Rachel Callahan

April Fool’s Day: aka National Child Trauma Day.

April 1, 2010 Rachel Callahan Parent of the Year, Storytime

So I’ve been trying to think of a good blog April Fool’s joke for weeks. And I’ve got nothin’. My inspiration has just completely flown out the window, along with any small amount of organization, neatness, and stay-on-top-of-everything-in-life-ation that I usually have.

I LOVE April Fools. I really love practical jokes in general, as I come from a long line of jokers. My Dad could do a whole series of guest posts on the jokes he’s played in the past, and my Brother JC has been involved in his fair share too, especially on our High School Youth Group trips.

But, unfortunately for JC, they had a you-have-to-take-retribution-with-a-happy-heart rule, so JC was forced into having his head shaved (which he unfortunately liked and continued to do for a while, once even with the help of his little sister), and into eating a raw octopus sandwich (which I don’t think he liked quite as much as having his head shaved.)

Anyway, April Fool’s. Every year when we were kids, my parents would tell us some sort of “news” over breakfast on the morning of April first, always early enough that we didn’t realize what day it was. And every single year, we fell for it.

The only one that I remember (the rest I’ve apparently blocked due to the angst that they caused) was the year that they told us that we were moving to Utah. I was horribly brokenhearted. Being the rut sort of girl I am, the thought of moving across country deeply disturbed me. JC, however, was fine with the news, so they had to ramp it up a bit to ensure fair and equal traumatization for all children by telling him, “oh, by the way….baseball is illegal in Utah”.

Then he came completely unglued too, which allowed my parents to fully enjoy the thrill of inflicting April Fool’s terror onto their children.

I can’t wait until Ali’s old enough for this sort of special parental torture.

Last year, I used the oldest, most worn out April Fool’s joke possible and had a bit of fun announcing on my blog that I was pregnant, with twins.

I must say, some of the people that didn’t fall for it surprised me, such as my self-admittedly most gullible friend, Gina. I was pretty proud of her.

And some of the people who did fall for it surprised me as well, such as one of my best friends and Ali’s Godmother, Amanda, who called me with the angriest voice I’ve ever heard her use. I answered the phone, and was greeted with: “TWINS, Rachel?!?!?! TWINS???? And you didn’t tell ME?!!?!??!!?!? TWINS!!!!”

Me: “Did you finish reading the post?”

Amanda: “No. I’m too mad. TWINS?!?!!?!?!?”

Traumatizing friends is almost as much fun as traumatizing kids.

So, if your kids are old enough, by all means, please shake ‘em up a bit tomorrow morning. And enjoy every minute of it. Then come tell me what you did, since I have to live vicariously. For now.

And tell me the best April Fool’s Joke you’ve ever heard of. I need inspiration.

In Sickness and in Health, by Scratch or by Box…

March 31, 2010 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Can I get a copy of that recipe?, Just My Luck, Storytime

My family is a “from scratch” kind of family.

As I was growing up, we ate three homemade meals a day together, all made lovingly from scratch, as were any desserts that were ever made.

(At least that’s how I remember it – albeit potentially a bit idealistic-childhood-memory-esque.)

And my Mom wasn’t the only cook in the house – my Dad still makes biscuits from scratch, even to the point that you must mix a stick of butter in with a fork instead of a blender to make biscuits like him. He is already teaching Ali these skills, and one of her favorite treats is to make biscuits with Pop.

I was brought up to cook well, and to not cook out of a box.

However, a year or two after Chris and I got married, I was running late on making him a birthday cake, and in a hurried and frantic decision, I made him a cake…from a box.

It was a Butter Pecan cake mix, made in two round cake pans, then with Sour Cream Chocolate icing from a can in between the layers, and Cream Cheese icing from a can on the sides and the top.

I was ashamed of my methods. Horribly ashamed.

However, for whatever reason, he absolutely fell in love with it. He proclaimed it the best dessert I’d ever made (trumping all of those homemade cakes, cookies, and brownies that I’d slaved over), and thenceforth begged to have it any time I was making a dessert, especially for his birthday.

It was a pretty good cake, I must admit. So good that I even made it for work functions once or twice. However, I had several scratch-and-only-scratch co-workers, so when they oohed and aahed over my cake and begged me for the recipe, I coyly implied that it was my secret recipe.

Because I was ashamed.

The cake became a family tradition, even used in welcoming Ali into the world. On the day of our 20-week gender-determining ultrasound, we invited both of our families over to see the video. I had separated the Cream Cheese icing (out of the can) into two parts and colored it to make this cake:

We made everyone commit to their prediction by choosing a slice of cake before watching the video.

(My little brother was the only one who thought to hedge his bet, and chose a piece that was half pink and half blue, and with the extra benefit of Hershey’s mini chocolate bars. Smart, he is.)

Obviously, The Cake has made it’s mark on our family. Besides it’s sentimental value, The Cake has also excused a decline in my cooking sensibilities: I now make boxed brownies instead of Scratch Brownies, and get Toll House Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough when making my favorite kind of cookies instead of making my own dough, on both counts arguing that it tastes just as good with a quarter of the work.

I even buy Frozen Veggies, packed ready in steamable bags.

The shame.

However, like everything that Chris and I love, The Cake met with The Curse.

(You know, The Curse that has captured and bankrupted every restaurant or place that has ever held any sentimental value in our relationship, most notably the location of our Wedding Rehearsal Dinner that was held nine years ago tonight – Our beloved and ever-classy Sarris Steakhouse, which was replaced by the oh-so-not-even-on-the-radar-of-classy Nanci’s Love Stuff. Yes, we ate Filet Mignon in anticipation of our wedding in the room that now houses Thigh-High Red Vinyl Boots, Little Bo Peep Outfits, and Fireman uniforms.)

Back to The Cake. The Butter Pecan cake mix disappeared from grocery stores everywhere – I could occasionally find one at Target, but other than that, no one carried it.

And the Sour Cream Chocolate Icing, which I felt was the real key to the cake’s unique flavor, went completely extinct. It could be found nowhere.

Chris still requests The Cake every now and then, and I search and search for the ingredients, but to no avail.

So I’ve decided to finally admit that the cake as it was is no more and move on. Tomorrow is our anniversary, and I wanted to make Chris something special.

So…I substituted the Butter Pecan cake mix for a Spice Cake mix, and got regular Chocolate icing instead of Sour Cream Icing. And, to help it’s integrity a bit, I actually went back to my scratch roots made homemade Cream Cheese Icing.

Here’s to hoping that he falls in love with it all over again.

Happy Anniversary, Baby – may our tenth year of marriage be full of deliciousness.

The Sequel: In Production. Release Date: Unknown.

March 30, 2010 Rachel Callahan A Bit More Vulnerable Than I Usually Am, Blogging: the therapy., Newsflash, On a more serious note. . .

Sometimes it’s refreshing to simply answer questions. Especially when it’s a question you get asked at least a dozen times a week, and you run out of vague ways to not actually answer, which usually answers the question in and of itself.

So….yes, we’re trying to get pregnant.

Or rather, we’re not not trying.

And we’ve been not not trying for about a year.

(Yes, we started not not trying ironically just a couple of months after I wrote this post – proving that Blogging is therapy – once I got my feelings out, I was good to go.)

However, it took two years to create Ali (we are both, after all, perfectionists), so don’t go out and buy us any baby presents today or anything.

(Unless it’s chocolate – I’m sure that’s always helpful.)

Neither one of us are stressed or sensitive about our infertility, nor are we desperate to get pregnant this time around – we’re really both at peace with God’s timing and plan for our family, and if He wants us to have a second child, then He’ll make sure that happens.

And if He doesn’t, we are both pretty content with that. We don’t plan on exploring any fertility treatments.

The only hard part is the in-between part – the constant wondering of when our life will completely change. Oh – and the 5,672 pregnancy tests I’ve already bulldozed through. But other than that, we’re good with whatever the plan is for our family.

(Ali, however, has been making a lot of mentions lately about the fact that it’s high time I got a baby in my tummy and made her a sibling like all of her friends already have.)

(Which makes me wonder if she’s being fed those suggestions by eager Grandparents and friends…hmm…)

We did some preliminary testing in our pre-Ali days, and I seem to be the problem, but the exact problem has not been diagnosed. But I’m totally cool with the fact that I’m simply not too efficient at making babies.

(It’s a lot easier than the uber-painful diagnostics that they do to discover such problems.)

At any rate, here’s my insider trading tip of the day: buy stock in Early-Pregnancy-Tests.com. I have been and will continue to be keeping them in business.

And I totally realize that I just raised my level of “bump watch” by 5000%, but regardless, staring at my belly is completely and absolutely prohibited.

A Pair of Greeks.

March 29, 2010 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I would NEVER take too many pictures. . ., Utter Silliness

I always find the beach to be an inspiring place to take pictures of Ali. There’s something about the lighting…the color her eyes are down there…the air…the surroundings.

Granted, she wasn’t quite in the mood for photography this weekend, and when I did get her cornered, she didn’t want to put down her fork…

And she didn’t appreciate me saying that she had boingy curls from the salty air.

Apparently, “boingy” to her is about as insulting as “gigantasaurously fat” would be to you and me. Who knew.

But I noticed something that’s changed about Ali from the last time I took a significant amount of beach pictures…

Besides the fact that she’s a year and a half older.

I noticed the eyebrows.

They’re Greek.

And they’re growing in very quickly.

They seem to be growing in at a faster rate than even my monstrous Greek eyebrows did – mine at the age of 5 were approximately where hers are at the age of 3:

They may be cute at that age, but believe me – they turn on you. Greeks are hairy people. Not nice-thick-hair-on-the-head hairy people, but so-hairy-that-they-need-a-weed-wacker-in-their-personal-hygiene-kit hairy people.

Which means…

1. Her eyebrows will, at some point in her early adolescence (or sooner, at her rate), take over the entire surface of her face, much like mine did before my Mother mercifully stepped in and taught me how to use ~~a lawnmower~~ tweezers:
…Eyebrows are the number one leading cause in Awkward Pre-Teen Years. Sad but true.

2. If hers are growing at a faster rate than mine did, then I have to worry about people looking down on me for teaching a six year old how to tweeze her eyebrows.

3. And shave her legs.

4. Because, if she got the Greek eyebrows, she probably got the Greek in-general hairiness too

5. Along with her college fund, I need to start her a laser hair removal fund.

But, luckily for her, she’s completely oblivious to the hairiness of her future.

…but she is still a bit mad at me for using the adjective “boingy” to describe her curls.

If My Child Has Nightmares About Boats…

March 27, 2010July 5, 2019 Rachel Callahan I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Uncle Leo, Yes I'm a beach bum. What of it?

We’re in Orange Beach this weekend visiting Chris’ Aunt Kitty and Uncle Leo.

They live on the bay,
so one of the things that Leo wanted to do this weekend was get their boat in the water for spring, and in so doing, take Ali for her first ever boat ride.

Granted, it’s crazy-windy on the water and still a bit chilly, so we all bundled up like it was Winter in Alaska rather than Spring in Alabama.

Chris and Leo had put the boat up on the lift a bit earlier so that it was up in the air and at the dock for ease in loading passengers.

Apparently, there was some discussion about whether they got it far enough onto the lift, but they agreed that it should be fine.

Despite the boat being at the dock, one still had to do a pretty impressive dive, splits, and quick-grab onto the boat to get on, so the plan was that I would get on, then Chris would hand me Ali.

I dove, I did the splits, I grabbed the rail, and I felt like a pro boater.

As I loaded in on the middle of the boat, Kitty was jumping into the back of the boat, where Leo was catching her and helping her on.

And then it happened.

The boat violently tilted straight up in the air Titanic style, and all three of us started sliding towards the back.

I scream.

Kitty screams.

Ali, in Chris’ arms still on the deck, starts screaming.

The bottom of the boat landed in the water with a great splash, as the top of the boat was still leaning on the lift.

Leo lurches towards to back to catch his wife, who is standing on the back of the boat, doing a very good impression of a manically out of control two-armed windmill.

Time completely froze for a minute, me holding onto the rail and wondering if the boat was sinking, watching Kitty wildly windmilling and Leo trying to reach her.

But alas, Kitty’s moment of cartoon-like suspension in the air was over, and she even-more-animatedly fell flat on her back in the frigid water, her arms still doing windmills.

Finally, the whole boat came off the lift, Leo and I were left stable in the boat, as Kitty took the first swim of the year, in her sweat suit, with her glasses on, and with a bag full of belongings.

Ali was NOT happy about all this fun. Not happy at all.

Ali and Chris went around to the other side of the deck to help Kitty get up as she swam over, which is when my state-of-shock wore off and I remembered that I should be documenting this whole event:

Ali scolded Kitty for scaring her, and Kitty assured her that she was just fine, and that it was quite fun, albeit a slight bit cold.
For some reason, Kitty decided to opt out of the boat ride and take a warm shower instead…

And Ali only had to be slightly coerced to get on the scary boat:
…but she managed to relax a bit and enjoy the sights.

When we arrived back at the house, we discovered Kitty’s trail of clothes and belongings on the porch:

I sure hope none of her neighbors have surveillance cameras. If they do, they’re gonna get an eye-full.

Ali recounted the event in her own words, really quite better than I did:

I think it will be my favorite dream too…because THAT’S how our family likes to have fun.

Monster Bowls: A Giveaway!

March 26, 2010 Rachel Callahan Earthborn Pottery, Giveaways and Contests

I’ve told you plenty in a bazillion different posts about my Aunt Tena’s pottery. My number of mentions and my Kitchen Cabinets definitely attest to my love of her work.

But I’ve been keeping a secret from you: Her son, Nathan (my cousin), and his wife, Katie.They also have some magnificent work that they’ve been selling at art shows for years, but they just opened up a shop on Etsy to share it with the online world.

(Their Etsy site still a work in progress, so all of their work isn’t up yet, but if there’s something you see in this post you want to buy, I’m sure they’ll let you.)

While Tena’s work is mesmerizingly sophisticated, Nathan’s is every bit as whimsical. You can immediately sense the masculine touch in his humorous designs.

My favorite of his creations is the Monster Bowl, sure to get any picky eater to chow down if they get to eat straight from a Monster’s Mouth, right?

These retail for $30, and I adore them.

Some of his other creations include this fish bowl:

And his Robot Bottles, which are ever-so-creative:

His wife, Katie, also has a knack for clay. She has been using it to make gorgeous and unique jewelry pieces:

They are all hand-formed, so each one is a unique work of art:

Now, for the giveaway:

I have two Monster bowls, and one will go to the child winner of my Basketball Bracket Pool (which is actually the one who does the worst, as I previously explained), and the other one is to give away to one of you!

If you’d like to win a Monster Bowl, simply comment on the post.

You can earn up to four extra entries by:

Going to Nathan and Katie’s Etsy Site and tell me one thing that you would want to order.
Subscribe to OR Follow my blog
Follow me on Twitter OR Facebook
Tweet, blog, OR Facebook about this giveaway

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

Best of luck! This giveaway is open until Monday, April 5th. The winner will be randomly selected and posted on my giveaway winners page on Tuesday, April 6th.

I’d like to give a special Thank You for all of these amazing photos, which were provided courtesy of Amanda Pair, an awesome local photographer. Be sure to check out her site – I was blown away! Thanks, Amanda!

Disclosure: I received no compensation to run this review and giveaway. I do it simply out of love to all of you, and out of love of Nathan and Katie’s work. And I’m really starting to consider writing completely oddball things in these required-by-the-Government-disclosures, just to see if anyone reads them. Such as, I find the term “Opposable Thumbs” strange sounding. That’s all.

The Ingenuity of Bedtime.

March 25, 2010 Rachel Callahan Parent of the Year, Toddlers: The Experience

I’ve always been glad that Ali’s never been a fit-pitcher about bedtime. But what I’m starting to realize is that by using sweetness and toddler-logic, she’s WAY more conniving than that…

It starts early, as she senses that the time of bed is approaching.

“You’ve got five more minutes on the trampoline, okay?”

Her wheels start spinning, as she continues to spin on the trampoline…

“Five BIG more minutes, okay?”

“Okay. Five BIG more minutes.”

This continues until the count is down to one BIG more minute, all of these minutes, of course, calculated in a subjective Mommy way, that has nothing to do with the requests to make them BIG.

Then it’s time to start moving upstairs.

“Can I please eat some of my Noah’s Ark Candy House?”

“No, baby – it’s bedtime. Tomorrow you can.”

“Can I please have a piece of Taffy, then?”

“Nope. I told you it was time for bed – no more requests. Upstairs.”

We get upstairs.

“I need a drink – I’m thirsty!”

“Can we play football?”

“Can I wear Mommy’s T-Shirt to bed?”

“I want to lay in the floor for a minute.”

And on and on.

Lately, after leaving the room, we’ve been getting “callbacks” because she needs more kisses. After all, she’s realized we’ll never say “No – NO MORE KISSES!”. So tonight, I preempt this new technique and say, “Be sure to get ALL the kisses you need – how many do you need from Daddy and Mommy?”

“I need five from Daddy, four from Mommy, and four from Me.”

“Okay – we can do that.” I start to kiss her.

“No – Daddy’s come first.”

Okay…Daddy kisses her. I kiss her. And somehow, she forgets to kiss herself.

We all say goodnight.

“Can you sing me a new song of Ashley singing?”

Sure.

I sing a song, one that Ashley’s probably never sung (especially since I made it up on the spot), but fortunately, Ali doesn’t have Ashley’s entire discography memorized yet.

“What are you going to be doing while I sleep?”

“Daddy’s going to run, and I’m going to do some work.”

“Where are you going to work?”

“At my computer.”

“Where?”

“In my office.”

“Oh. At your computer in your office. Okay. Then what are you going to do?”

“Sit with Daddy.”

“Will there be laughing?”

“Maybe. Good night!”

I head downstairs, and since it’s Chris’ night to run and my night to get ahead on blogging, I begrudgingly break my own rule of No-Monitor-At-Night and turn on the baby monitor – because I can’t hear her scream from my office.

I hear a monotonous chant.

It gets louder, and progressively more whiny.

Normally when I’m not listening, I suppose these chants fix themselves, but since I AM listening, it drives me nuts, and I have a little bit of mercy too, so I head back upstairs.

“What’s wrong, baby?”

“I need a kiss right HERE.”

“Where? I can’t see – it’s dark.”

“Right HERE.”

“Tell me where HERE is.”

“It’s right HERE!!”

I kiss her on the cheek. “Was that HERE?”

“No. Right HERE.”

My eyes finally adjust enough to see that she’s holding up her knee. I kiss her knee, then I get a brilliant idea.

“I’m going to give you some extra kisses on your forehead. If you need any kisses anywhere else later, you can pick up one of the kisses on your forehead and move it to where you need it. Okay?”

“Okay!!”

“Okay – there’s TEN extra kisses – that should be plenty! Do you need one anywhere?”

“Yes. Right HERE.”

“Okay – lift one off your forehead and put it on. All better?”

“Yes!”

“Okay – you have nine more extra kisses if you need them. You need to go to sleep now, okay?”

“Okay.”

I head back downstairs, and start to change the laundry out. I here the monotonous chant again. I can’t quite understand it. “I beed ite eer. I beed ite eer.”

She’s bleeding right there?!?

I go up again. “Baby, you’re supposed to be going to sleep. What do you need?”

“I need White Bear.”

I remember that White Bear got taken downstairs earlier. “I’m sorry – you didn’t pick him tonight. He’s not up here. How about Giraffe instead?”

“Okay.”

“No more calling me, okay?”

“Okay. I love you Mommy.”

“Good night. Here are a few extra kisses. I love you!”

I’m pretty sure she’ll rank in the 98th percentile in Persuasive Stalling Abilities when she takes her career aptitude test….so she’ll make an AWESOME mechanic, appliance repairwoman, or senator.

Styling of a Curly Haired Toddler, Self-Styled Edition.

March 24, 2010 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, I'm No Videographer, Toddlers: The Experience

The saga of styling Ali’s hair seems to be ever present in my mind and blog, a dreadfully boring subject to at least 70% of you, I’m sure.

However, all of my mornings of attempting to spray and scrunch her hair so she didn’t look like a mangy dog despite her desperate attempts to get away from me have finally paid off.

She was taking FOREVER to wash her hands after going to the bathroom, so I finally called out and asked her what she was doing in there.

“I’m Scrunching!!!!! ….so now you don’t have to.”

She wouldn’t let me see, of course, but the next day, I snuck in, and after being caught on camera, she was nice enough to give me a very informative tutorial on fixing curly hair. So I’ll let her do the rest of this post:

At least I know WHY we scrunch, now. To keep the water in, of course.

(She has also informed me that scrunching can also be called “Wrinkling”, and doesn’t at all understand why MY hair won’t wrinkle like hers.)

And okay. I admit it. There might have been a BIT of incentive offered in between video takes…but I needed details!

The Issue of Smock

March 23, 2010March 3, 2012 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Smocktastic, Utter Silliness

This post is dedicated to my friends Nikki and Ashley, with whom I have had many deep and philosophical conversations about smock.

My Mom could be a millionaire.

You see, she knows how to smock. Well. And, if you haven’t noticed, smocked clothes have, in some circles, become the epitome of children’s fashion and (can I say it without being mauled) status symbol.

And it doesn’t come without a price, either – you can either buy your smock for $70 at Strasburg Children or a department store, or you can REALLY pay and get it at a local boutique shop for untold amounts of money.

Or, you can step up a level and invest your 401(k) into these clothes that your kids will only get to wear for one season and get custom, personalized smock made just for you.

Which is where my Mom could be a millionaire.

I personally am not a fan of smock. It’s just a personal preference, I know, but it’s just not my thing. Probably because of the fact that I was dressed in smock as a kid, and so smock reminds me of the 80’s.

But really, I think I was born with my smock aversion – I can’t help it – because even in the 80’s, I wasn’t a fan.

I’m pretty sure that Mom quit smocking because she realized that after she would smock her fingers to the bone for weeks and then all night long before Easter morning, I would dutifully and glumly wear it, and if I didn’t manage to spill red Kool-Aid on it or rip it playing “snake” in Sunday School, then I’d beg never to wear it again.

Don’t I look happy?

That may have been my last piece of smock.

Poor Mom.

If only she’d realized that she could have sold that smock for hundreds of dollars to other Moms instead of fighting me wear it…she’d be a millionaire.

At any rate, due to my aversion to the 80’s and smock in general, I usually dress Ali a bit…funkier:

and I tend to replace smock with sequins, much to her excitement:

Not to say that my Mom never dressed me with a bit of non-smocked flair…

Wow. Smock looks good after that.

So, as Easter approaches (which is also basically the National Holiday of Smock), I find myself deeply meditating on the issue of smock.

And here in the South, I would say that there are definite circles of high-smock expectations and low-smock expectations, generally based around the Church you go to.

They may not be spoken guidelines, but as soon as you step foot onto the nursery hallway, you can almost smell it in the air – which smock denomination (smocknomination?) your church falls under:

Smock-Free Churches – These are the young, urban, trendy churches where the adults wear blue jeans and shorts, and so of course they’re not going to out-dress themselves by smocking up their kids.

Smock-Optional Churches – These are accepting-of-all churches that try to go low on the social pressures to dress your children in a certain way. Some kids may have smock, and some kids may not, but no two-year-old points out that another two-year-old looks funny because they aren’t properly smocked.

Smock-Strongly-Suggested Churches – You might feel unspoken social pressures in these churches based on the sheer volume of other children dressed in a smock-like fashion.

Smock-Required until Puberty Churches – These churches might as well require all children, boys or girls, to be wearing smock – and not just on Sunday mornings, either. If your child is seen at the playground, they better be smocked within an inch of their life, even if they are tearing it to pieces with playground rocks.

(Luckily for Ali, we attend a Smock-Optional Church. I’d hate for her to be ridiculed for my quirky fashion tastes.)

If one is a smocky-person, then one must also consider their personal standards regarding the ages of smockability, the gender of smock (yes, boys sometimes are smocked up also), and acceptable alternatives to smock (whether embroidery, personalized initials, and boutique clothes that aren’t smocked are acceptable substitutions on a day where smock isn’t available).

Luckily for my all-too-picky tastes, my Mom did believe in Smock Alternatives:

See? Don’t I look happier?

Disclaimer: The views expressed by this blog post is not necessarily true, and no claims are made that the author believes that you should base your church preferences off of your smock preferences. This post is entirely intended to satirically analyze smock, and not to guide your moral and ethical smock choices. No liability, explicit or implied, shall be extended for any smock-related injuries or offenses.

Oh – and Mom – I’m sorry about all those late night and vastly underappreciated smocks.

Editor’s Note: A Follow-Up Post can be found here.

Ten Indicators Of a Possible Twitter Addiction

March 22, 2010October 30, 2013 Rachel Callahan I'm a Blog Geek, Let's Talk about The Internet

Dear Mom: You will be completely puzzled by this post. Forgive me in advance.
Love, Rachel.

I’ve found myself rather Tweetless for the past week, and I’ve yet to be able to fully diagnose the cause. It’s creating some Twangst in my soul about being so boring that I have nothing Tweetable going on, or worse yet, can’t figure out how to write creative tweets about the Tweetable things that ARE in my life.

Obviously, for a Blogger, this is a terribly bad sign.

What if my UnderTweetitis turns into UnderBlogitis like a UTI turns into a bladder infection which turns into a Kidney infection?!?!

What if I am left a Social-Media-Paralytic, with nothing ever to say to anyone in the written form?!?

What if it spreads to real life and I become mute and socially awkward?!?!

(Oh yeah – I’m already socially awkward. At least I don’t have to worry about that one.)

In the midst of my embroilment in Twangst, I came up with a few indicators of a Twidiction.

Ten Indicators Of a Possible Twitter Addiction:

10. When you walk up to someone and want to spark a conversation, you start out with “at Bob: …”

9. You cannot properly start your day until you’ve gotten on Twitter and said “Good Morning, Peeps!”, and you can’t fall asleep until you’ve told all your peeps Good Night.

8. Your number of tweets is higher than your followers multiplied by your following.

7. When someone tells you a good joke, you laugh, then immediately say, “Retweet Bob”, and proceed to tell the whole joke over again, word for word, as they stare at you with The Look that says “should you be on medication?”.

6. When someone asks what your favorite TV show is, you answer “It’s hashtag Glee.”

5. You refer to people by their Twitter Handles rather than their names.

4. You’ve quit communicating with your Grandmother because she doesn’t Tweet.

3. You overhear someone talking about a news story for the third time in one day, and you say, “Wow, that’s really trending today.”

2. You talk about your peeps so much that your mother thinks you have an Easter Candy Addiction.

1. When you have nothing to tweet about, you find yourself in a state of Twangst, and feel the need to write a Twittercentric blog about Twidiction.

Which, now that I think about it, gives me an idea for a few Tweets! I’ll just start tweeting “Signs of Twitter addiction” with the hashtag of #Twidiction.

Aaaaaaahhh….I feel the Twangst leaving my soul.