Rachel Callahan

Recordkeeping All Year Long. {Free Homeschool Templates}

May 20, 2015May 19, 2015 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Homeschooling: Not just for the socially awkward anymore.

Warning: Homeschool post ahead.

I am not the most organized person. Based on my personality profile, I should be, but organization is the first thing that goes when life gets busy.

And life has been busy since approximately…2008.

However. One thing that I do stay on top of is our homeschool recordkeeping. I have several reasons for this departure from my status quo of laziness:

1. It gives me something to do to keep my impatience at bay when Ali is working on a particularly arduous worksheet. It’s either that or ferocious doodling, something in which I often also take part.

2. It helps me see how much we’ve accomplished through the day, week, and year.

3. It’s good accountability – after all, I’m accepting the responsibility of educating my child. What the crap am I thinking??

4. I can see when we get ahead. And when we get ahead, we get to take Fridays off.

When we started first grade, I couldn’t find a recordkeeping book that I liked, so I created my own on Excel. I’ve been using my template for two years now, and have continued to tweak it each week. I’ve also shared it with many people who have then edited it for their own needs, so it’s basically the Sisterhood of the Traveling Spreadsheet by now.

click image to download

Here’s how my highly objective system of homeschool recordkeeping works:

1. I write the work as we do it – NOT in advance. I don’t like crossing things out, and as I said, it gives me something to busy myself with while Ali actually does the work.

2. Ten “credits” counts as a second grade school day (I counted 8 credits as a school day in first grade). If we do double the work in a particular subject in one day, then it counts as 2 credits.

3. If we were especially aggressive and earned 50 or more credits by Thursday, then we get to skip school on Friday. We usually still do a little school on those days, but don’t stress about getting an entire day in.

4. Most importantly, I get to give myself a sticker for each credit earned. In rainbow order.

Did my dedication to rainbow-order stickering fall off by the end of the year? Absolutely. But did I keep on keeping on with keeping up with my records? You bet.

This seems like a weird time to bring up recordkeeping, what with school just getting out and all, but I do it now for a reason: I have added Summer recordkeeping this year.

click to download

In Alabama, you don’t have to be a legal homeschool student until second grade. As such, this past year was our first year to have to “count days” – i.e., school for a particular number of full school days.

We do not school all year, but the nature of our lives tends to swing toward the educational side, even in the summertime. Plus, I’ve decided to get Ali to do one lesson of math each morning during the summer to keep her brain from getting sloshy.

(Yes, that’s a verifiable school-child condition.)

Fortunately, her math curriculum came with an entire book of review sheets that we didn’t need during the school year, so we started the review book from the lesson we left off at and are going backwards. This seems weird to Ali. This seems perfectly logical to me.

By keeping up with our summer school log, we can count the things we do this summer as school days toward next school year. Not so that we can slack off next year, but so that we aren’t as stressed about getting our required 165-175 of days, and we can take off a few extra days around Christmas and other holidays.

Plus, I won’t feel guilty about the fact that I want to have a proper 1950’s summer and not start actual school until Labor Day.

Our school log will not look this busy all summer, especially since the kids are about to get a ten day break from me, but we had a busy first week…

I, for one, find this extra bit of paperwork highly worthwhile – especially since by doing it, our summer can be just a little bit longer.

Click here to download the template for both sheets.

On Graduating Preschool.

May 18, 2015May 17, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Kids: The Experience.

First and Last Day of 3K

Noah is officially done with preschool, now giving him the privilege of saying that he’s done something I never did – he has gone to school outside of his home before college.

I know. Quite an accomplishment.

It was strange for me, being a parent in a world I’d never experienced, trying to learn what carpool is and how to pack a lunch box and where in the world to put all of the twenty-dozen construction paper crafts he brought home every day. But I managed to make it through the entire school year without doing the one thing I feared the most: forgetting his backpack and, therefore, his lunch.

(Because it would be the homeschool mom who would let her poor kid sit in school lunchless while the other kids with more experienced moms ate happily, snickering at the kid whose mom was clearly not “socialized” as a kid.)

But this year has been good. The experience has let him learn some independence, and more importantly, learn SOMETHING – anything at all. Because he had no interest in learning from me prior to his preschool career. Now, after ten glorious months of Miss Janey inspiring him to allow himself to be educated, the kid will actually write letters – any letters I tell him to – when I tell him to do it.

It’s like she turned him into a superhero – albeit a fashion-confused superhero.

(Every superhero got their cape tangled up with their backpack when they were four. I’m sure of it.)

He learned how to fall hopelessly in love – it’s a shame that Miss Kelly The Art Teacher was already taken. He learned the depths and breadths of 3K Spanish, and as of last night prefers to be called “Cinco” instead of Noah.

He also learned the importance of personal space. When I told him the morning of his last day that he needed to hug his friends because he wouldn’t see them again, he quickly told me “I can’t hug my friends!”

“Why not?”

“Because Miss Janey told me to keep my hands to myself.”

He did not learn, however, how to perform in front of a group. Which became painfully obvious at the onset of their year-end recital.

While the rest of his preschool happily sang and hand-motioned their way into their parent’s hearts, Noah was cool with sticking out his tongue.

And checking out the awesomeness that is the back of his own hand.

And tasting his pinkies for remnants of breakfast.

And, when the other students joyfully sang, covering his ears to block out the rising tones.

And pretending he was talking into his secret spy phone.

And erasing all the shiny parents from his eyes.

And maybe, just maybe, feeling slightly morose at his own lack of participation.

After the performance, the rest of his classmates congratulated each other and said tearful goodbyes to their dearest friends (okay they really just sat on the rug like they were told), but Noah found his own rug. And his own quiet place. Because he was clearly extroverted out.

He adored school. He already misses school. But the introvert inside of him gives me hope that maybe he’ll be suited just fine to homeschooling (at least next year) after all. No crowds, no performances, just books.

The Consignment Report.

May 15, 2015May 14, 2015 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational

I’m a hoarder by default.

It’s not that I want to be a hoarder – I want more than anything to get rid of tons of stuff in an efficient manner and live a less cluttery life.

Well, more than anything…except for using my time to do anything but that. I always have too much going on to get around to it.

And so, the clutter builds up and builds up until it becomes a health hazard.

Such was the state of our kid’s clothing collection.

At first, I could use the excuse that we might have more offspring. But once we went through with The Vasectomy, that reason became invalid.

Then, the reason was because my sister-in-law and I had thoroughly swapped our collections (I got all her boy stuff and she got all my girl stuff), and it was going to be too much trouble to de-sort. That excuse lasted a delightfully long time. But finally, we forced ourselves to Mom Up and unsort eight years of kid’s clothes.

Then there was the decision of how best to get rid of it all. I began experimenting, very scientifically, to find the best method – combining easiness with decent return. I’ve mentioned my efforts a few times over the past six months, and I promised many of you a full report of my findings.

Besides donating my clothes, which I have done as well, there were two avenues that I actually attempted – I’m sure there are a lot more options out there, but these were the ones that seemed most reasonable to me:

1. ThredUp
2. Kids Market (Local option but you probably have one of these, too.)

Because of the timing of my initial cleanout (Kids Market only occurs twice a year), I started with ThredUp.

In short, ThredUp is a web-based consignment shop. They send you a giant shipping bag (postage pre-paid), and you send it back containing your clothes. They pay you upfront what they decide each item is worth, then they sell it on the website.

I already had a bag I’d ordered two years ago that I’d never actually used (because I don’t make time for this stuff.) Their policies are simple to follow: wash your clothes, put them in the bag, and drop it off at FedEx. They sort, throw out or donate what they don’t want, and then deposit your payment immediately into your PayPal account.

The catch is that they’re VERY particular about brand names, and those preferences sometimes change. They accept Osh Kosh but not Carters – and also not Osh Kosh’s Target brand. They accept Gap but not Old Navy, Gymboree but not Children’s Place.

I found it difficult at first to sort through the brands and figure out what they did and didn’t take, but once I got the ones I frequent memorized, it wasn’t hard. Then I realized that I could sell a lot of my clothes that didn’t fit anymore, and I got more excited. (They accept women’s and kid’s clothes and accessories – no men’s items.)

I sent a bag back holding about 20 items of mine and the kid’s old clothes, and waited excitedly. And waited. Turns out that Alabama is a seriously long way from California when shipped by the most economical shipping (which I can’t complain about since ThredUp covers the shipping.)

Finally, my bag arrived and I waited another week to see my payout. My first bag landed me $43.69. I was pretty thrilled – it wasn’t much per item, but everything I had put in that bag was stuff that neither I nor the children would ever wear again, and I had done virtually no work to prepare it to be sold, so nearly $50 upfront for clutter seemed like a good deal.

I hurriedly sent two more bags in, both of which netted about the same as the first one.

Which is when I started to get blood-thirsty.

Which was my mistake.

I went through my closet more closely, looking for stuff I probably wouldn’t wear again. And I even culled my jeans collection, something I hold very dear to my heart. I even sent them two diaper bags, after checking for their brand names, thinking that this would be the best payout yet.

But of course it was that bag that got a grumpy sorter. One who decided that all of those items that had been difficult for me to part with were worthless – two pairs of designer jeans, two expensive diaper bags, and several other really nice items.

I realized I was more attached to my stuff than I thought when I found out that these items had been thrown out or donated. I considered crying. Instead, I emailed back and forth to plead my case, and finally got escalated to a manager who approved a credit for what I said the items had been worth. It took a while and I learned my lesson: only send stuff to ThredUp that you’re not attached to. Treat it, as I did with my first three bags, as a way to get rid of clutter and make a little extra cash on the side. If you do that, you’ll be happy. If you try to start making money with ThredUp, you’ll likely get disappointed at some point.

Final Report: I sent in 5 bags, each bag containing approximately 20-30 items, and was paid a total of $301.84. Not bad at all for nearly zero work, and I will definitely do it again.

My next experiment was Kids Market. This is a local consignment monstrosity that is highly organized and well-entrenched into the Mommy Circles in which I run. I have multiple friends who volunteer to work 20 hours at this sale – JUST to get the privilege of shopping first.

Crazy. Right?

But apparently if you’re the first shopper you get to buy up all the things from the inexperienced sellers that undervalue their goods. They swear it’s worth it.

As opposed to ThredUp, you set your own prices for Kid’s Market, and you get to keep 2/3 of the selling price – which is a pretty hefty percentage. Unlike ThredUp, you get paid afterwards and only if the items sell. You can choose whether to pick up your leftovers after the sale or donate them. Since the main purpose of this adventure was to de-clutter, I chose the donate option.

The catch is, it’s a LOT of work. I won’t rehash it since I already blogged about it here, but it involves washing, printing barcodes, pinning, grouping, writing description / color / brand / size for each item, taping, bleeding from all the pinning, and other such sorts of often painful activities. And then when you arrive to drop off your items, you have to sort them all yourself in the giant SuperCenter that is Kid’s Market.

Pro Tip: Take an energetic child with you on delivery day. Do NOT take an impatient toddler.

My expert friends gave me pricing advice, bundling advice (they recommended bundling my clothes into outfits and sets as often as possible, even sets such as “four pairs of pajamas”), and hanging advice (do NOT pin all your clothes facing the wrong direction), and in the end I spent about 10-15 hours preparing my clothes for Kid’s Market.

Final Report: I put 167 bundles of items in the sale – I have no idea how many individual items, but it was A LOT. I priced on the high side of the recommendations, thinking that they’d at least sell on the half off days if I priced too high. Of my 167 items, only 87 sold. If everything I’d put in the sale had sold before the half off days, I had the potential earning of $796. My actual earnings were $357.67.

(And yes. I made a spreadsheet. Just for you guys. And for me. Because I live for spreadsheets.)

(The $59 item that sold was a baby swing, in case you’re wondering – unlike ThredUp, Kid’s Market takes all manner of baby equipment, kid’s games, video games, and more.)

As you can see, I should have priced a bunch of $6 items for perhaps $4, and maybe some $5 items for $3. But ultimately, I still cleaned out a massive load of clothes, so that does make me happy.

However, the work involved in preparing all of those clothes to depart from my house was not, in my opinion, worth the output. So I either need to get better at pricing, or just donate, take a chunky tax write-off, and be done with it all.

What are your tips for getting rid of kid’s clothes?

An Appropriate Goodbye.

May 13, 2015May 12, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel

We’ve been inseparable for 33 and a half years. Unequivocally attached to one another, bound by each other’s decisions, moods, and words.

But in one week and one day, that will end permanently.

My tonsils will be cut from my body and thrown away without so much as a proper goodbye. In fact, I’ll sleep through the whole thing – some hostess I am. (Good southern hospitality requires one to always say goodbye – even when their guests have to get up at 4am to leave for an early morning flight.)

But not this time – not for my tonsils.

And so, as we have exactly eight days left to spend in each other’s company, I feel it’s only right that we spend them with an appropriate level of consideration. That we find ways to have quality time together before that time is cut short with a scalpel and a suction and probably a little bit of cauterization.

We should eat ice cream – lots of it. I know that I’ll also be eating copious amounts of ice cream for the ten days after the surgery, but it’s not fair that my tonsils don’t get their own final bowls of ice cream before they’re brutally murdered and discarded in an opaque red “Body Parts” bag.

And we should sing. We should sing loudly. We should sing high. We should, as one twitter friend suggested, sing the highest notes of Bohemian Rhapsody. Perhaps we should even take opera lessons for the next eight days.

(I Googled “Will a Tonsillectomy Affect My Voice” right after writing the above sentence. Turns out it actually does, and there’s a “Singer’s Tonsillectomy” that focuses on injuring the pharynx muscles less than a normal old lazy Tonsillectomy. Who knew?)

(I can only hope that I’ll become a better singer from my scarred Pharynx – that I’ll inherit a sexy raspy voice with which I can win American Idol: Senior Citizen’s Edition in a couple of years.)

(Ryan Seacrest will make an adorable old man host. And we’ve already discussed Harry Connick Jr’s ability to get better with age.)

But let’s continue planning my last days with my tonsils. Because that’s what we’re here for.

We should go see a few sunsets. I’m sure that I open my mouth awkwardly when holding a camera and focusing on the horizon, so my tonsils have definitely grown fond of sunsets over the past few years. Plus, I’m supposedly not going to feel like getting out of bed for a week and a half, so I better stock up to prevent withdrawals.

And I think that they deserve at least three more dates with my husband – both for the food and for the making out.

(Tonsil Hockey is called Tonsil Hockey for a reason, right? They must enjoy playing goalie.)

I mean, they’ve known him for like 50% of my life, and since he’s more likable than me and he doesn’t feed them mashed cauliflower, they’re probably going to miss him more than me anyway.

(I couldn’t let that number go unchecked….turns out, not quite 50%:)

Now that you’re all heaving onto your keyboards (who am I fooling – you’re heaving onto your iPhones), let’s continue…

Actually, let’s not.

I think that’s enough goodbyes for the Tonsils. Especially since I’m pretty hacked at them. They landed me in the hospital last month, and now they’re being all diva-ish and requiring what my ENT promises to be the worst surgery of my life – despite the fact that I’ve had six others.

(He’s a real comforter, my doctor. “You will need a full ten days to recover. It’s going to be awful. You will wonder why you agreed to do this in the first place and will probably hate me. You will not feel like doing anything, which is good, because if you exert yourself the most common side effect is blood spurting out of your throat. Not dripping – spurting. You will know it if it happens to you. If it does, we’re going to need you to come back to the ER so I can cauterize the incisions. And you don’t want that.”)

So yeah. Good riddance, Tonsils. You’re on your own.

The Feeling Is Not Mutual.

May 11, 2015May 11, 2015 Rachel Callahan Just My Luck

This post may make a lot of you tune me out forever.

You may hate me, say mean things about me, and write me off as a feelingless monster.

I accept this reality and understand that you have to do what you have to do.

But I can’t hide my feelings any longer. I must bare my soul to the world. For honesty’s sake.

I hate dogs.

Okay okay I know that hate is a strong word.

I dislike dogs immensely.

And yet, all dogs (and often their owners) think that I absolutely adore those gunky eyes, matted fur filled with tiny biting bugs, that garbage disposal odor, and the slimy tongues.

They are wrong.

I understand that some people feel this way about babies, and rightfully so – they’re fairly smelly and gunky creatures as well. So I was careful to never foist my babies on anyone without them asking first – because I knew how I felt about those people’s dogs.

But dog owners, in general, do not seem to have figured this out. Especially the ones that take their dogs to see the Easter Bunny.

I find dogs to be a most disgusting animal, listed right behind Armadillos, and the only reason they win is because they’re usually dead.

But back to dogs.

On one of our regular walks, we often see a very rotund wiener dog (his belly actually drags the ground as he walks), and the dog’s owner always makes a point to cross the trail and bring the dog over to us…despite the fact that I and my children always back away from him and the dog. But he’s convinced we want nothing more in life than to scoop that monstrosity of a tiny dog into our arms and kiss him alternately on his nose and mouth.

And then there are the dogs on my favorite running trails. Without fail, they always feel the need to run over to me as I’m passing their owner and attempt to wrap their leash around my legs as I run full speed past them. One day when I break both my legs and dislocate my hips, shoulders and finger joints with one single fall, please know that a dog was responsible.

But they think that I cherish them. Because all dogs do.

One especially long spell of dog adoration included two dogs on our Mom’s Trip I planned not long ago. They came out of nowhere, no one knew who they belonged to, but they decided that they belonged to our group. They followed us everywhere, sat outside the lodge and looked woefully in as we ate, and laid on our front porch as we slept.

As I often do at Gorham’s Bluff, I walked out onto a rock ledge past the gazebo to get some pictures of the valley below.

This made the dogs extremely nervous. They continually paced from me to my friends whimpering and attempting to drag my friends to the ledge to save me. When I finished my pictures and came off the rock cliff, they celebrated with leaps and yelps and a thorough licking of my legs.

Not cool, dogs.

For the rest of the weekend, they decided that I belonged to them. They had saved my life, and now we were inexorably bound together.

Everywhere I went, I looked like this:

That dog is gazing so lovingly up at me as I instruct him to leave me alone and never slobber on me ever again.

And here it looks like I’m smiling, but it’s just the corners of my mouth in motion, repeatedly telling those dogs how much I dislike them and that they should really go find someone else to adopt.

I’m awful. Really.

But by far the worst dogs are hiking dogs. Because they’ve been through mud and water and they think that you most certainly want in on that deal.

Last week, Ali and I went hiking while Noah was in school. We were enjoying the beautiful day and the waterfalls,

when two girls and four large dogs crossed our paths. After a good fifteen minutes of a doggy/human photoshoot in front of the waterfall they commandeered from us, they were ready to move on. But not until after the dogs came over and rubbed all up on Ali and I, almost tripping her, and thoroughly soaking my pants with dog-infused waterfall.

The girls giggled affectionately and looked at each other happily as they watched their dogs “love” on us, despite our clear body language of attempted avoidance.

But then. We had gotten lost on the way back (we’d taken a new path), and were running late for Noah’s carpool. We finally made it to the last stretch of trail before the parking lot – a very narrow path running about fifteen feet above the stream. Below us there was a Labradoodle enjoying a deep pool in the stream while his owner was on the other side.

Of course the dog saw us. Because all dogs think I live to cuddle with them.

He barked. He swam all the way across the creek. He climbed the steep slope up to where we were. And he proceeded to gleefully run back and forth between Ali and I, rubbing, shaking, and gifting us with the gallons of water stored in his high-volume Labradoodle coat. While licking us generously to cover over any dry spots.

The owner, much like the last owners we ran across, clearly assumed that we didn’t mind his dog nearly knocking us off the path that we had been previously speed-walking down.

He also seemed to interpret our body language of shying away from the dog and literally climbing the mountain to escape him as actually being pent-up love for his dog.

We picked up our pace, trying to lose this foul creature, but he matched it and increased his frequency of sharing our personal space.

Finally, because he realized he was losing his dog down the opposite path, the owner crossed the creek and began calling the varmint.

No luck. The dog clearly liked us better.

We picked up pace.

The dog picked up pace.

The owner picked up pace.

Finally, he caught up and had to literally drag his besodden creature off of our legs.

And so we showed up to carpool dead last and smelling of Muddycreekadoodle.

I strongly dislike dogs.

And I completely understand if you now strongly dislike me.

What Happens at Mom’s Running Club.

May 8, 2015May 7, 2015 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Weird Strange and True

A few months ago, I launched a running club for the moms in our church community group. On a given Sunday afternoon, we congregate in a pack of 2-5 moms, where we jog, walk, run, and talk.

The talking part is what we do best.

We discuss our kids, our husbands (all good stuff obviously), homeschooling, other schooling, and ourselves.

And all of our post-childbirth issues – many of which come up because of running.

We discuss the state of our pelvic floor and whether we’re likely to pee ourselves while running or not (we’ve decided that C-Sections have their benefits), we discuss hormonal changes and how The Plights of Womanhood affect our active lives, and we discuss many much more inappropriate topics that really shouldn’t be blogged about.

Because that’s what Mom’s Running Club is for. Conversation so distracting that we don’t realize we’re running.

(Until somebody pees.)

This past Sunday was typical in this way – the talking, not the peeing. We had discussed all the details of many things when we got on the subject of our gynecologists, because I had an appointment the next day. All three of us in attendance on that particular run visit the same practice (it’s like a gynocult), and the cult requires you to see each doctor at least once when you’re pregnant, so we can knowledgeably debate the pros and cons of each doctor.

As I was running my laundry list of preferences and why I didn’t like this doctor and that doctor, I got to…let’s call him…Doctor X.

I had a humiliating experience with Doctor X about nine years ago when I was very early in my pregnancy with Ali, so I’ve never wanted to see him again – in any context. And because this is what Mom’s Running Club is for, I was sharing this particularly horrifying story with my two running partners.

Right when I got to the most embarrassing part, quoting the particularly awkward thing that Doctor X had been forced to say to me, my storytelling voice naturally rose to the tempo of the tale. At which point both of my friends started laughing simultaneously.

Hard.

Then they both twisted their necks to look behind us at the couple who had just passed by.

I immediately assumed that my talking too loudly had amused the poor people out for a casual stroll and that they had given some sort of indication that they’d walked by at just the good part of that story.

But that would have been too pleasant.

Way too pleasant.

Both of my friends breathlessly blurted out at once, “That was him!! That was Doctor X! AND his wife!”

And that’s how my most humiliating moment with Doctor X was replaced. By a brand new moment.

Epilogue: I still had to go to the gynocult the next day. And I’ve never focused on being invisible as hard as I did when I had to pass by Doctor X’s open office door.

Breaking: Age Guessing Website a Conspiracy

May 6, 2015May 6, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Rachel's "Brilliant" Marketing Ideas, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously.

It has been discovered today that how-old.net, the currently viral website that allows you to upload a photo and then tells you how old you look, is actually a conspiracy by multi-level-marketing behemoth Radon + Folds.

Redarn + Flan is a direct sales skincare corporation that relies primarily on women who don’t mind utilizing Facebook to continuously show before and after pictures of people transforming from wrinkly to very very shiny in a matter of weeks by using their simple twenty-step regimen that costs approximately $48,342/month.

They have created the recently popular meme website to drive the online world to feel older than they actually are, and therefore run to their Rhonda + Filed-selling Facebook friends for deliverance.

The website does not, however, tell everyone that they look older than they are – a fact that has kept their brilliantly manipulating marketing ploy from being caught up to this point. Their strategy is much more involved, including employing a cookie onto your computer that searches your browser history to see if you are already seeking younger looking skin. If searches are found that indicate you as a prime candidate, as easy prey, as ready to be picked, then the cookie checks your Facebook friends to ensure that you have an ample amount of Razed – Fence salespeople in your life. This process takes less than .05 seconds. If you are indicated as a Randy @ Flart target audience member, you are then told that your picture looks approximately 5 – 10 years older than it actually does, sending you into a tailspin of despair, which only adds to the wrinkles on your forehead.

For instance, this panicking woman:

Actual Age: 37

Who, after running a dozen different pictures of herself and getting increasingly ridiculous answers, asked a friend to submit her photo – a friend who happens to be older than her.

Actual Age: 40

The program is trained to recognize when a person gets so worried that they begin running other people’s faces, and so it reacts in a way to make the person in question even more concerned.

And concern creates more wrinkles.

Which makes them even more ripe for the Ruby + Tuesday harvest.

This personal then typically texts their friends in a panic, pleading for them to tell them that they don’t really look that old. If they’re not careful, they might accidentally Facebook message one of their Randy * Fiends friends. At which time they will begin a cycle of never-ending payments to achieve a very, very shiny new face.

If, however, a person using how-old.net is not indicated as a target market, they’re given an age that is approximately 5 – 7 years younger than they actually look to help make the product look more genuine.

Actual Age: 33

And to further incite panic in their friends.

This technique has proven to drive Rinchin = Fu sales up 25% in April, with May’s sales projected to be even higher.

“It’s the best marketing we’ve ever had,” one unnamed Duran % Weld representative said, “It’s so insanely simple – yet so effective. Before we created how-old.net, it was our responsibility to inform people of how old they looked. Now, the dirty work is done for us.”

The FTC is currently investigating the website for defrauding the public.

Disclaimer: This post is satire, parody, and completely untrue. Do not sue me, Roger + Fink. And anyway, I’ve picked on Essential Oils way worse. WAY worse.

A Matter of Taste.

May 4, 2015May 3, 2015 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Blogging: the therapy., I Love Birmingham, Weird Strange and True

We live adjacent to a really nice part of town.

“Adjacent”, in this context, is a synonym for “undesirable”, and that’s fine. Our quirky little neighborhood is unincorporated and we embrace that unincorporation. Without silly zoning rules to hold us back, we have such fineries as skateboarding half-pipes and 400-600 white pigeons in portable buildings in our back yards, and “natural areas” and sleds pulled by electrical cords in our front yards.

So it’s not surprising that some of our well-to-do neighbors are not always fans of our adjacentry.

I first became aware of the extent of their suspect fandom when I saw a new neighbor walking by. I was feeling oddly extroverted, and I flagged her down to say hello and introduce myself. She made sure that the first half of her first sentence clearly informed me that she lived “one street over” and that also, our street had an ant problem. And mosquitoes. And we should do something about that.

[We did. The Mosquito Authority does good work. Our mosquitos left and are probably in her yard which is why her house is currently for sale.]

Undeterred in my neighborly spirit, I asked if she had kids. She did, in fact, and their ages were uncannily compatible with Ali and Noah.

Which led to this conversation – one I shall hold dear in my heart for the rest of time.

Me: “Oh! Your kids are the same age as mine!”

Her: ”Yes, but – they’re in different…uh…districts.”

Me: “Oh, yes. Well, we homeschool. So we bought outside of a city school district on purpose.”

Apparently my explanation sounded like one-upsmanship to her, so she quickly retorted,

Her: “Oh, yes. I’ve considered homeschooling too because we just aren’t made for this system. I’m thinking we may go the [$30,000/year] private school route instead. My kids are just too creative for this [ridiculously sought after] school system. We’re just round pegs in a square hole.”

[Explanation brackets mine.]

So we know our place. And we keep our sleds-pulled-by-extension-cords on our side of the fence and happily enjoy The Kingdom’s delightful restaurants, shopping, playgrounds, and running trails, never forgetting that those lovely amenities are not ours. We are just travelers from a foreign land…a land that just happens to have exceedingly close proximity to Oz.

Oz, that has houses such as this one:

(Okay that’s a ridiculous (but true) example. Most are slightly more normal looking manors.)

But every now and then, it’s nice to know that they’re human too. And just because they paid three to 30 times more for their house than we did for ours, that doesn’t always mean that they have better taste.

(Although usually it very much means that.)

Such as, for one, this holiday display:

And this mailbox, always my favorite example of Decking the Halls.

But those examples that I had always held dear faded when, on a run before Easter, I was jolted out of my happy place by this frightening appearance, staring at me from behind a bush.

I jumped back with a yelp, then cautiously peeked over the bushes again.

I quickly took inventory.

There was a tulle dress with pastel rainbow ribbon sewn to the hem.
A bouquet of fake Tiger Lilies.
A satin purse surely containing a weapon of mass destruction.
Bunny ears.
And, the most frightening part, a bunny mask with hollow eyes, nose, and mouth.

THE EYES.

I held eye contact as long as I could, then ran (much faster) back to my car. Because one never knows when a creature like that might become sentient. And rabbits are fast. Even when wearing tulle and an extra pair of ears.

I was relieved when Easter was over and I could resume my regular running route without fear of having my heart torn out by that evil creature. I ran many miles without even noticing the statue, presumably because it went back to simply being a statue.

Until Saturday.

I was running toward the sun, trying to keep the sweat from burning my eyes, when I caught a glimpse of something ethereal. From another planet – surely. I turned slowly, then stopped running to take in what was the majesty of The Statue.

The first thing that struck me was that this was no rabbit.

This was a rooster.

Which meant that at Easter, there had been poultry pretending to be a rabbit. With four ears. Which was immediately more disturbing.

But now – now we have a cross-dressing pantsless rooster standing proudly who can’t see where he’s going and is quickly losing the flowers daintily wrapped around his hat.

It wasn’t as frightening as his previous dalliances, so there was that.

After my run, I looked up the Rooster Residence on Zillow, the premier tool in a serial-stalker’s repertoire. The rooster owned over 5,000 square feet of house, purchased fourteen years ago for nearly a million dollars, and clearly worth even more now, despite the somewhat suspect doorkeeper.

So yes.

Us county-dwellers have our quirks.

And we know where we belong on the food chain.

But none of us are dressing up our concrete cocks and making runners think they just entered into a horror movie.

So maybe – just maybe – we’ll hold our heads a little higher next time we go out to eat.

Mommy Jeopardy!

May 1, 2015May 1, 2015 Rachel Callahan Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, Uncategorized, Utter Silliness

“Welcome to this very special episode of Mommy Jeopardy! Our contestants, all too sleepy to actually introduce themselves, will choose from six categories today, all related to their occupation of Motherhood. Let’s get started.”

“I’ll take ‘Kids are for the Strong of Stomach’ for $200, Alex.”

“The answer is…”

“What are toddler boy feet after marinating in shoes for two-plus hours, Alex?”

”That is correct.”

“Let’s go with ‘Kids are for the Strong of Stomach’ for $400.”

“The answer is…”

“What is the car seat?”

“No, but a good guess.”

“What is the bathtub, Alex.”

“Yes.”

“Let’s go ahead to ‘Kids are for the Strong of Stomach’ for $600.”

“The answer is…”

“What is chunky vomit?”

“Of course.”

“’Kids are for the Strong of Stomach’ for $800.”

“What is removing a splinter?”

“That is incorrect. Anyone else?”

“Yes. What is removing a deep, long, slippery booger from a tiny toddler nostril?”

“Very good.”

“I’m going to try ‘Kids and Logic Don’t Mix’ for $200, Alex.”

“What is whining, Alex.”

“Exactly.”

“‘Kids and Logic Don’t Mix’ for $400.”

“The answer is…”

“What is the sibling?”

“Exactly.”

“‘Kids and Logic Don’t Mix’ for $600.”

“What is that they can actually go to the bathroom without informing me first?”

“No. Anyone else?”

“What is the fact that I cannot pick up whatever crap they dropped in the floorboard while I’m driving down the interstate?”

“That is correct.”

“‘Before and After’ for $200.”

“What is a car trip?”

“Yes, but no.”

“What is paying bills?”

“Yes, but also no.”

“What is cleaning the house?”

“That is the question we were looking for.”

“I’ll take ‘Before and After’ for $400.”

“What is Play-Doh?”

“Obviously.”

“I’d like ‘Cold Hard Truth’ for $200.”

“The answer is…”

“What are from old pajamas to new pajamas?”

“Correct.”

“Let’s try ‘Cold Hard Truth’ for $400.”

“What is getting into the shower?”

“Worse.”

“What is while I’m flossing?”

“That is correct.”

“Can I have ‘Cold Hard Truth’ for $600?”

“What are my infant’s brand new teeth?”

“No. Anyone else?”

“Yes. What are my toddler’s needle-sharp elbows? With which he uses to propel himself out of any position?”

“That is correct.”

Let’s try ‘Cold Hard Truth’ for $800.”

“That’s today’s Video Daily Double!”

“Here is the answer…”

“What is opening the refrigerator?”

“That is not the question we’re looking for.”

“What is going up and down stairs?”

“No. Anyone else?”

“What is potty-training?”

That is correct!”

“Can I have ‘The Parenthood Bible’ for $200?”

“What are boogers?”

“No. Those are part of The Curse of Parenthood.”

“Oh. What are stickers?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

“’The Parenthood Bible’ for $400.”

“What is hiding in the bathroom to eat chocolate right after forcing the children to eat broccoli?”

“Of course. And we’re out of time. That concludes today’s episode of Mommy Jeopardy! Congratulations on your winnings, and may God have mercy on your souls.”

Fully Endorsed Anxiety.

April 29, 2015April 28, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, I embarrass myself just for your amusement.

These are the things I worry about: stray cats slipping into my car while I’m unloading groceries, my phone becoming sentient and turning on the camera at inopportune times and live-streaming those inopportune times to the world, and the consequences of endorsing my husband’s name on the backs of checks.

Every now and then, he’ll get a random check in the mail – for this or that, or for whatever. The chances that I will remember at night after a full day of parenting to ask my husband to sign the back of the check are smaller than a gnat’s mammary glands, so I typically end up signing his name for him while I’m in the drive-thru line at the bank.

But then I worry. What if the teller had been stretching her neck, looking around the corner at that very moment?

What if she could tell that the half-life of the endorsement signature ink and the deposit slip ink were the same – and very, very fresh?

Never mind the fact that I’m depositing the check into a joint account with his name clearly first. I’m aware of the penalties of check fraud – thanks to federal tax refund checks.

We don’t get one every year, but when we do, they’re made out to both of us.

Not Christopher or Rachel – it’s a “Christopher AND Rachel”.

And on the back, it clearly states “If check is made out to more than one party, both must endorse.”

And then after that, “Forgery of endorsements are a federal crime and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law. Minimum fine 40 billion dollars and life in prison for you and your progeny up to three generations.”

Or something about as ominous as that.

Needless to say, I seriously sweat about getting Chris to sign those checks. Because I can visualize the IRS agent whose job it is to receive the cleared checks and analyze the signature letter formation to see if they had indeed been signed by the authorized recipients.

This year, due to an adjustment on last year’s taxes, we got two refund checks.

The biggest one came first. I was already feeling jumpy about the whole thing because the envelope totally looked like junk mail and had fallen out of the stack and was lying on the kitchen floor perilously close to being kicked down the basement stairs like a discarded Charter Cable ad. I picked it up and my heart raced at the thought of it getting thrown away. Good luck getting the Government to stop payment and cut a new check.

I placed it carefully on the counter so that I could not forget it that night. I WOULD make Chris sign it. I WOULDN’T go to jail on forging my own husband’s name.

And I did. He signed it, I signed it, and we might’ve even used two different colors of ink – just to let them know that it was conclusively signed by two different individuals.

A week later, the second, much smaller check arrived. Times were busy – we were about to go on vacation and all of us were running from place to place trying to make things happen.

I didn’t have time to track down my husband for this task. And I certainly didn’t want to leave checks lying around while we were gone – the cat that had most likely snuck into the car and then into the house while I was unloading groceries would invariably pee on it.

Now I’m CERTAINLY not saying that I signed his name on the back because that would be a federal crime and I’m not a criminal, federal or international.

But if I had, I would have been feeling the laser-sharp glare of the hidden bank cameras as I sat, fidgeting in the car, watching the teller examine my deposit.

And if I had, I would have felt a mini-heart-attack when my teller called over another older, clearly more authoritative teller to look at my deposit.

And if I had, I might have peed a little when the scary new teller held up an ominous looking document and said, “Uh, Miss Callahan? Garble google bloggle blick.”

“I’m sorry? I couldn’t understand you.”

“I said, I have a survey here for you to fill out about your visit today.”

If that had happened, I would’ve sighed with great relief and given my bank all 10s for not questioning the integrity of any endorsements that might or might not have been on that check.

And then I would have gone home and resumed my anxiety attack, thinking constantly about that green-visored IRS agent in his dark, lonely office with only the company of his microscope, his expert training in signature analysis, and his stack of cleared checks.