Rachel Callahan

The Bathroom Chronicles.

March 20, 2014March 19, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Weird Strange and True

Stuff happens in public restrooms.

Right?

Sometimes you get to see it after the fact, like this beautiful graffiti on a Church bathroom door…

…even for defacing Church Property.

And sometimes you are blessed enough to live through it – like the time, almost exactly a year ago, when I was in a Tampa restaurant bathroom stall while Chris and I were on our anniversary trip.

It was Tampa that finally helped me understand why Florida is considered the retirement destination of the world. I’d always been to North Florida, near the border of Alabama and Georgia, where it is full of gazoodles of families with small children, all watching the Perpetually Spring Breaking Girls Gone Wild walk up and down the beach while digging out their bikini wedgies every three steps. So I was left to wonder how Florida managed to hide all the retirement villages I’d heard so much about.

But Tampa – Tampa is a different Florida. I’m pretty sure their average resident age is 88 and a half. Which really cuts down on the beachfront wedgie picking ratio.

During one of our many delicious meals, we found ourselves in a restaurant that was wildly popular on the retirement scene. If they knew how to use UrbanSpoon on that newfangled smart phone their son-in-law insisted they have, they’d give it a rating of at least five denture creams. And maybe two hemorrhoid salves to boot.

I wandered to the Ladies’ Room. But before I continue, I must make a confession – at times, I quickly check my email while on the toilet – it only takes a couple of extra seconds, and I’m conscientious about being sanitary – I promise.

So I was checking my email.

The bathroom door opened and a retiree creaked in. I’m not precisely sure how I could tell that she was at least 95 – whether it was that she smelled like my Great-Grandmother’s kitchen or that her bionic hips were squeaking like the Tin Man in a Rain Forest Café.

She stepped into the other stall and heaved a great sigh and a couple small groans as she sat down.

I was ready to head back out to dinner, so I turned off my phone.

But you know that horrifically annoying camera-like click that an iPhone is defaulted to make when you turn it off?

Yeah.

She heard it too. And wasn’t exactly familiar with the meaning of the sound.

So she declared loudly, “I don’t know WHAT people do in here these days.”

As soon as I got back to our booth, I figured out how to disable that sound. While ducking for the ten minutes it took her to walk by.

Last night, Ali had her very own “Stuff Happens in Public Restrooms” moment.

We walked into a two-stall Ladies’ Room – an old one, the kind with the black lids on the white toilets and the rusty doors and a half-inch-buildup of grime on top of the tile grout – you know, the ones you wash your hands twice after you go. Ali was the reason for our visit, so Noah and I stood in the…commodal common area, for lack of a better term, as Ali entered the stall.

But before she could close the door and commence her business, an unusually round apple bounced underneath the wall, across the floor of Ali’s stall, and landed, perfectly leaning up against her toilet.

The inhabitor of stall-next-door would clearly dominate in a game of horseshoes.

All three of us watched the apple’s grand entrance, but Ali kept staring at it, then looked up at me.

“Um, Mommy? There’s an apple. Next to the toilet. What do I do?”

Captain Obvious. But a valid question.

I hoped stall-next-door would convey her wishes as to my daughter’s action with her fruit, but there was silence.

“Well…I guess you should pass it back under the stall, since that’s where it came from.”

The silence next door ceased not.

Ali looked doubtfully at me. “Okay, Mommy…”

She picked up the apple and stretched her arm under the stall, where a silent hand reached back and took it.

Then at long last, she spoke. In a muffled voice. “Guess I’m gonna have to wash that.”

50 Restaurants in Crappy Photos: Round Seven.

March 18, 2014March 18, 2014 Rachel Callahan 50 Restaurants in Crappy Pictures, I Love Birmingham

This is a blog series in which I am working my way through 50 restaurants that I’ve never been to before – mostly in Birmingham, but I break my own rules quite often. For the rest of the series, click here.

24. Brick & Tin

Brick & Tin is one of those super-hip, locally-sourced, downtown, oft talked-about places that is so tiny you better know when to go and not be towing kids if you desire to get a table.

I’d wanted to try it for a while, but hadn’t had the right opportunity. Finally, it came along, and I went with my friend Katherine, who is a Brick & Tin Expert/Evangelist.

(They really should pay her a stipend. In sandwiches.)

The interior is awesomely downtown. Faded ceiling tiles, bricks and piping exposed (hence the name), and a great atmosphere.

But it was crowded.

.
After ordering at the counter, we had to wait a few minutes to run to a table and claim it before someone else that might have been there longer beat us to it.

(I can’t help it if she was wearing stilettos and we weren’t. This is the type of place to which you better wear your sensible shoes.)

Being a newb, I ordered the salad. It was good and they have a great ranch dressing, but I DID NOT KNOW.

When you go to Brick & Tin, ORDER THE BRISKET SANDWICH.

Katherine kindly cut off a portion of hers for me to try and oh my goodness. I will never think of beef the same way again.

Everything about the above sandwich made me not think I’d like it. I don’t like crusty bread, I despise eating sandwiches where I have to chew through the meat to keep the whole slab from falling out and bashing me in the chin, and I really just don’t like Paninis in general.

But it was not as it appeared.

The beef was fall-apart tender (no chewing-through required), unbelievably juicy and flavorful, and I am still craving it weeks later. And the bread was not crunchy, easy to eat, and pleasingly warm.

Katherine then treated us to chocolate bread pudding for dessert, and it was decadent.

Brick & Tin just opened up a new location in Mountain Brook Village as well, so I’m hoping that helps out with the traffic flow issue, because I will be back to one or the other very soon.

25. The Southern – Located in the new Uptown District, I tried the The Southern at the fault of Brick & Tin. I had planned on meeting another friend, Jamie, at Brick & Tin for dinner (just a week after I’d eaten with Katherine – I told you I was craving that sandwich), but alas, despite their Facebook Page, they were not open on Friday night.

So I frantically decided that The Southern would be our alternate destination.

I actually did have the kids with me that evening and I was afraid it’d be too nice of a place for children, but the restaurant was loud enough that no one noticed my kids – even when Noah was laying on the stair leading to our booth.

Oh yes – the stairs. The booths and tables were extraordinarily high – even after we walked up the stair to get to our booth, the table was boob-height on Jamie and I, and her feet didn’t reach the ground. So needless to say, my kids were chin-height with the table, hence, perhaps, Noah’s giving up and lying on the stair.

But the food was worth their discomfort, apparently, as neither of them left a crumb.

I ordered the Rustic Salmon at the waitress’ recommendation, and subbed the Black-Eyed Pea Succotash for the whole roasted carrots.

The Salmon was flaky and so inviting that Ali stole half of it, the Mashed Potatoes were perhaps the heaviest-on-the-sour-cream-potatoes that I’ve ever had (which obviously made them irresistible), and the succotash was okay – perhaps a bit too hard on the vinegar for my taste.

(And, for the record, I stole some of the kid’s french fries, and they were quite sophisticated.)

We shared the Banana Pudding Crème Brulee for dessert, and it was perfect – a crispy shell on top, and creamy smooth pudding underneath. I didn’t detect any Nilla Wafers, though, for your banana pudding purists.

Fortunately for us, the kids didn’t really go for it (too fancy and all), so Jamie and I were able to fully enjoy the treat.

26. Dixie Fish Co. – I made the erroneous assumption that Dixie Fish Co. was a chain, based on its décor, signage, and menu. But they actually aren’t – there’s only one, on 280, in the former location of Bahama Breeze.

I took the kids and met yet another friend, Amanda, there a month or so ago.

(Yes, Chris missed this entire episode of 50 Restaurants. He may lodge a complaint.)

I was a bit surprised at the high prices (especially the kid’s plates which were $6.50 – $7.50), but we were willing to experiment.

I ordered the Fried Grouper Sandwich with a side of locally sourced McEwen and Sons Grits.

The grits were cheesy and thick and worth every penny. And, although the fish was tasty, it was hard to detect due to the proportion issues with the sandwich.

I ordered Noah Chicken and Fries (since that’s the only food he acknowledges) and Ali catfish and fries. I tasted her catfish and it was clearly what they’re best at – so if I go back, I will definitely get a catfish platter of some sort.

Bonus Feature: A Most Unique Birmingham Dish:

When it gets warm outside, we enjoy going to Cantina in Pepper Place downtown. Although it’s fine inside too, the outdoor seating is delightful.

My favorite thing to order at Cantina is what is called the “Grilled Salmon Filet”, but the name is a massive understatement.

Way more deluxe than its $10.25 price tag suggests, the Grilled Salmon Filet consists of a bed of exquisitely crafted mashed potatoes topped with grilled salmon topped with poblano and corn topped with a heavy dose of cilantro topped with “real” Mexican cheese.

This is a dish that you absolutely don’t want to deconstruct. It seems like a strange combination at first, but together, those ingredients create something magical.

And the winner of this round of 50 Restaurants in Crappy Photos is… Brick & Tin.

And next time, I’ll order the Brisket

Bubblegum Lies.

March 17, 2014March 16, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Awkwardly Intense Busybody Club, Deception: A Parent's Best Friend, Kids: The Experience., Parent of the Year, Weird Strange and True

Saturday night, we met my Mom and brother at Rusty’s BBQ. It’s the only place we ever meet them, because it’s halfway between our houses and is exactly what you want in a good, off-the-path Southern BBQ place: without pretense, containing random kitsch (I especially like their license plate map of the United States), booths as old as the grill, and some indescribably fantastic food. It’s where you can imagine seeing Guy Fieri or Anthony Bourdain in the next booth, happily in their element.

When we’re meeting my parents (or in this case my Mom and brother, since my Dad was out of town), we don’t even discuss it – we assume. Rusty’s it is.

As part of its character, Rusty’s draws an interesting crowd. It can be locals, foreigners, suburbanites on the hunt for genuine bar-b-que, Indy Car racers from the racetrack down the road, super rural folk, or shoppers having just left The Outlet Mall. Eclectic dining at its best.

On that particular night, there were a few different dining types in attendance. There were some teenagers in the corner, our table featuring grandkids enjoying their Grandmother’s attention, and an older couple sitting directly behind me, within 18 inches of my ear.

The couple looked to be of the rural variety – he was wearing overalls and a John Deere hat, and she was wearing what appeared to be a homemade muumuu.

(Which, by the way, I had to Google and there may be more ways to spell “muumuu” than any other item of clothing in the Northern Hemisphere. So if you prefer mu’umu’u or muu-muu or mumuu or even moo moo, please forgive me because I just had to pick one and go with it.)

We enjoyed our dinner, the kids blissfully in the company of their grandmother, and Chris and I basking in the relaxation of having other adult backup that happens to be more interesting than us.

As we finished our meal, Ali wanted to get bubblegum out of the candy stand. This is a new thing for her – I personally despise bubblegum so don’t keep it around, and she’s never been too interested. But apparently, some KID in her Sunday School class has developed a proficiency for bubble blowing. And Ali feels the need to learn so that she can keep up with the societal pressures by which she is being smothered.

So she’s been practicing with candy stand bubblegum balls, which isn’t exactly the best bubble-blowing material. And she’s not exactly successful in her efforts. But, alas, she keeps trying. And that night was especially promising, since she had an expert-teacher Grandmother on hand, who was most likely still running on the high of potty-training my son.

Fortunately, they had a sour candy machine right next to the gumball machine, so I told Ali to buy her brother some candy.

Except that Noah, as soon as he saw the fun contortions that Ali and Gramamma were going through to try and create a bubble, wanted to be like them.

“I want bubbleGUMMM!!”

Not gonna happen, kid.

“But whyyyyyyyy?”

And I said in my most ominous Movie Trailer voice, “Because. Eet’s DANGEROUS.”

And, of course, it worked, thanks to the genetic coding that runs deeply through Chris and I which allows us to breed especially risk-averse humans.

But I did not realize the horror of which my words would create.

Mrs. Muumuu gasped loudly. And in her most southern drawl, nearly yelled at Mr. Overalls,

“Did you HEEE-YAR that?? That lady just told that little girl a LIE!”

He answered. “We-yell, maybe she could choke on it.”

“Well. I think it’s just TERRIBLE to lie to children!!”

Mr. Overalls could sense me listening, and quickly changed the subject. “Isn’t this food delicious?”

I giggled to myself, answering her – but only in my head.

First of all, he’s a boy – not a girl. I know he’s adorable and all, but he’s still pretty boyish looking – I think? Second of all, I will admit to lying to my kids from time to time. That whole 110% honesty-with-your-kids thing doesn’t really play out in real life – at least for those of us who are honest about it. After all, 110% isn’t actually a real number. (Okay it is but not when it comes to effort or honesty.) HOWEVER. I was not, in this case, lying to my son that you called a girl. Bubblegum is absolutely dangerous when in the hands (or mouth but it won’t stay there long) of a three-year-old. It is dangerous to his hair (heck it’s dangerous to my hair and probably yours too, considering how close you’re sitting), it’s dangerous to his shirt. It’s dangerous to his pants, his shoes, his socks (assuming he’s wearing any which is a generous assumption), my car, my carpet, his bed, and any animals that happen to walk by at an inopportune time. Because have you ever tried to remove bubblegum from an animal’s tail? If not, I wouldn’t wish it on you, but I promise you they’re not keen on the peanut butter treatment plan. So yes, yes, indeed YES. BUBBLEGUM IS DANGEROUS.

…But thanks anyway for planting yet another doubt in his little head.

On Making Something so Easy so Hard.

March 14, 2014March 13, 2014 Rachel Callahan A Day in the Life, Just My Luck, Parent of the Year, Toddlers: The Experience

So I tried to potty-train my son. Remember that?

I quit the day I blogged about it, because he was clearly determined to never acquiesce in this matter.

Ever.

He was overjoyed to be allowed to crap in his pants in peace again, and I was a much better person for not trying to make him do otherwise.

And so, we moved on with life.

“He’ll do it when he’s ready,”

everyone said.

“Boys are different.”

Fine by me. I wasn’t particularly enjoying spending my time on the bathroom floor with a screaming clinching toddler who was gifted with sphincters of steel.

A week later, the kids went to spend the night with my parents.

The next morning at 8:30, I got a text from my Dad.

I chuckled viciously to myself, wondering why they were willing to do that to themselves.

I didn’t hear from them again until 10:30, when Mom shared the stranger aspects of my other child.

I assumed that meant that potty-training was an issue of which we wouldn’t speak any longer.

Until two hours later. When the messages started coming in every half-hour.

All day. The kid who had never peed a drop outside his diaper was going every time she took him.

And staying dry.

Mom finally called me that afternoon.

I immediately asked the question I’d been wondering all day.

“What did you TELL him?? What did you DO??”

“Nothing really…I just told him we weren’t going to tee-tee in his diaper today. I only took him once an hour. And he went every time.”

What the….

I spent five days of HELL with that child, taking him to the bathroom every twenty minutes, encouraging, bribing, begging, pleading, cheering, giving his privy member every sort of frolicsome name possible (“Use your fire hose to put out the fire, Noah!”) and got NOTHING.

And she does basically zilch and has him perfectly potty-trained on the first try. Without a single tear shed by either one of them.

What the…

It was at this moment I remembered that my parents had taught BOTH of my children to walk, too. And I began wondering if I had the credentials it takes to be a mother, let alone a homeschool mom.

If I can’t teach them The Basics of Life (yes I hear 4Him in the background) then how can I expect to teach them long division?

Because I totally don’t remember how to do that kind of crap.

I fumed at the injustice and fantasized about interrogating my son as to his intentions with my sanity.

Meanwhile, my parents were celebrating their stunning accomplishments with streamers and confetti.

When Noah came home and I took him to the bathroom the first time, he actually said the words “I can’t – I can only tee-tee in the potty at Gramamma’s house.”

OH NO, son. OH NO YOU DIDN’T. You will pee and you will like it. Your cover is blown. BLOWN. BLOWN!!

He came around quickly, and has been practically 100% potty-trained ever since. Dry overnight and everything. AND INCLUSIVE OF POOP.

What the…

The moral of this story is: When random grandparents gaze reminiscently at you and your children and say sadly, “Enjoy every minute – it just goes by so quickly!”, THEY ARE LYING.

THEY are the ones living the dream.

Getting to spoil the grandkids and having nary a care about discipline.

Experiencing the euphoria of children responding to their every nudge or whim of leadership and being able to watch with joy as the children learn from their great aged wisdom.

And most importantly, they get to send those kids home right before they become brats.

So next time you see a Grandparent with their grandchildren, please look at them longingly and say sadly, “Enjoy every minute! It just takes us so long to get there!”

What’s that Sound, Volume Three

March 13, 2014March 12, 2014 Rachel Callahan Toddlers: The Experience, What's That Sound

A few nights ago, I was rocking Noah before bed.

Which is when he discovered my boobs.

He began rubbing them vigorously, all while saying excitedly, “I found your TUMMY!!!!!!”

Then he looked at his chest…then looked back at mine…then at his…

“Wait a minute.….…….What’s that poppin’ out your shirt?”

I ignored him, hoping his curiosity would go away.

Stupid hope.

He reached into my shirt and said,

“OH! It’s your panties!!! …….…No. Your panties are on your legs.…….What ARE these poppin’ out your shirt??”

At which point I put an end to his explorations.

“Mom, Mooooom!!!!”

“Yes?”

“I put squinkies in my drink.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

Noah: “mmmmm….It smells like cimmamon.”

Me, smelling him: “It smells like poop.”

Noah: “Oh yeah! That’s what it is – poop!!”

Quick Quotes:

After drooling, “Mommy!! Can you wipe my choke off?”

Upon seeing me get out the fingernail clippers, “NO! I don’t need a fingernail haircut!!”

When I wore a new, bright lipstick: “What kind of FACE do you have?”

One of the many times I picked him up and said “Wow you’re heavy!”: “I wish I was wittle again.”

Randomly to Chris: “You make me cough every day, Dad.”

After turning on Chris’ bedside lamp to match my bedside lamp and therefore create symmetry: “There we go. That made me feel better.”

Completely randomly: “It smells like….smells like Daddy.”

Another night, snuggling in bed, right after I’d told him how much I loved him, he looked adoringly at me and said, “Mommy….there’s a roach on your head.”

I jumped up screaming and brushing and jumping.

“Where’s the roach?!?”

“There wasn’t one.”

Noah, chasing me down in the bathroom…

“Ali hit me with the iPad!!”

“Was it an accident?”

“Yes……….I’ll go tell Ali I’m so sorry.”

…Clearly he’s used to being on the other side of the hitting equation.

Another day when I was in the bathroom, he came in and put his hands on my knees.

“What are you doing, Noah?”

“I’m holding you on the potty.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to.”

Noah got a card game in his kid’s meal. From the back seat, he asked,

“Is this a game?”

“Yup.”

“Is this a game for the iPad?”

“Nope.”

“Is this like a game for the iPad?”

“Nope.”

Are iPads like iPads?”

“Yup.”

“No they’re not, Mommy!! iPads ARE iPads!!!”

Trickery.

My house stank. Badly. I was going on and on, sniffing the fridge, the trash, the counter, all while exclaiming loudly how disgusting the house smelled.

Meanwhile, Noah was yelling at me from the other room, and I was ignoring him, because the smell was all I could focus on.

Finally, he walked into the kitchen and said “Guys. It’s me.”

I checked his diaper, and he was 100% accurate.

Ali has had some really great quotes lately, too. And although technically this is Noah’s series (as I’ve closed hers out), she’s hijacking for a last few thoughts.

She ran into Noah’s room, breathless, first thing in the morning.

“Last night, I had an ant asleep on my foot. And then, I either stepped in poison ivy or the ant started sleepwalking because look at these itchy bumps on my foot!”

I asked, “Well…why do you think the ant was asleep?”

“Because he wasn’t moving!”

Ali has a new cat hanging around our house, and she named him Fred. She’s feeding him, playing with him, and loving his company.

Being that Fred is an outdoor cat and quite out of her authority, she frets over his safety quite a bit, warning him of the dangers of cars and mean dogs.

One particular day, she was especially concerned because he seemed to have been exploring the storm drain – something I’ve always told her was exceedingly dangerous. As she told me the story, she ended it with,

“And either that drain was really short or it was the first time I’ve seen Jesus do a miracle, because he popped right back out!”

The ride to Church is always the time for deep theological discussions.

“There’s been something I’ve been disappointed in lately. I’m not mad at God or anything, just disappointed about the world.”

“Really? What’s that?”

“It’s just that whenever you try to get Noah to use the potty, he doesn’t, but then I feel like I have to.”

Girls {Night} Gone Bad.

March 11, 2014March 11, 2014 Rachel Callahan Delicious Greekness, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Just My Luck, Weird Strange and True

All Girl’s Nights Out should have adventure.

Right?

Right.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend was in from out of town, so that was the perfect excuse that us girls needed to get together.

We decided on a restaurant – a fairly fancy Greek one, because I’ve solidly convinced all of my friends of the superiority of my Greek Heritage. We may have bulbous noses and body hair the thickness of a burlap rug, but we sure know how to cook.

I made the reservations and arrived first – always first, thanks to many scarring childhood memories of being last everywhere ever and having to walk scandalously late into a crowded room of staring people.

(Sorry Mom.)

(But really – making me neurotically early isn’t the worst thing that you could have done to me.)

Anyway.

I pushed my way through a cloud of nervous-looking teenagers in formal wear, as I recalled that my hairdresser had told me it was Sadie Hawkins Dance weekend, and decided that I’d go ahead and get seated – after all, I wasn’t that early…and we did have reservations.

Our table was next to a Post-Dance Double Date – the kind where there was much awkward teasing and slapping and a pretense of the whispering of secrets.

So yeah. They seemed like tweens to me. Tweens in extraordinarily inappropriate dresses.

(oh yeah – I’m old now.)

And that’s when I began getting the texts.

Everyone was running late for one justifiable reason or another, so it looked like I’d be sitting alone for a bit.

After a few minutes, the waiter came over to introduce himself.

He looked accusingly at the three empty chairs.

“My friends will be here soon,” I justified.

And…apparently he was having a bad night. Because he huffed and walked away.

I amused myself by listening in to the silliness that was going on next door while scrolling endlessly through Twitter. Because Twitter is always there for me.

The other three ladies – Nikki, Julie, and Christen, arrived and we began perusing our menus.

And we perused. And perused. The perusal was so great that we could have probably gotten a job there ourselves – because our waiter was clearly not returning.

He passed by our table once – and made eye contact with me just as I was making a comment about him seeming to be lost in transit.

Oops.

Finally, after 25 minutes, a waitress came over and said, “Hi! Carl was your waiter, but I’ll be taking over your table tonight. Can I get you ladies a drink?”

She brought the drinks and then walked away before we could put in our order – the one that we’d had planned out for several eternities.

Then a few minutes later, original waiter came back.

He’s back?

Yes, he’s back.

“Hi guys, I’m so sorry about all that. I got triple sat and it was really crazy. I will be your waiter now. Can I get your….Oh hold on.”

And he left.

He left?

Yes, he left. As we all sat with our mouths open, ready to let our orders spill out.

A few minutes later, he returned.

“I’m so sorry about that, ladies. Now. Can I get your orders?”

We ordered Saganaki for an appetizer, because you can’t go to a nice Greek Restaurant without eating cheese that’s been set on fire at your table. And we quickly put in our meal orders as well, not knowing when or if he’d ever return.

When a third waitress brought out our Saganaki, she seemed to have decided within her heart that it was Nikki’s birthday (when in reality it was Christen’s, but we weren’t telling) – because she purposefully stood above Nikki for the whole proceeding.

Pour on the ouzo…

Get out the lighter…

Light the ouzo…

Watch the flames…

Shake the ouzo around to ensure burning…

Tilt the dish downward so that the flaming ouzo splashes out on your guest…

Wait. Did that just happen??

Time froze.

Nikki was staring at her leg aghast, and the waitress kept shaking, tilted toward Nikki’s charred limb.

She eventually looked down and said, “Oops! Looks like I spilled some on the floor!!”

…as Nikki kept staring at her pantsleg, mouth open.

The arsonist walked away and we all stared sympathetically as Nikki processed what had just happened.

”I have ouzo on my leg. I have OUZO on my leg. She just splashed flaming alcohol on my leg. And totally denied it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“I have ouzo on my leg.”

We dug into our cheese, hoping that Nikki’s leg would once again be functional by the time we needed to leave the restaurant.

A few minutes later, our ever-harried waiter was picking up the check from the table next door when he looked at our burnt Nikki and said a bit over-dramatically and slightly insincerely, “OH! I’m sorry!!”, then did a perfect Bend-And-Snap right in her face.

Image Source: Tumblr

And by “right in her face”, I don’t mean she was in front of him.

He picked something up off the ground and removed his derriere from Nikki’s personal space. We all looked at her, puzzled, as he walked away, which is when we noticed that she was rubbing the back of her neck.

“O-ha-ha-W!”, she said.

“What happened?”

“He picked up the receipt book too fast and a quarter flew out and nailed me in the back of a neck.”

“Like a flying saucer?”

“JUST like a flying saucer.”

We allowed Nikki to nurse her wounds as we finished our meal discussing the things one discusses while on Girl’s Night (sorry guys – confidential information.)

Another waitress came to clear the table and stacked herself a tower o’plates. And then turned – smashing the dinnerware right into Christen’s head.

“Oh! I’m so sorry about that! Did I just bash you in the head?”

“Yes, yes you did.”

She left us, with once again a member of our group nursing her wounds.

And in conclusion, my brainwashing on the superiority of Greek Culture took a significant hit that night.

Solids Are Hard to Come By.

March 10, 2014April 11, 2014 Rachel Callahan "Deep" Thoughts by Rachel, It's Tough Being a Girl, Just My Luck, Picture Birmingham, Shopping: A Girl's Best Friend

Reassurance: Despite my blogging track record and the implications of the above title, this post is not about potty-training. That one will come later in the week. You’re welcome.

So. Last week was a slight bit busy for me.

The Picture Birmingham website launch was exhilarating, exhausting, emotionally taxing, anxiety-inducing, overwhelming, and extraordinarily fun. And right smack in the middle of it, on Wednesday morning, I was supposed to have a live interview on a morning show here in town.

LIVE, y’all. No second takes, no flubs, no wiping my nose, no hold-on-a-minute-I-need-to-make-sure-I-don’t-have-lipstick-on-my-teeth.

It was petrifying.

Thankfully, they sent me instructions and the opportunity to suggest questions and talking points, which was my only comfort all week. At least I knew they wouldn’t ask me something and I’d have to say, “Uh….ummm….I have no idea hold on a sec while I Google that.”

Not to say I looked any less idiotic. Or that I slept any more the night before (which was zero, by the way. Not exaggerating.) But as I said, it was a comfort.

Within the instructions, though, there was a seemingly innocuous but bone-chilling bullet point.

“Wear bright solid colors but avoid white!”

I went to my closet.

It was as I suspected.

I do not own solid colors.

Except for one white dress, a few overly casual shirts, and two too-fancy cocktail dresses.

Even my current favorite blue jeans are prints.

I’ve got it bad.

Because you see, in my former life I was an accountant. And as an accountant I felt compelled to wear a boring solid button-up shirt or a boring solid blazer with boring solid pants.

I liked my life, I liked my job, but I hated my wardrobe.

So when I became a Stay-At-Home-Mom, I went craaaazy.

No more pants that could be called slacks or shirts that could be called blouses. No more Mom Jeans (yes I had some.) And NO MORE SOLID COLORS.

Which led to my great quantity of fretting last week.

Should I go casual solid?

Should I go dressy solid?

Should I go shopping?

Or should I break the rules?

Will they kick me out of the studio if I break the rules?

Does the news station have some sort of giant green screen technology that makes people wearing prints invisible? Or worse, just their clothes invisible?

Or are they just afraid I’ll clash with their couch? Because I know I have this one dress that will compliment it just fine…And it’s kinda like two solids in a solid sort of mash-up….so…it’s…semi-solid?

Okay it’s tie-dye. So probably not EXACTLY a solid.

And anyway. I’m a rule-following people-pleaser.

So I went shopping on Monday afternoon, while my first (non-live) interview about Picture Birmingham was airing. After all, it seemed to be the only reasonable choice. And it makes me too nervous to watch myself live anyway. Which was not exactly a comforting foreboding for the fact that I was going to have to be myself live in just a couple of days.

And I had a gift card to Express, so at least these solids wouldn’t cost me anything.

I pulled every semi-dressy thing they had in a solid color and dumped them in the dressing room. Which is when I realized that most of the shirts were button-ups. And when I put them on and looked into the mirror, I was transported back in time to the days of financial reports and accounts payable and long meetings and saggy-butted pants.

No. I can’t do it. I can’t I can’t I can’t.

I fled, leaving these garments behind before they wrapped themselves around me and forced me back into a cubicle.

Next, I went to a super trendy clothing boutique that specializes in semi-dressy dresses.

That are almost all prints.

I found the only three dresses in the store that were solid colors and visited their dressing room. Which was in possession of the World’s Most Unflattering Lighting and Fat Mirror. That or I Petri-Dished more thigh cellulite than I had calculated over the winter. But whichever it was (most likely a grotesque combo), I again fled, empty-handed, knowing that solids and I were never going to happen.

I scoured my closet again. I went back to that semi-solid tie-dye dress as my only logical option. And I decided to risk it.

After all, that instruction wasn’t in bold. And the exclamation point was after “and no white”, so surely the urgency implied was exclusive of the latter instruction.

It was more like a suggestion….not a requirement.

Right??

And I could have been much more disobedient and chosen one of my dresses with multiple prints, so I should get bonus credit for not doing that, right?

I showed up to the studio in my semi-solid. I tried to cover the printishness nervously with my hands as I signed in at the reception desk, and I began looking around for Studio Fashion Security.

In fact, you might see my eyes wandering nervously at the beginning of the video…and probably in the middle of it, too. Yes, that explanation makes me feel better about my super awkwardness on Live Television.

In conclusion, I didn’t catch anyone giving me a disapproving glare. But if I’m on the blacklist at ABC 33/40 henceforth, now you know why.

Note: The live interview is no longer available…here is the original spot on ABC 33/40:

The Turkish Connection.

March 7, 2014March 6, 2014 Rachel Callahan Delicious Greekness, I'm a Glutton for Adventure, Weird Strange and True

Whenever I’m in the car alone, if I have the presence of mind to turn off Veggie Tales (and there is nothing like the rage of a mommy when she realizes that she’s inadvertently listened to Veggie Tales alone for half an hour), I turn on Spotify and blow my speakers out in the attempt to feel like a teenager again while I’m not breaking my back to repeatedly twist and pick up sippy cups from the floorboard.

On my last journey out, Jason Derulo’s song “Talk Dirty” came on.

It’s a horrible song and I don’t recommend torturing your ears in that manner.

However, the Turkish-esque saxophone solo during the chorus immediately brought back vivid memories of this fantastic night, so I had no choice but to share it with you again.

Originally posted June 5, 2012.

After booking any trip out of town, the first thing that Chris and I do is look for the local Greek restaurant.

I was brought up on Greek food – “Yes you will eat lamb, and you will like it!!”, and I adore it with all of my being. And Chris, being that he is Mister-Perfect-For-Me, has also come to have a great appreciation for the cuisine.

We have found ourselves in Atlanta for one reason or another a lot lately. We usually have our Greek Adventures at Taverna Plaka or Kyma, but on one particular trip, we wanted to try somewhere new.

We wanted a hole in the wall Greek Restaurant – because they tend to be the most genuine. So Chris Urbanspooned it and found one. Turkish AND Greek, but it would do.

(Which, by the way, this has always puzzled me. Seeing as how the Turks and the Greeks hate each other with the ire of a thousand suns, how is it that you can have both under one roof?)

But it definitely looked like a hole in the wall.

We ventured out of our comfort zone of known Atlanta and found it – but just barely. It wasn’t wide enough for me to lay down in, not that I’m in the habit of lying down in restaurants.

We parked out front, but didn’t have change for the parking meter. As we were driving up, Parking Enforcement was driving away, so we assumed that it would be in our best interest to procure some change.

I walked into the Café, and an old Turkish man who was obviously the owner was standing at the counter.

“Excuse me – can I get change for these two dollars? We’re trying to park out front.”

He looked shocked…and a little angry.

“No! I will not get you change! You move back and not pay!”

“Um…what do you mean?”

He huffed and ran past me out of the restaurant. He began yelling at Chris.

“You move your car back a space! You see? No parking meter!! They can no make you pay there!!”

Chris and I looked warily at the non-parking space parking space.

Turk grew impatient. “You move your car!!!!”

Chris obeyed, which began our descent into nervousness about getting towed.

We walked back in the tiny restaurant, and started toward a table.

“No! Those tables are for bigger parties. You sit at the bar!! You will get best service in the house!!”

We headed to the bar, if you could call it that. It had an tea machine halfway in my space, and the cash register was one seat down on the other side. We squeezed in between the drinks and the money and began perusing the menu.

The owner was yelling and talking at everyone else as if they were all family. Most likely the Turkish Mob.

He then turned to us. “Why did you come here tonight?”

“Well, we always like to find new Greek places to go when we’re out of town.”

And I saw it on his face. Insult. Yes, he is definitely Turkish – NOT Greek. He walked away without saying a word.

A few minutes later, after composing his Turkish Self Esteem, he came back.

“You ready to order?”

We ordered the combination appetizer platter, getting excited about eating hummus and tzatziki and tabouli and other such delightful treats.

He turned his head and nearly burst our eardrums yelling to the very back of the restaurant for our order to be made. A few minutes later, he brought us over two paper plates – one with dips, one with pita bread.

“These dips are the best we have. If you don’t eat this, you get nothing else!!!”

“Okay…we will eat it!”

“I will make you a bite. It will be good.”

He picked up a piece of pita bread off of the plate and began mixing the dips into a conglomerated hash. He then shoved a bite in Chris’ mouth, as Chris uncomfortably accepted his hand-delivered bite.

“Yes…that was very good!”

“I will get you another one!”

He started mixing dips again and shoved it toward Chris’ face.

This time, Chris beat him to it and put his hand out.

“That’s okay – I will feed myself.”

“No! You eat this bite!”

I volunteered to save Chris from this awkward man-on-man feeding extravaganza. “I’ll take that bite!”

“No! I have another bite in mind for you. You — eat this bite!”

He shoved it in Chris’ unwilling mouth, coating his beard in dips.

“Yes. That was good.”

He prepared another perfect mixture for me, and force fed it to me. After we finally seemed to do a good enough job of convincing him that we were properly satisfied with our dip plate, he relieved us and left.

And began yelling in Turkish at the guy in the back of the restaurant, who was presumably his son.

They yelled angrily back and forth from the kitchen to the counter, and then his son came out of the kitchen to increase the intensity of the yelling.

Then the son put a smile on his face and came to talk to us in English.

Then began scowling again and yelling in Turkish back at his dad.

Then smiling, and talking in English.

Apparently, they were convinced that if we couldn’t understand what they were saying, we would assume it was all nice things. But there was clearly some Turkish cursing in the mix.

Old Turk came back over. We ordered our dinner, and he noticed that we only had a couple of pieces of bread left.

“What?? Why you eat all of the bread?? You have so much left to eat!!”

I jokingly said, “Maybe you didn’t give us enough bread to go with it!”

He gasped in anger.

“THEES!! THEES IS NOT DIP!! Dip is what you eat with CHIPS!! THEES is food!! The bread – the bread has yeast in it. And the water you drink? No Yeast. You mix them together in your tummy and you know what happens???”

He stuck out his belly and motioned that I, too, would get fat from the evils of more bread.

“So there. You see? No more bread for you!!”

A Turkish family walked into the restaurant, all dressed up in their finest. A Mom, Dad, and two kids.

He yelled out greetings to them.

“Ah! You look beautiful!! I must take your picture!!”

The ten year old girl made obvious motions that she did NOT want her photo taken.

“What? You must let me take your picture!! I can put it on my Facebook page. You want to help my business, don’t you??”

He took a picture of her scowling face.

Yes, that will clearly help his business.

As we were eating our entrees, two more obvious newbies walked in.

“You! Sit at the bar! You get the best service of the place!”

They ordered the combination spread appetizer.

He came over. Began mixing bites and shoving them in their faces.

“These dips are the best we have. If you don’t eat this, you get nothing else!!!”

Chris and I looked at each other. And at the same time, realized that we had apparently just taken part in a well-rehearsed dinner theater.

…and then we ran out of the restaurant to make sure that we hadn’t gotten towed.

I Want to Give Nature a Punch in the Face.

March 5, 2014March 7, 2014 Rachel Callahan Blogging: the therapy., Just My Luck

No seriously.

I know I ooh and aah over her sunsets and clouds and skies and stuff,

but DANG she hates me.

Mainly in the form of living creatures with eyes and noses and mouths like bats and squirrels and llamas and shower bugs.

When we bought our house, there were many things that needed to be fixed. That was all great and fine because we loved the house, but not so great and fine because we’re not exactly fixer-uppers. And we’re CERTAINLY not DIY-ers. We’re the kind of people who consider bringing in a maintenance crew to change an especially tightly wound light bulb.

Okay we’re not that bad, but close – my mom does sneak over to plant things just so that my flower beds don’t cry themselves to sleep every night.

One of the repairs needed when we bought our house was the chimney. There were four or so large holes in the siding – presumably put there by one of God’s precious creatures.

Six years later, we actually got it fixed, when we were getting sod anyway because we were getting our house painted anyway because we were gutting Ali’s bathroom anyway because she flooded it.

(House repairs never come in sets of one.)

It was really lovely. To have a hole-free house, a yard to actually play in rather than a muddy gumball pit (oh yeah – we got the gumball spreading tree removed as well), and a slightly-brighter-than-we-intended fresh coat of paint.

But I didn’t mind the brightness because I was so dang proud of myself for making four paint color decisions in UNDER TEN MINUTES.

I AM THE MOST TALENTED DECISION-MAKING WOMAN IN THE HISTORY OF THE PLANET.

I mean seriously, I remember it taking my Mother at least 13 months to make that kind of decision when we were kids. How has Guinness and their World Records Team not contacted me yet?

It’s been nearly a year and that brightness hasn’t faded even a smidge. But it’s okay because most of our neighbors can still sleep without sunglasses.

About a month ago, I started to hear a bone-chilling sound right outside of our master bathroom.

peckpeckpeckpeckpeck ………………….. peckpeckpeckpeckpeck

I didn’t want to know. I mean I knew, but I didn’t want to know.

I avoided looking out the window for quite some time, but eventually I could not not look any longer.

I opened my window and found myself eye-to-eye, five feet away from three of the tiniest woodpeckers I have ever seen.

EATING MY FREAKING HOUSE.

Naturally, I yelled at them.

“Hey! Go! Scram! Stop it, guuuuyyyyyys!!!”

They looked at me, cocked their heads to the side, then looked at the chimney.

peckpeckpeckpeckpeck ………………….. peckpeckpeckpeckpeck

The next day, we were all outside enjoying one of our sunny, seventy degree winter days.

And I heard it from ground level.

peckpeckpeckpeckpeck ………………….. peckpeckpeckpeckpeck

I looked up with a green fire raging from my eyes.

I ran over to our spigot, yanked the hosepipe, turned it on full force, and I SPRAYED those dastardly creatures.

Unfortunately our chimney is rather high so I could only reach two. Which flew away completely unscathed from my spraying (PETA take note).

The third kept pecking just to show me that he was, in this case, my Daddy.

My blood boiled against him, knowing that there was no way I could reach him. I fell into my husband’s arms, helpless and vulnerable, powerless against The Great Bird in the Sky.

And he patted me on the head and comforted me with,

“We’ll buy a super-soaker to keep in our bathroom, and we can hang out the window and shoot them from there. It’ll be fun!”

And then,

“You know, the bats were probably scaring them away. Then when you got rid of the bats…they came back.”

And there it was.

The Circle of Life.

Biting me soundly in the Proverbial Butt.

(And when was I the one that got rid of the bats?? I thought that had been a fairly joint decision. But now that the Woodpeckers are back, it’s all about me and my bat removal.)

And so.

I called Rid-A-Critter again, desperately hoping that this would fall into our one-year guarantee against all varmints in our house.

(And as an added bonus, by the time I got around to calling them, the Woodpeckers had managed to make a big enough hole to actually enter and exit the chimney, so technically, they were certainly in our house.)

An older gentleman called me back.

“Well, ma’am, the only reason in the world that those Woodpeckers would be doing that to your chimney is if you have Carpenter Bees. They lay their eggs in chimneys, and their larvae is like Feelay MeenYAWN to Woodpeckers. Yes ma’am, they just luuuuv it.”

Seriously. Woodpeckers weren’t enough of a problem?! We have to have another gift of nature tearing our house down, too??

But I did know of these giant bulbous creatures called Carpenter Bees.

“We do have Carpenter Bees on our back deck – they’ve bored through all the undersides of our stairs. But we fixed our Chimney last year, so I wouldn’t think they’d be in there.”

“Well, ma’am, just because you covered over the problem doesn’t mean it’s not there. You probably planked right over their nest, and as soon as those larvae turned into adult carpenter bees, they were fully able to bore your new planks from the inside out, then go back in and lay more larvae to tempt those Woodpeckers.”

If you didn’t believe me before surely you do now.

NATURE HATES ME.

So he said he’d call someone to coordinate an appointment with me. When the next guy called me back, I brought up the one year warranty.

“Well, it depends on how he wrote it up. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. I’ll let you know when I come out.”

And there we stand.

Will they or won’t they be able to vanquish our birds? And our carpenter bees?

I know not.

Will it or won’t it be covered in our one year warranty against God’s creatures?

If it’s not, I will be buying reinforced steel siding.

And my neighbors can forget sleep.

Introducing…Picture Birmingham.

March 3, 2014March 2, 2014 Rachel Callahan Actually Possibly Informational, I Love Birmingham, I Play at Photography, Newsflash, Picture Birmingham, The WellHouse

If I’ve seemed a bit scarce, quieter than usual, or really slow on email responses the past couple of months, it’s because I’ve been completely consumed with designing a new project and website.

So here it is: Picture Birmingham.

First, a bit of back story.

Last summer, I felt compelled to get involved with a local ministry, The WellHouse. God kept bringing them to my mind and putting articles in front of me about the stunning things they were doing. I resisted at first, because I don’t handle tragedy well – and their ministry is the rescue of women, men, and children from sex slavery. They were seeing and dealing with tragedy every day – tragedy that most of us don’t think happens in the United States. But it does. And one of the interstates running through Birmingham is the number one avenue for sex trafficking in the nation.

I emailed them and offered to serve. I met with Alexa, their Director of Development and listened, mouth agape, at her tales of the horrific things happening in my city, near my house, and around the nation. How they had recently saved a girl who had been trafficked for 20 years from one of the most affluent suburbs of Birmingham. How they had flown as far as Washington State to rescue someone – because they were one of the only groups who would.

She explained to me the intricacies of trafficking – how our laws are set up to punish the prostitutes, and that’s how pimps enslave these girls – by manipulating them with fear of police and promises of protection. The Wellhouse is also involved in training police and talking to legislators, but it’s an uphill battle.

I knew I must help, but I didn’t know how. It was unclear and fuzzy, and neither she or I could quite nail down a plan at the time. Then I got sick. With months of doctor’s visits and uncertainties, I knew the timing wasn’t right, and I put The WellHouse in the back of my mind – still thinking about them, still feeling compelled, but not knowing what I could do to help.

That was also when I started taking photos of Birmingham. Mostly sunsets, but with others mixed in.

Chris figured it out quicker than I did that these photographical journeys – the thrill of chasing the sunset, trying to catch it at just the right angle, not missing the perfect moment – that this was therapy for me. It made me forget my fears about what was wrong with me, gave me an adrenaline rush, and put a smile on my face.

So Chris began to find a way to take me on a sunset journey nearly every night. And Birmingham isn’t an easy place to find a good view of the skies – we have a LOT of hills and trees.

It became ridiculous – many of my friends were making fun of me for my sunset obsession, but I couldn’t quit. The skies – and my city – had fully captured my heart.

But I have never considered myself a photographer. I liked how my photos looked on my tiny iPhone screen and they made me happy, but I never thought they were good enough to print.

Until I did – on a whim.

They surprised me by looking quite lovely. They brought the joy of the sunset chasing right into my living room, every moment of every day.

Then other people started to ask if they could buy prints, and God started to put the pieces together for me. I could use this new passion He’d given me to benefit The WellHouse. It offered me a platform to help them build awareness on social media, as well as a way for me to support them financially. I could sell prints of the best of my photos, and give all the profits to their ministry. Perhaps this was why God made me obsessed with sunsets. Perhaps, just maybe, this was even why I got sick.

Working on this new site has actually helped in making me feel better, giving me something to focus on and work toward, with the excitement of knowing that God has put this mission on my heart.

(Heart medicine has also been quite helpful. But a new project never hurts.)

The new site has a shop, where I am selling prints (on gorgeous 100% cotton art archival paper), canvases (gallery wrapped), and my favorite product, luxuriously printed notecards. All of the products are locally printed and distributed by the amazing team at Alabama Graphics, and 100% of the profits will go to The WellHouse.

The site also has a PhotoBlog, where I have archived my near-daily photo journey since June, and will continue to add photos as I take them.

The photos will not all be from Birmingham. I have documented the Smoky Mountains, Lake Eufaula, Nashville, North Alabama, Georgia, Orlando, and the Alabama Gulf in the PhotoBlog, and will continue to photograph any areas to which we may travel (Asheville, North Carolina is next.) I will add new photos for sale occasionally, and not all of those will be from Birmingham, either. So even if you’re not local, perhaps the site may hold some interest to you – or at least increase your appreciation for my city and my south.

I’ll be talking occasionally about The WellHouse as time goes on, sharing their projects and ministry. And once this new site is running smoothly, I promise to be back to my normal 100% presence here as well.

So thank you for sticking with me during this busy time, and please check out the amazing things The WellHouse is doing – you can follow them on their website, Facebook, and on Twitter.

And of course, you can visit Picture Birmingham by clicking here.

Special thanks to my husband Chris, who started the whole obsession, came up with the Picture Birmingham name, and made it possible for me to spend dozens of hours in the past few months on this project. Also thanks to Wade Kwon, who designed the beautiful logo and walked with me through many business and media decisions; to James Spann, for encouraging me to take on this journey; to my fantastic tech guy, Chris Rasco, who put up with my request of working together to design the site; to Kelli at Alabama Graphics for tirelessly answering hundreds of questions and printing dozens of proofs until I approved every inch; to Carla Jean Whitley and Jamie Golden for helping me make things pretty; to Ebony Hall, for understanding the vision of my project and trusting me with two interviews before I’d even launched (I’ll be on ABC 33/40 today in the 4pm hour and Wednesday in the 9am hour); and to my parents and babysitters who helped tremendously with my kids throughout this process. I’d have never finished it on my own, and I am so grateful for your investments into this project.