Rachel Callahan

A Spring Wardrobe Reassessment.

April 11, 2016April 10, 2016 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, HauteLook, Photographical Oddities, Weird Strange and True

It’s beautiful outside (at least if you live in Alabama) and definitely the season to start thinking about new wardrobes and shorts and tank tops and all the summer things!

(Except bathing suits. They are never to be thought about. Or tried on in dressing rooms with rigged mirrors that make one look 100 pounds heavier. Swimsuits are a conspiratorial plot against female humanity.)

Anyway.

Shopping.

As usual, I have been doing all my shopping at HauteLook. They have fabulous prints! And adorable pieces! And….these?

What is happening. Is this Jasmine-Chic with a bit of I Dream of Jeannie thrown in? And is that flimsy kitchen valance the only thing that is keeping the world from seeing her goods?

It kind of looks like a butt handkerchief. And I sincerely hope she doesn’t sneeze.

But wait! There’s more! A matching shirt, in fact! And in this picture, it appears that she loaned her buttkerchief to someone else!

PLEASE do not miss that this is 64% off and yet, still $109.97. Because apparently, exceptionally weird people are also loaded.

But if you just love the knee-length jams look but would prefer a bit more coverage, well there’s this.

If there’s ever a mash-up movie called 50 Shades of Twilight, I’m pretty sure this will be in wardrobe.

This one, though. I can just hear CFDA Lifetime Achievement Award Winner Michael Kors saying “We NEVER put fringe there, ladies. Do you realize what that LOOKS like??”

No. Instead, we sew an oversized shirt from 1986 to a few thrown-together graduation tassels and call it a dress.

Or we get really excited with our tassels and sheer shirts and make our 24-inch-waisted model look like she’s 48 hours postpartum.

(And yes. It’s just as frightening from the back. Spiderman gone very, very awry.)

A post-childbirth collection is not complete without the “I just stopped nursing and my boobs turned into empty grocery sacks” corset, though.

And what would the collection be without a “I got up to change the baby’s diaper in the middle of the night and somehow got in a fight with their onesie and the onesie won” pants?

(Or from the back, it’s the “My baby has gotten too long for their onesie so I just unbutton it and let it hang like inverted chaps” look.)

Then there’s the “My baby is exhausting me so thoroughly that even my boobs are asleep” shirt.

And there’s always the “My baby crapped their pants and their bed and their walls and their rug and their ceiling and the top shelf of their closet and I need a HAZMAT suit to enter the room” wardrobial need.

But let’s move away from parenthood. Because childbearing or not, NO women want to be seen looking like a walking menstruation.

I MEAN. What Martian created that design and said, “yeah! Let’s go with that!”

Then again, maybe it was this guy.

That’s right. Those flannel shorts come with built in compression leggings. Because if you’re going to wear flannel shorts, you don’t want to sacrifice circulation to do it.

Speaking of flannel.

Have you ever wondered what happened to all your grunge friends from the 90s? The ones you listened to Nirvana CDs with while sitting on your bean bag in the basement?

Well, I’m here to tell you exactly where they are.

They got sewed into this skirt.

But this skirt is even more special than just the resting place for all your high school friends. It’s Foo Fighters in the Front, Scarlett O’Hara in the back.

A FLANNEL BUSTLE, y’all.

They also want you to know that just because you’re a homeschool mom…

doesn’t mean you can’t show off your sexy shoulder blades.

I totally want to wear that to my next homeschool meeting.

But back to flannel for a hot minute. We’ve all had that moment where we’ve been all like “I really want to jump out of an airplane but I want to express my style while I do it. Oh – and I need some good pockets because I can’t jump without my cell phone!” Right? Well. Do I have a solution for you.

She’s so ready for whatever life throws at her. Including bird poop on the way down.

And then the feeling of “I want to reclaim my youth with a pair of Birks, but I also want to reminisce about the orange shag carpet that was in my bedroom.”

Great news! You can do both at once!!

I know. This really deserves a closer look.

Yup. It’s raw hamburger meat on a shoe.

But. Of course HauteLook also offers many basics. Wardrobe staples. Things that every girl needs. Like a plain white tee.

Huh.

That’s funny.

I wonder why it describes it as a “Print” Tee?

I should turn it around and see the back.

Because nothing says “I’m worth it and you should really woo me” like YELLING IT FROM YOUR BUTT.

Also, they have this lovely, simple, black shirt.

…that has quite a mouthful to say from the rear view.

Voice Mail. SEND THE PAST TO VOICE MAIL. WHO still talks about voice mail?!

I mean. If I’m going to be passive-aggressive behind my back, I at least want to mute my past’s text messages.

Minecraft, Soap Opera Mod.

April 7, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year

“You know, I bet you and the kids would really love Minecraft, as much as y’all are into Lego.”

This sentence, spoken by a very naïve version of myself sometime last year, solely goes to prove that “Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me” is a LIE.

Since that day, my children have been continuously and absolutely obsessed with Minecraft. I put it on their iPads, and they were infinitely sucked into the vortex of Creepers and Item Frames and spawning Sheep. Noah wakes up asking to play Minecraft. He goes to bed telling me about the over-underworld (whatever that is.) They check out Minecraft library books to hone their skills. And all this is despite the fact that they only get an hour of screen time a day.

(On most days. Unless I need them to have more.)

I wanted to understand – I really did – so I put it on my iPhone as well and attempted to learn. But it was just mindless building for me, as is Lego.

(Apparently all of the structural genes are passed down through their structural engineer father.)

I watched them play, I watched them build, I watched them explore their worlds. I knew there was a way for them to interact with others through the game, but I made sure that option was turned off. To them, it was simply a free-play building game. And a game that you could hit a sheep a few times and watch him die. And burn villages down. And put villagers in a box in a hole. Their deviant side definitely showed through in their Minecrafting.

“Look Mom! I just burned an entire village up with lava!”

If a child’s inherent goodness can be determined by how they treat their Minecraft Villagers, it might be safe to go ahead and lock my kids up for life.

Every night at bedtime, they wanted a few minutes of quality snuggling time – with us and Minecraft. I typically cuddle with Noah, and Chris with Ali. Sometimes we even watch Minecraft YouTube videos – because there’s nothing more exciting than watching videos of other people playing a game I don’t get.

But I love my children. So whatever.

One night last week, Noah, Chris and I were laying in bed doing the Minecraft-before-bed routine. Chris was about to get up and go in Ali’s room when some words popped up on Noah’s screen that we had never seen before.

“Stella has entered the game.”

“Whoa whoa whoa! Who’s Stella??”

Noah said, “I don’t know. Oh look! There’s Stella!!”

A Minecraft girl walked up and got right in his face, with the name “Stella” floating above her head. This was no ordinary villager.

Chris and I looked at each other, wide-eyed.

“I thought you said they couldn’t interact with other people!”

“I didn’t think they could! I have all that disabled!”

“Oh look! Stella built me that item frame! Isn’t that nice??”

Okay who is this creepy girl named Stella and how did she get in my son’s iPad.

“Have you ever seen Stella before?”

“I don’t think so…”

“Lemme see your settings.”

Multiplayer was off…LAN was off…WHO. WAS. STELLA.

“Baby I know you love Minecraft but until we can figure out how Stella is getting into your game, we need to quit playing.”

I closed him out of Minecraft and Chris and I sat there, confused.

At that moment, Ali walked into the bedroom, her iPad in hand, looking confused herself.

“Hey Mommy I was just playing Minecraft and I got this weird world option that said ‘Steve’ and then I got kicked out.”

“Wait a minute.”

“Do you have a different Minecraft name?”

“Yeah…it’s Stella…”

Stella was not some extremely creepy old lady hacking into our son’s iPad. Stella was our daughter.

Chris and I breathed again, and I remembered reading something about sharing worlds if you’re on the same wi-fi. I was surprised that it had taken this long for this happy accident to occur, but the children, as it dawned on them what had happened, were elated.

Ali jumped in bed with us and went back to Steve’s world and they began giggling like Junior High girls at 2am at a sleepover.

They hit each other on the head.

They went into each other’s heads.

They built things.

They killed things.

They screamed with glee.

Noah, in a high-pitched loving voice, began referring to Ali as “Miss Stella.”

“Where’d you go, Miss Stella? What are you doing, Miss Stella? You look so silly with a Creeper Head on, Miss Stella!!”

And Ali referred to Noah as Steve.

Chris and I listened to their adorable bonding and jubilance at their game gaining a whole new dimension. It was one of those moments as parents – the kind that you truly, actually savor and treasure.

(Not just the ones that the little old ladies at the mall tell you to treasure when your toddler is pitching a fit and your kid is asking twenty questions a minute. That kind is not treasured at all. You’d just like to treasure the moment of hitting the little old lady over the head with your fifty pound diaper bag.)

The next day was a rain-all-day kind of day, and it was Spring Break, so I decided to forego the hour-of-iPad a day rule and allow my children to fully enjoy their new bonding experience. It was just as adorable as I’d imagined – more “Miss Stella”s and “Steve why are you wearing a pumpkin??”s and them sitting squeezed up against each other on the couch giggling at their hilarious game.

Of course, this only added to their addiction issues and the beggings for extra iPad time intensified.

And, by the fourth day, I walked into the room to Noah saying,

“Stella’s burning my house down!!”

“Well Steve killed my Ocelot kittens!!!”

And I knew we were back to normal sibling behavior.

But the budding friendship of Stella and Steve is a memory I’ll treasure forever – because they grow up way too fast, you know.

The Grand Bug Hunt.

April 4, 2016April 3, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore., I'm a Glutton for Adventure

“Do you need me to babysit this week? I need your kid’s help catching insects.”

“Ummm, no…but you’re welcome to come over and we’ll help you catch bugs.”

This conversation took place with my least in-tune-with-nature babysitter, Giann. Her idea of “outdoors” is going to an outlet mall, or perhaps eating outside – if the weather is ideal. The thought of her catching anything, much less a collection of creepy crawly insects, made me giggle. I DEFINITELY wanted to be a part of this.

But the odd part was, she’s in college. And apparently, in college, you have to make a bug collection. Who knew? College is basically fourth grade these days. But at least that made it easy to count “Helping Giann with her college project” as Science for Ali and Noah.

Giann arrived at our house, Ziploc bags and assignment papers in hand. She had collected seven bugs and needed fifteen. Fifteen specific bugs.

…But she possessed no bug catching gear.

“Where’s your net?”

“I don’t have one. And I didn’t want to spend the money to buy one. But I figured you’d have one. You’re a homeschool mom.”

“Yeah, I’m a BAD homeschool mom! You know this. I don’t have a net.”

“Well, let’s try without a net.”

I was excited to see where this would go. It could only turn out to be the most entertaining thing that would happen to me.

I took Giann around to the back of our house where we have a colony of Carpenter Bees slowly eating our deck for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I pointed two of them out to her. She put her hands up and backed up slowly, as if a SWAT team had just surrounded her.

“This is going to go so well.”

We gave up on the Carpenter bees and went in the garage to catch a ladybug. There are dozens on the inside of our garage door this time of year, so that was easy. I pointed them out to her, and she held out her baggy, being careful to never get too close to the wretched creatures, and I suppose, she attempted to WILL them into her bag.

I grabbed her bag, picked up a couple ladybugs, dropped them in, and zipped it up.

We went into the house and began looking in the windowsills for unfortunately trapped bugs. We found a dead one that would fit under one of the criteria. We put him in a bag, but his head accidentally broke off.

“It’s okay. Our teacher said we could reassemble any insects with clear fingernail polish.”

Excellent.

One of the required catches was a Dragonfly, something you can’t find just anywhere. Fortunately for her, though, I’d just seen dozens at Ruffner Mountain a couple of days prior, so I finally had a reason to drag Giann on a hike with us. And, since another babysitter, Sarah, is living with us right now, we grabbed her as well.

But first, a net. We stopped by Wal-Mart on the way.

“But I don’t want to spend money on a net!!”

“Fine. Take my credit card. Then I’ll have a net and I’ll be a better homeschool mom.”

Because I’m the best babysitting client there ever was.

Giann and Sarah went in, then came back out of Wal-Mart with a net and garden gloves.

“WHAT are the gloves for??”

“So I don’t have to touch any bugs!!”

We arrived at Ruffner Mountain and began the ascent to the quarry. Amazingly, right in the center of the trail, was a giant, gorgeous, green beetle – upside down, legs wiggling frantically in the air, completely stuck on his back.

“LOOK!! It’s as if he had mercy on you and knew you needed him!!”

We scooped up the unlucky beetle and kept walking.

Giann tip-toed around the trails, carefully avoiding puddles and water. We made it to the quarry, which is a gorgeous valley with flowers and butterflies and dragonflies and sheer rock cliffs.

Giann looked around, desperately trying to be impressed. I felt like we were making progress. At least she was trying! She spotted something interesting on the ground.

“Look! Is that a Cocoon???”

She was so excited. Nature was grabbing ahold of her soul. I went over and examined what she found.

“Nope. That’s Poop. It’s just growing a little white mold.”

“AUUUUGH!!”

Poor Giann. She tried so hard. For three whole seconds of her life.

Ali started climbing, and Noah, who had been carrying the net, spotted a butterfly.

He chased it for a minute, then Giann grabbed the net and went after it. She looked so natural. So one with nature. Like she was about to move to Australia and live in a hammock in the outback.

All the insectophile magazines recommend jeans and a cardigan as proper bug-catching gear.

She kept lunging and woefully missing. I tried to encourage her in a language that she could understand.

“Swipe that butterfly, Giann! Swipe it like a credit card!”

It totally worked. She bagged herself a butterfly. Then kinda panicked when considering how to get the butterfly from the net to the bag. I explained the technical skill of pinching the butterfly in the top of the net, putting the baggy over the pinched part, then releasing the butterfly into the baggy.

…Except that I wanted to disgust her just a bit more, so after she got her baggy in place, I said, “Okay. Now loosen your net’s sphincter and let the butterfly through.”

“Do NOT use that word with me ever again!!”

I’m seriously the BEST employer in the world.

After locking down our butterfly (which was probably a moth), we headed up the trail to bag a dragonfly. News Flash: Dragonflies are freaking hard to catch. Giann realized this after her first attempt and threw me the net. This needed a professional homeschool Mom for this job.

After tracking five different ones like a Discovery Channel specialist, I finally was able to sneak up on a naïve one and trap him.

Giann started squealing. “YOU GOT ONE! YOU GOT ONE! OH MY GOSH YOU GOT ONE!!!”

She got a bag out of the professional hiking backpack I had supplied her with,

(Because Noah refused to be a gentleman and tote her bug-catching gear,)

And brought it over to the net.

Her frenzy continued. “How are we going to get him in the bag? Don’t let him get away! OH HE’S NOT GOING IN THE BAG!!”

I said “Calm down. Quit freaking out. There is nothing to freak out ab—-WHAT’S ON MY HEAD?!?!”

I had just felt a nasty creepy crawly feeling on the top of my head and jumped a bit. Then realized that Noah had snuck up on me and was walking his fingers lightly across my head.

I growled at my son and gently shoved the Dragonfly into the baggy. And I felt fairly awesome. I had just caught a Dragonfly. For my babysitter. Because I’m the most spectacular employer of all time.

Then I told her, “Okay. Your reward, or punishment, whatever you want to call it, for getting me to catch your bugs for you is that you get to, or have to, go to the top of the mountain with me and see the most remarkable view of all time. It will make you so in love with the outdoors that you will move into a yurt in the mountains. Oh – watch your step – there’s a dead mouse.”

She shrieked and jumped to the other side of the trail, but regained composure and continued to try to try to try to try to like the outdoors.

We made it to the top, and both Giann and Sarah were mildly impressed with my idea of fun.

…but were both much happier when we were back safely in civilization sipping Chick-Fil-A frozen coffees.

A few days later, Giann sent me a picture of her final insect collection.

As I studied all of our hard work on a pin, I felt a roller coaster of emotions. Pride, envy, sadness, admiration.

But these are the sacrifices that nature must make for us to gain college degrees.

It’s Not About the Journey: 30 Hiking Destinations around Birmingham

March 31, 2016April 21, 2016 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I Love Birmingham, I'm a Glutton for Adventure

In the past seven days, my nine and five year old have hiked 15 miles with me – and this isn’t unusual for us. There were tears once, whining a few times, and EMERGENCY NEEDS TO PEE twice, but overall, they were excited, running ahead of me, and looking for adventure.

The secret to this hiking glory is providing them with grand destinations. You’d think that the first time we made discoveries of cool finds would be the most exciting to them, but they much prefer returning to their lands of imagination after they’ve become acquainted with them and named them. I have to convince them to leave behind their known discoveries to chase after new ones.

“We’re going hiking today? Ooh can we go to Moss Rock and go to the Rock Desert and the Dome Rock and a waterfall? Or how about Ruffner Mountain and visit the quarry and the overlook??”

What I’ve learned from my kids is that hiking doesn’t just have to be about the journey – it can be about the multiple destinations along the way. Kids don’t always understand the beauty of the journey, but they totally get the concept of destination. And this isn’t just kids – the more I think about it, I’ve realized that I’m the exact same way, as are most adults. Let’s quit trying to make life about the journey and acknowledge that we as a human race really enjoy destinations.

Here are our current favorite destinations around Birmingham, sectioned off by location, and with notated maps to help you find them. I’ll try to be as succinct as possible because I have so many to share, but if you have questions about how to get to any of them, or questions about what the hikes entail, please feel free to ask in the comments section.

Red Mountain Park

1. The Forest-Attacked Train Tracks – well-hidden, but one of the most magical spots in Birmingham.

2. The H Ruins (or as I refer to it, “One H of a Trail”) – this would be a fantastic family photo site if your family’s last name starts with H.

3. The cave that has air conditioning flowing out of it…and every now and then, a bat. Stick your face in this cave while walking by: the air feels fantastic in the middle of a run or hike, the bat, not so much.

(This actually did happen to me not long ago. The children were highly amused. The bat and I were not.)

4. Riley’s Roost – The Treehouse with the ruins. Although I love all the treehouses, this one is my kid’s favorite because they love to explore and pretend they’re archaeologists while I lay in the sun on the floor of the treehouse.

5. Grace’s Gap – this is the furthest destination at Red Mountain – more suggested for adults or really good kid hikers. I think my kids have made it to Grace’s Gap once. But it’s definitely worth the walk if you’re not accompanied by whiners.

6. Goats – Red Mountain Park is currently using goats to clear land, and they just had babies. They’re delightful to visit and hear all of the dozens of varying-pitched bleats.

Map of where to find the above set of destinations (notated with yellow numbers corresponding above) – some points are approximate. (Note: The goat location changes as they clear land, so if they’re not where I said they are, keep looking. Also, if the map is too small to read, click on it.)

Moss Rock Preserve

7. The Rock Desert (Official Name: Sandstone Glade) – This place reminds me of a miniature version of Stone Mountain or Panola Mountain in Georgia. It’s a mostly bald rock face that has boulders to climb on and all sorts of entertainment for children. It also hosts a surprising variety of colorful spring flowers that pop out of the dirt buildup on the rock surface.

8. Waterfalls – There are so many different waterfalls at Moss Rock, and my children adore them all.

9. Dome Rock – This graffiti-covered natural rock dome is the best emo-kid photo backdrop ever.

10. Crack Rock. Because who doesn’t want to climb into Crack Rock?

11. Hole Rock. Okay maybe our naming isn’t so great but the rocks are.

12. Boulder Fields – this is a most fabulous place because all of the giant rocks are going uphill, so you can walk out onto the rocks and be extremely high up with no climbing required. A favorite of height-lovers of all sizes. Also, it’s .2 miles from the parking lot, so accessible even on a non-hiking day. We prefer it to be at the end of our loop – it’s the reward of a great hike.

13. The Twisted Branch – it’s just where you need it to be for a quick hike break.

Map to Moss Rock Destinations:
Note: You can download an interactive map to use on your phone from CartoTracks for Moss Rock Preserve. There are so many different trails at Moss Rock and they run so close together that this map has helped me not get lost many times – it’s $4.95 and totally worth it.

Ruffner Mountain Nature Preserve

14. The Quarry – my kids adore exploring, climbing, and discovering things inside the quarry. It’s full of spring flowers, dragonflies, and butterflies.

15. The City Overlook – the coolest hiking destination to see Birmingham. The sunset in the winter months is just fantastic from here.

16. The Quarry Overlook (Cambrian Overlook) – this lies between the city overlook and the quarry. If you just see quarry, you haven’t gotten to the really amazing overlook yet, but this one holds a charm of its own.

17. The Old Rail Tunnel – one of our newest discoveries, this mystical tunnel only fits kids (unless you crawl.) Ali tells me there’s a stream and another trail on the other side, but I suspect it might be in Narnia.

There are also a couple of Geocache boxes in this tunnel, something my kids found extremely exciting.

18. The Old Ruins – there are many ruins at Ruffner (a lot of which we haven’t even found yet), but this one is especially accessible and feels adventurous to explore.

19. The Wildflower Bog (Wetlands Trail) – this trail has absolutely gorgeous fall flowers (there weren’t many in the spring – maybe they bloom later in the summer), and also has some rather rickety walkways around a few ponds. The ponds currently house dozens of giant tadpoles that are fun to watch.

The easy way to get here is from the Eastern Trailhead (it’s the flattest hike at Ruffner Mountain), but if you come down from the main entrance, there’s also a nice overlook on the way, with a much-needed bench.

Ruffner Map with Destinations notated in blue:

Note: You can access a free interactive Ruffner Map through Google Maps – just pull it up on your phone when you arrive, and the trails should show up. If that doesn’t work, click through from their website.

Tannehill Ironworks Historical State Park

20. The Furnace Site – this is probably the easiest hike (really a walk) for new explorers, and has many thrilling facets to check out.

21. The Waterwheel – this place holds so much charm, from its waterwheel, to the leaky chute going to the waterwheel, to the creek and waterfall next to it. It’s definitely a favorite.

22. Bubbling Springs – this is a must-visit spot, preferably your last spot after a long hike. It’s a tiny pond over a spring that literally makes tiny bubbles in the water. No matter the time of year, the water is delightfully cold and oddly refreshing. Take your shoes off and soak for a minute – you won’t regret it.

Tannehill Map of Destinations:

Oak Mountain State Park

23. The Treehouse Trail – super easy for beginning hikers, this is a raised walkway trail with six or seven giant bird cages on it. There are owls and hawks and even an Albino Vulture. You can also often catch a trainer feeding the birds something tasty like dead rats.

The Treehouse trail is only about half a mile on its own, but empties out into another trail that can take you many different routes, including up to the nature center. It’s a beautiful trail by a tiny stream.

24. The Dam – about halfway around the lake trail, this is a great motivator for a longer hike (in full circle, the lake trail is 3.4 miles. Totally doable for kids, but not usually without a whine or two.) Having this cool view of the lake (and possibly being allowed to slide down the dam and play in the lake) usually buys you a little time.

25. Peavine Falls – this hike starts out as a wide trail with a gentle downhill grade,

but before you know it, you’re sliding on your butt down boulders while holding onto roots to get down. Oddly, though, it’s much easier on the way back up.

But the reward is this:

The water flow varies tremendously. We’ve been there when it was only a trickle. So if that’s going to disappoint you, make sure you go after a good rainfall.

26. The Old Lake at the Cabins – Okay this isn’t a hike-to destination and I don’t think you’re supposed to go to this lake unless you’re staying at the cabins. But if you happen to be there at sunset and you can be unobtrusive and undisturbing to the cabin dwellers, you must tiptoe out onto the pier and catch a picture.

27. King’s Chair – only for the determined child but definitely a worthwhile hike for adults, King’s Chair is a glorious sight. It’s exactly two miles up from the trailhead, but those two miles are definitely UP. But this is why you go:

I’ve only taken one kid up there so far, and it wasn’t one of my own, but she bravely hiked up the mountain.

Oak Mountain’s online map isn’t high enough resolution to be able to share the locations, but all of the above are easily findable on their trail map. I highly recommend buying a paper copy at the gate for $1. If you can’t find one of the above destinations, please ask me!

Vulcan Trail

This trail is only a mile long and it’s completely flat. You wouldn’t think it’d have that much room to be super interesting, but it is. It’s a great trail for a quick walk on a pretty afternoon. Since there’s only one walkway, I don’t have a map to provide the location of the points of interest. But you can’t miss them.

28. The Graffiti Thing – I have no idea what kind of ruins this is, but my kids always want to climb on it. There’s an abundance of graffiti tags on the trail – it makes for a fun scavenger hunt.

29. The Stairs Leading to the City -It’s pretty cool. One out of two kids agree.

30. The Overhanging Tree – It’s the luckiest tree in the city. And well worth a stop to admire.

We have so many more great treasures around Birmingham to discover, but now you’re prepared with 30 great places to track down. So get out there and hike, and enjoy the destination.

Questions? Suggestions? Destinations? Leave them in the comments!!

The Dangers of Avocado.

March 28, 2016March 28, 2016 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Weird Strange and True

There are certain foods that God created for the purpose of letting us eat toppings. Because toppings are a life blessing.

Potatoes, for instance. On their own, they’re not that exciting. But when you add butter and sour cream and cheese and bacon and maybe some bar-b-que while you’re at it, they’re the sparkling unicorn of food.

Tacos. Tacos are nothing BUT toppings. Which is why they’re never a bad idea. Especially when served in soft corn tortillas. Which is the ultimate topping wrapper.

Chili. Chili is an extra special topping food, because it calls for toppings and bottomings.

I use rice for my bottoming. Chris uses Fritos. Some people use crackers, or so I hear.

And for toppings, I’ve always used sour cream and cheese, but have recently discovered the splendor of adding an avocado to my chili topping repertoire. Because Avocado is kind of like my bacon – it’s perfect with everything.

I made a giant vat of chili last Monday night. We had a lovely family dinner, to which I invited my parents. Or I thought I did. I texted my Mom – I would have scrolled to find the text stream where I text both of them at once, but I had onion juice on my hands and really wanted Siri to handle my texting for me.

But mom never answered.

Later that night, I texted Dad.

I felt bad for my text-only ways (a normal human being would have called her parents when not receiving a response to a dinner invitation), but we still had a vat and a half of chili left over (that’s the thing about toppings – they somehow multiply your main dish leftovers because you use so many toppings that you use very little of the actual product), so I told my parents to just come over the next night.

Tuesday night.

I rewarmed the chili, got out the voluminous options of toppings and bottomings, warmed up the cornbread, and prepared for another large family dinner.

The last thing I needed to do was to slice an avocado. I knew my Mom and I would be the only ones taking advantage of the world’s best topping, so I only grabbed one avocado out of the fridge and began slicing it open while talking to my mom.

I did my usual of cutting around the middle, and then opening up the avocado. But instead of my usual THWACK approach to remove the pit (the THWACK approach being where you THWACK the pit with the knife and then twist and pull it out), I did more of a THWACK-saw.

I do not recommend the THWACK-saw approach.

Because the avocado was softer than I had assumed and catapulted loose from the avocado mid-saw…but the sawing didn’t quit. And I was sawing in the direction of my hand.

And, as I was holding the avocado in my right hand, the sawing continued into my thumb. To the point where I definitely heard and felt sawing taking place on my thumb bone.

Sometimes physics is a real turd.

As one does when sawing one’s thumb bone, I screamed and dropped the avocado. I ran to get a paper towel to sop up my outwardly flowing life force and surveyed the damage.

The cut was long, thick, and vomiting blood. But oddly didn’t hurt…at all.

It’s gonna start hurting real soon. Just you wait.

I asked mom if I needed stitches. She took a look and told me to go let my father see it while she hunted down a butterfly bandage. He looked at it and was also uncertain.

…But it still didn’t hurt.

Mom bandaged me thoroughly, causing me no pain whatsoever. I decided to table the matter of my thumb because it wasn’t hurting and I needed to slice my avocado and then there was chili to eat.

Priorities, you know?

Chris wasn’t quite home from work, so I sent him a quick text to help him adjust to the possibilities that lay ahead.

“Just to mentally prepare, we may need to go to the ER later. I cut my hand de-pitting an avocado.”

He answered back, “Sorry. You did that last night, too.”

I pondered what he said.

HAD I cut my hand two nights in a row while de-pitting my avocado? This did seem vaguely familiar. Then I remembered that I had a bothersome cut on my index finger and I didn’t remember how I’d gotten it.

I had cut my hand the night before!

Do I cut my hand every time I de-pit an avocado?

This seemed oddly familiar as well.

Clearly I needed a new strategy for de-pitting avocados.

I prepared my bowl of chili and gave myself an extra serving of avocado. I deserved it, after all.

But then I looked over at my mom’s bowl and she had not gotten any avocado.

Perhaps the adrenaline from the injury made me more frantic than usual. Or perhaps I’m just an insubordinate daughter. But I demanded of her, “Why aren’t you getting any Avocado? EAT THE BLOODY AVOCADO! …Err, I mean that “bloody” in the British sense. Not the literal one. Maybe.”

She quickly spooned herself some avocado onto her chili.

We ate, my hand continued not to hurt or throb or anything remotely uncomfortable, and I actually felt quite energized. Adrenaline really is magical – why haven’t they figured out how to make adrenaline pills yet?

After dinner, I drove up to my neighbor’s house whose husband is a doctor. He’d just walked in from a long hospital shift that I’m sure was delightfully fun, and I accosted him in the basement before he even got to go upstairs and kiss his family.

I brought a fresh tube of superglue with me, because I knew that in the past, when their kid fell and busted her head, they just superglued her back together, because superglue is the same thing as liquid stitches. Who knew?

(Also I love the idea of fixing a broken kid the same way you fix the broken kid’s broken toys.)

I peeled off the bandage for him to assess the damage. He opened up the cut a bit to take a look, and asked me again if it didn’t hurt at all? No, it didn’t.

He didn’t know why I wasn’t hurting, but because of where the cut was (going up my thumb right where it bends), he said that superglue wouldn’t hold it long enough to heal – I really needed a couple old-fashioned stitches.

I drove back home with my feeling-quite-fine hand, and we decided that Dad would drive me to the ER. After all, it might not be as easy to drive after a numbing shot or three in the hand.

Dad and I sat in the ER lobby and people-watched, communicating our terribly judgmental thoughts back and forth with our eyes. Who knew the ER was such a fascinating place? Probably everyone.

It was finally my turn, and the nurse asked me all the questions he was supposed to like, “Have you ever thought about self-harm? Are you sure you didn’t do this on purpose?”

“No. I just really wanted avocado to top my chili. Have you ever tried it? It’s delicious.”

“When did this happen?”

“Around 6pm. But I ate the chili before coming in. Because I worked hard for that avocado.”

He happily dumped me into a room, where a nice ER doctor came in and asked if I’d ever had stitches before.

“Oh yes. On my hand even! From sleepwalking.”

He then wanted to hear all of my various sleepwalking stories as he shot me up and tied three nice little stitches in my hand.

There was the time I broke my nose…

And the time I got lost in the funeral home…

And that time I fought Captain Hook…

I apologized that my current injury was so boring.

He ran out of the room to get something and I snapped a quick picture of his handiwork. (Click here if you’d like to see it. You’re welcome for the opt-out, queasy people.)

Then he finished stitching me up and told me he’d see me soon, then sent me on my way. And no, he had no idea why I wasn’t hurting, either.

But the moral of this story is, although there are countless useless kitchen gadgets that do various overly-specific tasks, this brand new tool that I bought this week will pay for itself in one use. Because ER co-pays are expensive.

The Fight Against Clutter.

March 25, 2016March 25, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Actually Possibly Informational, I embarrass myself just for your amusement.

Editor’s Note: I acknowledge that this post is way too long. I apologize profusely for my inability to break it into smaller posts. However, as a token of my sorrow, I offer you loads of pictures of the mess that my life was/is. May you take comfort in that.

I could never put “Homemaker” on my resume.

At an extended family Dirty Santa party this past Christmas, I opened up a gift that contained canning jars, a “Pickles and Jams” recipe book, and various other jelly and jam making accoutrements.

My dad started laughing.

“What?!”

“I’m just laughing because you’re so domesticated and all.”

I defended my level of domesticity vehemently, but to some degree, he’s right.

I can cook (maybe even quite well), but don’t very often.

I can organize my house, but choose not to make that a priority.

I CANNOT garden.

I CANNOT decorate.

And those canning jars and books are still in the gift bag piled in an extremely messy closet.

(They’ll be really useful in about nine months. When it’s time to find new Dirty Santa gifts.)

With regards to my lack of home organization, though, it bugs me. Things pile up VERY badly around here. I’m not a hoarder – I just struggle to make time to throw away. And when I get busy, decluttering is the first thing to get left behind.

(And I’ve been busy for about…nine years.)

The two areas that annoyed me the most were the kid’s (okay Noah’s) play area in the living room (I despised looking at the mountains of chaotically stacked toys every night after they went to bed),

and my office.

I know. My office is horrendous. From it, I run all the books/HR for a small business, plus I run Picture Birmingham, blog, homeschool, do all of our personal finances, and it was the home for all my shoes and crafting stuff.

But besides that, I actually hadn’t even used my office for anything but storage since the wreck – I’d moved the work necessities to our bedroom so I could work from bed since I couldn’t sit with my legs not elevated. So really, the office had just become a dumping ground.

Although these two areas were by far not the only and possibly not the worst areas in our house (I’m looking at you, basement), they were the ones for which I desperately needed a plan.

Around the time these two areas started to annoy me the most, my dear friend Jamie posted on Facebook that she was having home organization help from a mutual internet friend, Tara. I had no idea Tara had such a magical occupation, and immediately began stalking her business. Within a week, I had her out to my house, and she literally opened every drawer, every cabinet, and every closet in my house, then took pictures of the worst of them.

(But only after I made her sign an affidavit stating that she wasn’t one of those neat freaks that assigns moral judgment to the non-neat. Because I’ve met those people. And they make me feel like Refried Roadkill.)

(Tara told me that she believed that everyone had different strengths, and just because organization and neatness weren’t mine, I had plenty of other strengths, and then she made a long list of said strengths.)

(Then I virtually kissed her.)

A week after her intimate encounter with my house, I texted Tara and said, “Um, by the way…I have a bonus question for you. You know my office? The crazy messy one with all the different stuff going on in it? Yeah. So we’re adding a person to our household and I need you to turn it into a bedroom.”

…Because one of our dearest friends, travel companion, and babysitter, Sarah, needed a place to live for a while, and we were absolutely delighted with the opportunity to add her to our family.

Those extra two kids are AJ and Tessa because this picture is from last summer’s beach trip. We’re not adding AJ and Tessa to our family, but if we could, my children’s lives would be complete.

A day later, Tara sent me a report, including a plan to turn my dumping ground into a bedroom.

GUYS.

It was an ELEVEN PAGE REPORT.

…With links to what she wanted me to buy. And descriptions of how to rearrange my rooms. And promises to help me do all of this.

And her pricing was about 10% of what I thought this sort of Fairy Housemother Magic would cost.

I devoured her report, clicked through those links so many times, and began feverishly trying to accomplish some the things she had suggested before she came out to *really* help me get things done.

Step One: First pass-through cleaning out the office – trash and sell as much as possible.

This represents $200 worth of random crap I found in my office and sold on eBay. Textbooks, Diaper Genie Refills, and more.

After Day One of working by myself, my office went from this:

To this:

A lot still to go, but the progress felt good.

Step Two: Move living room furniture and PURGE KID’S TOYS.

The kid’s loved this part, because they found all sorts of lost treasures under where the couch had been.

…Such as that half-eaten Ring Pop for which they’d been looking for so long.

The decluttering of their toys took a bit longer.

Tara had been very specific about what type of organization containers she wanted me to use, and OF COURSE the only place you could buy them in town was my favorite (nightmare) – Wal-Mart.

So the children and I had spent a harrowing 45 minutes in Wal-Mart matching lids to bins and I swore that I’d find them online – higher prices who cares – from then on.

The benefit of using all of these new containers, though, is that I got all my kitchen bowls back. The kids and their father had been stealing them for various Lego projects for years.

My pile of now-emptied containers only grew, as did my pile of garbage bags.

Step Three: BUILD SHELVES.

Oh, the shelves.

These were specific shelving/storage units that Tara wanted in my living room (she recommends them for most people because they’re fantastic.) The idea is that all of our books would be in one place, and ALL children’s downstairs toys must end up in the closed cabinets at the end of each day – or they go to Mommy Jail.

(The toys, not the children.)

(Maybe.)

I decided I would be a nice wife and attempt to build the shelves during the day so that my poor husband didn’t have to come home from work to build three giant shelving units.

I began the first shelf at 9am and I sent my first SOS text to my dad at 9:02am after opening up the boxes and seeing these bags of hardware.

(That’s all for ONE of the three shelves.)

My Dad said he would stop by in a while, but in the meantime I gathered my feminine courage and set out on my own. Despite the 50,678 screws, the instruction novel specifically said no power tools. So I found a screwdriver and began sorting and attaching all the things.

I made it all the way to step five before making my one and only mistake, but made it all the way to step seven before I realized I had assembled step five backwards.

It also took me ten minutes of staring at it to figure out exactly where I’d gone wrong. And then I dropped the heaviest piece on my leg, giving me a gorgeous knot and bruise that I still possess.

The next step had this note on it, which I believe was supposed to be encouraging but at the moment was quite the opposite.

A DAY?! I have two more units to build!!

By the time my Dad arrived at noon, I had the basic structure assembled, and needed a big strong man to turn the whole shelving unit over so I could assemble the back, then turn it back over so I could finish the front. Which is exactly the services he offered me – that and asking me WHY I WASN’T USING AN ELECTRIC SCREWDRIVER and pointing out that I really needed him to take a few pictures of me BUILDING THINGS.

(Maybe his opinion of my domestication grew seven times that day.)

Dad left and I continued assembling.

After four hours and fifty minutes, I had completed the first unit.

My fingertips were purple and my hands were bright pink, and although pride coursed through my soul, I swore I’d never put together another shelf in my life.

I had to leave the house to go to my last(!!!) Physical Therapy appointment (visit #44, in case you’re wondering), and by the time I graduated from PT (yes, they sang the graduation song as I marched out of the clinic), I was empowered to build more shelves.

Because it’s MANIC 2016.

So I went straight home and began shelf #2.

I had a little help this time…

For approximately two turns of the screwdriver before he declared it too hard.

But because my shelving timing was apparently perfect, Chris walked in the door from work at the exact moment that I needed unit #2 flipped over.

Which he did. After he asked WHY AREN’T YOU USING AN ELECTRIC SCREWDRIVER?!

Shelf number two only took two hours and forty-five minutes – I was thinking I should go pro at that point.

For shelf three, I told Chris my hands couldn’t take any more pain. I would be the brains – after all I knew how ALL this should go – and he could be my muscle.

So he went and got the electric screwdriver. Of course.

And I told him what to do and how.

This lasted for about half of the shelf, and lemme tell you it was fun to tell my structural-steel-drawing engineer husband how to construct something, but then it was time for the kids to get to bed and so I took back the shelves so he could read bedtime stories.

Coming in at two hours and twenty-five minutes, the third shelves were built. Tallying up to a grand total of nine hours and fifty minutes, and spanning from 9am to 10:30pm (with PT and a couple breaks built in.)

BUT MY BEAUTIFUL SHELVES WERE BUILT.

Step Four: Build Smaller Entertainment Center.

We’ve had our lovely television armoire for about fourteen years, and although we adored it, it was crowding our living room. Tara suggested a much smaller unit. After building three shelving units, this was a yawn for me. Because I’m a professional.

Step Five: Giant Work Day with Tara.

Tara brought a helper and our goal for the morning was to get my office completely ready for Sarah to move in. And we did just that.

This included lots of shredding and throwing crap away,

lots of donations,

Hanging pictures while standing on safe and steady furniture,

And busying children with putting books in rainbow order.

(I enjoyed adding special touch shelves, such as this one, featuring Twitter signs from my sweet friend Katherine and a special purchase from Moist,)

(And this one, featuring our favorite band and handwritten lyrics from them to our favorite song.)

By the end of the day, my office was no longer an office.

AND my living room was a beautiful, cozy new space.

So. Sarah has moved in a week ago (my children are gleefully happy, as are Chris and I, to add her to our family for a while), I’m LOVING the progress in my house, the kids are doing fairly well keeping their toys out of Mommy Jail, and I’m trying to not screw it all up by allowing things to stack up.

I still have about 60% of Tara’s report to put into place, and I and hope to have her out about once a month for a while to force me to get it all done.

…But I still don’t plan on making any pickles or jams.

Redefining Hard.

March 23, 2016March 22, 2016 Rachel Callahan Chris, Guest Post, Running

A Guest Post by Chief Editor and Baby Daddy, Chris.

I’ve written about running before, several times. Running tourism, my first half, my first marathon, my second marathon. A central theme in all my running blogs is accessibility. As in, you can do this. You, the reader, if you are in reasonably decent health, can train and accomplish these things. I still think this is true.

I recently ran my first ultramarathon, the 27 mile option at the Lake Martin 100/50/27 mile endurance event on the trails at Russell Lands at Lake Martin. It was, by far, the most difficult athletic thing I have done. It was just a bit longer than a marathon by distance, but trail miles are very different from road miles. The terrain was at times technical, steep, slippery, sticky, and/or wet. The trails were full of roots, rocks, mud, clay, stream crossings, leaves, and pine straw. At times it was a 30 foot wide dirt road. At times it was a 12” wide single track ditch. As advertised, the rolling hills are relentless.

I was still feeling great after 90 minutes. {Photo Credit: Tanya Sylvan}

That said, I think for most of you, even an ultramarathon is achievable. It may seem crazy, but this is the heart of new, first time accomplishment – it redefines hard. You move the standard for what is physically and mentally possible.

So whether you are looking at a Couch to 5K program, 10k, Half Marathon, Full Marathon, 27 mile or 50K Ultra, 50 mile, 100 mile, or or a 150 mile race that starts with jumping out of an airplane and falling the first 2 miles (this does exist), that feeling of impossibility is just that – a feeling. It is not reality.

The truth is that with a realistic training schedule, a little knowledge about gear and injury prevention, some practice at hydration and exercise-related nutrition, and the support of your local running community (in my case, the BTC and the BUTS), you can do this.

Rocking my BUTS gear after the race.

So, with all of that heady stuff aside, I’ll get practical. As are all first-time endeavors, it was a learning experience. So I will let you benefit from the wisdom of my experience.

What I did right:

Read. I read bunches of blogs about trail running, ultra running, gear, all of it. I read every line of every page of the Lake Martin 100 website, which is really thorough about all things course, preparation, and survival. (Gaiters For The Win!!)

Listen. I picked all the trail runner brains in my orbit. I did what they said. I like to benefit from the wisdom of everyone else’s experience. Because of others, I had all sorts of goodies like a blister kit, wet wipes, and super greasy feet impervious to water.

I was still feeling good at the Heaven Hill aid station. {Photo Credit: Random Dude.}

Train. I asked a 100 mile vet what trails I should train on. She sent me to harder ones than I planned on, but I am so glad I listened and did what she said.

Overprepare. I had about 500 miles worth of Tailwind (advanced Powerade), snacks, sunscreen, bugspray, and socks in my drop box at the main aid station. Extra everything.

Ahhhhh, downhill. {Photo Credit: Tanya Sylvan}

What I did wrong:

Under hydrate. I drank approximately 5 liters of fluid, but I was on the course (including resting on benches and at aid station stops) over 8 hours.

Around mile 22, my legs began teetering on the brink of charley horses, twinging with every little trip, giving that moment of panic when you feel the muscles begin to tighten and curl.

At one point I intentionally fell down to immediately relieve the tension before it could tighten any further. By the time the race ended, I was walking all the hills, even the tiniest 1% grades, because even a minor incline was inducing the beginnings of Nightmare on Cramp Street.

Most of my trail training just happened to be on cold & dry days. The day of the race was humid, at times sunny, & after awhile, hot.

TMI, but after a final 6:35am pre-race port-a-potty stop, I didn’t pee until 4:30pm, long after finishing, rehydrating, and showering. Bottom line: under those conditions, 5 liters wasn’t near enough.

Not long enough training runs. My longest trail training run several weeks before Lake Martin was 16 miles. Since I had run a full road marathon 5 weeks prior to this race, I didn’t feel like a 20+ mile long trail run was necessary. Oops.

I felt great for about 20 miles. The last 7 were so much harder than they had to be. I wish I had done a 22 mile training run before I tapered down for the race. The single track inclines felt steeper and steeper as I went along, until I looked like I was sneaking up the secret path to Mordor, crawling with my weary hobbit legs at a 22:00/mile pace.

Mile 23. No comment.

What else:

When I got to Mile 23, the trail was named Rock Bottom. I sat on a bench. I took off my pack. I texted with friends. I just chilled. I did not see one other human for that entire section of the course, a 7 mile loop between aid stations. I assumed I was last, and I was just fine with it.

Rock Bottom wasn’t so bad.

I only got off track once for about 100 yards, but quickly retraced my steps and got back on the well-marked course. This is not unusual, but you can’t be lost for long. There are blue flags EVERYWHERE on the route, and signs marking every turn.

As it turned out, I wasn’t last. The last 2 miles of the 27 were an out-and-back to a spool of plastic tape to prove you made it to the turnaround. After I got my blessed piece of blue tape, I turned around for the last mile victory lap, and passed about 5 or 6 people. They looked just as tired as me.

The final stretch – I didn’t die! {Photo Credit: Tanya Sylvan}

But all of that eventually ended in a glorious wave of cheering, high-fives, a medal, pictures, fluids, potato chips, delicious soup, flip-flops, and later a giant cheeseburger.

Kowaliga Restaurant. A+.

All together, it was a fantastic experience. The every-flavor forest was so many different kinds of beautiful. The lake itself was a frequent canvas behind the rustling trees. The birds and frogs and babbling streams provided the background music. The camaraderie of crews, pacers, and fellow racers – both old friends and people I met during the race – was worth the price of admission. The aid station volunteers were aggressively helpful and sincerely compassionate.

I definitely plan to do another ultra. Maybe a 50K.

And I will benefit from the wisdom of my own experience the next time I redefine hard.

You Can’t Go Back.

March 21, 2016March 20, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Storytime, Weird Strange and True

Chris and I started dating in 1999. It was a previous century – quite literally.

I was 17 and he was 23 and neither of us had much money or culture. As such, our most elaborate dates happened at The Olive Garden. There was only one Garden Of Olives in town at the time, and everyone knew that it was the epitome of fine dining. Situated outside of our biggest mall, it was a culinary delight with their endless breadsticks that were infinitely tastier with the addition of a vat of Alfredo dipping sauce.

The first time Chris took me to The Olive Garden, I knew he was a keeper. Okay – I already knew that but to treat a lady with such delight and luxury as The Olive Garden – I mean – I felt like high society.

We’d regularly wait two hours for our Chicken Scampi and Tour of Italy, sitting out on the front porch with dozens of other anticipating diners.

As we grew up, got married, and had kids, our tastes changed. We learned the beauty of local food, unique restaurants, recipes other than typical chain food. And the fact that our former favorite vat of Alfredo sauce most likely contained at least 18,600 calories.

We rarely go to The Olive Garden anymore, and when we do, perhaps once a year, we go to a newer one nearer to our house. It’s in a quieter location and has a totally different feel to it than The Olive Garden of our youth.

But Saturday night, we had just attended a House Show. Our good friend Ashley was singing with Corey Nolen. It was a magical night – the show that forever changed the way we looked at Ashley, because now we knew that she was born to sing sad, tragic country music. (The album of this fantastic music is currently available for free on NoiseTrade, if you’d like to experience it for yourself.)

It was sentimental, emotion-delivering, and gave us all the feelings.

We had waited to eat until after the show, which ended at 9:30 half an hour past the time that most of our favorite places had closed. On a whim, because we were somewhat nearby, and we were feeling all those feelings, we decided to return to the place of our youth – The Olive Garden – the original one, the one we’d left unvisited for at least a decade.

We walked in and the place looked deserted. The waiting area was empty, the bar looked like no one had inhabited it in five years (and was that an olive tumbleweed?), and the two hosts looked bored and a little high. The highest host slunk in front of us and motioned with one shoulder to follow him. As we were passing by a section, another diner yelled for the host’s attention. He impatiently waved them off and continued to our table.

Maybe we should have taken that desperate attempt for help as a red flag that perhaps the service wasn’t on par that night. But we were in sentimental land, recalling fondly our early dating days.

We sat down in a section that was empty except for one large table – a family birthday party with three small children, one being a screaming infant.

…Seemed odd for 10pm, but whatever.

Oh – and the vacuuming man.

There was an employee forcefully running across every inch of our section with that manual crumb catching broom thingy.

Vink, vonk. vink, vonk. vink vonk vink vonk vink vonk.

As we studied our menus, I willed myself to not be the first person to mention the annoying repetition of the crumb sweeper. I’m too high maintenance. It’s 10pm at night. Ignore it, Rachel.

After no less than five minutes of the growing-in-passion vacuuming, Chris was the first to break. He put his head down and started laughing.

So I leaned over and whispered to him.

“It’s like The Olive Garden has no pride left. They’ve realized they’re no longer at the top and they’re just living it.”

He agreed.

But then, an exceptionally bouncy waitress pranced over to our table. With the excitement of working at the most trendy restaurant in town, she took our drink and appetizer orders.

We sighed in relief. At least someone in this place was aware of the concept of customer service.

A few minutes later, she returned with our salad and breadsticks, then skipped away.

It was at this moment we realized that our High Host had not given us any silverware. I flagged down Happy Waitress and told her the news.

She sighed loudly and headed off to get us silverware.

…Except instead, I saw her chasing High Host down the ramp to the kitchen giving him the silverware business.

We stared at our salad, which ironically we found to be devoid of olives, and waited to have our utensilless status righted.

Ten minutes later, High Host Number Two delivered. We could only assume that Bouncy Waitress and High Host Number One were still discussing things in the kitchen.

As we divided our salad the way we always did (he gets the peppers and croutons, I get the tomatoes and olives except that the olives were invisible this time), Chris pointed out that there seemed to be a bit of uproar behind him. I looked up. Every server and manager in the store was crowded around the cash register, which apparently was not working correctly. We heard grumbles and complaints that the system was down.

As our evening wore on, we began to realize that our poor peppy waitress was just like that one person in the group project in school. She was trying so hard, and doing everyone else’s part to boot, but no one else in the restaurant seemed to be doing anything that faintly resembled a job.

…She apologized to the table next to us that she couldn’t find the bartender to make their drinks.

…She apologized to the second large table sat in our section that got sat with multiple children (who does this at 10:30pm?!?) that they also didn’t get silverware.

…Our food took approximately two eternities to be delivered, long after the breadsticks, Alfredo boat, and salad were gone.

…And when it was delivered, my Scampi had the distinct odor and taste of burnt animal. And, considering the love that I’d been witnessing from the restaurant staff, I was more than just a little afraid to eat it.

And then there was The Loud Crash.

The sound of a dozen dirty plates and glasses hitting the floor and shattering filled the restaurant.

In my line of sight but behind Chris’ head, there was a bus bucket that got dropped. Or thrown. Or shoved into the person in front of him then dropped on her toes. Or something.

And then there was The Explosion.

The waitress facing the busboy that had just dropped/thrown/shoved the bus bucket began yelling. Loudly.

“Are you gonna hit me?? You gonna hit me in front of all these people?? GO AHEAD AND HIT ME THEN!!!!”

I watched as he ran to the back of the restaurant and another employee grabbed the angry waitress’ arm and drug her out of the front of the restaurant.

Chris and I looked at each other and mouthed whoa.

The entire staff once again gathered, no one working, all recapping what had just happened.

They broke up and random staff members went to each table to fill us in on exactly what had occurred and why – because they don’t believe in leaving diners in the dark at This Olive Garden.

“You see, she’s been accusing him of stealin her tips and she finally got fed up with him.”

Our waitress reappeared, still bouncing, but immediately sensed that something had gone down.

She asked us about it.

“Okay – what did I miss? Everyone’s talking but I was in the back getting drinks and it took FOREVER. What just happened?”

After being filled in, she blamed the large table with the large drink order for making her miss all the fun.

Something between loud laughter or wailing wafted through the air. Then it started up again, only farther away. This time we were pretty sure it was wailing, and we were left to assume that the screaming waitress had just gotten fired (confirmed later by more employee/diner gossip.)

By now, we were well past ready to go. We asked Less Happy Than Earlier Waitress for boxes, and she disappeared to get them.

Apparently boxes were as hard to come by as silverware, because she didn’t seem to be returning.

After five minutes, another waitress came by. “Are you guys all right? Do you need anything?”

Actually we’d like a box and would like to leave before there’s any [more] workplace violence, thank you.

“Hmm. I’ll check on those boxes for you. By the way I’m sorry about what happened earlier. I was the girl who broke up the fight.”

Awkward silence. Should we thank her? Offer her the room temperature butt of our breadstick? Congratulate her? We didn’t know.

More minutes.

Frightfully Forcibly Happy Waitress finally found some boxes. “Thank you for dining with us tonight!!”

We got up to leave and she said “Oh! Wait! You don’t have a bag for your boxes.”

“It’s okay. We can carry our boxes.”

“No!! I HAVE TO GET YOU A BAG. They’re just right over here.”

“Really…we’re fine…we’d really just like to leave now.”

“HOLD ON. HERE’S YOU A BAG. LET ME PUT YOUR FOOD IN THIS HERE BAG.”

She was losing control of her restaurant. She sensed it. But she was NOT giving up on her duties in this class project.

We grabbed our newly bagged food and sprinted out of the restaurant before any disgruntled ex-employees returned.

When we were safely outside, we looked at each other in awe.

“And to think we used to wait two hours for that place.”

Just a Tiny Note…

March 16, 2016March 16, 2016 Rachel Callahan Uncategorized

This week has been all about stuff. Exciting stuff is happening, but all that stuff is taking up ALL my time.

For instance, I spent 10 hours Monday BUILDING SHELVES. WITH MY HANDS. I didn’t even know I was capable.

On Tuesday, I walked five miles within the walls of my house CLEANING OUT STUFF. WITH MY HANDS.

I mean I didn’t walk five miles with my hands but I cleaned a lot with my hands.

Are you seeing a pattern? My hands are tired. And purple. And bruised. And not so good at typing right now.

I’ll be back very soon with fun stories and before and after pictures (the before pictures might make you a little queasy, so you have that to look forward to.)

But until then, I just wanted to let you know that Siri and I are getting along much better now that y’all helped me out, as evidenced by this conversation with my husband.

You’re welcome, Kathleen. He’s a catch.

p.s. – Before you all ask, Chick-Fil-A just released frosted coffee, which is a mix of iced coffee and ice cream. It’s life-changing, and free today (Wednesday) and next Wednesday. You’re welcome, you and Kathleen.

On Visiting The Knife-Happy.

March 14, 2016March 14, 2016 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Storytime

I’ve noticed that there are two types of 30-somethings.

Those that have a regular visit to the Dermatologist to get every millimeter of their skin scanned for abnormalities and are constantly mentioning what they’ve recently had removed,

And those that have never visited a Dermatologist.

I’ve always been in the second group. Not because I have anywhere close to perfect skin, or dislike doctors, but because I have been in denial that I’m in my 30s for some time and would rather believe that I’m an invincible teenager with no skin fears.

This is not to say that I haven’t forced my husband to go and get a bump removed when it started to morph into something that made me feel uncomfortable. But he’s older than me. It’s time he starts thinking about his skin.

Also, I see enough variety of doctors thanks to my Dysautonomia and compromised immune system and stupid wreck that I really just don’t have room in my life for a relationship with a Dermatologist.

But finally, after fighting bravely on my own the war against a pesky shoulder rash for…wait for it…five months (including religiously applying two different prescriptions I already owned)…I decided that I should most likely plan my first date with the Dermatologist.

Over the years, I have asked my friend that is most solidly in group #1 of 30-somethings for her Dermatologist’s name on countless occasions, always intending to grow up and go. I’d even had it pulled up in a browser on my phone for a couple of months. So I scrolled through and found the tab, and gave them a call.

“Yes. I’d like to schedule an appointment. I have a rash that won’t go away.”

“Okay. Would you like a full body mole check while you’re here?”

(Sounds like a nightmare within a nightmare within a nightmare, but might as well get all the services for my co-pay…) “Sure.”

“Okay…the first available appointment is…..June 10th.”

“Um, well, you see, I have a rash….”

“Okay. Without the full body mole check, the first available is….April 20th.”

“Um, well, you see, I have a rash….”

“Okay. Well, if you’d like to see a nurse practitioner, you can come tomorrow.”

“That will work.”

I knew that “tomorrow” was too short of notice to get a sitter for my kids, so I bravely decided to bring my little homeschooling troupe with me.

I mean, I just have a rash. How gruesome could it be?

On Tuesday morning, we arrived and got settled into my assigned torture chamber. The bubbly nurse and nurse practitioner overflowed their joy all over the room as my eyes darted back and forth, looking for blood spatters on the ceiling or suspicious moles stuck to the walls.

Things had happened in this cell. I could feel it.

My rash, unfortunately, was at a dormant stage – of course. It has come and gone for five months, getting much worse when I was on an antibiotic for something else. At one point, it swelled up and looked exactly like the symbol on the old USSR Flag:

(Which happened a mere two days after I blogged about Mr. Putin’s Sexy Wall Calendar. Coincidence? I think not.)

But at this moment, it just looked like a bit of dry skin. It still itched, but Nurse and Nurse Practitioner couldn’t see how very itchy it was and how very communist it had recently been.

“Hmm…just looks like overly dry skin to me. You need to use moisturizer within four minutes of getting out of the shower and here – I’ll prescribe you a stronger cream to knock it out. But let’s look at this bump over here…and this one…oh and this mole in your armpit!!”

They began to circle my shoulder area hungrily, clucking at all of the various bumps and discolorations. I was a DermaVirgin, and they were taking great pleasure in all of the various offerings of my as-yet un-cut-on skin. It hadn’t helped at all that I’d been honest on my medical history form – they saw that my dad has Ocular Melanoma and their frenzy only heightened. “Melanoma is melanoma. You’ve got a first degree relative with Melanoma. We need to check all the things. Melanoma melanoma MELANOMA!! You don’t mind not having any flesh remaining, right?”

Okay they didn’t ask that last question but it was implied.

“We need to take a biopsy of that…and that…and let’s just take off that mole real quick. It won’t need stitches. These will just be slightly pink marks – like you cut yourself shaving. No big deal – it’ll just take a minute.”

A tray magically appeared with three jars (the kind you’d see shrunken heads floating in), three flexible blades, a shot, and a bunch of gauze and blood-soaking apparatus.

And nobody asked my opinion.

I mean, call me old-fashioned, but I think I deserve a minute to consider the fate of my armpit before they slice a crater into it. Maybe I held a fondness to my armpit mole.

They shot me up in all three places to numb the areas so I wouldn’t be fully aware of their carvings. Then, with the quickness of a NASCAR pit crew, they buzzed around me, sliced and diced my arm, back, and armpit, dropped my former pieces of self in their jars, and covered me with band-aids before I could see what they’d left of me.

I did catch a quick glance at their blood-and-guts covered knives, though, and knew that “it will just be a pink spot – like if you cut yourself shaving” was as much a lie as The White Witch promising Edmund an endless supply of Turkish Delight.

The kids and I escaped the Dungeon of Human Samples, but not until after they’d scheduled that “Full Body Mole Check”, leaving me seriously fearing my future fashion statement of Swiss Cheese Flesh.

Thanks to those numbing shots, I was really feeling quite fine, aside from the mental stress, and it was a beautiful day, so we went on a hike in the woods with friends. It was as if nothing dark and demented had occurred that morning.

There were waterfall discoveries,

And boulder throwing,

And rock-climbing,

And cave-dwelling.

I felt great. It was a lovely day. The dermatology visit was squarely behind me.

…Until the end of the hike. When things began to sting. Shots only last so long, after all.

I went home and peeked under my bandages. I gasped at the deep craters that were now a part of who I was. These were not slight pink marks. They were more like someone decided to journey to the center of my body and began digging a hole, then gave up and started somewhere else, then gave up and started one more place.

Over the next couple of days, the abysses were greatly uncomfortable, especially the largest one that happened to be in my armpit, and especially especially when I ran. Sweating profusely into a giant white pus-filled crater is not really something I would recommend for fun and amusement.

By Thursday, the holes named Shoulder and Back had dried up and become less like bubbling cauldrons and more like nice, dry moon craters. But Armpit did not. It began to grow, taking up more real estate under my arm, and developing a nice swollen, red shoreline. Then I began to get chills and fever and dizziness. At first I just thought I was having a couple of bad Dysautonomia days, but I soon realized that it was likely being caused by the vat of infection stirring beneath my arm.

Finally on Saturday, I decided it was time to call about it. The on-call doctor said it definitely sounded infected and called me in an antibiotic – an antibiotic that would heal my armpit, but most likely turn my rash back into a Communist Flag.

Oh – and did I mention that in the chaos of treating my wounds, I lost the prescription for my rash, the original reason I entered the Dungeon of Doom?

Yeah. I’m awesome like that.

So the moral of this story is, don’t allow people to randomly cut on you. Just Say No. It’s a two-letter word. Practice with me. NNNNNOOOOOOO.

“It will be a pink spot”, they say. “Like if you cut yourself shaving”, they say.

Yes. It’s exactly like that. If you shave with a staph-infected three hole punch.