The first little pig ran to the second little pig’s Extended Stay Motel Room as fast as his little legs would carry him.

The Big Bad Wolf sped to the motel.

He roared through the door, “Are YOU the little pig who has the Playstation on Tuesday???”

The second little pig yelled back, “No! I get it for Friday and Sunday!!!”

“Little Pork, Little Pork, let me in!!!”

The second little big yelled back, “Not by the finely manscaped gotee on my chinny-chin-chin!!!”

The Big Bad Wolf yelled back, “If you don’t let me in, I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll go to that front desk and claim to be you and say that I accidentally locked my key in my motel room!!”

They didn’t let him in, so he huffed and he puffed all the way to the motel’s front desk, and by acting very worried and a bit flirty with the front desk girl, very easily got a key for the room.

The two little pigs already figured that he would be able to accomplish this feat. After all, he had fooled them into being friends with him. So they snuck away and ran to the nice little diaper row neighborhood that their brother had built his house.

They yelled through the door, “Let us in! Let us in! The Big Bad Wolf is tracking us down!!”

Their brother yelled back, “I’m sorry, but Mom sent me a book called “Boundaries for Pigs,” and if I let you in, I’ll just be enabling you and to keep sitting on your lazy Boston Butts!!”

The two pigs looked at each other. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “If you let us in, we’ll let you keep the Playstation EVERY DAY for a month!!”

The third little pig weighed his options. It was totally worth it. He opened the door and quickly let the pigs in, before locking up again.

It didn’t take long for the Big Bad Wolf to arrive. He banged on the door and said, “I KNOW you have that Playstation in there!!!”

The third little pig knew exactly what to do. He waited.

Sure enough, within half a second, his nosy, ancient, and very cantankerous next-door neighbor came, wielding a baseball bat in one hand and a cane in the other.

“I’ve already warned that little pig to keep it down over there ten times in two days!!!! I’ve had it!!”

And she chased that Wolf, with a *thwap* onto his head every time she caught up to him, right out of the cul-de-sac, down the street, and out of the neighborhood entrance.

…but before long, the first little pig got kicked off of welfare, the second little pig got locked out of his motel room and the front desk girl would ABSOLUTELY NOT give out another key to that room, and the third little pig got foreclosed on, and so they all ended up back at Mother Pig’s house, playing Playstation and Wii all day long, and getting tucked in at night.

And really, she didn’t mind, because the Wii wasn’t much fun by herself.

An Original Spin on the Traditional Blowout.

September 14, 2010 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

I went through a phase of blogging where I was writing a bunch of disgusting posts.

That phase was called Diapers and Pottytraining.

Then, as that delightful stage of life came to an end, my posts quit being so gaggable.

And really, so did my life.

But yesterday, we had A Moment.

(Insert ominous-FOX-voice-overdub saying “Reader Discretion is Advised” here – you may quit reading if you’re not a fan of disgusting posts.)

Ali and I were in the car. The place that all out-of-control grossness seems to take place…

We pulled out of the driveway and headed for gymnastics. I heard Ali sneeze in the backseat. It sounded a bit more gurgly than normal, so I stopped at the stop sign, felt the back of my head for shrapnel, and looked back.

Sure enough, a big, nasty wad of snot was hanging out on her lip. She seemed oddly unphased by her new friend. So I wiped her up, looked around for more, found none, so kept on our journey.

No more sneezes from her, no complaints from her, no reason to worry.

We get to Gymnastics 20 minutes later.

I go around to the backseat to de-harness her, and as I reach in the backseat, I feel like I’ve just stuck my hand directly into Jabba The Hut.

I pull back, and my arm looks like a giant slug.

Surely I’ve just somehow managed to be transported back to the 80’s and have stuck my hand right into the middle of an episode of You Can’t Do That On Television….surely.

Whaaaa???

I start investigating the crime scene.

Everything is covered in a thick layer of snot.

It was as if a very large zoo animal – a camel, perhaps – or maybe a hippopotamus with extreme flu-like symptoms – had been in the backseat with Ali and had sneezed repetitively at a point-blank range.

There had to be some explanation. This carnage was absolutely not humanly possible from ONE sneeze.

I started counting surfaces affected….

1. Her Leapster computer.

2. Her Leotard.

3. Both sides of the carseat buckle.

4. Her right leg.

5. Her left leg.

6. Her right arm.

7. The ENTIRE length of her left arm.

8. The carseat.

9. And now, me.

“Mommy, I’m yucky.”

Ya think, kid?!?!?

Of course, seeing as how I thought we were OUT of the disgusting phase of childhood, I had no wet wipes in the car.

So I began to mop of the goo as best as I could with kleenex, rubbing her poor arm red in the attempt to separate it from it’s thick layer of mucous, all while leaving a trail of torn tissue in my wake – because no kleenex could stand up to this sort of ZooMucus.

I finally get her dry enough to remove her from her slimy vat formerly known as a carseat, take her into the bathroom, and properly sanitize myself. Oh – and her.

Then start considering trading in my car.

I still haven’t found that camel in the backseat, but I KNOW it’s gotta be in there…that or Jabba himself.