Rachel Callahan

The Panty Incident.

January 26, 2015January 26, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, A Day in the Life, Weird Strange and True

So I was buying panties.

That’s how all good stories start, right?

I was buying panties, and had just handed them to the store clerk to ring up. She looked down, had a spark of eureka come over her face, and I watched as my future panties lassoed a memory in that cashier’s mind and shoved it out of her mouth.

”OH – You will not BELIEVE what my daughter said to me this morning!”

Considering what she was just looking at, I was slightly skeptical as to my desire for her to continue, but said the polite thing anyway.

“Oh really? What?”

“She turned around and said, ‘Mom, can you see my panties through these leggings?’”

Panty Clerk then looked at me expectantly and incredulously, as if this was the most bizarre thing to ever come out of a child’s mouth. When I didn’t react with shock and confusion, she added,

“She’s only in ninth grade!!!”

I assume most ninth graders should be aware of panties and whether or not they are showing through their leggings, considering that my eight year old and I make sure that her dress covers her leggings in an appropriate way fairly regularly.

She was clearly unsatisfied with my lack of reaction, so continued her unbelievable story.

“AND YOU KNOW WHY SHE ASKED ME?! When I told her that they weren’t showing through and asked her why she wanted to know, she said, ‘Because I can’t wear them to school if you can see my panties through them.’ …CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT?? She’s only in ninth grade and they have rules like that at school these days?!”

Now I was looking at her incredulously. But not for the reasons she assumed.

So she continued.

“So I said to her, ‘What? That’s a rule? But you’re only in ninth grade!’ And she said, ‘Yes, it’s the rule, Mom. I think I’m going to wear my jacket over them, just in case.’ And I said, ‘EVEN THOUGH you can’t see your panties??’ And she said, ‘Yeah, I think so.’ Can you believe that??”

I finally attempted to speak, to be the voice of reason, to add some much needed logic into a conversation where a Mom just admitted to trying to talk her daughter into wearing leggings as pants.

“Actually, it sounds like a pretty good rule to me….”

I watched her deflate like a football from New England, then she added,

“Well, I guess so. It’s just that she’s just in ninth grade!”

Because in 2015, Ninth Grade is the new Pre-K, y’all.

So. Lest we find ourselves in a situation similar to Disenchanted Panty Clerk’s, let’s all take a pact. Ready?

– If my daughter is encouraged by some other authority (or even friend) to not have visible panties, I hereby promise to affirm that effort and not be mortified that she would worry her little mind with such adult thoughts.

– When my daughter asks me The Big Question one day….”Mommy, are leggings pants?”, I will not hesitate. I will say NO.

(…Only if you’re running, honey.)

– Furthermore, if my daughter feels uncertain about taking part in the trend of wearing her bra as a visible accessory, I do hereby swear to not attempt to talk her into it, based on the fact that she’s just a kid and kids should be allowed to show their lace hot pink bra without anyone questioning it.

Because requesting that underwear stay underwear is not communism.

…And if I ever go back into that store, I’ll wear a T-Shirt screen-printed with that slogan.

Babysitters are Bad Salesmen.

January 22, 2015January 22, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, Rachel's "Brilliant" Marketing Ideas

Marketing is supposedly essential for almost any business. Good marketing doesn’t just inform people about your stuff, or invite people to use your stuff, but it awakens the desires inside people for your stuff.

M&Ms melt in your mouth, not in your hands.

Disneyland is the happiest place on earth.

You’re not yourself when you’re hungry for a Snickers.

I have realized that there is a vast market of untapped wealth in the world just waiting for the right marketing campaign.

Babysitters.

Parents of small children absolutely adore being alone at a restaurant without asking their spouse to not stand on the chair and not take bites that are too big and not have to take them to the restroom and wipe their rump during the middle of dessert.

And yet, all babysitting is consumer driven.

Who is available?

When are they available?

How early can they come?

How late can they stay?

Texts, tweets, calls to confirm.

It’s a lot of planning ahead, so I theorize that it happens less often because at least one parent has to be free enough or driven enough to plan to make it happen.

But what if babysitters were aggressive marketers?

What if you were sobbing into a pile of laundry and received a text from a trusted, responsible, young lady that your kids adored….

What if you were fixing your ravenous son his fifth lunch when you sighed and popped open Twitter and saw a DM…

Or what if you just needed a FEW MINUTES TO YOURSELF WITHOUT HAVING TO ANSWER THE SAME QUESTIONS TWENTY TIMES OVER and happened to get this…

What if your overflowing fire hose of email routinely included coupons for package deals of opportunity for peace and quiet?

What if your babysitters realized that you’re good friends with another babysitting client, and offered to let you have a double date, and they’d keep both sets of kids for the bargain of time-and-a-half?

Pro Tip To Babysitters: Kids are easier when they have friends. And you just got time-and-a-half for an easier job.

What if your babysitters saw your Facebook status that said “My son just catapulted a full and open box of Cheerios across the living room after drawing on the walls with Sharpies and the baby won’t nap HELP ME NOW” and texted you, offering to help you right now?

Right???

It could be even better.

Really aggressive babysitters could create branding and slogans, blanketing your parenting life with a constant pulse of hope and excitement.

Laura. Between love and madness lies parenting.

Jordan. The best a kid can get.

Shelby. Live in your world. Play in mine.

Mandy. Save Money. Live Better. Just do it.

Jennifer. The greatest tragedy is marital indifference.

Ainsley. You’re in good hands with Ainsley.

Hayley. When you care enough to love the very best.

And you know that kids memorize a marketing slogan quicker than they can destroy a room. So you’d be hearing,

“Mommy? Can we have Hayley over? She loves us THE VERY BEST. And I know you care enough to give us that.”

Dependable young women of the world, open your eyes and see the easy fortunes that are yours for the taking, from decent and kind people who used to be you, and who miss being you at times in spite of the meaningful love they share with their beloved children. We are such easy marks.

So, babysitters. Why not try a little of that marketing I know you’re learning about in college? Think outside the Instagram standard box.

Get a Square Reader. Take credit cards.

Send spam email.

Be big brother. Maybe creepy Facebook can market to a physical location, but you can super creepy market to the real-time fragile emotional states of every young mother you know.

Get rich!

Your Worst Nightmares…Stuffed.

January 19, 2015January 18, 2015 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend, Stuff I like, Weird Strange and True

I don’t understand why I just found out about this – it should have been breaking news. My friend should have known. I should have been told immediately.

But alas, I wasn’t told until weeks later.

But at least I was told.

A friend of ours gave another friend of ours a very special Christmas gift.

A stuffed louse.

That’s right, people. A cuddly, lovable, adorable member of the head lice family. Because apparently this friend believes in immersion therapy to treat one’s fears.

Within seconds of laying eyes upon the creature, I was on the website, mouth agape, in awe of the brilliance of people who could create 150 disgusting…yet adorable plush creatures. And as a bonus, scientifically accurate!

GIANTmicrobes^® are stuffed animals that look like tiny microbes — only a million times actual size!

The core microbial body types (circles, rods, spirals, chains, etc.) are always maintained. But in addition, morphological attributes of real microbes (such as the natural bumps of the rhinovirus, or the strands of flagella on the Salmonella bacterium) are used to create such anthropological features as noses and hair. So while the designs are always intended to be endearing, they are always firmly rooted in science.

I mean really. Who hasn’t always wanted a stuffed Brain-Eating Amoeba?

And I’m pretty sure you can get put on a Terrorist Watch List for sending one of these in the mail…

They also have “Oops – I’m So Sorry” presents…

Their breast cancer cell is pretty awesome, because it can be cured by being turned inside out.

And I might have to buy myself an immunoglobulin. Because I need more of them desperately.

And I feel like this little guy would make a fantastic Vasectomy Present.

But if you’re looking for a Valentine’s Gift, they have that, too.

You can either give your special someone a precious collection of Herpes, Pox, HPV, Chlamydia and Penicillin,

Or if you’re feeling slightly nicer, a Sperm Cell, Egg Cell, Kissing Disease, and Penicillin.

They have so many more furry friends, including Athlete’s foot, Bad breath, Botulism, a Diabetes Beta Cell, Diarrhea, E. Coli (which interestingly looks nothing like Diarrhea), Ebola, Fat Cells, Gangrene, a Pimple, Typhoid Fever, and even…Yogurt? Yes. Yogurt.

And if you need them even bigger, they have them in pillow-sized friends.

I mean, why not rest your head on a giant maggot?? And surely if you sleep on a louse, you can’t possibly have head lice – that’d just be too ironic.

I’m personally kind of in love with this site. So if you need a gift for me, you know where to look.

Disclaimer: I was not requested to share these products, nor does the company know I’m doing so. But they’re welcome to send me a pillow-sized staph infection, if they’re so inclined.

A Weekend Concert.

January 16, 2015January 16, 2015 Rachel Callahan Uncategorized

Noah has been sleeping with a cucumber tucked tightly by his side since I brought Larry home to him this summer.

As such, Larry has become a part of our family, weaving into our bedtime stories, mealtimes, desperate pre-bed searches, and…song lyrics.

Chris composed this Silly Song over Christmas and performed it nightly, and the children are still singing it nearly every day.

So since it’s my continuous earworm, I felt like it should be yours, as well.

For your enjoyment, The Christmas Pickle.

The FaceTune Challenge.

January 15, 2015January 14, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Investigative Report

So. Remember my post about using Facetune, and then feeling guilty for making my skin so smooth?

I eventually did feel guilty enough to replace all of my profile pictures with the unedited images – they looked more like me, anyway. And the skin-so-smooth-I-haven’t-actually-had-that-since-I-was-seven was starting to annoy me.

But one night as I was lying in bed, recovering from a day of motherhood, I had a moment of curiosity: how far could I edit a photo? How far could anyone edit a photo? What are people truly capable of before publishing their Instagram selfies?

The above photos were taken by a professional photographer, in the right lighting, after I’d applied my makeup as perfectly as I could and brushed my hair just so. My hair was even enjoying a fresh cut and color from the day before.

It’s one thing to edit a photo that was already as good as I could look.

But could I edit a photo that was as bad as I could look?

I felt like the limits of iPhone editing needed to be tested – and it might as well be me.

So I took the worst photo I could, using the following “features” to make it especially bad:

– I used my iPhone’s front facing camera – those are always the worst, especially when shooting faces.

– The lighting was dim and atrocious.

– I was laying down, spreading my jowls out like the picnic table benches of my face.

– No makeup, obviously – and a real nice scab. Everyone needs a facial scab to look like the mugshot version of themselves.

– I was super tired, and it showed.

– I didn’t smile. Because this was supposed to be a challenge, after all.

So here’s my bad photo:

I transferred it to FaceTune and began working – I wanted to attempt use every feature they offered.

Here are the 15 Steps I used to “fix” myself:

1. I used “Smooth” to get rid of all of my pores, sun spots, wrinkles, and freckles.

2. I used “Smoother” to eradicate my forehead creases.

3. I used “Whiten” to make my eyes less tired.

4. I used “Details” to make my eyes pop.

5. I used “Reshape” to make my jawbone more contoured (You can’t completely fix a laying-down jawline. But you can try.)

6. I used “Refine” to enlarge my lips, but not Angelina-sized.

7. I used “Patch” on my scab, my forehead Chicken Pox scar, and any and all other blemishes left over after Smooth and Smoother.

8. “Tones” was the most challenging feature to use – it was hard to get it just right without looking like spray paint. But I used it to:

a. Change my eye color,

b. Change my lip color,

c. Put some color on my cheeks,

d. And take away a couple of under-eye shadows.

9. I used “Details” on my Eyebrows to darken them.

10. I used “Patch” on my left eyebrow, making it proportional in length with the other eyebrow – it has always been short on the inside.

11. I used “Patch” on my right eyebrow to get rid of flyaways.

12. I used “Defocus” on my shirt to make it less obvious that I was wearing my husband’s decade-old and quite pilling night shirt.

13. I used a Filter on the whole picture – Orchid.

14. I used a Lens to add depth – Holga.

15. I added a Texture because why not – Lumina.

And here was the final product:

Just woke up! #Selfie #NoFilter #WokeUpLikeThis

Chris said I looked like I’d been animated – perhaps a Pixar character. I also look like I just got a root canal – but there’s not much you can do with lying-down cheeks.

However. The lesson here is clear. If I can do this in ten minutes with nothing but my finger, my phone, and a $3.99 app,

Don’t believe any face you see on the internet. Ever again.

That Time I Fought Captain Hook and Won (Sorta).

January 13, 2015January 12, 2015 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., I'm a Glutton for Adventure, I'm a Professional Sleepwalker., Just My Luck

On Sunday night, Chris and I watched the next to last episode of Once Upon a Time’s Season Three.

It featured a lot of Captain Hook (Also known as the beautiful and charming Killian Jones), along with a good deal of time travel.

My subconscious was greatly impacted by these things.

The first time I noticed it was when I stumbled to the bathroom around 1am – stupid water intake.

When I headed back to bed, I ran into the door.

“OW!”

Chris sleepily answered, “Are you okay?”

…except that I heard his response in Captain Hook’s indeterminately British/Irish accent.

Perhaps Chris was also dreaming about Once Upon a Time. Or perhaps I’m just psychotic in my sleep. Most likely the latter.

“Yes, I’m fine. I ran into the door. Hurt my foot.”

Again in the sexy accent, “I’m sorry you’ve been hurtin’ your hands and feet so much t’night, Love.”

I got in bed, confused about so many things. My mind began churning at all of the questions.

Was my husband talking in a Pirate’s accent?

Am I awake or asleep?

Why did he say I hurt my hands? I haven’t hurt my hands. Has he traveled into the future and seen that I hurt my hands later in the night or something? I hurt my hand sleepwalking that one time…is he talking about “night” in a more general sense?

I feel it necessary to say that I distinctly remember having ALL of the above thoughts. Then I drifted off to sleep again, confused but cozy.

Until 2am.

When there was a Pirate on the end of our bed.

On the end of our BED, people!!

I lept out of my sleeping position and pushed him off the bed, where he presumably tumbled two feet to his death.

I heard a loud crash, then I felt an agonizing and stabbing pain in my arm.

That Pirate just slashed off my arm. My LEFT arm?! Seriously, dude? Have some respect for the left-handed woman.

Then the pain grew worse, and woke me up enough to realize that there was probably….not a Pirate lying in our floor, wounded by my heroic save of our Marriage Bed.

Then why was my arm hurting so badly??

I had no idea but considering that I’ve broken my nose and gone to the emergency room from sleepwalking incidents (and yes, those were two separate nights), I had no doubt that I was to blame.

For the second time that night, I stumbled to the bathroom. The pain was getting worse. My entire arm felt like it was being yanked, twisted, and set on fire in some sort of Sadistic Willy Wonka’s Torture Chamber.

I turned on the light and looked at my arm – no blood this time. An improvement!

….Were it not for THE UNENDURABLE PAIN.

I managed somehow to open an ibuprofen bottle and count out the maximum dosage (four pills. But I wanted more.)

Back to bed, where my water was on my bedside table.

But it was dark. And I’m left-handed. I reached out with my left hand and shrieked in pain at the movement. I had my pills in my right hand so there was no logical way to reach with my right hand. OBVIOUSLY.

Chris finally roused. I have no idea how that man can sleep through me fighting a Pirate off the end of our bed and getting mortally wounded in the process. Maybe because he’s had nearly fourteen years of practice.

“What’s wrong?”

He had noticeably lost his Captain Hook lilt.

I started crying. The pain was so piercing that I was sure I had decapitated my arm nerve.

“I can’t even reach my waaaaaaater!! And I need to take these pilllllls!! It hurts so baaaaaaaad!”

He handed me my water and started pacing.

“I can’t believe you’re still hurting this bad.”

“What are you talking about? This just happened!”

“Oh wait. You’re not talking about your infection from last week?”

“NO! Didn’t you see? I hurt my arm sleepwalking because there was a Pirate on the end of our bed! IT HURTS SO BAD.”

By this time, my fingers were curling up against their will and shot fireballs down my arm if moved. I was nearly certain that I had caused significant and irreversible nerve damage – I’d never be able to type again, to hold a pen again, to text again, to gently stroke my children’s faces again, to drive again, and I’d certainly never be able to unload the dishwasher or vacuum out the car again.

I began crying. Hard. Mourning the loss of my independence.

Chris paced. Faster.

“Do I need to take you to the ER?”

“Theeeeeere’s nooooothing theeeey can dooooo <sniff> to fiiiiix me!!!!”

“I will take you if you need me to. You have a very high tolerance for pain. This has to be bad.”

I began reminiscing on our last middle-of-the-night emergency room visit – one that required many stiches in the center of my hand. Every doctor and nurse in that hospital popped into my room to hear me say it.

“How’d you do that to your hand?”

“I was sleepwalking and dove at our dresser to save my baby from falling down the stairs. The dresser has very sharp drawer-pulls.”

A few minutes later, presumably driven by the last visitor patting them on the shoulder and saying “Go ask Room 130 what she did to her hand. You’ve GOTTA hear this one.”, another doctor would peek in on me, feigning care and empathy.

NOPE.

I wasn’t ready for that again.

So that Chris could get some sleep, and because there was NO WAY I could sleep or even quit whimpering from the ever-growing pain, I went downstairs and laid on the couch, where I began trying to remember my Human Anatomy education.

Is there some sort of small arm bone that could be fractured?

This feels just like that time in 7th grade that I broke my wrist. My fingers are definitely doing the same thing.

Maybe I never sleptwalked and really I have bone cancer and I just dreamed that I injured myself to explain the pain. Maybe I’m about to die! Or worse – my arm is going to fall off!

I guess I’ll have to get X-Rays tomorrow. And maybe an MRI. And a PET and a CAT. A full-body scan would be most efficient. But I can’t drive! And Chris has a deadline. I’ll get my parents to take me. NO – I’ll get one parent to stay with the kids and one parent to take me. I DO NOT NEED my kids jostling me right now.

Then I began thinking about the more serious repercussions of my injury.

This means that I have already broken my first New Year’s Resolution!

“I resolve to run into less objects, which leave mysterious bruises on my upper thighs [and arms] that I then spend days trying to remember what exactly I ran into.”

But I always blog about my sleepwalking injuries, so that will count as my second resolution.

“If that resolution doesn’t stick, I resolve to keep a bruise diary.”

Because it’s going to be a good one. Unless I’m dying of cancer.

Once I had everything planned out, the pain subsided enough so that I could sink into sleep.

I woke up Monday morning with nearly-fully functional fingers, no bruise yet, and just an extremely sore forearm, which led me to presume that I’d most likely live after all.

And I did look – and there was not a Pirate to be found in the entire house.

…But I do think my husband can see the future in his sleep.

Why I Ended My Relationship With Downton Abbey.

January 12, 2015January 12, 2015 Rachel Callahan Downton Abbey

It’s that time of year. The time when everyone starts asking me questions.

“Don’t tell me any spoilers, but is this season worth watching?”

“Where’s your chart for this year?”

“Please tell me no one’s going to die.”

It’s because I have had a known and public love affair with Downton Abbey. So much so that I’ve watched it before the US for the last couple of years by hacking into British television.

I’ve made this chart, and this one, oh – and this one.

(Click to go to their respective posts and see them big enough to actually read.)

I’ve entered into the life of the Crawley’s with the best of them, cheering and mourning and floating on a cloud of British Bliss for days after that one episode.

But no longer.

Downton and I are done. Perhaps we’re just on a break, but in my mind, we’re done – and I’m already cheating on them.

But more about that later.

Why, after such a committed relationship, did I feel the need to call it quits?

In a word, Foreboding.

The first two seasons, although they had their strife and frights, were delightful. The relationships weaving together of the servants and the household, the ups and downs in Mary and Matthew’s relationship, my complete adoration of Mr. Carson…

It was simply perfect. And the last episode of season two will always be a highlight in television history.

But in seasons three and four, the writers showed us that they didn’t mind killing and raping all of our favorite characters.

I know, one person demanded to leave the show and they had to kill him off. But the others weren’t necessaries. And they didn’t have to kill in such cliché and ridiculous ways.

(Really?! Closing his eyes while driving immediately after seeing his firstborn son? REALLY?! Why couldn’t he have gotten Scarlet Fever or something less predictable.)

Season three was pure awful. I suffered through season four, sitting on the edge of my seat to see what love they would tear away from me next. It was nearly bearable, and not at all pleasant – we even skipped a couple of episodes after The Thing With Anna. The innocence and magic of the show had been irreparably shattered.

Then Season Five started, and with it, more foreboding and dread.

They hinted that certain bad things would happen, and in general, I simply didn’t trust the show.

How could I? They had hurt me too many times.

And so, after only two episodes of Season Five (which we watched last fall), Chris and I agreed to call it off with Downton.

It wasn’t fun anymore. It was stressful – so stressful that even the Dowager Countess’ delightful quotes couldn’t take the edge off. Downton Abbey had become something that could only be watched while inhaling mass amounts of chocolate.

Because here’s the thing, oh Writers of the Show people want happy. People need happy.

We all have enough real life problems of our own that when we watch television, we need it to be more happy than not – or at least I do.

I totally censor my own blog to provide this essential need of humans. I don’t tell you about all the times my Dysautonomia gets miserable and I don’t feel like writing ever again and I’m just exhausted from the daily battle of everything I have to do to be able to function. I know you care about me and want to know what’s going on, but you don’t want to live in the mire with me or anyone else – you have your own mire to deal with.

So I’ve moved on.

After marathoning Veronica Mars this summer (and then watching the movie and then reading the book and dreaming about being Veronica Mars), I began satiating my drama needs with Once Upon a Time. It was a bit cheesy right at first, but once we got a few episodes in, the delightful and quite endless twists and surprises have gotten us fully addicted.

And I fell in love with Rumpelstiltskin. When else in life could I say that happened to me?

Yes, it has tension and unresolved issues and drama, but it’s never overwhelming, it’s never dreary, and the hope of a happy ending is always bright and strong.

Yes, they say that traveling across realms is impossible then they DO IT EVERY SINGLE EPISODE, but the show is well worth the extra suspension of disbelief needed – even though I have an endless mental list of all of the continuity problems.

We’re currently in the second half of season three and still confounded at how very many surprises the show can throw at us. So perhaps my next round of graphics will be about Once Upon a Time – once we get completely caught up.

How about you? What shows are a part of your life right now? And have you broken up with Downton yet?

Don’t Be The Butt of The Joke.

January 9, 2015January 9, 2015 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice, Let's Talk about The Internet, Weird Strange and True

When I opened up my Christmas presents from Chris, there was one particularly long and skinny one. As soon as I saw what it was, I gasped and looked up in horror.

“You DIDN’T. WHY WOULD YOU DO THIS TO ME?!”

“Wait! No…this isn’t a Selfie Stick! THIS, my dear….THIS is a SUNSET STICK.

“Ummmm…..it says Selfie Stick right here.”

“Just think of all the sunset angles you can find with a six foot pole! This will revolutionize your sunset game. No more will trees and buildings block your view!”

I can’t say that I wasn’t still a bit horrified.

I haven’t yet used my Sunset Stick – I’m kind of afraid to pull it out in public, but I do see that there are places to which this could be quite advantageous. I’ll let you know how that goes.

However.

The fact that I received a Selfie Stick for Christmas pales fifty shades of narcissism in comparison to a product to which my friend Wade alerted me this week.

Guys, there’s a real actual product just for taking butt selfies.

And it’s called….The Belfie Stick.

Disclaimer: You will never be able to un-see the B in the logo’s typeface.

Seriously. Never.

There are so many things to discuss here. SO MANY THINGS.

But let’s start with dude on the right. HE DOESN’T EVEN HAVE A BUTT. Why does he want to see it, let alone share it?!

And then there’s girl on the packaging. Can’t see her? Here she is, but bigger.

She has the ability to take a Belfie. She took a Belfie. She can see that her PANTS ARE TRANSLUCENT. Yet she’s still smiling.

THIS IS WHAT IS WRONG WITH AMERICA.

Now let’s discuss the Guarantee noted on the box. There is going to be a significant portion of America that becomes vastly unsatisfied when they see what their backside actually looks like – and those are just the people that didn’t realize they had Long Butt. Are you going to refund their money after you ruin their rear self image? Because that experience can be life-altering.

Next, let’s discuss the Testimonials on the web site.

Or at least, one in particular:

“I never again have to take pics in the bathroom. I can’t tell you how many times Ive dropped my iphone trying to take pics. I love it! Thank God they invented belfiestick!”

~ Lauren – Los Angeles, CA

Lauren, honey, I am positive you have many things in your life that are worth thanking God for.

The Belfie Stick should not be one of them.

Let’s move on to the name itself. In the list of Product Names That Should Never Be, “Belfie” is right after “Jegging” and “Maxi Skirts”, and right before “Booties”. It’s stupid wrong.

Besides the name, though, their byline is…

“Finally, a solution to all your back problems!”

I cannot WAIT to tell my Dad that I found the solution to all of his back problems! Father’s Day is going to be SO. AWESOME.

And if this wasn’t enough of a snapshot of what has become of our beloved nation,

this will make you want to pack up and move to Cuba.

It’s time to burn all the social medias.

To. The. Ground.

Editor’s Note: It must be acknowledged that the writer is aware of her possible status as having the most pinned butt on Pinterest. And even that this product would have made her research easier, had it not been for her superstar butt photographer/husband. However, her buttography was all in the name of Scientific Analysis, with a Mission Statement of Helping the Entire Populace – not to Instagram a selfie of her Derrière with three dozen hashtags.

The Birthday Post.

January 8, 2015January 7, 2015 Rachel Callahan Kids: The Experience., The Blissfulness of Life

Today is Ali’s eighth birthday.

And, in my ongoing effort to lazify my life, she has to share it with her brother.

(On here, anyway.)

His birthday is six days before Christmas, and hers is 14 days after Christmas. This unfortunate timing may make me the worst sort of Mom when it comes to actually focusing on my kid’s birthdays, but I do try.

Noah had a small family birthday party for his fourth birthday (Hot Wheels Themed by his request – who knew Party City carried that?),

And Ali had two dear friends spend the night for her birthday celebration.

Although I may have fallen down on the job of spectacular Pinterestified birthday blowouts, I think they both had fairly decent years…

In January, we had our #SnowChasers adventure, where we desperately sought snowy adventures, only to actually leave behind the most apocalyptic snow and ice event to ever hit Birmingham.

(Seriously. While we were down in a cozy cottage watching the sunset over the lake in Eufaula, Chris was sleeping in his office for two nights – because he couldn’t leave.

But I’m off track. This post is about the children.

Ali was all in on our adventures,

Fully embracing the snow,

…and sand.

Noah…was not as confident in my vacation planning skills.

But he managed to have a few moments of happiness where he, also, appreciated the beauty of our journey.

And he also got to learn how to use a wine glass, because apparently the State Park restaurant has never had children.

In February, Ali just focused on looking pretty,

While Noah was forced to do this.

Eventually, potty-training was indeed achieved – but only because my Mom asked him.

However, in a show of serious logic issues, his first dentist’s visit didn’t bother him a bit.

In March, Ali met her new best friend.

And Noah did he did what he does best – spreading mischief and bringing chaos to his sister’s perfectly aligned world.

In April, Noah met his hero and celebrity crush.

And Ali perfected her hipster artist waif look.

In May, we went to the beach with friends,

Where much bonding took place.

And Cheez-its.

Wave-hopping became a skill to be mastered,

And everyone did indeed do just that.

Other happenings included Noah perfecting the art of not listening to his sister,

And Ali disapproving of her cousin’s idea of fun. Because someone might get hurt, obviously.

In June, Ali repaid Noah for all of his brotherness,

Noah studied the physics of liquid,

And they were both agreeable to my photography attempts.

In July, Superheroes abounded at our house,

as the world always needs new heroes.

There were also many playground trips,

And Ring Pops.

In August, Noah managed to get himself into more sticky situations,

was the model birthday party guest,

And started preschool.

And Ali started…Second Grade.

September was football season,

And popsicle season.

In October, our family morphed into The Lego Movie,

including a Princess Unikitty,

And Emmet.

November brought leaf piles and hiking,

Along with a little bit of exploring.

Our surroundings seemed to highlight how giant Ali was getting,

And how tiny Noah still was.

December was a month full of adventure and intrigue, including an awkward visit with Santa,

A new excitement about running from Ali,

(including running her first unofficial 5K),

And a full appreciation for our wonderful late Alabama Autumn.

And here they are now, both another year older – eight,

And four…

And maybe a tiny bit wiser.

Maybe.

And now it’s time to set off on twelve months of new adventures.

Happy Birthday, kids! Maybe next year you’ll even get your own posts.

Maybe.

It’s Time for Some Resolve.

January 6, 2015January 6, 2015 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Utter Silliness

– I resolve to run into less objects, which leave mysterious bruises on my upper thighs that I then spend days trying to remember what exactly I ran into.

– If that resolution doesn’t stick, I resolve to keep a bruise diary.

– I resolve to invent a car floorboard that eats Chick-Fil-A crumbs and toddler boogers, then upcycles them into fuel or coffee or something else just as useful.

– I resolve to help my house lose weight. I’m thinking it has about 4,000 pounds to lose to get out of the “nearly-hoarders” category on the House BMI chart.

– I resolve to actually bake my kids cookies…rather than buying the cookie dough then hiding it in the back of the fridge and slowly eating it by the spoonful.

– I resolve to become a legislative lobbyist – but only for the purposes of getting that dang bill passed to make daylight savings time permanent all year long. Sunset should never happen at 4:30pm – it’s inhuman! Even the farmers in the 1800s would agree – I’m sure of it.

– I resolve to clip my children’s toenails regularly. Or occasionally. Or semi-annually. Okay maybe once in July.

– I resolve to unsubscribe from the 56 emails I get every single day from stores I’ve never shopped at. I’m sure the North Koreans are somehow behind this brutal form of torture.

– I resolve to teach my children how not to be so needy, and even be independent problem solvers – at least when I’m in the bathroom.

– I resolve to figure out how to power an African nation fueled by harnessing and refining the hatred of Internet Trolls.

– I resolve to condition my body into being able to continue drinking 100 ounces of water a day, yet also be able to make it through a 40 minute television show without having to pause it at the most climactic moment so that I can go pee.

How about you?