Rachel Callahan

On My Whirlwind Relationship with a Spammer.

September 23, 2014September 23, 2014 Rachel Callahan Investigative Report, Let's Talk about The Internet, This is TONGUE IN CHEEK People - Don't take me Seriously., Utter Silliness

As a blogger, I get hundreds of emails a day. Of those, approximately one is a real person emailing me to genuinely correspond.

If I’m lucky.

I adore emails from real people.

In the stack of emails, there are definite patterns that can be found.

PR Firms sending me press releases, hoping that I’ll write a glowing blog post about their newest product in exchange for hi-res images of said product!!

Because there’s nothing more exciting than the promise of hi-res images. I MEAN. I live my life to be able to zoom in on your product as tightly as I could possibly want, taking in every detail with wonder and excitement.

As do, I’m sure, my blog readers.

…Or PR firms offering me even more exciting perks in exchange for writing about their product.

“YOU will be honored to get an exclusive sneak peek at the ‘Our Stupid Movie 2’ MOVIE POSTER!!!”

Seriously?! A .jpeg of a movie poster?? And all I have to do is spend a couple of hours and all of my credibility hawking the inane sequel to your straight-to-DVD movie??

I. CAN’T. WAIT.

I get thrilling offers to share 25 cent off coupons with you guys, invitations to give away smocked clothing (marketers: why not try searching key phrases before attempting to sell – you might find you are hawking smock to the World’s Foremost smock mocker), and even press releases written entirely in Danish.

(Those are the closest to my heart because I can pretend they’re offering me a Lego Factory Tour and want to give me one of everything they make, when in reality it’s just about some new freakish punk rock band called Fhrztengäggich with a feral cat for a lead singer.)

After I sift through all of the PR Firm emails (which would take approximately three days per day to accomplish if it weren’t for the cute little trash can icon on my toolbar), I still have the strange and mysterious guest post requests to deal with.

I get emails at least weekly and sometimes daily from almost assuredly fake people with these not-at-all believable stories about why they want to guest post on my blog. They never tell me what the subject matter would be, and there’s always the tiny stipulation that they’re going to place an undisclosed link (or ten) somewhere within their blog post that points to their “client’s” site.

And if I don’t answer them promptly with a giant flashing NO, they email me back – to check in.

Sometimes they offer to pay me in exchange for this guest posting opportunity, and other times they simply explain that the benefit for me is the post in and of itself. Here’s a direct quote from one of my favorite spins on this strategy:

“I was wondering if you would let me write a post for you? I am looking to get my work placed on high-end sites such as yours and would be happy to write a unique article just for you. I can come up with a title – or if you have something that you would like me to cover I can work from a brief. What’s in it for you, you are probably thinking? I place a sponsor in the post, which could take the form of a linked word to a reputable client relevant to the article. Your free article would be 500 words or more in length and completely unique to you.”

500 words that are all my own?? How could I ever resist such a priceless gift.

(I especially appreciated that his next sentence after what’s in it for me was actually what’s in it for him. But hey. Technicalities.)

However. Even my collection of Guest Post emails deliver me a special jewel every now and then, as was the case recently. Read carefully and slowly, out loud perhaps, savoring the beauty of this document.

On my first read-through of this email I knew it was something fantastic.

On my second read, I caught the fact that he changed identity from Steve to Andy back to Steve again, and I giggled with glee, then shared it with you on Facebook.

After riding the beautiful wave of your responses all day long,

I finally responded back.

The next morning, I had a response. I shook with excitement.

“…sorry to use as Andy as because I generally use Andy which is my alias when writing blogs.”

But besides that gorgeous sentence and the fabulous use of unnecessary parentheses, the real present was that tiny little picture I got next to his name.

It just didn’t look like the mental image I had of the AndySteve I know and adore.

So I clicked through to his Google+ profile and then clicked on the picture.

BINGO.

Oh AndySteve…don’t you know that when you steal a picture of an actor to claim as your own, you should at least change the file name?

Naturally, I continued my investigation by looking Ben Wright up on imdb.

Turns out, AndySteve is also a stunt guy! Who knew?? He is SO DANG TALENTED.

So I responded to his email, hoping to sound interested enough in his project that he would answer me again, but also referencing his acting career.

And then I waited. Because of course AndySteve only emails me in the middle of the night, as it is obvious that he’s not exactly from around here.

But alas. I apparently went too far with my caustic attitude. AndySteve cut off our relationship, leaving me saddened and alone, and once again with an inbox full of nothing that made my heart pitter patter.

I miss AndySteve. Desperately. I have many regrets about the way I handled our relationship. I was clearly not ready for a commitment and sabotaged what we had together.

I keep going back to my draft that asks him to come back to my inbox, to open up and tell me who he really is. Not to leave me without a word. We meant more to each than that.

But I never can hit that send button.

And every morning, when I open my email and read my latest request to hijack my blog, I am reminded of the hole in my heart.

Every morning, their grammar is too perfect, their consistency of name too exact. They don’t overuse the word “as” or have eternal run-on sentences.

There will never be another AndySteve.

And I let him go.

The Runaway Incident.

September 22, 2014September 22, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Kids: The Experience., Storytime

My parents have what we often refer to as Grandkid Heaven.

Right around the time that Chris and I started dating, they went in with three other families and bought 70 acres of land 20 minutes out of town. It was the cheapest land anyone could buy, because it was completely unreachable – a mountain on one side, and a creek on the other three sides.

My dad, however, is quite handy. So he and the other neighbors built a bridge. A bridge sturdy enough for every piece of construction machinery that needed passage to build three houses. A bridge that is still in beautiful working condition fifteen years later.

We the children rewarded their hard work by giving them five grandchildren who think their Grandparent’s house is the stuff dreams are made of.

They’re not wrong.

My parents have antique cars and chickens and bees and a creek and a sandbox and rocks to paint with chalk and blueberries and blackberries to pick and a garden full of vegetables and eggs to collect from the chicken houses and flowers to gather into bouquets…

it couldn’t possibly get any better, except for once a year when our entire extended family comes out,

And the party gets real.

There are tire swings to catapult through the air and horseshoes with which to nearly decapitate your cousins.

There are even hamster wheels – which surveys show are approved of by nine out of ten kids.

Much more frequently than the annual family extravaganza, my parents have their five grandkids over at the same time to foster relationships and childhood magic.

Eli – 6 years old, Ali – 7 years old, Andi – 3 years old, Noah – 3 years old, Tessa – 5 years old, Model T Ford, 100 years old.

That would be my two kids and my older brother’s three kids – all delightfully attached to each other.

Despite the obvious positives, though, we the four parents are always a tiny bit worried.

“Are you sure you can handle all five? They’re a LOT…”

But Mom always assures us that it’s no problem at all and she lives for this kind of thing (while my Dad looks at her like she’s full of hippy dippy baloney).

Until…The Last Time.

Mom had all five completely to herself, as my dad and little brother were out of town.

They all sat off on a nature walk. It was a lovely day, and there’s nothing my Mom loves more than educating children on the wonders of nature. She knows to whom every leaf, bark, and bird chirp belongs, and can tell the children about them with such wonder that they actually care.

(This is a magic that only a grandparent possesses. I say, “Listen! There’s a Mockingbird!”, and Ali says “So? Why are you telling me that?!”)

The kids were in the mood for a butterfly hunt, and Eli spotted one first. His butterfly led him and the other children running after him and my Mom running after them to the creek. The creek was immediately deemed more fun than catching butterflies, so the chase was cancelled and all five kids began wading in the water.

Besides his butterfly chasing skills, Eli is freakishly adept at climbing trees, and superhuman in his ascent speed.

Which explains how he managed to climb a tree in the middle of the creek before my Mom realized his feet had left the ground.

And, for some reason, that was the day that he decided to get stuck.

So my mom quickly got the other four kids to shore and waded through the creek to answer his plea for help.

While Mom was busy, Tessa decided that it would be a grand opportunity to throw sand in the other three kid’s faces.

That’s what cousins are supposed to do, right?

She did not, apparently, expect the other three to begin screaming as if someone had thrown sand in their faces.

Ali worked up her most self-righteous oldest-kid voice and told Tessa that she was going to be in big trouble, then started yelling, “Graaaaaaaaammmaaaaammmmmaaa!!! Tessa threw sand!!!”

Which made Tessa flee the scene.

Mom had completed her rescue of Eli, who was not at all grateful for her services and was arguing his case for re-climbing the same tree again as she was trying to get back across the creek to remove sand from six little eyes belonging to three little screaming mouths.

Which is when she discovered that she was once again down one kid.

Mom called for Tessa, but Tessa wasn’t returning calls. Thanks to Ali’s proclamations, she thought she was in trouble so she was keeping a low profile, erroneously thinking as kids often do that time heals all wounds.

Mom hurried three kids up to the house (Ali, Noah and Andi), told Ali she was in charge, and kept Eli with her for his eagle eyes to help in The Tessa Hunt.

She set off, calling for Tessa and completely freaking out on the inside.

Which is when Noah began screaming as if his life was over.

Mom rushed back to the house to find out which tragedy had befallen her next.

Noah wanted to play with the blocks. ALL the blocks. And Ali had a couple of blocks that he wanted.

In a desperate state of being, My Mom told Ali, “Give him whatever he wants. Whatever it takes to make him not scream.”

(She never told my brother to do that for me growing up. We should have run away more often.)

Then she ran out of the house again to search for the missing child.

“Tessa!! TESSA!!! TESSSSSSA!!!”

Runaways don’t answer.

Eli was much too busy chasing bugs and butterflies to look for his missing sister, therefore tying Mom up with keeping him from also disappearing.

Worried that Tessa was wandering further and further away, mom decided that it was time for more power and control in her situation. So she put Eli on the golf cart and took off, even searching across the creek and onto the next road.

On her way back over the creek, as I’m positive her heart rate was reaching dangerous levels, Mom finally spotted Tessa, darting from one hiding place to another. She was taken into custody and what was left of my mother was finally able to return to the house, all five grandchildren in her possession, and holding Tessa especially close.

When he returned home, my Dad forbade her from keeping all five by herself ever again. And we all said a very hearty Amen.

…Except for Mom, who still regularly says, “Oh it will be fine!! They’re no problem at all!”, prompting Dad to start calling around for openings at nearby mental institutions.

The Dilemna Dilemma.

September 18, 2014July 21, 2020 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, Investigative Report, Popular Posts, Quirky quirky quirkiness, Weird Strange and True

I hated English in school, and I don’t expect that my blog follows the rules of the AP Stylebook – like, ever. I have endless grammar quirks that I am positive make my journalist friends secretly despise me.

However, I have always been a fantastic speller. I’m convinced that spelling is something you’re born with or you’re not – my brain visualizes words as I think them, and I carefully store the correct spelling of every word away in a permanent file.

I specifically remember learning how to spell “dilemna” as a child. I remember pronouncing the “na” in my head every time I wrote it to remind myself that it possessed an m-silent-n instead of a double-m, which would have made much more sense. I still pronounce the “na” every time I write dilemna (just like when I write lbs., I hear it in my head as “labels.”)

It was a couple of years ago when I first realized that the correct spelling was actually was dilemma.

It was disturbing, but I assumed that it was just one of those words with dual correct spellings and moved on. I learned it dilemna and I preferred dilemna, but I could adapt to dilemma just as I had adapted to single spacing after a sentence.

However, without reason, it recently began gnawing at my soul. What happened to the dilemna as I knew it? Why wouldn’t my spellcheck acknowledge this alternate spelling that I purposefully learned as a child? My trick for spelling “delim-na” was as burned into my brain as mentally pronouncing “Wed-nes-day” and “Feb-are-you-airy.”

So I Googled it. “Dilemna or Dilemma?”

I was overjoyed to find a website devoted entirely to this predicament – dilemna.info.

It quickly informed me that I was one of tens of thousands (and maybe millions) of people with this same dilemma about dilemma. Then they completely shot down my first theory of why.

“It turns out Dilemna has NEVER EVER been spelled with an N… Worse yet, there’s not even a passing mention in any dictionary going back hundreds of years offering it as a possible alternative spelling.”

NO.

They continued on to explain that there’s really no good explanation for why we are all so convinced that it should be dilemna – most common misspellings take place because our brains want to spell them the way they sound, but why would our brains add in a silent n? And why would so many people’s brains do it over a vast range of ages?

There isn’t a reason.

Could thousands of teachers have taught us all an incorrect spelling that wasn’t cited in any dictionary or textbook, influencing literally every generation of people alive on this earth today?

Quite unlikely.

After thoroughly debunking any possible explanation for The Dilemna Anomaly, they presented what they said was the only theory that made sense: The Alternate Universe Theory.

“Alternate universe enthusiast Marden Paul of Toronto put forward a theory several years ago that Dilemna people had all somehow crossed over into this parallel ‘Dilemma’ spelling universe and that’s why they feel physically staggered to discover that not only are they wrong but there’s also no trace of an N spelling anywhere in any dictionary in the history of this new universe!”

“Perhaps this alternate universe transition explains why many do feel slightly ‘shaken‘ when they make this discovery.”

They continued on with an entire page devoted to explaining how I am actually from an alternate universe, where children are correctly taught that dilemna is dilemna.

I read it. I pondered it. I spent most of my time puzzling over how very inefficient it is to have alternate universes just for the varying spellings of one word. It’s like printing a second page just because Page One ran out of room for the period at the end of my final sentence.

I pondered longer.

And I did the next logical step.

I called my Mommy.

It went like this.

“Hello?”

“Hi Mom! Spell ‘dilemma’.”

“What? You’re the speller of the family. And you have spellcheck.”

“That’s not the point. Spell it.”

“But you know I’ve never been a good speller.”

“JUST DO IT.”

“Okay…Oh…Hum…D-E-L-I-M-A?”

“Really? THAT’S what you’re going with?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I just needed to know if you came over with me from the Alternate Universe. Apparently you did not.”

My mother and I proceeded into a heartfelt and private exchange where I explained to her that I was not her true daughter, and apologized for any deception on my part, albeit completely without my knowledge.

Since I homeschooled, my mother must have taught me the dilem-na trick. However, my current-universe mother can’t spell dilemma right in this universe or my parallel, so it clearly wasn’t her that taught me the “NA” trick. Which means that when I did slip through the keyhole, I left my original mother behind.

I spent a quiet moment mourning the loss of Original Mother, and wondered if she could spell better than New Mother…

Which brought up the most puzzling question: what happened to the Dilemma-Universe-Rachel? Because New Mother certainly seems legit in her claim to me, and since the swap didn’t happen until after I learned to spell, we all would have realized something was amiss if everything else wasn’t identical. Did Other Rachel slip through the rift at the exact same time, into the Dilemna Universe? Is she now wondering why she desperately wants to write dilemma when everyone knows there’s a silent n? Is Old Mother constantly frustrated at Rachel’s inability to properly spell dilemna?

I feel bad for her. Because I know how it feels to be an alien.

I’m now considering starting a support group. I feel that all of us Dilemna Universe Migrants should bond together so we have someone to talk to about The Old Country. Where ns were silent and ms didn’t gang up together to confuse. Where our mothers had tricks to help us learn to spell important words and didn’t brush us off to spellcheck. Where there was never a dilemna about the spelling of dilemna.

Late in the evening on the day I discovered my origins, Chris and I were sitting on the couch, cuddling and talking. I was afraid of his answer – afraid it would change everything – but I had to know. I couldn’t go on with the question burning the inside of my skull.

I tried to sound casual.

“Hey babe, how do you spell dilemma?”

“You mean ‘dilem-na’?”

I jumped into his arms and passionately hugged him , then squealed into his ear, “We’re from the same universe!!!!”

And that, most likely, is why I have always loved him so.

And now I must know. Which universe are you from? I’ll try not to let it alter our relationship.

A Brief History of Football and Offspring.

September 17, 2014September 16, 2014 Rachel Callahan Football and I have a Complicated Relationship, Kids: The Experience., Toddlers: The Experience

My husband has had the same Alabama football season tickets since he was a wee lad of 13, making this his 25th anniversary to sit his butt in that same spot on that same bench every fall. It became a necessary relational hurdle for me to learn to enjoy/tolerate (depending on the day) the sport and the all-day affair that was tailgating in order for our romance to blossom. I became his football companion when he was 23 and I was 17, making this year my butt’s 15th anniversary on my spot on the bench, so apparently I passed the test.

And I remember that test well.

It was The Iron Bowl of 2000, shortly after Chris and I got engaged. It had been a particularly frigid November, and Saturday’s forecast was a mix of rain and sleet.

It was the first Iron Bowl I had attended (Alabama versus Auburn and THE most important game of the year, for those of you not from around here), and the game was at night.

The temperature creeped above freezing half an hour before the game, allowing it to dump a good bit of nearly frozen rain on us, soaking our clothing beyond repair. I get cold if I get rained on in a 90-degreed-July day, so getting doused in 33 degree precipitation was something I didn’t even know I could live through.

Then the temperature dropped below freezing again and the sleet began to coat over our dripping clothes, adding a crunchy texture to the already-torturous situation.

I assumed that surely we would not sit through a game in such untenable conditions. Surely we would leave early. Surely they would cancel the game. Surely there was some sort of multi-million dollar retractable stadium roof for such a hell as this.

But no. It was The Iron Bowl, and one does not leave The Iron Bowl. We sat, wet and icicled, and endured the torment of being sleeted upon.

I hunched my back as far as it would go, looked down the entire game, and nearly died that night.

Did I mention that we lost? NINE TO ZERO.

Because there’s nothing that can improve the mood of the frozen fan like a bone-crushing defeat.

I was entirely angry at my normally above-average sweet-and-doting fiancé, but it was an important lesson in expectations with regards to the realm of football. A lesson from which our marriage certainly benefited.

I married that guy anyway, and six years later, we had a kid.

We realized quickly that infants are complicated enough on their own merit, so Ali’s introduction to the family tradition didn’t happen until 2008, at the ripe age of 20 months.

It was even more challenging that we expected.

There are naps. Feedings. Dirty Diapers. A constant need for entertainment and protection from running into the street. A vigilant eye so as to not get lost in the more than 100,000 people all dressed in exactly the same colors – trying to spot anyone on gameday in Tuscaloosa is like Where’s Waldo for Mensa members.

In 2009, at the mature age of two and a half, it was better.

She was a little more self-sustaining, although the need for entertainment was still ever-present, and I fought hard to make naptime happen – even while tailgating.

After all, naptimes are for Mommies.

(If I ever write a book, that will be the title.)

It should also be noted that things you would think would be thrilling for a nearly three year old are actually terrifying.

(Which makes them kinda more fun for parents.)

In 2010 we had an almost-four year old. She could go without naps if needed (although Mommies never quit needing naptime – there’s my sequel), and was much more self-entertaining, considering she had to hang out all day long under a football tent.

…but by then, another addition was imminent. You can’t see him in this picture, but he was there. Waiting for football season to end so that he could make his appearance.

Which brings us to 2011.

Ali was fully and beautifully self-propelled by then – an expert nut-collector,

Dirt-Stirrer,

Dirt-Wearer,

And literary British-Waif wannabe.

But the addition.

Oh, the addition. We were back to the need for naps, nursing, poop disposal systems, and motherly exhaustion. And by this time, my quiet-room-naptime-options had been stripped from me due to a need for greater campus security, thanks to dishonorable and perhaps not-so-sober tailgaters.

I did miss naptime. Tremendously. But I tried my best to hide it for photographs, anyway.

In 2012, we upgraded “High-Maintenance Baby” to “Nearly Two-Year-Old Boy Who Made us Jettison our Morals and Buy a Leash to Keep From Losing Him in the Throngs of Identically Dressed Fans.”

And naptime was…still a need. For everyone.

(Except Ali, who had by now mastered the art of Dirt Bathing.)

With 2013 came even older children,

With slightly more concentration – both pre-game and in the game.

…But we still smiled with relief when we left the children behind and attended a game on our own.

The 2014 football season has now arrived. And with it, we have an almost eight-year-old and an almost four-year-old.

THEY’RE HUGE.

They’re self-entertained.

They spend their tailgating day making dirt piles,

Then turning them into haboobs,

Digging for breathtaking and one-of-a-kind buried treasure,

And if they get tired, they simply lie down.

Whether in tailgate or in bleachers.

They even pose for selfies. VOLUNTARILY.

But you’ll always be able to find it in my eyes after a long day of tailgating and football – Mommies never quit needing naptimes.

Doilies Aren’t Shorts.

September 15, 2014September 14, 2014 Rachel Callahan Don't Listen to my Fashion Advice

I know that summer is almost over (or very over) in some parts of the United States. Those of you in South Dakota and Colorado have already seen…snow??

Weirdos.

However, we have at least another month, maybe two, of wearing shorts, getting sunburned, and sweating our brains out.

Especially at football games.

Saturday was no exception, and although I’ll have to wait until later in the season to do my annual Alabama Football Fashion Report (I require several Gamedays to gather a full spectrum of sample data), one trend was disturbingly apparent.

This year’s sorority uniform includes a heavy dose of Doilies as Shorts.

Thick, crocheted lace shorts that look like a craft project from Valentine’s decorations bought from Party City’s clearance bin in late March. Although I’ve been seeing them all summer around town, in the official uniform seen on Saturday they were worn with a severely unharmonious frat party t-shirt or a football jersey. I’m sure when Autumn does roll around, they’ll simply add their Ugg boots to the outfit to complete the discord.

This was the most oft-seen design, although see-through ones were also in great abundance.

{Source: Express}

Sometimes the layers were so thick that it was hard to discern if the intention was shorts or an extraordinarily tiny skirt.

{Source: Open Sky}

In black, they became casket-skirt ready. Do they put skirts around caskets? Of course they do.

{Source: Open Sky}

And the backside looked more like a Christmas Tree after the Grinch robbed it of its color.

{Source: Wet Seal}

If there were ever an appropriate time for me to say “I can’t even”, it is now.

Because I’ve spent the better part of the last five years fighting long butt, when all of a sudden this lacy shorts trend wants to come along and create a whole new fight: long crotch.

{Source: HauteLook}

Long, long, granny-panties-marries-granny-panties-and-has-an-inbred-granny-panties-baby long crotch.

No, please – no.

Let’s talk about where crochet can and should go:

1. Tablecloths.
2. Fancy curtains.
3. Baby Bonnets, if you’re into that sort of thing.
4. Shirts even – but maybe not in the form of the Bustier pictured above.
5. A doily for the back of your grandmother’s commode.
6. Maybe even swimsuit cover-ups, but I’d avoid any unfortunate targeting.

{Source: HauteLook}

Now let’s talk about where crochet doesn’t belong.

On your shorts.

That is all.

Clearly a good portion of the population disagrees with me. Are you one of them?

The Cost of Extroversion.

September 11, 2014September 11, 2014 Rachel Callahan I embarrass myself just for your amusement., Just My Luck, Weird Strange and True

“Hey…did you know The Redmont Hotel is still open? I mean, who knew, right?”

I groggily recounted this extraordinarily urgent information to Chris at 6:15am Saturday morning. I had not slept all night, and was entrapped in a heavy delirium that later made it impossible to walk in a straight line.

“I mean, I figured that place had been closed for years. Decades even. You never hear anyone say they stayed there! I mean, have you? But Jamie and I Googled it at lunch a couple of weeks ago and it’s still open!! Isn’t that fascinating?”

“Okay…”

“We should really go there sometime. I mean, we should know what it’s like, right? It’s like…a historical marker or something.”

“Umm….What all did you take to try and help you sleep? And at what time?”

I recounted the list of things I took, all within legal and somewhat recommended limits.

“Are you going to be okay today?”

“I hope so! I should get up and run since I can’t sleep!”

This took place between Friday’s Artwalk and Saturday’s Artwalk.

As Chris was leaving for the football game, I tried to set his mind at ease.

“I think I figured it out around 3am. There’s this part of my brain – like a real, physical lobe or something – that I have to use to talk to lots of people. But if it gets activated, it can’t shut down. Like…ever. Or at least for a lot of hours.”

“Please be careful today.”

Despite my lack of mental clarity at the time, I actually think I was right.

I’m an introvert. I recharge by being alone. I like people, but prefer them in small doses. Just like four ibuprofen is the outer limit of how many one should take at once, four people is the outer limit of the number of humans I can relate with at once.

However, when I need to, I can Transformer-Style morph into an extrovert. If I find myself in an extended situation of extreme extroversion, as I was at ArtWalk where I talked to hundreds of people for six hours straight two days in a row, my brain is able to compensate and allow me to become a temporary extrovert.

However. Once that switch is flipped, I become immediately and intensely aware that I can forget about sleeping. Because my brain will refuse to shut off, no matter how many magically delicious melatonin gummies I chew.

It’s not even that I’m thinking – it’s almost as if I can feel my entire brain buzzing. It plays songs on repeat. It has imaginary conversations that make no sense. It will play iPhone games – all in my head. I cannot escape from my brain, and it holds me hostage with no excuse.

The ability to switch back and forth, according to the aforementioned friend Jamie (who is an Extrovertedness Evangelist), is called being an Ambivert. An Ambivert is someone who has both an introvert and an extrovert side, like having a multiple personality disorder without the loss of memory.

And apparently Extrovert Me is an acute insomniac.

I believe this is because I don’t let her wake up very often, and so when I do tiptoe up to her bedroom door and knock softly, asking her to come out and take over for a while so that Introvert Me doesn’t curl up in the fetal position at the thought of talking to hundreds of strangers, she is like “HECK YEAAAASSSS!!! Do you KNOW how long I’ve been locked in this room? It’s been like two years!! PAAAAAAARTYYYYYY!!!”

(For those of you properly educated in the subject of My Little Pony, imagine Pinkie Pie after having found herself locked in a dungeon for twenty-four months. Now picture her delighted, screaming face pointed at the sky. That’s Extrovert Me.)

And then it takes ten bouncers in my head to shove her back into her cell and lock the door.

BUT.

There’s only one thing worse than not sleeping because of Extrovert Me bouncing off the sides of my brain.

It’s if Introvert Me returns too quickly.

Because then she keeps me up all night also…but in complete and utter horror…recounting every conversation Extrovert Me had with every single person I saw, conjuring up ways that I probably offended half of them, confused half of them, and looked like an idiot to all of them.

Because that’s what introverts do.

Partying all night like an extrovert is always preferred.

So. How does your brain work?

Editor’s Note: That very Saturday, Jamie came to see me at Artwalk and said, “By the way – did you hear that The Redmont closed?” My efforts to confirm this rumor have been unsolidified, but seem to point in that direction. So I sure am relieved that I was able to convey that timely information to Chris at 6:15 that morning.
Updated: The Redmont is undergoing a renovation and will be reopened as a Hay Creek Hotel. Thanks to Katherine for the tip.

The Profit of a Yard.

September 10, 2014September 9, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Kids: The Experience., The Blissfulness of Life, Toddlers: The Experience

The best thing we did in 2013 was get sod in our front yard.

Previously, our slightly sloped yard was nothing but dirt – with a few weeds, a bunch of gumballs (or pricklies, as we call them at our house), and plenty of tree roots. It was a shame, as most yards in our neighborhood are too sloped to be properly utilized. And then there was our yard – not a bad plot at all – yet a wasteland of uninhabitable negligence.

We’re not much for big investments or big renovation-like projects, but even we could see that something needed to be done. So we got our yard guys to quote it, were surprised that it wasn’t as much as we feared, and within a few weeks, actually had….a yard.

My kids actually began playing in the yard nearly daily,

We accessorized our yard with nostalgic items such as Slip n’ Slides,

And it became so popular that odd traffic jams began occurring.

Our yard became a gathering place, where Ali basked in the privilege of hostessing/bossing/organizing neighborhood friends to properly enjoy her domain.

Although we have several neighbor families that we love to play with (one of which you heard about last week because apparently it’s Neighbor Month around here), our across-the-street neighbors became our most common guests, with playtimes and picnics occurring at least twice a week all Spring and Summer.

Lachlan would drive over,

Bringing his older sister Olivia, who is a few months younger than Noah.

Ali and Olivia were tight from the beginning, as Olivia was more welcoming to Ali’s organizational bossing than Noah.

Olivia played the part of the adorable younger sister that Ali always wanted,

and Ali was a seven-year-old superhero to Olivia.

But then, as the summer wore on, Olivia began to notice the other superhero in the family.

And a new friendship began to develop.

Noah had always been too busy avoiding the Realm of Girlishness to realize how fantastically awesome Olivia was, until all of a sudden, they were sneaking off for long conversations and impish giggles on the porch.

There might have been one occasion where Noah and Olivia snuck inside, upstairs, and into his toddler bed to “Play Nap.”

He wanted to show her his blankets, he explained.

She liked his noisemaker’s music, she explained.

Their appreciation for each other’s company grew,

And Olivia had to start diplomatically splitting her time between Ali’s maniacally organized activities and Noah’s casual conversations.

The pinnacle of the summer occurred on the occasion of Olivia turning three.

She had a birthday party with a water slide and bounce house, and, to cut down on toddler bashfulness, there were only two non-adult guests – Ali and Noah.

So basically the best thing that ever happened to my kids.

And Noah paid her back well, becoming The World’s Best Birthday Party Guest.

He jumped and bounced and jumped and bounced and ate cake and jumped and bounced some more.

Then, when it was time for presents, he sat a respectful distance away from the gifting area, joyfully wearing his assigned Princess Party Hat, and made unpresumptuous recommendations as to which presents she should open next.

At each present opening, he awarded the crowd with a creepy way-too-loud-and-excited laugh, thereby fully demonstrating glee on Olivia’s behalf.

And even when he realized that she’d gotten a Barbie Motorhome and she wasn’t opening it quickly enough for his boyish needs, still he sat, dutifully holding his balloon.

He inched closer as the motorhome was assembled, still being somewhat thoughtful of her Birthday Personal Space.

Until finally, he found his opportunity to participate.

Noah.

He might be a player, but he’s not afraid of some pink.

The Moments of Artwalk.

September 8, 2014September 8, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I Love Birmingham, Picture Birmingham, Weird Strange and True

I survived my first two-day art show for Picture Birmingham. Here were the moments I won’t (or, in some cases, can’t no matter how hard I try) forget.

1. I got stuck in a ditch.

Literally.

That’s my friend Radford, illustrating exactly how stuck I was. And no, I do not have four-wheel drive. And yes, it did make me late for my setup appointment.

I dropped the kids off at a friend’s house, and as I was backing out of their driveway, using my trusty backup camera as always, I discovered that they had a perilous and quite invisible trap awaiting any and all visitors who attempted to use the Evil Weapon of Reverse on their property.

Oops.

Radford was able to find an assistant who pulled me out of the ditch in five seconds, clearly demonstrating that they’ve done this before. Because people with traps utilize them often.

2. Underdressed.

People watching is supreme at art shows. I spotted a girl in a t-shirt and panties (okay I suppose they were technically hot shorts but they were bright shiny spandex (with stars) and created a dreadful case of underbutt, side butt, and just butt butt.) Later, I saw another girl in huge baggy blue jeans and a bra.

Between the two of them, they had one quite wearable outfit.

3. Overdressed.

I saw a dude in a Grumpy Old Men winter hunter’s hat and another dude in a full length leather jacket. Between the two of them, they had the ability to cause death by overheating.

Meanwhile, I melted in my sleeveless shirt and shorts. Because that’s how I roll – fully dressed minus suffocation.

4. I will do anything for love…but I won’t do that.

One browser asked me, “Do you have this picture in black and white?”

It’s a…sunset.

No.

…Later, Chris said, “But the customer is always right! You could have special ordered it in black and white…”

No.

A sunset in black and white is worse than a scented résumé in Comic Sans with a Curlz header.

5. Curses.

On Saturday morning, another artist came over to my booth.

“Hi! I thought I’d walk around and see the other booths before things got started. But of course I’m not going to BUY anything from you. I LIVE in Birmingham. Ha! WHY would I ever want a picture of it?”

She then went on to curse me. Literally.

“I’m putting the Artist’s Curse on your booth. Do you know what that is?”

“Ummmm…..nope.”

“I’m cursing you to sell out. You see? It’s a blessing because you’ll sell out. But it’s a curse because you’ll have to make more.”

Well okay then. Everyone loves a good solid curse to start the day.

6. Finally finding the pot of gold.

I NEVER see rainbows. I’ve even gone out on rainbow chases, and let me tell you – they’re much harder than sunset chases.

But then, at the beginning of Artwalk, a beautiful, bold, double rainbow came right to me.

…and only brought twenty drops of rain with it. Totally worth it.

6. Meeting you.

So, so SO many of you came to see me. I really should have kept a list because I lost count of everyone who came by. AND I had so many Instagram notifications that they all rolled off before I got back to everyone to thank them, so please know I meant to but…it was kind of a hectic two days. I never left my booth for the entire eleven hours of Artwalk. But I enjoyed meeting every single one of you and I was so honored that you’d come visit me. Thank you all!

7. Freaking out someone else’s kid for a change.

Although I adore meeting blog readers, Ali and Noah are not always as excited. They’ve been known to be completely weirded out when a stranger references what they did last week.

I spotted my blog friend Katy and her family coming toward us, and greeted them by name.

Her oldest son looked at me, looked at his mom, and said suspiciously, “Uhhhhh….how does she know our last name?”

It was a beautiful moment.

My kids had just returned from the football game, so they were able to dispel any amount of creepishness that I had given off, and even crossed the Alabama/Auburn borders to do so.

8. Body Art.

The cousins came by to visit with their craft that they made at the Artwalk kids area. Fans that they decorated with…glue and glitter.

Glitter.

On a fan.

Like you know, a thing you wave back and forth in front of your face. And in front of your parent’s faces.

I’ve never seen my brother and sister-in-law so sparkly.

9. Serendipity.

It was the end of the second day, and Chris left to go get my car to start packing everything up. My very last visitors walked up – two women and a younger man. The ladies were thumbing through some prints, and I watched as the gentleman walked straight to one print, picked it up, looked at it closely, then showed it to the others.

They were all exclaiming their wows at some detail in the print, so I went over to see which picture it was.

It was my bamboo picture.

“What’s so interesting about the photo?”

”It’s my name. Right here. I carved it last year.”

Just one day before, I had told another visitor that I harbored a secret hope that one day one of the name-carvers would find my picture. (After all, I had worked hard to get those names and the sun in the same picture, as I can appreciate a name being left behind.) Then I quickly explained that I knew that was silly and it would never happen.

But it did.

And my day was made.

(And yes – he bought the print.)

It was a great weekend and I was able to raise a very good amount for The WellHouse. Thank you to all of you who came out to say hello!

Run With Me – For All The Kids.

September 7, 2014September 7, 2014 Rachel Callahan I Love Birmingham, Running

Every time we’re downtown, we see at least one helicopter land on the roof at Children’s of Alabama. My kids stop what they’re doing and watch it with amazement, and we talk about how they are saving the life of a child. Ali and Noah are always in awe – and so am I.

In the past few years, I have had so many friends, and friends of friends, who have had serious, long-term need of the services provided by a Children’s Hospital. Childhood cancer…premature babies…intense illnesses…all of these families made Children’s Hospital their second (and sometimes first) home for a while. And, without fail, when it was time for them to leave the hospital, there were always pictures of them with smiling doctors and nurses that had become their family, their lifeline, and their hope. The consummate care of the hospital is always apparent.

Although we have been very fortunate to have never needed Children’s of Alabama yet – except for one middle-of-the-night emergency room visit (the kind where your child is completely limp and nonresponsive until you get to the hospital and through check-in and then the kid lights up like it’s Christmas morning and acts completely normal) and one after-hours Chicken Pox scare (it was awesome – they took us through the back door with masks on so that we didn’t start an outbreak in the waiting room – and it ended up being a very thorough covering of chigger bites, because I’m really medically smart like that) – I always rest easier knowing that they are only 15 minutes away if I ever do need them.

So I was more than happy to sign up to help them – and help myself get motivated for something I desperately needed to do – through the Miracle Marathon, which is a one-mile-a-day race organized by Children’s Miracle Network, with all of the proceeds going to the hospitals they support.

Children’s Miracle Network is a fundraising network for 170 Children’s Hospitals across the nation, and they work tirelessly to make sure that we all have care for our children when we need it. This race is one of their many fundraising activities, and it’s one that I’m particularly excited about.

I signed up for this before I started running two months ago, and it was definitely one of the motivators behind my first attempts at running – I needed to make sure I could do it. Running has improved my quality of life in so many ways, and this marathon is a great way to try it out if you want to see if it could be just as beneficial for you. Or if you’re already running, then a mile a day is no problem.

It starts on September 16. You can run, you can walk, or you can do the exercise equivalent of walking a mile – it’s completely up to you. Then on the last day, day 27, the final 1.2 miles will be started as a group at the same time, 1:27pm Central. If you are local, I will be hosting a team run for the last 1.2 miles.

It’s a marathon – plus a mile – for the kids.

I would love for you to join my team in this race and benefit your local Children’s Hospital – you can choose which hospital gets your support when you sign up. Also, you can use the code “MiracleRachel” to get 10% off your registration, making the signup only $24.48.

If you would rather support than run, you can do that here – all money raised goes straight to the Children’s Hospitals. Hospitals who desperately need our help:

The number that really catches my attention is the 3.4 Billion dollars in charity care. Children’s Hospitals are taking care of children who otherwise would not have access to the medical care that they desperately need. I am excited to do my part to contribute to that number.

Will you join me? I want to run with you!

This post was made possible through the support of Children’s Miracle Network Hospitals. All opinions are my own.

Short Stories From the Road.

September 3, 2014September 3, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, HauteLook, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Weird Strange and True

So you drive a Prius.
You park next to me at the bank. With an empty parking space on the other side of you.
The bank has very, very spacious parking spots, too, by the way.
Yet you park so close to me that I literally (and I do mean literally literally and not figuratively literally) cannot get in my car.
You are sitting in your car.
You light up in a goofy grin when you see me TURN SIDEWAYS to desperately reach my driver’s door. You wave happily as I unsuccessfully maneuver my boobs between our mirrors.
I open my car door the full four inches that you have left available to me.
I try to squeeze my body through the hole.
It does not fit.
This. This. THIS is when you realize that you’ve caused this problem.
And that you can be the solution.
Your goofy smile turns into an apologetic spewing forth of words that I can’t hear because – windows.
You wave for me to move out of the way and, to symbolically represent your intentions, you lift up your key ring that is hanging around your neck (Really? Your neck? Who wears their keys as a necklace?)
You put the key in the ignition…while it is still hanging from your neck…and you back up.
Into yet another empty spot in the very empty parking lot.

This may be my favorite find in the history of my online shopping love affair.

Because it brings up so many fascinating, yet burning, issues.

Do you have to fold this dress neatly and ceremoniously?
Never let it touch the ground?
Do people sing the national anthem when you walk by?
If someone is in the same room with you while wearing a State of Alabama Flag Dress, do they have to stoop down so they’re shorter than you?
To qualify for this dress, do you have to be somewhat talented at going half-staff in case of national mourning?
Can you eat French Fries while wearing this dress or would that just be too unpatriotic? “One order of Freedom Fries, please!”

Sometimes I run by something that makes me want to immediately quit running, get my degree in Sewer Management, and FIX THAT LID.

Instead, I have a moment of silence, wondering what happened to all the OCD wastewater treatment employees.

I spotted this gorgeous black shirt while out to eat in downtown Birmingham.

From show-stopping to door-stopping. The rise and fall of Karen Kane fashion.

Aretha Franklin has not quit singing in my head since I saw this.

And I’ll never hear that song again without loudly yell-singing “NATURAL NAPKIN!!!” over “natural woman.”

I spend a lot of time in the Chick-Fil-A drive-through line.

Sometimes while waiting, I do math. And discover Deep Secrets of the Chickens. Such as, every fourth chicken strip has 10 less calories in it.

…which makes me want to have this conversation upon my next visit to the drive-through.

CFA: “Welcome to Chick-Fil-A. How may we serve you?”
Me: “Yes. I’d like a four-pack of fourth Chick-n-Strips.”
CFA: “Of what kind of Chick-n-Strips?”
Me: “Fourth ones. You know – the ones with only 110 calories each?”
CFA: “I’m sorry?”
Me: “I would like all fourth Chick-n-Strips. Simply break into four four-packs and pull me out the fourth strips of each one. This isn’t chicken science.”
CFA: “Um….Okay…..I’ll check with my manager.”
Me: “Thank you!”
CFA: “My pleasure.”

I often clip things to my fridge so that I’ll remember them – invitations, schedules, coupons, and other such vital information.

Then I realized that this was also still on my fridge.

And decided that perhaps my refrigerator is not the best place to put things if I want to actually notice that they’re there – at least within a three year time period.